911 they killed Montgomery!

Here are a few pearls of wisdom I can share with you; some call it "hindsight".

When calling emergency services to report a car crash don't hysterically bleet down the 'phone "They killed Montgomery", unless of course Montgomery is a human being.  Because to them, the Coppers, in Los Angeles this usually signals a shooting.


I'm not sure the line "they've completely fucked him up the ass" helped to clarify matters either... 


And so it was to the scene, sirens blaring, that the police car pulled up to find a Los Angeles County public works truck and a rear ended black Mazda Miata, who goes by the name of Montgomery...


I suppose I could regale you with the tale of how I wailed to Officer Bonner (all it takes is a dropped 'n') on the corner of Hope Street whilst four Mexican municipal workers stood back for cover, but I won't.  I'll simply leave you with this, the full legal name of the Mexican that drove into the back of my precious:

CHRISTMAS SONG

Yes, that's right Ladies and Gentlemen, she's back, you can blame Jesus, and it's going to get nasty...

Tequila sunrise: also a cocktail...

Failure is simply the non-presence of success. But a fiasco is a disaster of mythic proportions.
Orlando Bloom (can we quote Orlando Bloom?  Really? It seems so wrong...)

There are many things we should talk about today, but let's start with this:

Yes, that is my car, wedged, if you will, onto a picket fence and a thick piece of concrete.

After Jill and I decided that attempting to lift the car up and off the concrete was not an option available to us and our meagre muscle mass, we reined in our efforts, copped a squat on the fender and slugged a Miller Lite whilst awaiting rescue from an agency I am becoming all too familiar with, the 'Triple A'.

Once the nice man from the Automobile Club had wedged a piece of wood under the wheels and jacked up Montgomery (that would be the car then), we were good to go.  Where?  A mere block and a half round the corner for some much needed recovery cigarettes and alcohol.  Which would have been all very nice, had I not at that moment decided to be fastidious about securing the soft-top, and because in my automotive world we are far from central locking, manually locked the driver's door from the inside before slamming it shut.  So far so good, except for one crucial error, the keys were still in the ignition.  Yes, you read right.  Mere moments after being hauled off a picket fence we were 'phoning the same guy to come and professionally break into my car.  By this point we were also watching the sun rise, which is a first for me in LA, so, that's a plus.  The same dude came back again and looked at us with disbelief and a strong shade of pity at our unimaginable idiocy.  I would have too.  It was beyond dumb...

Other shit of note are the following:

Check out the Berkeley, yes, SOY cheese.  Offensive on so many levels but let's just say please contain yourselves to the Bay Area and for the love of god never EVER go to France or Italy.  We do not want you.

Clearly we opted for the full fat, animal produced variety.  Look away now vegetarians, there is sausage...

Definitely a go big or get the fuck out moment. 

And so we get to this morning, when I decided to treat myself to some much needed hangover food from Whole Foods in the form of a good curry.  Take my advice, never go to Whole Foods on a Sunday morning wearing the same clothes you just slept in.  At 10am people are already returning from their morning yoga sessions and it just adds to the creeping guilty sensation that whilst you were weeping with laughter at 7am their were clenching their sphincters in downward dog.  It's the same as going to church right after you just had sex, only without the forgiveness...

Montgomery: the saga continues

Not that I'm particularly interested in creating a franchise out of this saga, but as I'm sitting here in the garage having my 7 Eleven coffee (so good you could clean car parts with it), I thought I'd check in.

So far today I've knocked out an hour of hot yoga barre, shazzammed Lil' Wayne, got a hot date with an Armenian tow truck driver should I wish to accept it, and been given the LA clutch use 101 by my new best friend Gary the mechanic (that explains the smell of burning then...). And it's only 10.20. Further fuckery to follow, that much is guaranteed...

She just sat like a lobotomized duck in a cage...

That's it, I have at last found a blog to rival Dlisted in the hilarity stakes, and God it's good.

Let me preface this by informing you that this week was the first time I have had a car in LA.  And perhaps, this has not been the most beneficial to my fellow drivers.  Take exhibit A:

Yes, this occurred when I tried to parallel park between two ginormous (aka American standard) trucks up in West Hollywood.  Let's just say that: (a) it's a rare skill to be able to pretty much hang your car off of the rear bumper of another; and (b)  it's a long time since I have driven anything other than a bicycle, and there's probably a reason for that.  It's all boding so well for my California driving test next Tuesday; remind me to pick my short skirt up from the dry cleaners...

Anyway, back to my new discovery:  L.A. Can't Drive.  Seriously, crying with laughter as I peruse comments on dumb-ass manouvres executed all over town.  For example:

"In all fairness, this motherfracker hails from Alaska. However, with the way she was driving, she might as well hail from Venice Beach"

"However, whenever he wasn’t texting, he had the gall to morph into an impatient, zigzagging, tailgating, non-signaling jackass."  

"There were plenty of moments where she had clearance to cross the westbound lanes of Sunset, but she just sat like a lobotomized duck in a cage, while narrowly missing one collision after another with eastbound vehicles."

I fear I may be appearing on there soon...

This morning whilst riding Doris...

This morning whilst riding Doris (yes, I know) I was stopped at the lights by a couple of van-drivng Mexicans who needed directions.  This begs questions on so many levels, mainly:  did I look that bad that they thought I was a Venice resident (God help me if I have lost the essence of Paris already)? Have I become so aggressive at driving a bicycle across two lanes of traffic when making a left turn that I clearly scare the crap out of people enough to warrant road-respect and thus, implied knowledge of where I was going (ha!)?  Or was it that they wanted to get a better look at my cycling-appropraite footwear?

Either way, Patti LaBelle would have approved of my jumpsuit this morning and so, I entered the bowels of the DMV.

For the uninitiated amongst you, this is the California Department of Motor Vehicles and has been championed by those less fresh off the boat and more jaded than I as the worst possible place to spend a day (and it will take that long), worse even, than the US Post Office.  The reason for my jolly into administrative hell?  An administrative clusterfuck courtesy of the UK Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency; this, my friends, is what you get for trying to lead an international life:  a headache in three nations, on two continents.  Gracias.

After handing over the paperwork, I finally got to take the written test which, if passed, permits one to drive whilst waiting for an appointment to take the practical test (is 'valet' an accepted response when asked how to park?  Just a thought).

I passed of course, but not because of anything I know about driving, but because of my knowledge of the American psyche.  Take note.  To each multiple-guess question apply the following criteria:  take three parts common sense; weigh up the option where you are most likely to get sued; add in a little American paranoia about health and safety; cross out the option you would apply if driving in Rome; and sprinkle with a little incredulous 'this coffee is hot' no shit Sherlock Big-Brother-ism.  Et voila, full marks!  Sometimes it pays to have been a lawyer...