BMW drivers can breathe easy

BMW drivers, the time has come.

You can finally unclench your leather-gloved fists, exhale that long-held sigh of relief, and maybe, just maybe, start using your turn signals. Why? Because Tesla drivers have officially stolen your crown as the most insufferable, self-entitled assholes on the road.

Congratulations Tesla drivers on achieving the impossible: making BMW drivers look humble by comparison.

If you’ve been on the road lately, you’ve probably noticed Teslas zipping around, silently judging your gas-powered existence from inside their tech-on-wheels spaceships.

Their inner vibe screams, “I’m saving the planet!” Their outer vibe screams “Look at me, I’m an asshole!”

Apparently all the people leasing or that have shelled out money for their Tesla are blissfully ignorant about how famously unreliable they are. From Model 3s randomly deciding to burst into flames (bonus: free fireworks!) to battery replacements that cost more than the GDP of a small country, Teslas are basically expensive, rolling dice with a touch screen.

It would be a dereliction of duty to write about Tesla and not talk about the Cybertruck. How ugly is it? It’s so ugly, the Plymouth Aztec sent Tesla a thank-you note for taking the heat off.

Apparently Musk took one look at every basic principle of car design and said, “Nah.”.

And yet, people are actually buying this thing. Why? Because it’s the automotive equivalent of wearing a t-shirt that says, “Ask me about my bad decisions.” Nothing screams “I have too much disposable income and zero taste” quite like rolling up to a coffee shop in a truck that could be outmaneuvered by a shopping cart.

Of course let’s not forget the man behind the curtain (WICKED reference-see yesterday’s post).

When you buy a Tesla, you’re not just getting a car that might glitch and send you hurtling into a guardrail, you’re also funding Elon Musk’s endless parade of bad takes and worse ideas. Want to support someone who uses Twitter as a platform for dabbling in casual racism, misogyny, and vague threats against democracy? Then Tesla is the brand for you.

So, BMW drivers, take that deep breath. Sure, people might still assume you’re a jerk when they see you coming, but at least now you can point and say, “Hey, I cut you off, but at least I’m not driving that.”

Tesla drivers, welcome to the top of the jerk food chain.

Your cars may be quiet, but your egos? Deafening.

The Prius phase

It seems there are phases both genders - and I'm going to limit it to two for the purpose of this post - go through.

For boys, it's usually firetrucks, dinosaurs and baseball. For girls, it's often horses, dolls and photography.

But eventually time catches up with us all, and the childhood phases slowly recede as we discover more expensive, adult phases to pass through. However, there's a new phase adults of both sexes seem to be grudgingly surrendering to.

The Prius phase.

As phases go, I suppose it's an admirable one, as opposed to, say, shoplifting or cutting yourself. But if you appreciate a finely tuned, high-performance, road-eatin' ride, the fact is it can be just as damaging.

What happens is one day a person is overcome with the uneasy feeling perhaps they need to be more socially conscious. Or that the coming derision is more tolerable than the $500 a month tab for gas. Perhaps they feel compelled to make a statement. Statements range anywhere from "I'm environmentally forward thinking" to "Yes I'm a better person than you" to "Is this thing on?" to "Did I tell you I get 55 MPG?"

Many times, especially when they try to show off their smaller carbon footprint by speeding and cutting you off on the freeway, the statement becomes "Look at me, I'm a douche in a Prius." I'm pretty sure this last one is unintended. But it doesn't make it any less true.

Inevitably after a while living with the car, the Prius phase begins to run its course. Drivers begin to miss the sound of an engine when they press the accelerator (in the Prius, it's called the "pedal on the right"). They long for a less tinny sound when they close the car door. The idea of a car - like the one they traded in for the Prius - that can run a curve and stick like glue becomes a yearning. It's all they can think about.

Next thing you know, the same guy that drives the service department shuttle is taking your Prius around back while they're writing up the paperwork on your new A6, 530i or AMG C63. The siren call finally gets answered.

And the good news is once it's over, you can finally stop wearing that t-shirt. You know, the one that says "Prius. Because a gas-guzzlin’, ass-kickin’, fast-movin’, sweet-soundin’, head-turnin’, envy-causin’, great-feelin’ car just isn’t me."

City of angels

I have a complicated relationship with L.A. It's a love/hate relationship, the kind only someone, like myself or anyone who's ever had a high school girlfriend can appreciate.

And when I say someone like myself, I mean a native. Born and raised. Never lived anywhere else.

All too often, the city grabs my arm, pulls it up behind my back until it hurts and makes me start sentences in that way. "When I was a kid..." and "Back when I was in high school..." and "Let me tell you what traffic used to be like."

The major love/hate component of the city is the weather. I've always been torn. On one hand, I'd love to live in a city with real seasons, for example San Francisco. Yeah, yeah, I can hear all the L.A. people whining about how we have seasons too, just not as extreme.

Listen, I've lived here my whole life. There are only two seasons: summer, and construction.

However if I may be allowed to contradict myself (not sure why I'm asking permission for something I do on a daily basis), there are stunningly beautiful days when the east coast is buried in a blizzard or being hit by hurricane Roker and it's ninety and sunny here.

It's the kind of weather that sets Facebook on fire, with everyone posting the same sunny picture of wispy white clouds, the tops of palm trees or the ocean and sarcastic, mocking greetings to the eastern brethren.

Another cause of so much of my agita (look it up) about the city is the fact it's just such a whore. L.A. won't waste a second tearing down its history to put up a strip mall or new fusion sushi restaurant. Cliché but true.

I've watched it tear down or lose places that gave it character and personality. For every Tommy's or Pink's, there's a Spanish Kitchen that's now a beauty salon. Or a Wilshire Blvd. Bob's Big Boy that's a BMW dealership. At least the former Pan Pacific Auditorium is a park people can enjoy. The city gets older but no wiser.

There are even websites, like this one, that revel in articles why L.A. is the worst place ever.

My entire attitude reminds me of the old joke: "Do you have trouble making up your mind?" "Well, yes and no." That's my ongoing debate about the city of my birth.

But I'm nothing if not Mr. Glass Half Full, although not with rain water because we're in the seventh year of a statewide drought. Which in L.A. only means one thing: waiters are required to serve Evian at brunch.

Anyway, for the moment I'm not going anywhere. Even though there are states where I could buy city blocks for what I could sell my house for, I just can't seem to leave L.A. behind.

One last thing that bothers me about this urban sprawl of a city is that, bar none, at every restaurant they always..oh crap, look at the time. I gotta get to my audition.

Hold that thought.