Unstuck

Letting go. It's never easy.

Case in point: a week ago, thanks to the record-setting stock market (Bidenomics bitch!), I was able to sell some shares and treat myself to my first brand new car in seventeen years. German car, expensive to maintain, expensive to repair, ridiculously expensive to own.

What the hell. I'm not taking it with me. And as the wife said, "Life is short. Buy the car."

The point is in purchasing my new wheels, I have to let go of my old ones, a fourteen-year old Lexus ES350 with over 155,000 miles on it. While I was initially thrilled at jettisoning the Lexus, I started thinking about all the times of my life that car has been a part of.

Driving the kids to school.

To rehearsals.

To game practice.

Nights out with the wife.

Emergency trips to urgent care or the ER. Fortunately not many of those.

I'm not gonna lie: thinking about the outgoing car in that light got me more than a little misty. It shouldn't come as a surprise. If you know anything about me, and if you don't by now then I just don't know where we go from here, you know I'm a sap.

I cry at Hallmark commercials. I never had a chance.

Because I have a new car, and a new windshield, I also have to say goodbye to something else I've been holding onto for the last two cars I've owned. My Chiat/Day parking sticker.

I always loved the Chiat sticker. The pirate culture it represented. The skull and crossbones shadow it made at high noon on the dash. The bragging rights it gave me. And the fact I could visit Chiat weeks after I was done freelancing there, park unnoticed amongst them, and sneak upstairs for one of their great breakfast burritos from the in-house restaurant.

I'm not proud. But on a stack of bibles, it was a pretty fuckin' great burrito.

When I was still working at agencies, before finding the most awesome client side job ever, that little blue sticker was also proof positive, tangible evidence, something I could point to whenever I'd play the Chiat card.

Which almost everyone who works or worked there does at one time or another.

The sticker's faded now, and years of sunlight exposure have given it a little curling around the edges. And just like the velcro strips that hold my FasTrak transponder, or the Magic Castle member parking discount sticker, the time has come to lower the pirate flag, and let go of the Chiat sticker.

All to say that if you want to sneak in for a breakfast burrito, we're going to have to take your car.

Slumber party of one

On the list of things I love in the world, right at the top along with air conditioning, the Fastrak lane and good water pressure are naps.

If you've been following this blog for a while—and really, besides the writing is there any reason not to?—you know this isn't the first time I've written about naps. There was this post from back in 2014. But like money and love, naps are the universal language. I'm sure this won't be the last time I write about them.

As you can probably tell by now, I had a stellar nap today. I really had no say in the matter. One minute there I was sitting in the comfy of my favorite reading chair, reading the newest Stephen King book and trying to keep my eyes open (which had nothing to do with the book), and the next my head was hitting the pillow in the bedroom and I was out for two and a half hours.

Clearly, I'm not a power napper. Those little twenty minute catnaps experts keep saying are supposed to energize you? Not so much. They do nothing but make me groggy and unable to think. Which a lot of people think is my natural state.

The good news is after a long nap, I wake up refreshed and ready to tackle what the day has in store for me. Except maybe a good night's sleep. It's the cruel joke of a great nap—I pay for the daytime sleep with no nighttime sleep. I'll be up for hours because another thing my long nap does is take the edge off the sleepy.

Many times at work, I've felt myself start to nod off at my desk. And if I didn't share an office with three other people, I might just turn out the lights, close the door (yes, I have a door) and grab a shorter-than-I'd-like nap.

Right now my agency is undergoing a remodel, you know, to an open office space to make sure no one including me has doors. Don't get me started. Anyway, maybe they'll be forward thinking enough to build out a few nap rooms where people can go recharge during the day. Otherwise, I can just grab a few quick zzzz's the same place I always do.

In the status meetings.

Things I was wrong about: FasTrak

Continuing my wildly popular yet rarely acclaimed series of Things I Was Wrong About, we now add to remote controls, GPS and butt heaters the FasTrak lane on the 110 freeway.

Years ago, I worked at a small (minded) agency in Orange County that had The Toll Roads. The agency is no longer around, but the Toll Roads are. To use them, you need a FasTrak transponder loaded up with cash credits from a credit card. Sensors on the freeway read it as you fly by and deduct the toll automatically.

This was all well and good for private toll roads, but when the city of L.A. decided to try it on the carpool lanes on the Harbor Freeway - 110 to you and me - I was against it.

My thinking was I'm a taxpayer, and damn it those lanes should be mine, dare I say all of ours, free of charge. It was just another instance of the man keeping me down. And by down I mean gridlocked.

But I should've known better to stand, or sit, between the city and a lucrative revenue stream.

It only took one instance of being late to a show at the Music Center because of traffic to get me thinking maybe I should give this FasTrak thing a try.

Here's what I discovered: the carpool lanes, now called Metro Express Lanes, totally rock. More importantly, they roll.

The price is based on time of day and how congested the freeway is. Most of the time, if I have two or more people in the car, there's no charge to use the lane. I set the transponder to one, two or three riders. And to keep me honest, they have cameras to check how many people are actually in my car if there's a dispute.

It's become like anything else I pay for by having money withdrawn automatically - once I bit the bullet, my wallet didn't even feel it.

Plus, with as much business and as many appointments and lunches that I have in L.A., it's paid for itself several times over in time saved.

Sure I feel the hostility from other drivers not in the express lanes, as they just sit with their cars idling, inhaling exhaust and working on their hand gestures.

But as I fly by, blasting E Street Radio and getting where I need to be on time, I'm in sort of a fugue state. I don't even notice them anymore.

I'll say it because it's true: I was wrong about using FasTrak.

If you feel the need for speed, velcro that little sucker to your windshield and get moving.

Call time

I guess I haven't been paying attention, which will come as absolutely no shock to anyone who's ever been in a status meeting with me. But as I was barreling up the carpool lane of the 110, alone, thanks to my FasTrak transponder that charges me to use a lane my taxes have already paid for, I was genuinely surprised to see there are still freeway call boxes lining the four-lane.

These intermittently spaced call boxes, with their reassuring blue signs, are a throw back to my childhood. Which, if you ask anyone who knows me, I'm still in.

When I was a kid, my parents would take us to Gilman Hot Springs. Or Murrieta Hot Springs. Or Desert Hot Springs. Apparently Jews are attracted to hot springs like moths to canasta. I remember the drive always seemed like it took hours to get there. It was just in Riverside county, but it may as well have been another world.

I mean, have you been to Riverside county?

It didn't help that I was a worried little kid and always thought our dark blue Dodge Coronet would breakdown on the way. Actually, the only time I remember it breaking down was when I stole it one day to take it for a drive to the valley to see some girl before I had my license. I wound up at a Union Oil station on Van Nuys and Riverside, and called my parents to come pick me up. They said they'd be happy to drive out and get me, to which I said, "Yeah, about the driving out part..." They had to call friends of the family to drive them out.

It was a very long, quiet ride home. But I digress.

Anyway, my parents would always tell me we were fine, and that even if the car did break down, we'd just use the call box and, like magic, help would be on the way. It was very comforting. A lot more comforting than being the only person under 75 at whichever hot springs we were going to.

It's easy to think of call boxes as old technology. The truth is they're now equipped with the latest digital whammy-jammies, and probably have fewer dropped calls than AT&T. I always thought they were a little Jetson-y because they were the first things I remember that used solar panels to power the lights that made them visible at night.

You don't see very many people using them, because standing on the side of the freeway isn't the brightest idea, and almost everyone has a cell phone now.

But I still find knowing they're there very comforting.

It may be the only thing on the 110 that is.