[sic]

First comes me changing my evil road warrior ways and instead of confronting/berating every vehicle that excessively encroaches on mine and my bike’s space, I come up with this entirely verbose and overtly diplomatic manner of raising awareness.

Now this morning as I’m moving the cans down to the curb for trash pick-up, I encounter a Mercedes partially blocking our driveway — not the most egregious ever, but still worthy of me speed dialing parking enforcement and having the tard ticketed.

Instead, I come upstairs and tap this notice out on the keyboard:

To the owner of this Mercedes:

You are partially blocking the driveway. To you it may not seem like much, but this is a tight two-car garage, and any infringement – such as how you’ve chosen to leave your vehicle – makes it difficult to exit and enter.

In the past I’ve never bothered leaving notes, I’ve just contacted parking enforcement to have any such offending vehicles ticketed and/or towed. But I’m trying a different angle: I’m attempting to be considerate and respectful towards people who aren’t in the hope that the next time you’ll be a bit more attentive.

We’ll see how that works out. If it doesn’t, parking enforcement is just a phone call away.

I even saved the file to my desktop for potential future use with other infringers.

The annotated image capture from Google Maps above isn’t entirely necessary, but I figured what the hell.

So yesterday afternoon I’m on my way from work to the Mid-Wilshire area to join my wife and some of her employees at a wonderful little place called Mamma Mia where we were to enjoy pizza and beer and a Lakers’ victory… well two out of three, then.

Biking over I decided to avoid Wilshire Boulevard and pedal along south of it not just because it would be quieter riding, but also because I’d never been in that residential neighborhood and I enjoy exploring new places.

So there I am eastbound on pretty much a car-free 8th Street enjoying the well-tended homes and homes I’m passing with nothing else around but some dog-walking or stroller-pushing pedestrians. I’m about halfway to the stop sign at Muirfield (1) when out of nowhere a blue coupe races up behind me then guns around me on the left. Going too fast to make the stop, the driver blows the sign and peels left, whereupon I crank it and cut a left too as I see 8th is dead-ended (2) about halfway past Muirfield. Then I go inside out and end up on his left side.

He sees me looking with pretty much unbridled scorn and contempt at him so being a glutton for punishment he rolls down his window (3) and I get my first good look at some young punk — probably a second-generation gater from the exclusive Fremont Place community nearby whose probably still waiting for all his pubes to come in. He sneers condescendingly at me so I ask him why he’s gotta drive like a dick much less act like one. And he responds “Why you gotta ride in the street?”

That’s a pretty valid question — if you’re a Tard from Tardistan — so I gave him my standard incredulous response: “Are you that ignorant that you think bikes aren’t allowed in the streets?” And he just shrugged and sneered again and tried to accelerate, but we were approaching Wilshire and a stop sign that he managed to figure out all by himself that he should not blow through so we stayed parallel and he was forced to listen as I rephrased my first question: “Even for the sake of argument say bikes weren’t allowed on the street. Where in traffic school were you taught that gives you the right to drive like a dangerous idiot?”

He blinks and pretends to ignore me.

Arriving at the stop sign pretty much simultaneously I do some rough calculations and point out how much time he saved driving so recklessly: “None, douche!”

He clearly wants to be rid of me, but cross-traffic is preventing his escape, so he appears to mull my inquiry over but then starts to roll his window up, before stopping midway and rolling it back down, whereupon he says to me: “You know what: fuck you then!”

And I say “So you talk like an idiot, too? I can do that: fuck you, too.” And he has enough and guns it into the space separating a bus and a Hummer and he thinks he’s shaken loose of me.

But he hasn’t. Because after venturing along Wilshire to the Ebell Theater I dropped back down Lucerne to 8th and kept heading east until who should I manage to encounter again further down the road heading south from Wilshire on Kingsley crossing 8th but the same bitch-blue coupe, driven by the same wet-eared punk.

The kid’s eyes went wide when he saw me as he passed and I shot him the “watching you” sign as if I’d known he’d be there. Looked like he’d seen a ghost.

Are cyclists increasingly becoming non compos mentis? I ask this because there’s been some reaaaaallllly thick-headed trash talk this weekend about the unreasonable costs ($39) attached to riding in the annual LA County Bike Coalition River Ride — one I’ve not only done three times as a participant/LACBC member, but also this past three years I’ve volunteered my time to help with the route marking.

My obvious bias* for the ride aside, what’s really gotten my goat is people not only criticizing the ride and the LA County Bicycle Coalition for daring to charge a fee to do it, but that they are failing to grasp that the event is a primary way that nonprofit gets the funds SO THEY CAN PURSUE THEIR MISSION TO PROMOTE BICYCLING.

I’ve been pretty reasoned and quiet as this has developed, but a comment that I just read at L.A. Metblogs talks about being unable to “…justify paying money” when there are all sorts of free rides to chose from such as Midnight Ridazz, RIDE-Ard, Crank Mob, and it put me over the edge in my own counter comment:

Talk about a twofer this morning. In the first clip I come up behind an insecure moped rider on Venice Boulevard who — despite it being illegal and able to attain and maintain traffic flow speeds — opts to ride exclusively in the bike lane:

And in this next encounter a few blocks later I come up to a Fedex delivery vehicle parked like a tard in full blockage of the bike lane, so with room on the right (where the driver should have pulled the vehicle) I opt to avoid entering the No. 3 traffic lane and instead go the inside route instead:

Previously on This Is Why I Hate: Trucks & Wrong-Way Cyclists

UPDATE: I stand stupid and corrected. A commenter to the moped video’s page on YouTube wrote that I’m totally incorrect in my belief that mopeds are not legally allowed in California Class II bike lanes — and he or she is totally right. It turns out in my research I read an incomplete version of CVC 21207.5, which stated: “No motorized bicycle may be operated on a bicycle path or trail, bikeway, bicycle lane, equestrian trail, or hiking or recreational trail…” The part I missed was: “…unless it is within or adjacent to a roadway.”

So: it’s totally legal. And it still totally pisses me off.

To the person who left the still-cold, three-quarters-full, 40-ounce bottle of Cobra Malt Liquor that I found in the plastic bag on the walkway below our porch, I’m pretty sure — or at least hoping — that you probably knew our deceased tenant Joe and perhaps stopped by this morning or sometime during the night to mourn his loss and remember the good times when he was alive.

Since most other empty beer containers found are regularly left by inconsiderate public drinkers down by the curb or in the ivy or behind our mailbox, that’s pretty much the only reason I can come up with that you’d blatantly trespass onto our property with a large bottle of alcohol like it’s not our house, but yours — or Joe’s.

Point in fact, it’s not yours, nor Joe’s.

Putting aside the general creepiness of some stranger so out of it as to not even think twice about coming to our house to pour one out for the dearly departed and then leave the bottle and the remaining disgusting beverage for me to dispose of, I’ve tried hard to craft the following request while remaining aware of your loss and considerate of your feelings in such a time of sorrow:

KEEP THE FUCK OUT, PLEASE

About a month ago I probably glazed most eyes over writing about the concerns I have regarding the proposed satellite radio acquisition of XM by its rival Sirius. I won’t bore you again with the specifics other than to say that as a long-time Sirius subscriber I’m still just as wary of the rumors that the individual companies’ existing hardware might not accommodate the combined programming of the new single entity and thus require some sort of cash outlay for a new radio.

The vague explanation that remains on the Sirius Merger website coupled  to the silence that’s greeted my specific correspondence to Sirius on the topic has served to only increase my apprehension, and prompted me to write my U.S. senators about it.

I heard first back from Barbara Boxer whose platitude-loaded form letter pretty much boiled down to “this is an important issue,” and “thanks for writing to me.” Thanks for nothing, Babs.

Would that Sen. Feinstein had been so generic. Instead her response blew me away with how much she — or more specifically one of her staffers — blew it in misreading my letter as one expressing wholehearted support of the proposed merger:

Dear Mr. Campbell,

Thank you for writing regarding your support for the proposed merger between Sirius and XM satellite radio. I appreciate your taking the time to share your views.

The Department of Justice and the Federal Trade Commission share concurrent jurisdiction over merger enforcement. It is their duty to carefully review, among other things, the potential implication of mergers on consumers and businesses. This is a crucial function of both agencies and it is often a very lengthy process.

Although mergers do not require congressional approval, the Senate Judiciary Committee has oversight jurisdiction over mergers and held a hearing last year to consider the implications of the proposed merger. Although I was unable to attend that hearing, I have been following this potential merger closely because, if it takes place, it could have a major effect on the media market in this country. On one hand we would go from a market with two satellite radio companies, competing fiercely to develop their content and attract subscribers, to just one satellite radio company. This could limit the choices available to consumers. On the other hand, I recognize that XM and Sirius have raised concerns that there is the potential for both companies to go out of business if the merger does not go forward, leaving the satellite radio market void. Please be assured that I will keep your support for the merger in mind should the Senate consider these issues further.

Once again, thank you for writing and I hope you will continue to write to me about issues of importance to you. If I can be of further assistance, please do not hesitate to contact my Washington, DC staff at (202) 224‑3841.

Best regards.

Sincerely yours,
Dianne Feinstein
United States Senator

My “support” of the merger? Of course I WTF’d an email right back at Dianne:

Senator Feinstein,

Did your staff even READ my letter? I ask this with pointed incredulity because you reference my “support” of the Sirius/XM merger twice in your response when in fact my letter to you expressed the reservations I have regarding the acquisition of XM by Sirius and how it might make current subscribers’ existing equipment obsolete, thus necessitating costly purchases of new hardware in order to take advantage of the new hybrid programming.

If you or your staff even bother to read this I only hope it’s clear how absolutely disappointing  it is to be so grossly misinterpreted.

Sincerely,
William Campbell

It was only later that I learned that barely a half-block away from us this EARLY this Friday morning some kid mistook the gas pedal for the brakes and plowed down a driveway and through a converted garage where his dad was sleeping, pinning him injured beneath the vehicle.

I’m pretty sure everyone involved is going to be OK, but at 5:30 a.m. the only thing I knew was that some loud ass news helicopter decided to park itself a couple hundred feet over our house for more than 45 minutes as the breaking new story “developed.”

Here’s what 30 seconds of it looked and sounded like from our backyard at 5:36 a.m.:

At the end of March I wrote a post detailing a pair of stupid cyclists I encountered one morning on 4th Street. The first one was surly and despite being a slowpoke had no patience for the long red light at Wilton Place, and the second one was overdressed and jumped a four-way stop a few blocks later in front of a truck that I’d stopped for and had the right of way and almost hit him.

Guess which one I encountered this morning? That would be Stupid Cyclist No. 2. And guess what happened? Yeah he was still overdressed and this time almost ran into me because he was following me too close and not paying attention when I came to a stop for the northbound cross traffic at Rossmore. He missed me by inches with a breathless “Whoa!” and then instead of stopping continued on across the intersection despite the passing vehicles, forcing the nearest car to slam on its brakes. What a dick!

After the intersection cleared I proceeded across and caught up with the retard a block further up. If you read my post about that first encounter you might recall last time I restricted expressing my distaste to firing a warning loogie across his bow. This time I decided to be a bit more vocal.

“Dude,” I yelled. “You’re a fucking menace.” He peeled the huge headphones he was wearing from his ears and said ” Eh? No unnerstan.”

I repeated my fact-based analysis of him and advised that since this was now the second time out of two that he’s proven to be a two-wheeled retard around me, should there be any unfortunate future opportunities for us to be on the road together, it would be in everyone’s best interest and especially his if he stayed as far the hell away from me as possible.

“Oh,” he said. “OK.”

“OK? Yeah well, just so we’re clear: stay the fuck away from me,” I called to him a couple arm lengths away. Indicating the distance between us I said, “If you ever get as close to me as you are now, I’m gonna put you on the ground, comprende asshole?”

“Oooooh!” was all he said, but wide-eyed he immediately backed-off and stayed a good half-block behind me until he had no choice but to pass me stopped at La Brea to make a right and go north.

This first commercial from Farmers Insurance posted below left the urban cyclist in me wanting to bike over to the company’s Wilshire Boulevard headquarters and egg the building. The next one from State Farm just makes me twitch:

But beneath the arrogant humiliation of cyclists and cycling that’s being promoted in those spots, there’s a bit of desperation to these campaigns. These companies derive a substantial portion of their revenue from the premiums people pay to protect the cars they own and drive, so it’s no surprise that they’ll employ such ludicrous tactics as more and more people start looking at ways to go about their lives without them.

Shame on them.

No photos or videos to illustrate this morning’s tardish behavior, sorry. Just words, and I’ll try to keep those to a minimum, too (yeah, that’ll be the day).

So I’m biking in to work today as I’ve now done every consecutive workday since March 10 and 17 out of 19 total workdays this wonderful month of March because I’m a dyed-in-the-Lycra biking monster mofo (except without the Lycra) who’d be batting .1000 if it hadn’t been for bouts with the flu and a lost crown that turned into not one but two root canals. But let’s whoa about my woes and focus people, dammit!

Anyway, I’m on 4th Street at Wilton Place waiting at the interminable light there long enough for my fingernails to noticeably grow and to be joined by two fellow cyclists (which , coincidentally, at a total of three represents 74% of the cyclists on the streets in L.A. at any given moment, according to the MTA, the LADOT, and the OMF&G). A guy rolls to the crosswalk next to me on my left and another to my right hangs back around my five o’clock at the curb.

The guy to my left I’ve seen before — last week I think — and when I passed him then further along through Hancock Park I gave him a “good morning!” and he didn’t so much as give me a grunt in return. So from the “blow me off once because you’re a dick, shame on you” school I didn’t bother trying to be cordial twice — which was a good thing because before I would have had time to say anything for him to ignore he bolted on the red across the intersection, leaving me and the other fellow looking either law-abiding or chicken or both.

That’s happened before. The most recent was a couple weeks earlier at the much busier intersection of Venice and Hauser where a be-spandexed road geek ahead of me had pulled to a stop long enough for me to come to a stop near him. No sooner had I arrived when he charged ahead through the cross traffic against the red, I’m guessing because he was mortified that the standstill would drop his average pedal cadence below 90. Egad!

Certainly I can’t force my ethics on other riders, but that doesn’t mean I have to accept it when my personal commandment is if there’s any number of cyclists accumulated at any given red light — obey it. Together we stop, divided we suck.

But never mind what I abhor, the twist is that Lefty t’weren’t no speedster and by the time the light turned green he wasn’t more than a block and a half away from me, which means without much effort my law-abiding ass was passing him on the western side of Norton, three blocks hence where his slow-going self stayed in my rear view mirror the rest of our time together.

The other rider, heavier laden with an unnecessary winter-weight jacket and riding something of an off-the-rack-at-Target clunker was a bit of a surprise in that he was the stronger of the two. He wasn’t so much drafting as he was pacing me, staying a few bike lengths back and showing every sign of keeping up — not that I was particularly blazing at anything more then 15 mph — but it was enough to put Lefty far enough to the rear as we traveled a few blocks further west, which is where this second cyclist’s moment in the suck comes in.

Well amidst the manses and estates of Hancock Park I approached Windsor Avenue, and from the north a large pick-up truck pulled to the stop sign. In deference to his being the first to arrive at that intersection way ahead of me I came to a halt at the four-way stop so that he could proceed, where I remained clipped in to my pedals and balanced, figuring the rider shadowing me would either do the same or coast and at least slow, let the truck pass and we could both get a move on.

What an idiot I was to ASSume such a thing. The truck begins to go just as Clunker pulls abreast of me to my left and with no intention of obeying the posted stop sign or slowing down he just keeps on going even though the truck has begun entering the intersection and, needless to say, has the right of way. In response to Clunker’s epic failure to yield, I have to unclip and put a foot down as the truck hitches to a stop and then Clunker half-hitches like he’s going to stop and so the truck starts to go again but then Clunker cranks it across the intersection while the swarthy driver of the truck has to hit the brakes again and glares after him with fire in his eyes before turning that fire back to me and all I can offer is a motion for him to continue and a shrug which translated to “That guy’s an idiot but if you wait another 15 seconds you’ll meet another one, too!” He shrugged back which I read to mean “Fucking cyclists! Another time, maybe,” and moved across 4th to points south.

I caught up with Clunker at the next block and on approach I mulled over a variety of verbal options, among them being:

• “Wow, that bonehead maneuver certainly made things easier for everyone, didn’t it huh?”
• “Just to be clear I’m not your personal intersection blocker, but you are a dipshit!”
• You rode the little bus in elementary school, didn’t you?”
• “WTFOMG! Tard much!?”
• “What you did back there is why cyclists will always and forever suck. Thanks for perpetuating!”

But instead I just pulled beside him and opted out of speaking to instead opportunistically hawk up a loogy that I fired across his bow. Then I said “Pace this motherfucker” and gunned it, putting him far enough behind me to enjoy the rest of 4th Street to myself idiot- and incident-free all the way to La Brea.