[sic]

So progress continues with our deceased tenant’s next of kin clearing his property out of the upstairs apartment. I came home tonight to find what very well may be the dearly departed’s death bed discarded with a flagrant lack of regard or responsibility in front of the house (along with two not-pictured huge plastic bags o’ crap; click to triplify):

Ridiculous.

And so it was that a crew of five of us set out with about 40 fresh and piping hot burritos on last night’s revitalization of the dormant Hollywood Burrito Project ride and we learned that no good deed goes unpunished. We headed up Western Avenue where first I flatted my rear tire after nailing the sharp lip of a deep pothole between Melrose and Santa Monica. After innertubes were swapped and the new one inflated we found our next obstacle in the form of haggard, wild-eyed antagonistic Buddy Ebsen-looking transient bastard who arrived from across the street as we were passing out food to the six or seven homeless encamped at the Big Lots! store on Vine Street a couple blocks south of Sunset.

“What are you doing?” he demanded to know. “Are you bothering these people?” As if he was their guardian or some such shit.

“No,” I told him, “we’re just giving them something to eat.”

“Something to eat?” He inquired sarcastically.

“Yeah, burritos.” I held one out to him. “Would you like one?” He took it from me, but instead of it having any sort of calming effect on him, instead it set him off.

“A burrito?” he said it like I’d just handed him a used tissue. “Is that it?” Taken aback that someone would be so willing to bite the hand that literally feeds them, none of us said anything.

“Really? A burrito? That’s all you’ve got?” He looked at the people laying on the cement against the storefront bundled as best they could against the chill of the night — all of whom were appreciative of what we offered them. “These people probably eat better than all of you and all you give them is a burrito?”

Let me preface the short remainder of the post with the point that it was obvious to me that there would be no winning the argument this idiot was making — and a hypocritical idiot at that given that he accepted the burrito I gave him and when I indignantly asked for it back from the ingrate he refused to give it. Instead with an abject lack of regard of the good — however little — we were doing and the efforts we were making, he insisted that we “sell our bikes” and give the money to the poor.

At some point I finally ramped my own sarcasm and stepped up to thank him for the insulting buzzkill he was providing, and immediately after came a chorus of voices from the people prone before us who clearly did not share his warped point of view and instead thanked and blessed us profusely for our kindness.

Heading away from the jerk I pointed out that we’d be back next Wednesday if he wanted another burrito and to bitch at us some more, then I suggested to the crew that it might be high time to introduce the Knuckle Sandwich Project to the area.

Maybe not, but this cyclist makes some noise about it.

My friend Stephen Box, tireless cyclist and cycling advocate and founder of the Bike Writers Collective (BWC), attended what he related the next day on the LAist blog to be something of a contentious March 18 meeting of the L.A. Transportation Committee regarding Councilman Bill Rosendahl’s motion to close a Ballona Creek Bikeway access gate at Culver Drive west of Sawtelle. Rosendahl put in the request in response to residents’ complaints that it made their adjacent neighborhood more vulnerable to crime.

When BWC member Eric Richardson brought the proprosal to the collective’s attention the day before the meeting, its members including myself, were decidedly put out by what we considered to be a short-sighted and ineffective solution that will remove the bikeway from its community far more than it will reduce crime. At the same time it was also understood that one gate is something of a little battle to pick. But as one gate’s closure can lead to another and another, I took immediate action the evening of March 17 to scope out the section of bikeway in question, with an eye towards identifying the various access points available and distances in between them.

Entering the bikeway eastbound at the entrance from Inglewood Avenue the first somewhat discreet access I found was a third of a mile away at Coolidge Avenue pictured below, where Culver Slauson Park is located. I then traveled under the 405 Freeway overpass to the gate Rosendahl wants closed at the meeting of Culver Drive and Purdue Avenue.

The distance from Coolidge Avenue to Purdue Avenue is a fifth of a mile. In other words, even if one subscribes to the belief that locking a gate will successfully eliminate any criminal element present from accessing or escaping the adjacent area, it is readily negated by the fact that there’s another opening just 1,000 feet away.

Next, let’s take a look at the Culver Drive gate and immediate fencing and see why even Rosendahl’s motion succeeds and the gate is shackled it will have little of its intended effect.

As pictured above, the material is simple chain link. On top of that the gate is about five feet all. The fencing that extends east and west of the gate is just as short but its built up from a concrete footing to give it a total height of about six feet. As a barrier this offers little in the way of security. Not only can the chain link be cut but with the concrete base serving as a boost step the fence is basically ready to be climbed over and quickly by any properly motivated hoodlums.

So what’s the solution? Do we close the Coolidge Avenue gate, too? Or perhaps do we spend money the city doesn’t have to increase the Culver Drive gate’s height? Surprisingly enough you can see in the following picture this has already happened on Culver Drive another fifth of a mile upstream beyond Sawtelle Boulevard at Beloit Avenue.

Beyond the noticeable difference in height between this fencing and gate along Culver Drive east of Sawtelle and the one seen in the previous image, it’s also very important to note that the gate is already closed and locked. This was not just a one-day occurrence. It was shackled shut when this picture was taken March 17, as well as when I rode by it on the 18th, 19th, 20th, and 21st. While I’m not privy to the circumstances regarding its closure, it’s not hard to imagine the residents of these streets perhaps lobbying for it for the same reason as their neighbors on the other side of Sawtelle are doing now.

But wait, there’s more! A tenth of a mile eastward and one comes to the inexplicably locked gates of the bikeway exit into the southbound lanes of Sepulveda Boulevard.

Entering and exiting has been denied every day this week as well. So unless one is willing to risk clambering over the upended shopping cart seen at the left of the frame (placed there perhaps by some enterprising cyclist or pedestrian or gangmember), in order to exit the bikeway you’ll have to travel under the Sepulveda Boulevard overpass and double back to the street an additional third of a mile.

For the healthy walker, jogger or bike rider this is no big deal. But let’s take a look at the potential of a worst-case scenario that involves someone injured on the bikeway in the vicinity of Sawtelle. Whereas there should be two methods of egress available to the injured person – at Beloit Avenue and Purdue Avenue – Beloit isn’t and now an exit at Purdue is in danger of disappearing. Furthermore, the only options are for the injured person to somehow get all the way under Sepulveda, go under the overpass and double back to the entrance, or make it the other direction to Coolidge Avenue.

And what if it’s a matter of emergency personnel trying to assist an incapacitated person at that point on the bikeway. It isn’t hard to imagine the potential delays that could occur if paramedics are prevented from coming to someone’s aid because locked gates block there way and force them in opposite directions and greater distances to gain entry.

While that might seem overdramatic or an exaggeration, it all goes to the matter of accessibility and whether we want to allow this important resource to be further separated from the community it serves, under the false pretense of protecting it.

I certainly can empathize with the citizens that Stephen reported on who at the meeting expressed fear over the present conditions, and I think Councilman Rosendahl is absolutely obligated to find a way to protect them. But he should redirect his sights away from the easy target he’s focused on and instead explore proactive opportunities that can be used to reduce the level of crime purported to exist there.

With two access points already locked down, closing what would be a third in a row to the Ballona Creek Bikeway is not one of those opportunities.

UPDATED (03.25): Coincidence? I think not. On my way in to work after a doctor’s appointment yesterday afternoon I exited the bikepath accessway to the northbound lanes of Sepulveda Boulevard and found the previously locked gate to/from the southbound lanes open:

Not completely visible about a tenth of a mile beyond it is the still-shackled gate at Beloit Avenue and Culver Drive.

As a crier I run the gamut, from getting choked up at the slightest provocation to outright bawling. I am not ashamed of this. Susan can attest to my waterworks, from the hitch-n-sniffle resulting from a poignant moment on television to something bordering on insane, like when I basically cried through the entire performance of Man of La Mancha at Glendale’s A Noise Within last year because though it’s one of my favorite musicals ever, that was my first time seeing it done live after spending a lifetime listening to the original Broadway soundtrack. It was like finally meeting someone you’ve known and loved all your life but always at a distance.

I broke into sobs this morning when Susan came into the library, saw me looking all consternated and asked what was wrong. This time it was out of genuine grief and embarrassment, and it took me a bit to get under control before I showed her my left hand and told her.

I’d lost my wedding ring.

I’d lost my wedding ring. And fuck if I didn’t just get choked up typing that.

“On the bike ride?”

I shook my head and told her as she put her arms around me and held me.

What happened was for Christmas my mom got us a pair of these really nice craftsman-y table lamps for the living room. The boxes — and the bulky styrofoam pieces within them — had been sitting around and yesterday being trash day, I’d taken them out to break them up and put them in the recycle bin, which had been full enough to only allow one box and styro to fit. So I left the other box for today.

And so this morning, the day after the trash had been picked up, I went down there and dutifully ripped the cardboard into small pieces, and then broke the big foamy inserts into littler bits as well. But in the course of that and perhaps because of last night’s Santa Ana’s negatively or positively charging the ions (or maybe my electric personality) I came away from that battle with my arms coated in micro styro bits. Seriously it looked as if I was being attacked by an army of tiny snowballs, and when wiping them off didn’t work I began vigorously flinging and shaking and whipping my arms to dislodge the trespassers. Once I’d gotten most of it off I closed the bin and returned inside, whereupon some shortwhile later I went to reposition the ring and found it was not there.

I immediately realized that in my exaggerated gesticulations, I had launched my ring and wasted no time grabbing a flashlight and commencing a search and rescue operation, scouring a broad perimeter since the symbol of my lifelong love and devotion to my wife could have either come to rest on the bricks around where I had been standing, or into the recycle bin, or possible it bounced and rolled across the garage out onto the street or gone behind me into any of the dense ground foliage of the side garden.

How could that happen? Well I was about 50 pounds heavier when she’d placed the ring on my finger and I never got around to having the ring resized since losing that weight. It wasn’t the first time the ring’s come off. It’s done so in the shower, and most recently went flying across the backyard when I was playing fetch with Ranger.

So I looked all those places. Twice. Thrice. I chanted my mother’s favorite saying whenever she’d misplace her cigarettes or keys: “Nothing is lost it is simply not revealed.” I lifted up bricks. I parted ferns and peered between plants. I shined the light everywhere looking for a hint of glint of light off the white gold. What was that!? My heart leapt; had I found it? No, just a small washer, and so I continued. I went over every brick in the walkway going all the way to the backyard gate. I covered the garage roof. I studied the stretch of street and sidewalk in front of the house. I looked on the porch. I looked under the porch. My hope for success soon was replaced with the realization that though the ring may in fact not be far, it was beyond my reach.

And I felt sick. I’d rather have lost a kidney. And I came inside and sat at my desk and debated not telling Susan. I fished out the receipt for the rings from when we bought them at the Zales in the Glendale Galleria on April 17, 2004, and then at zales.com found they had a store in the Fox Hills Mall near where I work. I considered going there after work today and just getting a replacement band and no one would be the wiser.

Then she opened the door and saw me looking all consternated and asked what was wrong. And because I am not a liar I got all choked up and told her. And I told her about thinking about not telling her.

Being so amazingly level-headed, Susan put it all in perspective when she suggested going out front and tossing her ring away, too, after first asking if it meant we weren’t married anymore, and what I took her to mean was: “Chill out crybaby. It’s just a thing. It’s not what it represents,” which helped settle me down from being inconsolable, but not totally.

I went to the Zales as planned on the way home tonight and got an exact replacement — and one properly sized to better prevent future flingings — but its newness is a shining reminder of the almost three years that had been built into the first. And regardless of how unintentional the loss was, I can’t quite shake the frustration and sadness of having been so careless with something so meaningful and dear.

No matter what incontrovertible proof you may have that someone is an idiot, people will look at said proof and how you reacted and find you to be the idiot.

This is just a fact of the world in which we live.

Earlier today we encountered a guy jogging in the bike lane on Sunset Boulevard (which is illegal) as Susan and I were cycling to Echo Park Lake. I got a decent picture of him obstructing us shortly before finally having enough of his inconsideration and yelling at him to get out of the way. Startled, he did.

When we got home I wrote about it on Blogging.la, fully knowing that no matter how pure the evidence of someone’s wrongdoing, others are not only going to disagree but they’re going to find the presenter of that evidence to be the one truly at fault. I wasn’t disappointed.

A commenter who signs his stuff with “DB” started off by agreeing the jogger was in the wrong place, but then shows some ignorance by finding the same fault with bikes who are in traffic and closes with the suggestion that I “Don’t be a dick.”

Nice.

Another by the name of Gregg Fuller penned this little gem: “Oh, how inconvenient for you. Yield to pedestrians. Just because you’re on a bike doesn’t mean that you have a reason to be so possessive of the bike lane. Seriously, just get a little horn and stop venting here.”

That pissy ridiculousness made me laugh.

Then El Chavo, a blogger and fellow B.la contributor who I much admire piped up with: “Maybe the jogger is a jackass, but it can’t be that hard to swerve a little and pass him up, can it? I still say, Share the Road.”

Nothing wrong with that, really, other than it simplifies the situation and basically justifies the infractious behavior of the jogger.

Then came the following comment by a Jordan: “I don’t know… normally I’d agree that this guy is a jackass for hogging the bike lane. But bikers can be such assholes. Bikers are the new communists — out to reform the country into a land full of bike lanes and multi-million-dollar projects spear-headed and beat-to-death by bike fanatics. You’re already a pain-in-the-ass to motorists — isn’t that good enough for you.”

That’s almost precious in its prejudice.

But the kicker is the comment by Joseph who doesn’t call me a dick or a whiner — in fact and ironically it’s the most diplomatic of the disagreeing comments. But he does go so far as to state incorrectly that the jogger was doing nothing wrong and has every right to the bike lane and closed with a little dig to “keep the assholishness at a minimum.”

After calling a whoopsie on Joseph by referencing the California Vehicle Code section (21966) that in fact strictly prohibts pedestrians from using bike lanes I then attempted to fill in some of the blanks in a response comment to El Chavo as to why my wife and I couldn’t “just go around.” Later he comes back seemingly having only read selective portions of my reply accusing me of “piling on the hate” against the poor pedestrian rather than adopting a “can’t we all get along” attitude. Then he references my May op-ed column in the L.A. Times and calls me out as something of a hyprocrite for being an apparent bike lane whore who’s masquerading in print as a bike lane hater.

Dang. Can’t wait to see what things people manufacture to make me out to be the bad guy tomorrow!

I just watched Michael Vick’s public apology, and while I’m not in a very forgiving mood towards the former Falcons quarterback and self-professed dog fighter and killer, I do have to give him begrudged credit for owning up to his culpability instead of shamelessly hiding behind a legal team that maintains his innocence and exploits the judicial process — which would have been his right to do so had he wished.

Sure, the case against him was essentially a slamdunk what with the two associates who flipped and pleaded guilty and implicated him, but that doesn’t stop most defendants from letting a judge and jury decide their fate.

As to his press conference today,  Vick used the word “immature” to describe his behavior and actions that have destroyed his career and left him looking at a year or more in prison. He also mentioned finding and accepting Jesus and asking for the lord’s forgiveness and guidance. But while looking to heaven, to me what was most telling was what he didn’t do to make amends here on earth.

What could have been a huge step toward getting me to forgive him is if he had used this opportunity not only to vehemently denounce dogfighting (he did, but by only briefly saying he “renounced” the criminal and heinous activity), but also if he had proposed the creation of a trust funded by him that would be used to establish and maintain a no-kill shelter not only to give fighting dogs an opportunity at retirement instead of cruel and inhumane torture and death, but also to care for abandoned animals in general and provide an opportunity for them to live out their lives in peace and health.

That would’ve been huge.

The new folks over at L.A. Voice want to know just how bad L.A. is at historic preservation. Linking to a Preserve LA post that links to a Preservation Online article by Chris Epting titled “Lost in Los Angeles,”  L.A. Voice’s Ryan Knoll takes issue with Epting’s characterization of L.A. as one of the worst cities in the country in terms of preservation of its historic landmarks. Knoll sites Epting’s examples of the Ambassador Hotel and the Garden of Allah residential complex as just not being very heavy hitters in the history ring:

The Garden of Allah was a compound of bungalows that served as pieds a terre for celebs like Gretta Garbo, Humphrey Bogart, and Ernest Hemmingway. It was built in 1927 and bulldozed in 1959. Does a 32 year old apartment complex merit the “Historic” tag? If so, I want a tax deduction for my house.

You can make a strong argument for and against the Ambassador Hotel. It’s greatest claim to fame (or infamy), of course was as the spot of Robert F. Kennedy’s assasination. But the Kennedy family (I believe) wasn’t all that fired up about saving the building, and if you remove the Kennedy factor from consideration, the Ambassador becomes just another hotel that hosted famous people.

As an issue near and dear to my heart of course I started posting a comment in response to Ryan but it quickly rambled and so instead I decided to pop it up here, as follows:

Ryan, I would be interested to know where the line is to be drawn. If we look at a landmark and shrug about it not being old enough or that its only claim to fame is that it housed some celebs or hosted the murder of a presidential candidate then it shouldn’t be too difficult to shrug off all those vacant theaters on Broadway or that Frank Lloyd Wright house up on the hills or that luggage shop on Vine Street.

You can make the argument that historically speaking there’s not all that much going on and I wouldn’t necessarily disagree — not because few things actually qualify, but because there are so few things left. L.A. may be 225 years old but in the last 100 or so this city’s become the capital of reinvention and make-believe where the automobile is king, and our sprawled out drive-through cityscapes can’t help but reflect that.

As a prime example very near and dear to my heart, I site the “1,000 year old” oak tree that for the first 950 years of its undisturbed and unencumbered life was one of hundreds upon hundreds of oak trees growing in the area. But for its final 50 years or so it became isolated and imprisoned in what became the suburban bedroom community of Encino a hundred yards or so south of Ventura Boulevard until it finally succumbed to years of illness and indifference along with that winter’s relentless El Nino storms and fell in 1998. Sure, it was recognized in 1963 by the city as an historic and cultural monument (No. 74), but did that prevent the grand arbor from being relegated to a small island surrounded by the asphalt encroachment of the post-war boom? Of course not. City planners were so reckless in their disregard that they actually split Louise Avenue’s lanes around the tree, allocating a mid-sized shopping center to the north and a bank building to the south and multi-unit aparment buildings behind it. Why? Because what was it other than nothing but a big old tree. Never mind that it deserved a park of its own and even the slightest in protective distance from the pavement and pollution, this historic and cultural icon couldn’t even get the slightest consideration beyond being acknowledge for its longevity in a city whose residents ceaselessly strive to ignore the clock rather than recognize its forward progress.

And now it’s gone.

So while historic significance might be an oxymoron in L.A., it would be from a perspective of cultural significance that I would definitely say L.A. qualifies as one of the most ignorant cities at preservation. On a small scale countless are the landmark businesses that are nothing more than memories and pictures: Perino’s, C.C. Brown’s, Wallach’s Music City, Pickwick Books, Jay’s Jayburgers. Hell, rather than restore it the city came very close to razing downtown’s central library after it was torched by arsonists in the 1980s.

And the erasure is easily evident on a larger scale, too – and not without some irony. Union Station is an untouchable landmark in its own right, but it resides on what used to be the original location of Chinatown. Same with Dodger Stadium. I would throw myself in front of any bulldozer that threatened my beloved House of Blue, but it was built on the dirt that buried the barrancas and canyons and history of Chavez Ravine. And what they couldn’t fill in they chopped down. Bunker Hill used to be much more of a hill than it is now, but it was lopped off and trucked down and leveled and with it went so much of one of the city’s most historic residential cores.

The bottom line for me is that be it historic or cultural, Los Angeles’ past is a slate that’s historically been far more easily and regretlessly cleaned than most other American cities.

I’m glad Tony Pierce can see the humor in Martini Republic’s chiding of him for “failing” to dive LAist into the exclamated blogoblather brewed up over the inevitable eviction of the croppers from Ralph Horowitz’s property yesterday. It took me a second read to get the sense that it was a good-natured jab, and still only somewhat.

I suppose like a good southpaw I should just be righteously indignant that these little people who worked the land and made something of nothing were so summarily and inconsiderately given the boot, but I’m finding it hard to blame Horowitz for his actions, or to consider him the bad guy in all this. I’m waaaay more inclined to look back a couple years and point my middle finger at the city itself for putting the property up for sale in the first place.

In the L.A. Times article today, Horowitz is quoted as saying that he was fed up with the insults and the legal battles and all the bullshit and even if the farmers or their benefactors had come up with $50 million he would have told them all to go to hell. Frankly, I don’t blame him one bit.

Sure, it would be far easier to accept if it were a homeless encampment being disbanded from some derelict wastefield, but instead it’s a plot of land so infused with the symbolism of self-sufficiency, cooperation, hope and renewal. It was from the ashes of the horrible 1992 riots that this site rose to flourish with life and sustenance brought forth by the hands and hearts of its area residents. And now that’s all going away to be replaced by warehouses.

It’s easy to despise that end result, but again I don’t blame the land’s lord. Nor do I blame the people who worked that land (though I think they’re playing the exploited card a weeeeeeee bit too hard). Neither do I go on without saying it is far more complex an issue than to boil it down to the city as the bad guy. Nevertheless whoever over at City Hall back in 2003 failed to recognize the importance of this agricultural cooperative and instead orchestrated and architected the sale of a whole lotta heart and soul for a few million dollars is the entity that gets my enmity.

And now that we’re in the post-game Mayor Villaraigosa, it would really be best if you would stop your whining about Horowitz being the roadblock to the farm’s survival because he refused to take the way late bait.

The Midnight Ridazz route brought us around the farm and its tenants last Friday night.

*Cross-posted from Blogging.la

It’s not every day here in Southern California you get to bag a wild lion from behind a 9mm pistol in the comfort of your own backyard, but that’s what an Orange County resident did yesterday morning when he confronted a mountain lion that had ventured from the adjacent Cleveland National Forest onto his Rancho Santa Margarita property.

Quoted in today’s L.A. Times article the trigger-happy former cop’s logic is impeccable:

Hill said he retrieved a 9-millimeter pistol from his car and entered his backyard through a side gate. He saw the cougar hunch down on a slope 30 feet away, with a 5-foot-high iron fence and a swimming pool between them. He feared the animal was going to attack, and he fired two shots.

“I thought I could be in trouble with the lion that close to me, especially when he went from standing up to hunching down,” he said.

So let me get this straight… after putting himself in potential harm by advancing toward the mountain lion and then seeing the big cat hunker down (not out of potential anxiety over its unfamiliar surroundings but because it obviously wanted to eat Hill) with not one but two barriers between them, the terrified Mr. Hill took it upon himself not only to break what I’m guessing is an ordinance against the discharge of a firearm within city or county limits but also a law against the destruction a protected species.

Slight digression: Uh, I know he’s identified as a former police officer and I guess he’s allowed to be strapped despite his current lack of law enforcement authority, but what the hell is he doing keeping a weapon in his car?

Of course, with the animal now wounded thanks to Hill’s fine marksmanship and therefore a far greater risk to the populace, law enforcement and wildlife officials had no choice to finish the creature off after it was located dying about a quarter mile away some 90 minutes later.

The article makes absolutely no mention of whether Hill was cited for breaking laws, but being that it’s the OC’s outback, my bet is he’ll be hailed as a hero.

Me? I’ll only be hailing his actions as despicable given my love and respect of cougars, which can be found in my blog post of last year following the discover in January 2005 of a pair that had been poisoned in the nearby Santa Susana Mountains.

On the heels of my serenity-now post I can’t help but vent at the news that’s out about Gov. Schwarzenegger. Seems that after taking 15 stitches to the lip following an accident in which the motorcycle he was driving collided with a car backing out of a driveway, it’s been revealed that Ahnold doesn’t hold a Class M licenserequired — by the state he purports to lead — of anyone who owns and operates a motorcycle.

The only thing Arnie leads is by lousy example.

And further it was reported that upon discovery by CHP officers at the scene of the accident that he was in violation, did they cite him as they undoubtedly would any other improperly licensed citizen? Hell no! Their reasoning? Well, they arrived after the accident and didn’t witness it.

Riiiiight. Look, I’m glad he wasn’t seriously injured and that his son riding in the bike’s sidecar avoided getting hurt. This isn’t about questioning Arn’s ability on a Harley, it’s about obeying the fucking law — whether you’re the leader of a motorcycle club or the leader of Kalifornia.

So the next story I want to read is about Schwarzenegger getting the ticket he’s due with a follow-up on him doing what all legally minded motorcycle drivers past and present have been obligated to do: take and pass the proper written and driving tests.

I know: Dream on. The bullshit privilege afforded him by his office and his celebrity will make the ticket never happen and an “M” on his license magically appear.

UPDATE: 

From the L.A. Times piece in today’s paper, which quotes an Arnold staffer as saying she doesn’t think he’ll be riding anymore until he’s properly licensed, there’s also this:

But officials at the state Department of Motor Vehicles and other experts said a citation was unlikely because of a loophole in the law. The motor vehicle code states that an M1 license is required for drivers of all “two wheel” vehicles. Because Schwarzenegger was driving Sunday with a sidecar, his bike had three wheels.

Good grief. Gotta love those loopholes. If I were an unlicensed motorcyclist I’d be out bolting on a trailing third wheel (maybe from a skateboard or a grocery cart) to the rear axle of my ride right now. After all the law doesn’t say where the third wheel has to be, just that it not be a two-wheeler.