[sic]

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.

…But neither of you can park for shit:

While certainly one of the least egregious of the legion of out-of-bounds parking tards I’ve had to deal with (in fact this car took the place of a far worse offender who we had towed last night), this Honda’s license plate just might make take the prize for most assholier than though.

WWJD? Park like a jerk, apparently.

Several weeks ago coming home through 4th and Rimpau in Hancock Park I barely cleared a slow-moving black Chrylser with consular plates and thus avoided getting essentially PIT-maneuvered by whoever the driver was oddly unwilling to stop through the intersection. And now this morning going the other way the driver of a new Mustang with ultra-tinted windows decides I don’t have the right of way and/or I’m not going fast enough and heads into the intersection while I’m still in the middle of it — gets the car’s nose right up beside me as I’m coasting through.

So I’m giving the unseen driver some distaste over my left shoulder and then after I clear the Ford it revs going across the rest of the intersection and I look over my right shoulder long and pointedly enough for the driver to chirp rubber stopping and drop the window. I curve around to the right and stop, too.

A round bald head pops out and asks me if I’ve got “some sort of problem?” I was expecting I don’t know… a mid/late 20-something. Instead this guy’s got to be on final approach to his 50s.

“Not anymore,” I call across. “I was just trying to figure out if you were an inconsiderate jackass or a belligerent asshole, but I couldn’t tell through the tinted glass. Thanks for clearing that up for me.”

“Ha! OK, and what’s your verdict?”

“More jackass than asshole, but not by much.”

He snorts. “Well, you’re just a dick on a bike.”

“Yep, you win. Jackass beats dick any day.”

“Fuck you!”

“Careful now. Your all asshole now. No wonder you tinted your windows so dark.”

I think he was going to say “fuck you” again but realized he’d just be repeating himself so then he just blinked at me before yanking his head back inside the car and gunning it up and away toward 3rd.

There’s a part of me that’s really pissed and a part of me that’s really glad I didn’t understand what the guy yelled at us.

As Eric, Michael, Mack, Stephen, Ingrid and I in all our laidback IAAL•MAFness rolled west on 11th Street across Broadway sometime around 9 p.m. last night, a muddled bellow from behind us took us by surprise and I whipped around at the sound to find several people gathered on the sidewalk near the southeast corner of that intersection. I wasn’t able to figure out who said what or what was said. All I knew was that the voice was male and what came out was “Dah rah gizz bah caz,” and my first and main thought was all “whoa… better be last call for that fella.” Then when we just looked at them and they just looked at us and whoever it was didn’t follow up such witless mumblings with more, we just pointed our heads forward and kept on riding.

Had my comprehension of his statement been immediate, our quiet and casual and easygoing and fun ride around a mostly deserted downtown would have taken a decidedly noisy and confrontational turn as of course I would have peeled off, circled back and imposed upon the guy the following questions:

1. Did he have to work hard to be such a skinflute or did it just came natural?
2. Where the fuck did he get off coming up with the totally awesome idea of showcasing what a complete asshole he was?
3. Was he always in the habit of instigating shit by saying stupid things to strangers who just might opt to jack his ass up?
4. To what might he attribute the uncontrollable impulse to harsh my mellow: a) alcohol and/or narcotics, b) a lack of breastfeeding as an infant, or conversely a prolonged period of breastfeeding deep into his toddler years, c) some sort of compulsive syndrome, or d) all of the above?

But none of that happened because instead, it wasn’t until we’d gone to the next street — Hill — and turned right that Ingrid and Stephen and Michael mockingly repeated what the asstard had spewed:

“The road is for cars!”

(more…)

I have one of those  Swiss Army knives, the kind that has I don’t know how many blades and tools and such. Among it all there’s a pair of scissors, tweezers… even a little magnifying glass for starting fires should you require such functionality.  As a result of attempting to use it (not to start a fire) my left index finger’s tip is wrapped in a big bandage (that’s making it hard to type).

Sometimes the knife travels with me in a pocket or pack and sometimes it gets left somewhere… home, office, car. Of late it’s been in my office where I put it to occasional and successful use slicing up apples. Today I was not so successful slicing up a persimmon, one from a giant bag that a coworker had brought in and left in the lunchroom for any who wanted one. Or 12.

I suppose my injury could be so worse, but I couldn’t have failed in the simple act of cutting a piece of fruit more self-loathingly.

After opening up the longest of the knife’s blades without incident I placed the tip at the spot on the persimmon where I wanted to begin the cut. As it was a moderately ripe persimmon I didn’t have to apply much pressure to facilitate the downward slicing action.

Suddenly encountering unexpected resistance I “leaned into it” just enough to drive the blade all the way through and quickly to the table, where it came to an abrupt rest and right after so did my left index finger on what should have been the harmless back of the blade.

Should have been.

But no, see, what I had unwittingly and carelessly opted to do was for some head-shakingly unfathomable and painfully laughable lack of reason was invert the entire knife so the business side was up and the useless side was the one being employed to slash… thus the surprise increased resistance I met.

And speaking of surprise, what became immediately and unmistakably apparent to me in the form of a wicked cold-burning stinging sensation emanating from my left index finger was that its tip did not come to a stop against the back of the blade. Oh no. Instead it hit the sharp edge of the blade for that initial cut and then kept on going… or should I say the stainless steel blade kept going into my finger until I’d butterflied it but good.

Being that I was at work I was forced to cancel the parade of invective that immediately lined up to march out of my mouth. Besides, I had more important things to do than spew foul language in full reproach. Like bleed. A lot. I swear the only thing that bleeds as much as a head when wounded is a finger. I wish I didn’t know this first hand — ha: hand, get it?

Anyway, my injured digit and I adjourned to the sink in the lunch room where I ran cold water over and in and through the wound, hissing when it hurt, which it did. After some isopropyl alcohol spray, first aid ointment and a large fingertip bandage, all that was left was a cartoonish throbbing that served as punctuating proof of my stoopidity, and the uneaten persimmon — which I finished slicing without further injury but then threw out after one achingly astrigent bite.

Agh, us faultless “entitled” humans. Practically every day I’m shown another example of how we think we do own the planet. This time it was on a rather small scale via an alert to residents of the next monthly Silver Lake Improvement Association gathering later this week.

As highlighted above, one of the items to be explored concerns “our coyote problems,” and you just have to know that kind of slanted, narrow sillytalk just chaps my coyote-loving hide enough to whip off an email to the boardmembers:

In regards to the item on the agenda of this coming Thursday’s community meeting, I may have to show up for once just so I can be one of those pro-animal hardcase voices in the wilderness that points a resenting finger at it being referred to institutionally as a “coyote problem.”

Sadly it seems I should expect members of the SLIA board to roll their eyes at anyone defending the creatures, but the fact is the coyotes’ presence isn’t their fault, it’s the fault of those of us who — be it inadvertent or not — provide them with predatory and scavenging opportunities.

And then there’s that little matter of burning down a huge section of their habitat in Griffith Park last May and forcing them to relocate. Lest we forget, that catastrophe wasn’t caused by a coyote that was careless with a cigarette, it was one of us human problems.

Will Campbell

UPDATE (3:50 p.m.): I ended up receiving a very nice reply from SLIA boardmember Lorraine Kells that demonstrated how easily I misconstrue irony when it comes to critters I heart:

Will,

I’m the guilty one.  I hurriedly made up the flyer with my typical Los Angeles tongue-in-cheek, ironic stance because the whole idea of having a wildlife specialist explain to people that the coyotes were here first and attracted by our garbage and wasteful habits is NOT their problem, but the problem of those who refuse to admit they live
in what was a wilderness scrub and home to mountain lions, bobcats, and coyotes which once thrived in balance should be obvious, but it’s not.  So, it’s our problem about ourselves, which we call our coyote problem.  Officer Randall does a great job of stating that.  You’ll enjoy him.

I don’t disagree with you, but I’m responsible for the irony which you took for intent; nevertheless there are many who view the animals as pests, so bring out your friends and fight for those critters.

Warm regards,
Lorraine Kells

To which I replied:

Thank you Lorraine. I fool myself into thinking I have an eye for irony and a sense of humor but it seems that’s never more not true when critters are involved. I’m familiar with Officer Randall and I’ll do my best to get to the meeting, but I’m also one of those fools that commutes to work (in Westchester) by bike (or even worse: carpools). Either of those crosstown scenarios might keep me from being there Thursday night, but I’m sure gonna try.

Best,
Will

Like most bullshit automobile adornment trends — the pissing Calvin, “Baby On Board” signage, bumper stickers that petulantly demand I accept that Jesus Is God while simultaneously commanding that I Read The Bible — I don’t know where and when they start. All I know is that they can never fade away fast enough to suit me.

The example of this type of stickering pictured below is certainly nothing new, but it’s one I don’t get on two WTF levels:

First off, dude: Duh. You’re driving a beatdown Toyota truck, what the hell else is it going to be powered by? Second off, dude: Nah. I’m pretty sure I didn’t miss the press release crowing about how Toyota’s engines deliver 1,200 horsepower.

And bonus WTF, dude. Hic? Were ya drinkin’ much while applying that lameness to your truck’s ass or is that uneven, off-center warped effect on purpose? Nice!

Powered by idiots.

There’s something about the parking lot where the Ralphs is on Glendale Boulevard in Silver Lake that makes people silly. A couple years ago I apparently wasn’t crossing  in front of a stopped car fast enough because when I’d barely gotten by the driver gunned it past me and flipped me off and when I shrugged a WTF!? at him as he glared at me in his rear view he slammed on the brakes and made like he was going to open the driver’s side door but remembered what a chickenshit he was and kept on going when I took off towards his car ready for whatever rumble might have awaited us.

Then today coming across the lot in my car, southbound on the right side of the parking lot lane with a two cars coming northbound, the trailing car without reason or need justs pulls directly in front of me as if to go around the lead car, but then doesn’t and just stops. And so does the lead car who’s now waiting at my 10 o’clock for a car behind me that’s pulling out of a space.

Does Car No. 2 pull back in behind Car No. 1 so I can go by? No. Does Car No. 2 stop? No. Instead Car No. 2 keeps coming toward me  until there’s only about 15 feet between our front bumpers. Then she stops. And now I have to wait for Car No. 1 — who’s doing nothing wrong — to wait for the car to exit the space behind me. When that happens does Car No. 2 then pull back to the right? No. She sits there barely moving and entirely unwilling or unable to acknowledge she’s sorry or a tard until I opt to go to my left and around her and as I do I give her a smarmy look and say mostly to myself in my closed up cab with the A/C and Sirius radio going full blast: “This isn’t England ya know!”

Not the cleverest thing, but hey.

And she responds how?  Of course by fully animating in a nanosecond as if someone hit an on switch. In the blink of an eye she went from comatose or overdosed to sitting fully upright and jetting her arm out in a full-thrust extension toward me upon the end of which stretches one of the most adamant middle fingers I’ve ever been given. You’d think I’d just insulted her mother or her hair color. And for added emphasis she yells “fuck off!” for all she’s worth and loud enough for me to hear in my closed up cab with the A/C and Sirius radio going full blast.

And then I did this remarkable thing: instead of going ballistic I laughed at her and shrugged at her irate over-reaction and just kept on going to a space up ahead where I parked and got out. I laughed even harder when I saw she’d done the same thing and was glaring at me with  eyes in a head that barely cleared the top of the door frame of her sports car. Seriously if she was five-feet tall then I’m a hipster. King of the hipsters.

To make things even more ludicrous, she was damaged. I mean physically. As she got out in the open, headed thankfully for some other venue besides Ralphs where I was going, Ms. Gimpy walked with a pronounced limp.

As timing would have it as I was on my way out of the market she was also heading back to her car from wherever she’d been, limping and a-glaring at me and so ready to open a can of badmouth on my ass. I just shook my head and kept on going.

Recounting this latest afrontation/confrontation by/with a motorist yesterday has elements that are so similar with others past as to render it almost too boring to bother. But I have to get it out of my head so bear with me.

Where: Eastbound on Pico Boulevard after crossing Catalina Street; at approximately mile No. 40 of what for me was ultimately a 46-mile ride as part of an excellent tour put together by the fine Hot Knives fellas.

When: 4:55 p.m.

Who: A male in his early 30s, the driver and sole occupant of a dark Blue Honda sedan.

What: Honking at me from behind while riding in the doorzone along the parked vehicles in the No. 2 lane he pulled alongside me in that same lane and called me an “asshole” through the passenger side window then accelerated past me and when I gave him the international arms-wide-open signal for Christ’s crucifixion “WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR MALFUNCTION!?” he responded by extending a middle toward me and then easing on down the road a couple more blocks.

Until he had to come to a complete stop at the stack of cars backed up a block back of the red light at Vermont.

Tangental point of order: Why at this point of the group
ride was I going solo? Well, that was due to me gunning it
down a hill through Beverlywood a few miles back and
keeping a brisk enough pace to end up a few minutes
ahead of the other cyclists.

On approach I have to admit it was fun to see him panic like a trapped rat. They always do when it dawns on them that the little one-act play they directed is about to have a second act they neither bargained for nor want. At first as he realized I was going to catch up to him he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and then started to swerve left to go around the car in front of him, but when he realized that wouldn’t allow an escape broke right and almost sissy fishtailed away south on New Hampshire Street. Finally resigned he straightened out and came to a full stop still in the No. 2 lane, whereupon I rolled up alongside the douche in his douchemobile and checked my anger as best I could to ask as reasonably as I could why he felt it was necessary to be such a piece of shit and A) Honk at me, B) Call me an asshole, and C) flip me the bird.

“You shouldn’t be on the road!” was his answer.

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood and wondered aloud to him if there might not have been a better, less stratospherically retarded way he might have displayed his limited intellect, and he just blinks at me while his undersized and underused brain taxes itself to a standstill trying to help him sound out strat-oh-sfear-ih-klee.

(more…)