Baby You Can Drive My Car (Because I'm Sure Not Going To Drive It)

Driving has never been my strong suit. I have a horrible sense of direction, I merge like a moron and I hate turning on red. Before moving to LA, my only driving experience was a few years in high school. I got my license late and was finally starting to get comfortable on the road when I moved to New York. In six years, I drove in New York a total of two times, both with my roommate Laura's borrowed car. Once when my boyfriend John and I were picking up fish for his aquarium, and we wouldn't be able to get the car back in to time without killing the fish, which were swimming frantic circles in a suffocating plastic bag. I drove the car on the congested Grand Central Parkway, liberated by the fact that no one was following the rules. If I darted into another lane or suddenly stopped short, it was expected. I was one car in a sea of drivers who had no idea what they were doing, and somehow that made me comfortable.

The second time I drove in New York, I borrowed Laura's car to pick John up from the hospital in October of 2007. John and I had been riding home in a cab back to Queens when we realized that the driver had no idea where he was going. As the driver weaved in and out of streets we had never heard of, John finally spoke up. "I don't think he knows where we are." The driver screamed expletives at us, which is when we realized he was drunk or on drugs. When we tried to get out of the cab, he drove faster. Finally we begged him to let us get out, having no idea where we were. I threw a $20 into the front seat as I jumped out, even though the meter read $10 and we were not at our destination. I didn't want any trouble.

The driver must not have seen the money, and tore out of the cab, punching John in the face over and over. I called 911 as several startled witnesses watched, openmouthed. John lunged into the passenger seat of the cab in an attempt to retrieve the money. The cab driver raced to the driver's seat, pulling away with the passenger side door open, sending John flying out of the car and into the street. The driver's cell phone fell out of the car during the altercation, and the driver decided to come back to retrieve it just as the police arrived. John stayed at the hospital overnight and I met him in Laura's car the next morning.

Two years later, the legal process still stretches on, even though we are on an entirely different coast. Next week, we will know if the judge awards John any money, although even if he does, there is no guarantee that the cab driver will pay. In fact, it's pretty much a guarantee that he won't pay. What makes me feel the sickest is that this driver is still out there. Please carry pepper spray, even during the day, especially if you live in the city.

What the Heck is a TAP?

The Los Angeles Metro is the single strangest mode of transportation I've ever taken. It's like the MTA's sleazy, inconsistent little sister. You know, the one whose boobs are all over the place. I am an avid rider of the New York subway system. I can tell you which train to take to any area in the city (except the Bronx, but I can get you into the Bronx! Then you're on your own). I have long, heated arguments about whether it's worth it to take the N to Broadway and 30th in Queens after midnight and walk, or cut over to the F, which takes over for the V at night. I'm no stranger to the subway, and all systems operate in pretty much the same way, right? Oh, and then there's Los Angeles, which makes everything a million times more confusing than it should be.

First of all, they use a thing called a TAP card, which I guess is like a Metrocard. You store fares on it, and you can fill it up at the little vending machines in the subway station. But here's the clincher. They don't offer TAP cards in the vending machines! No, you have to go to a store to get them. And then go to the machine to fill it up. And the TAP card costs two dollars, and expires. So, fine, I don't need a TAP card, I'll just print myself a paper ticket and then swipe it-- And then give it to-- Oh wait, that's right, there are no turnstiles on the LA Metro! The entire thing is based on the honor system. So I walk right in, feeling kind of stupid for purchasing a ticket, and sit down on the upholstered seats. Who decided to upholster seats where people will be peeing and throwing food everywhere? You're not allowed to eat in the LA Metro, but I haven't seen any signs about not being allowed to wet your pants.

Then, you have to purchase a new paper ticket every single time you switch lines. I mean, no one is forcing you. You can pretty much just wander around wherever you want down there, but you're supposed to be buying a ticket every time you switch. No transfer, no deal, it's a full fare every time you have to get onto a different train. Trust me, I know, because I'm sitting there, minding my own business and the sheriff steps onto the train. I like how people say "the" sheriff, like we're in an old western cowboy town that only has one sheriff. I'm sure there are like a billion sheriffs here, but still, "the" sheriff comes on the train. "Everyone get your tickets out!" I had a ticket for the red line. I was on the purple line. "Okay..." the (female) sheriff warns, wagging her finger. Like there was a sign ANYWHERE saying I needed to buy a ticket for each line. She proceeded to cuff and remove two non-payers from the train. Apparently they will have to pay a fine. I'm really glad I got away with only a finger wag.

And the last and most lame thing about the LA Metro is that it doesn't stop anywhere good. Unless you want to see bad Marilyn Monroe impersonators and get your wallet taken.

This day is the greatest!

Did you ever wake up and know that it was going to be YOUR day? I've been trying to turn my frown upside-down by using the Law of Attraction (no, not "The Secret," I can't stoop so low as to admit I'm doing "The Secret"). I've been willing thousand-dollar checks to come to my house. Well, so far that part hasn't happened, but I did sign today with a freelancing client that pays more per article than I'm used to, so that's sort of like getting a (very) gradual thousand-dollar check.

And this didn't happen today, but I'm sitting right next to my very own copy of Cake Wrecks, courtesy of my very own boyfriend John, who had no idea I had even requested the book on my blog! So, everyone who bought me copies and was saving up the money for the postage to put it in an envelope and send it to me, you can go return it! See what happens when I put thoughts out into the universe? I get books!

The best part of the day was when a gigantic box arrived on my doorstep. Could it be, could it be? Yes! Beatles (limited edition) Rock Band!!! I know I gripe a lot about having to move here, but sometimes having a boyfriend who works for a TV show that did a 10-minute Rock Band infomercial instead of having a musical guest that night really pays off! I haven't opened it yet, but I'm incredibly excited to play that limited edition Paul McCartney bass!

Someone Buy Me This Book!

Cake Wrecks is my absolute favorite site on the internet, and they're coming out with a book. So many crazy internet blogs have spawned books these days, including Overheard in New York and unbelievably, Stuff White People Like. But I've never been so excited to have full-color photos of ridiculous cake typos and strange-looking Curious George cupcake replicas in my home. I've read every entry of Cake Wrecks and it is the only thing in my life that never fails to give me a full-on laughing attack. I shudder, I scream, I fall on the floor. Badly made cakes are just so funny! So please, check out the blog, buy the book for yourself, or better yet, buy the book for me! There's nothing I'd rather have on my coffee table.

I'm not in New York anymore... AT ALL.

I went to a bar last night called Tin Horn Flats on Magnolia Blvd. in Burbank. Keep in mind, last night was Friday. Friday night. I had just gotten a drink, sat down, talked to a few people, and suddenly I heard the bartender yell, "Last call, everyone, last call!" It was 10:30. THE BAR CLOSED AT 11. On Friday. I don't even think there is a restaurant in all of New York that closes at 11 during the week! I know Tin Horn Flats is in a slightly residential neighborhood and I understand some people might be bothered that they live next to a bar that's open until 2 (that's right, the ultimate latest legal last call in Los Angeles is 2 AM, as opposed to the 4 AM I'm used to in New York). So don't live next to a bar, then! In New York, no one even goes out until midnight! You get in some dinner and a nap at home, take a shower, change your clothes, then go out at midnight and get home at 6. It's a completely different world here. A world that is very, very bored at night.

The Dark Secrets of Homelessness Finally Revealed!

Just kidding. This book really caught my interest because Cadillac Man, the author of this memoir, is from Astoria. I've had many conversations with homeless people in the past and it's always surprising how smart and insightful they are. The person I remember most is an older woman who was talking to herself on the train, dressed in rags. She spoke louder and louder, shouting and wringing her hands. My boyfriend scooted up next to her and asked if everything was okay. I just assumed the woman was crazy or on drugs, and that she would be hostile if we approached her. Instead, she told us how angry she was at her daughter, who wouldn't take her phone calls and was married to a man she didn't approve of. The woman ranted for several minutes, then calmed down and thanked us for listening. For the rest of the train ride, she was quiet and seemed much calmer. Sometimes people just need someone to talk to. Land of Lost Souls is Cadillac Man's method of getting his story out to the world, and I was glad to listen. More about this book in my column this week at bibliobuffet.com.

New Yorkers, Please Confirm This

Last night, I was talking about examples of New York locations I'm using in the book I'm working on, and my boyfriend piped in and told me that Don Hill's, where one of the major scenes in the book takes place, is either closed or is closing. Now, I know we're stuck over here on the west coast, but I haven't heard anything about Don Hill's closing. Not only do I care passionately about keeping an iconic glam rock venue alive, from a selfish perspective, I also really, really don't want to rewrite that entire section of the book. Someone please tell me what's going on over there! I looked all over and found no information, so I'm hoping it's either a rumor or he's thinking of another place. Does anyone know? Don Hill's was a very important part of my teenage and college years!