Car Culture

I am riding shotgun in a rented Prius creeping down Santa Monica Boulevard immersed in afternoon traffic. The driver of our car is becoming increasingly agitated for reasons unknown to me. The traffic is moving, albeit slowly and I thought he had used the bathroom before we left the office. Suddenly, it all became clear.

"I FEEL LIKE A GODDMAN CHICK DRIVING THIS CAR!!!!" he exploded.

"What?"

"I SHOULDN'T BE DRIVING A DAMN PRIUS!!!"

"Why not?"

"Back home I drive a 68 Chevelle with double overhead cam neelys and 4400 cc woofermatic transmission bicarbonate totally aired out wheels and do my own grease jobs!"

At least that's what it sounded like to me. I'm sure he said something different and probably comprehensible to someone with a knowledge of cars. Me, I have no idea at all about cars as fetish objects. To me they're machines that make my life easier (or should). People who get worked up about machines are mysterious to me, but I guess it's no different than being a fan of a sports team or a political party for a hobby. Everyone needs one because humanity has sufficiently advanced that we don't spend all our time on survival needs so we need something else to kill the time before we shuffle off the planet.

In Los Angeles, the car culture is the dominant culture. The next day we had to work at a different office, one that was walking distance from the hotel. Only it was a bit of a chore to find the sidewalk. I started to walk down the driveway before a bellperson pointed me toward the footpath which involved walking up a slight incline to a flight of stairs to a walkway above a below-ground garage entrance to a dirt path under a tree that led to the sidewalk.

If I was in a car, it was a straight shot down a ramp to the street. Because I was some pedestrian weirdo I had to take the long way around.

I walked up the block, turned right toward the office and looked for the security booth to get my temporary ID. Guess where it was.

A parking garage. Of course.

They processed me through and handed me back two cards. One of them said "Vehicle Pass."

"I don't need this. I'm not renting a car while I'm here and it's a short walk from the hotel."

The guard stared blankly. I thought it was a language issue and I began to try to figure out how to say "I don't need this" in Spanish when he said "It's OK, take it anyway."

"How do I get in?"

"Walk through the garage."

Naturally.

That night we went to dinner at restaurant a mall near the hotel. To get there I had to thread my way past the in and out ramps of a parking garage. After dinner some locals wanted to join the New Yorkers for a nightcap at the hotel. A debate of several minutes ensued as to whether they should move their cars from the parking garage of the mall to the parking garage of the hotel roughly a quarter-mile away. They decided to walk not because it's pretty much insane to even have that discussion but because it would cost money to park at the hotel.

And boy, did they walk slow.

One of the things they give you when you check into the particular hotel I stayed at is a map for jogging. So the jogging route thing is completely normal in Southern California. Walking for utilitarian reasons? Forget it. Jogging for exercise? Of course. We all must look beautiful. We all must look good enough to be noticed and encase ourselves in machines that look good enough to be noticed. That's how we know who the winners are.

Are you winning?