The Rita Rudner Moment
I live in LA and I dont own a car. Hell, I dont even have a valid drivers license any more. I gave up driving a couple of years ago and I dont miss it. I --hate-- driving cars. Every time I get in one I have the weird feeling that Im gonna get in an accident. Sort of a Vic-Morrow-I-Dont-Want-To-Ever-Get-In-A-Helicopter kind of thing. Not that staying out of Choppers helped Vic...
Instead, I ride a bike. Not a motorcycle, a bike. Two wheels. Pedals. The sort of device you probably havent actually used since you were old enough to get a license of your own. I didnt either for a long time. Ten years of ninety-minute commutes - three hours in a car every day. Each time thinking Im not getting out of it alive. That was enough for me.
On the bike, its a fifteen-minute ride to work. Thanks to the speed bumps and twisting LA side streets, it would take just as long to drive as it does to cycle, so it works out well. I get a lot of comments at work about how impressed people are that I ride to work, and Ive even inspired a few to take it up themselves. Cool.
While I have to pay more to get a decent place thats close to work, owning a car would easily set me back six or seven gs a year (a Canuck, newly arrived in LA, is treated like a new driver - insurance is extreme). So it works out in my favor, and I like the ride.
Now, the thing is, I -am- a guy. So, I shouldnt have been surprised that other guys would ask me, What kind of bike do you ride?
My answer: Uh, a blue one.
You see, I dont actually know. I havent got a clue.
Fuck
The response is an uncomfortable moment of negative male space, and I can almost feel the what-sort-of-guy-doesnt-know-what-the-fuck-hes-driving thoughts that are running through their heads.
Fuck!
This led me to think about my years as an automobile driver. Want to know what kind of cars I owned? Let me tell you
A grey one. A blue one. A white one. A brown one. And, finally, a silver one. The silver one was a BMW - I remember that because it cost a fucking fortune to have it fixed at the dealership. Actual make and model? Not a clue.
The thing is, I remember watching a comedy sketch years ago in which Rita Rudner (we all knew I was going to get back to this) asked the audience to pose the same sort of question to her during a sketch --- What kind of car do you own?
Her answer -- A white one It matches my shoes.
Since I only wear black clothes, I dont even have that excuse to fall back on.
Fuck.
Its all very confusing.
Not that I really care.
I own a blue bike. It gets me to work. Thats good enough. As for everyone else?
Fuck em.
I live in LA and I dont own a car. Hell, I dont even have a valid drivers license any more. I gave up driving a couple of years ago and I dont miss it. I --hate-- driving cars. Every time I get in one I have the weird feeling that Im gonna get in an accident. Sort of a Vic-Morrow-I-Dont-Want-To-Ever-Get-In-A-Helicopter kind of thing. Not that staying out of Choppers helped Vic...
Instead, I ride a bike. Not a motorcycle, a bike. Two wheels. Pedals. The sort of device you probably havent actually used since you were old enough to get a license of your own. I didnt either for a long time. Ten years of ninety-minute commutes - three hours in a car every day. Each time thinking Im not getting out of it alive. That was enough for me.
On the bike, its a fifteen-minute ride to work. Thanks to the speed bumps and twisting LA side streets, it would take just as long to drive as it does to cycle, so it works out well. I get a lot of comments at work about how impressed people are that I ride to work, and Ive even inspired a few to take it up themselves. Cool.
While I have to pay more to get a decent place thats close to work, owning a car would easily set me back six or seven gs a year (a Canuck, newly arrived in LA, is treated like a new driver - insurance is extreme). So it works out in my favor, and I like the ride.
Now, the thing is, I -am- a guy. So, I shouldnt have been surprised that other guys would ask me, What kind of bike do you ride?
My answer: Uh, a blue one.
You see, I dont actually know. I havent got a clue.
Fuck
The response is an uncomfortable moment of negative male space, and I can almost feel the what-sort-of-guy-doesnt-know-what-the-fuck-hes-driving thoughts that are running through their heads.
Fuck!
This led me to think about my years as an automobile driver. Want to know what kind of cars I owned? Let me tell you
A grey one. A blue one. A white one. A brown one. And, finally, a silver one. The silver one was a BMW - I remember that because it cost a fucking fortune to have it fixed at the dealership. Actual make and model? Not a clue.
The thing is, I remember watching a comedy sketch years ago in which Rita Rudner (we all knew I was going to get back to this) asked the audience to pose the same sort of question to her during a sketch --- What kind of car do you own?
Her answer -- A white one It matches my shoes.
Since I only wear black clothes, I dont even have that excuse to fall back on.
Fuck.
Its all very confusing.
Not that I really care.
I own a blue bike. It gets me to work. Thats good enough. As for everyone else?
Fuck em.
Toronto --- Cold is minus 20 degrees. Hot is 110 degrees.
Vancouver --- Cold is 30 degrees. Hot is 100 degrees,
I'll stick with LA - it's way more consistant than anywhere else I've lived for an extended period.
love,
SQ