Since arriving in California on Friday evening, I’ve driven roughly 1300 miles. And if I have to see the inside of another car, I’m going to spew motor oil from my eyeballs.
I just can’t take it anymore. The traffic. The air conditioner. The cramping of my right foot. It’s all just too much for one man to handle. It feels like I’ve made up for a year of not owning a car in just under a week.
Something has to give.
So I have decided to get my helicopter pilot’s license.
Brilliant, eh? This way I can simply jump into my hovering aircraft and be on my way. It will save me a lot of time, as I’m willing to bet the commute is not nearly as congested. And it’s just a whole lot more fun then driving a car. I mean, in a car I don’t get to wear fun headgear. What’s up with that?
And I’ll get to have a cool nickname for my new toy and me. “Mission control, this is Dorothy. Requesting permission to bring Toto in for a landing.” How fun is that?
And best of all, I’ll always get to make a killer entrance.
While frolicking though Disneyland on Tuesday, I came across a rather ingenious device. At the entrance to each thrilling ride is a timer that lets you know exactly how long you will be expected to wait before you are carted off to the wonderful world of singing animatronics. Now there is no guesswork. If three hours is too long to wait for a Johnny Depp-less Pirates of the Caribbean, you can simply move on to the Eddie Murphy-free Haunted Mansion.
It was all highly convenient.
Wouldn’t it be awesome if these little timers were available throughout our lives? Just think of the time you could save!
Instead of having a disappointing fling with a co-worker, you’d know he is only going to last roughly 2 minutes in bed. Now you can put in for a transfer and try and find someone with a bit more stamina.
Or if you are more romantic-minded, you can avoid a messy break-up by knowing that the relationship you are embarking on will only last 5 weeks. However, the heartache that will ensue is scheduled to run for 3 months. Maybe you need to rethink this option.
And wouldn’t it be great to know how long that mind-numbing board meeting will last? That way you can program your iPod to perfectly fill the time.
I could even post one at the top of each entry so you’ll know just how much time you will waste on my musings for the day.
Yes, I see the future. And the future has timers. The possibilities are endless!
Once again Disney has changed our lives.
“Excuse me. Could you tell me how to get to Santa Ana from here?”
“Oh, sure. That’s easy. You’ll want to get on I-5 going south. Get off at Lankershim and make a left. When you pass over Disney Drive, you’ll need to keep a look out for Space Mountain. Loop around there and head into Fantasyland. From there you can catch the 101 headed north to the 212, which will drop you on the 55. Get on the 17. Head east there until you see Toontown. Veer right to get on I-5 going north.”
“But I thought . . .”
“Whatever you do, do not get on the 22. If you do that you’ll end up at Splash Mountain and the wait for that is a killer.”
“Uh . . . thanks.”
“Like I said, it’s easy.”
You gotta love Southern California.
“Heartbeat, heartbeat
Why do you fail me now?”
There are some moments in life that are simply priceless.
“You hurt me, desert me
In my darkest hour.”
One such moment is cruising down Sunset Boulevard in a rented Intrepid. The windows are down. The night is warm. Wham’s Make It Big is bringing everyone within ten cars back to the 1980s. It’s perfect.
“How could I help but admire her beauty?
Standing on the line between desire and duty.”
There’s no destination. There’s no hurry. There’s just the music, the Southern California weather and the lights of the boulevard reflected in the shiny hood of the car.
“Heartbeat, heartbeat
It’ll end in tears.”
Another such moment is realizing you still remember every word to that classic album.
If, like me, you somehow find yourself in the middle of Orange County, I have a suggestion that will help make your stay here as hideous as possible. Granted, simply being in Orange County is pretty grotesque in its own right, but there is a way to add a whole new level of pain.
Stay at Woolley’s Petite Suites.
After a seven-hour drive, you will arrive at this oh-so-fine establishment to find the clerk at the desk oblivious to your presence. Bags in hand, you will do everything short of the Macarena to get his attention. And when he finally does acknowledge you, he will not be able to speak much English and will appear to not understand that he works at a hotel or that you need a room. You’re off to a great start.
Once you are checked in, you can expect to search for parking for nearly forty minutes. As if you hadn’t been in the car enough already, you will be expected to circle the lot hundreds of times before deciding to squeeze into a space between an actual spot and some bushes.
Your room will bring it’s own brand of joy. Why anyone would secure a television to a desk that can be seen by neither the bed nor the couch is well beyond my comprehension. Why anyone would place a gigantic mirror behind a king sized bed is also something I can’t quite figure out. Unless, of course, the porn industry has an in with old Woolley.
Yes, my friends, life in Orange County is not all Marissa and Ryan make it out to be.
