Heavy Lyfting

I don't know whether it's because I'm an only child, or just sometimes lost in my own world (I know, they're the same thing), but I've never been bothered by uncomfortable silences. In fact I believe there are places where they're perfectly appropriate.

For example, I don't want to hear about your day while I'm in the elevator. And, as I wrote about here, I don't want to hear anything you have to say while I'm in the men's room.

But when I fire up the old ridesharing app—Lyft is my service of choice—for some reason I feel I should listen and engage with the person I'm driving with, or more aptly, who's driving me. After all, it isn't some corporate yellow cab picking me up, it's an individual in their own car trying to supplement their income. I'm all about supplementing income, even if they're doing it with my money.

And in the same way every picture tells a story, so does every Lyft driver.

There are Lyft drivers I've ridden with that've been awesome, and actually feel more like friends. Natasha is one of them. Glasses, inked, Prius driver and cat owner, I don't know where else our paths would've crossed. I've ridden with her a few times, and she has an energy and openness about her that's refreshing. Plus she's funny, smart and laughs at my jokes. I think we all know what a pushover I am for that. It makes me wish the ride to work was longer so we could talk more.

Then there's Craig in San Francisco, who if I didn't know better I'd think was my long, lost brother from another mother. When I got in his car (a 5 year old American something that was spotless and looked brand new), he had Miles Davis playing, and the first words out of his mouth to me were, "You like Miles?" It was a great ride.

Funny, smart, engaging people.

While not as deep as Uber, the Lyft driver pool occasionally reminds me that while I enjoy the Natasha's and Craig's, the odds are not always in my favor.

I don't want to personality shame any of the drivers by name here. But here's the thing: there's a certain kind of driver that makes small talk, but it's like canned laughter on a sitcom. It's not real, but it fills the space. My driver the other morning was one of those. He talked about the weather, and answered questions I didn't ask. "How early did you start driving this morning?" "Oh it is a beautiful day, not too hot." Alright then.

I prefer Lyft over Uber, even though many of the drivers work for both services. But they almost unanimously prefer Lyft customers, saying they're nicer and friendlier than Uber riders. Which is how I feel about Lyft drivers, so win-win.

I work in Orange County, and the thought's occurred to me it might be interesting to drive for Lyft. As long as I'm going back and forth, I may as well bring someone along, use the carpool lane and make a little cash for gas and dinner.

Which all sounds well and good until I start thinking about sharing rides with total strangers, and remember I'm an only child.

Then it just sounds like crazy talk.

Ugly sweater

I'm a cold weather kind of guy. Anything above seventy degrees, and I start sweating like I'm carrying a backpack filled with lead uphill through the rainforest.

I was in Austin this past weekend, visiting young Mr. Spielberg, and checking out how much return we're getting on that out-of-state tuition. We also had the pleasure of seeing my longtime friend and writer extraordinaire Cameron Day and his wife Debbie, and all going to watch Holland Taylor perform in ANN, which she's brought to the lucky theater goers of Austin for a few weeks.

When the show was over, we stepped out of the theater into the night, and it was just as exceptional as the days had been on this quick turnaround: low 70's, mild breeze, clear blue Texas skies. Since I wasn't going to be there long, I figured the weather would hold until I came home today.

Well, not so fast there Mr. Sweaty Face.

When I went outside this morning, it was ninety degrees and muggy. Really muggy. Steamy, salt-sweat in my eyes muggy. To add to the drenching, I had to carry not only my suitcase down two flights of Airbnb stairs, but also a large suitcase my son had packed up for me to bring home so he wouldn't have to do it in a couple weeks when summer break starts.

Always happy to help my boy, but by the time I got both of them downstairs I looked like I'd just stepped out from under a hot shower. I tried to wipe myself down, but that only lasted for a minute or two.

Wait, what's that? A gentle, cool breeze? Oh thank God. What?! What do you mean it's over?! Crap.

The topping on the cake was I was standing in front of the building, and my Lyft driver pulled up on the side street and waited for me there. So I had to take the two suitcases and drag (roll) them almost half a block to him. Alright, maybe it was a hundred yards. Ok, feet. But still, the end effect was the same. I was a walking puddle.

Having come from the mean streets of West L.A., north of Wilshire, I always loved going to cities that had what I like to call real seasons. Where the temperature changed, and you don't really know from one minute to the next what it'll be. To my point of view, that's the way nature intended it, not this continual perfect, dry weather year in and year out.

But after this morning in Austin, I've reconsidered my opinion and decided I love the predictable, pleasant, dry weather here just fine, and I'm never going to complain about the lack of seasons again.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some serious laundry to do.