99 Miles From L.A.

If this title does not evoke a melody in your head, well, then thank your lucky stars you missed the schmaltzy tunes of the ’70s. The only thing worse than Art Garfunkel chirping away at this song is having it on auto-replay in your brain as you are crawling through the megalopolis of greater Los Angeles.

We thought — foolishly — that Saturday would afford us the luxury of a late start on our journey south from La La Land. No commute traffic. Just casual weekend drivers. How wrong we were.

Work commuters are replaced by beach goers of every type: surfers, tanners, swimmers, picnickers. And they are hauling trailers and boats and campers and every type of motorized and unmotorized accessory, piled up high, protruding from windows, strapped haplessly on roofs, or hitched to their tailgates. More than that, they are deadly serious about getting to their favorite spot in the sand to have some fun.

As far as we know, no one succeeded in making that pun a reality and actually killing themselves on this particular day, but it was not for lack of trying.

When you see an SUV hung vertically on the concrete barrier, with another vehicle underneath the SUV’s wheels, you can appreciate how crazy things get here.

As a result of the overzealous weekend goers, The 405, The 5, The 110 (all freeways here start with the definitive article for some reason) were either orange or red on the GPS for our entire trip.

You know you are in L.A. when your Google Map’s ETA goes up the farther you drive.

So I had to get that cheesy song out of my head, which was already buzzing with sinus congestion from all the pollen in the air. Unfortunately, the only replacement was just as much an ear worm, with lyrics coincidentally coined by the very same Hal David and made famous by the inimitable Dionne Warwick.

L.A.’s a great big freeway

Put a hundred down and buy a car

In a week or two they’ll make you a star

Weeks turn into days, how quick they pass

And all the stars that never were

Are parking cars and pumping gas

Much catchier tune and so apropos for the superficialities that pervade the area’s vibe.

But, after crawling another few miles and engaging in the occasional rubbernecking to dispel the boredom, I needed to advance the playlist. James Taylor came to the rescue:

Damn, this traffic jam

How I hate to be late

Hurts my motor to go so slow

Time I get home my supper be cold

Damn, this traffic jam.

And so our leisurely weekend drive, which Google promised would get us to our desired destination in 90 minutes, clocked in at over three hours. 99 miles from L.A., indeed. 99 miles isn’t far enough.


VRBO

Water Sports


VRBO

Every morning and even some evenings, unsuspecting travelers are involved in an activity of high risk. It is a game that has reached epidemic proportions. It must be stopped.

It is a game I call: “Shower Roulette.”

Perhaps even you, dear reader, have unwittingly participated in this endeavor.

You step into a shower at a hotel or AirBnB. If it is a combination tub and shower, there will be the bath faucet and then, of course, some kind of shower head. There will be a lever somewhere that diverts the water to one or the other. How that lever works is never clear. Perhaps it twists clockwise to channel the stream to the shower, or perhaps it twists counterclockwise.

In the good old days, there would be two other handles, one on the left for hot water and one on the right for cold. The degree to which you opened the valves also controlled the volume, or water pressure. With these handles you could dip your toe in the water, so to speak. When it reached a temperature and a pressure you found satisfactory, well then let it rip out of the shower head.

But just to make things interesting, the water fixture designers (and who are they, anyway?) decided that we might just as well combine the hot and cold water valves with the lever diverting water up or down. Again, no clear convention on which direction to turn these things. And how is the pressure of the liquid controlled? Anybody’s guess, because none of this is standardized among the manufacturers of these contraptions.

(We have a Geneva Convention so that the world can agree on war crimes. But the shower roulette atrocity? No one seems to care.)

But wait, this apparently wasn’t enough of a challenge for the designer gods. They decided that what would be really cool is to go over the top — literally — and add another dimension for water flow to be dumped right on the top of your head.

So now we have three potential ways to spray the water, which undoubtedly will come with the force of a fire hose and at a temperature reminiscent of a melting glacier. Will the icy water attack your toes? Will it spray directly into your face? Or will it just act as a proxy for the “bucket challenge” that was so fashionable a few years ago, and dump directly on your noggin.

Good luck figuring it out.