It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Los Angeles based woman in possession of only a bicycle must need her head examined

Mad dogs and Englishmen, mad dogs and Englishmen...

Isadora's selling me her bicycle,

now that she's gracing the East Coast with her presence.  It's somewhat telling (perhaps worrying?  Or just so god darn Euro) that the first vehicle I purchase in LA is not a car but a bicycle.  Maybe I'm in the wrong town?  Maybe I should embrace my inner hemp-itude and just shack up with the San Francisco tree-huggers after all?   (Dare I say, they seem to have a better independent music scene up north as well, so it's definitely tempting.)

I have, in fact, already tested out my new two-wheeled friend - he needs a name btw, I may just defer to the Yank for naming duties as she has a gift for it, her laptop's called Effin and her car goes by the moniker Smalls - on the 8.5 mile ride from Malibu to Santa Monica and yes, I can confirm that in LA riding a bicycle does indeed attract abuse.  I got called a fucker for just riding in a straight line; apparently it's something to do with the Angeleno's obsession with ownership of one's lane, but really?  I've lived in Paris too long to care. 

At least I know they are trying to improve things in LA, there is after all a movement to build cycle lanes on key arteries through the city - thanks for the info Los Angeles Times - although my death wish will probably get the better of me before that happens (in all honesty we'll all have probably died of natural causes before it is actually finalised but don't let me be the one to curb your enthusiasm...)

Anyway, back to the project in hand:  fucking with LA drivers' sanity, if I really wanted to annoy the crap out of them on Sunset I suppose I could just ride this:

If not death via impalement by my own stiletto then perhaps squashed by a recalcitrant Stretch Hummer will be my fate?    It's all about finding imaginative ways to die...