Drive time

A good commute can be the difference between happy Jeff, and his evil twin – pissed off, short-fused, grudge-holding, horn-honking, lane-changing, one finger saluting, swearing like a drunk longshoreman Jeff.

So what makes a good commute? Well, for starters—and this should come as no surprise—distance.

For a long time, in what I believe was a very strange coincidence—or was it?—my commute to the agencies I was working at was exactly 26 miles each way. It seemed to be my travel threshold.

Even though 26 miles doesn’t sound like a lot, you can do the math - and if you can't then I believe it's a damning indictment of our public education system. Don't get me started. Where was I? Oh, right. It's 52 miles round trip. But at 8:30 a.m. or 6 p.m. going against traffic on the 405, they feel like dog miles. It may as well be a 1000.

All this to say my commute now is spectacular. The agency I’m currently at is right at the beach (or as I called it the last time I wrote about it, tsunami adjacent). I don’t have to get on a freeway to get there, I just cruise down Pacific Coast Highway from my house. There’s never any traffic on that stretch of PCH at that time of day, and it takes me about 20 to 25 minutes to arrive unstressed and un-pissed off at work.

Which brings me to the second component in a good commute: the destination.

I’ve worked for a few agencies in San Francisco over the years. They all have the same politics, personalities and British-accented, insight spouting, knit-cap wearing planners every other agency has. Here’s the difference: at the end of the day, I’d open the door to leave, and I’d be in San Francisco. It made up for a lot of ills. Flight and all, my commute to the San Francisco shops from my house was often faster than my commute to Orange County.

Another item that makes for a good commute is the scenery. You can have a short commute where you get to work in no time, but if it takes you through the senseless murder district coming and going, it’s still not very pleasant.

Since my commute du jour runs down PCH, I get to see the ocean, surfers, joggers and beach rats while I drive there and back. If I’m working a little later (stops to laugh at the thought of working later), I can even manage to catch a summer sunset. Like the old saying goes, getting there is half the fun.

Of course, depending which agency you're commuting to, it just may be all the fun.

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."

A game of Checkers

A friend of mine used to say you weren't in a real city unless you could do two things: jaywalk and hail a cab.

The first time I was in New York I realized, as everyone instantly does, that this was not only a real city, but the real city.

And one of the best and most memorable things about it were the ginormous yellow Checker cabs.

By the thousands, these tank-sized cabs would roam up and down the avenues, looking great, burning gas and picking up passengers. Once inside, you were met with the cavernous back seat. It made you feel like you were driving in your living room. Or more often than anyone needs to think about, bedroom.

I remember flying into JFK one time and sharing a Checker cab into the city. They were built for sharing - they had an additional backwards-facing fold-down bench seat in the back so about 8 or 9 people could fit comfortably into one of these babies.

It made getting into the city fairly painless, financially speaking.

Eventually the Checkers, like the dinosaurs, became extinct - not because they were taken out by a meteor, but because they couldn't adapt to the changing times. And by changing times I mean gas prices.

So instead, in their place today we have fuel-efficient, technologically-advanced, non-polluting, dull-as-hell, puny little Prius cabs. They barely carry four people. None of them comfortably. And luggage? That's just crazy talk.

Photo actual size--------------------------------->>>>>>

If you know anything about me - and really, what haven't I shared on here - you know political correctness isn't one of my strong suits. I think the Big Apple should bring back the inefficient, polluting, technologically outdated, passenger-pleasing Checker cabs.

Earth Day, Ed Begley and Al Gore be damned.

Riding into the new year

As all of us at Rotation and Balance World Headquarters get ready to close shop until next year (I know, many of you thought we closed shop a long time ago), we want to wish you the very best in the coming new year.

It's going to be a year of possibilities, and the only thing that's going to limit you is how much gas you have to get there and how hard you want to ride the pedal.

Sorry. Had a box of metaphors lying around and wanted to use them before we close.

So forget about what the Mayan calendar says. The only ones that have gone away are the Mayans. Like it or not, you're here for the long haul.

Gas up now - 2012 is going to be a spectacular year.