It’s official. There’s no longer anything free about L.A.’s freeways.
By way of explanation, I’ve had several “opportunities” already this year to make the round trip drive to Los Angeles International Airport (LAX). Getting there has never been easy. Before the opening of the I-105 (Century Fwy) in 1993, the fastest route from my sleepy Crescenta Valley suburb was via the I-110 (aka: Harbor Freeway), getting off at Manchester Ave. and driving several long, nerve-wracking miles through some of the more, well, shall we say … “interesting” communities in Southern California. (Please Lord, no flat tires or engine troubles tonight! And I’ve got a full tank of gas, right?)
Another improvement was the opening of the HOV or High Occupancy Vehicle lanes along the 11 mile stretch of the Harbor Transit-way in 1998. Built at a cost of $500 million taxpayer dollars, the Transit-way allowed vehicles with two or more occupants to fly past all the solo drivers stuck on the rolling parking lot better known as the Harbor Freeway. The drive still wasn’t a walk in the park, but it wasn’t bad. Even though many thousands of cars used the HOV lanes on any given day, in my experience, traffic was never less than 45 or 50 mph while cars on the rest of the freeway were more often than not crawling or stopped completely.
Enter the new, improved, brought-to-you-by-the-geniuses-in-government Metro ExpressLanes which debuted last November. This one-year pilot program has taken a well-used, simple component of our freeway system and mucked it up into something so complicated and costly to use that it could only have been dreamed up by Federal fools, er … excuse me, officials.
To use the former HOV lanes (now rechristened “HOT” for High Occupancy Toll lanes), all drivers must now purchase a FastTrak transponder device to clutter up your dashboard. You must also open a Metro ExpressLanes account using a credit or debit card which is immediately dinged for something like $50 for the privilege of using the same lanes you’ve been able to use for free all these years. Depending on the amount of congestion, you will now be charged from 25 cents to $1.40 per mile if driving alone. If you are carpooling, you simply set the switch on the bulky plastic FastTrak transponder to let the millions of dollars-worth of newly installed electronic cameras, sensors and other Orwellian tracking electronics know that you’re traveling with more than just your bad self in the vehicle. Did you get that? Yes, after setting up the new Metro Express Lane program with a $210 million grant from the U.S. Department of Transportation, the entire concept appears to rely on the honor system. I honestly don’t know how they intend to track down scofflaws who are driving alone but set their transponder switches to “2” or “3.” No worries. I’m sure they’ll have no trouble spending millions more to find a way to make the program actually work.
I refuse to spend $50 for the new program, plus be charged a monthly $3 maintenance fee if I don’t use the HOT lanes at least four times each month (have I mentioned how complicated this program is?). So I’ve been stuck in Harbor Freeway gridlock every time I’ve made the trip to LAX since last November. Just yesterday, in fact, I crept along at 10 mph in bumper-to-bumper traffic trying desperately to make it to LAX before my wife’s flight arrived.
The worst part, however, is that – as has been the case every time I’ve made the drive since November – the ExpressLanes are almost always completely empty of cars. So, what were once well-traveled, time-saving, pollution-reducing carpool lanes have been turned into eleven miles of near-empty roadway. Meanwhile, more cars than ever crawl slowly nearby jammed together, spewing exhaust and burning precious gallons of fuel.
What do you want to bet that by next November the powers-that-be will declare the program a rousing success and ask the Feds for many millions more to fund its continued operation? Hey, it’s worked for Amtrak.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
The last thing I want to be is ‘that guy’ who corners innocent bystanders and forces them to look at 32 gigs worth of iPhone photos of his kids or grandkids. Or new puppy. That said, if you can stand one more column about our new dog, I promise it will be the last one this year. Or, at least for several months. Or maybe weeks.
Anyway, since announcing last week that we finally have a new puppy at our house, I’ve been a little surprised at the reaction of some folks when they find out we got our furry little guy from a breeder. You’d think I was smoking a fat cigar in a room full of children while double-bagging groceries with both paper and plastic bags! The palpable disdain is like a bad stench in a hot, closed room. I’ve looked up more upturned noses lately than a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills.
Last week at our puppy’s first visit to the doggy doctor, we mentioned to the attending vet tech that we had purchased our puppy from a breeder in Norco (a rural area in Southern California south of L.A. County) and had driven out to pick him up the previous weekend. Without the slightest hesitation she said to us, “Oh … I could never get a dog from a breeder, but at least you went to pick him up and didn’t have him shipped to you. That’s the worst.”
Yes, at least we didn’t do that. And at least Hitler washed his hands after using the commode and Attila the Hun was nice to his mother.
So here’s the deal; we tried to adopt. I swear we did. We would have liked nothing more than to bring home an abused or abandoned young lab or golden or similar-sized mix and lavish love and attention on the dear dog for the rest of its hopefully long, wonderful life. We scoured web sites. We visited local animal shelters. We signed up for registries. We paid fees to dog adoption/rescue organizations had our backgrounds checked and even had our home and property inspected to see if we would make suitable “parents” for a rescue dog. The only thing they left out was a cavity search. (And I’m pretty sure one of the ladies who visited us was working up to it.)
And so, after many months of forms, fees, interrogations, inspections, interviews and interminable waiting, we were still without a dog. I don’t know about the rest of the country, but in Southern California, unless you want a dog with either Pit Bull or Chihuahua (or both!) parentage, you’re pretty much out of luck. Every dog that was even remotely suited to our lifestyle and family dynamics (i.e.; big, furry, goofy and loveable) was not only immediately spoken for as soon as it was up for adoption, but somehow already had a waiting list five or six deep of other people who wanted to take it home.
When I wrote about looking for a dog months ago, I received many helpful suggestions from wonderful readers who sent me phone numbers and links to various dog rescue organizations. After following up on several of these, we probably could have adopted/rescued one or two labs and possibly a golden-shepherd mix – if, that is, we were willing to travel to Northern Nevada, Iowa and/or Illinois to pick the dog up.
And so, we did the apparently politically incorrect thing and got a puppy through a carefully selected, private, loving, caring, in-home breeder. That said, we have always been a two-dog home, so we’re still looking for a canine companion for Oakley. If the right adoptive dog becomes available, we’ll happily welcome it into our hearts and home. If not, we’ll just have to suffer even more scorn and shame from all the doggy do-gooders out there. But I promise I won’t write about it.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
Since this was Valentine’s week, I’m going to put myself out there and officially declare to the teeming masses that I am irrevocably, unashamedly, unabashedly in love with a new Valentine who I only met for the first time less than three weeks ago. But I’m okay with that. More importantly, my wife of almost 27 years is okay with that.
My Valentine has soft, beautiful, wavy brown hair that I just can’t stop running my fingers through. My Valentine has ears like mud flaps, loves to snuggle against my neck and be held constantly. Oh, and as I’m writing this, my Valentine is curled up contentedly at my feet.
As you may have guessed, there’s a new dawg in da house. After losing our beloved pooch back in June of last year and being a dog-less home for the first time in decades – we have a new puppy. Not that I’m thrilled or anything, but he’s an 8-week old, chocolate brown Labradoodle who came to live with us just this past Saturday. And he goes by the name of Oakley.
How’s it going so far? Well, if I say that I’m writing this with a good portion of my brain half asleep, one eye shut and drool barely missing the space bar on my keyboard – does that give you a clue? As loveable and adorable and cuddly as Oakley can be during the daytime, the little guy is – so far at least – not all that happy with sleeping in a crate by our bed at night. And by “not happy” I mean miserable; as in yelping, barking, crying, whining, whimpering, growling, simpering and howling.
I want to know, how in the animal kingdom world does a small, 14-pound package of puppy make such an ear-splitting, headache-inducing racket for hours upon hours upon hours every stinkin’ night? I mean, if the nights were warmer and we had our windows open, I have no doubt that by now one or more of our neighbors would have called the ASPCA, Animal Legal Defense Fund, PETA, the Animal Protective League and maybe even the Arizona Humane Society on us. I’m pretty sure Oakley’s protestations could be heard in Phoenix if our windows weren’t shut.
One would think a hound from hell has possessed our bedroom every night between 11:00 pm and sunup since last weekend. And then, the morning comes, Oakley is released from his torture chamber (with its cushy foam bedding, doggie pillow, chew toy, soft blanket covering to create a sense of safety and security) and he becomes, once again, a cute, cuddly angel puppy who wants nothing more than to wag his teeny tail, gaze lovingly at us with his irresistible green-gray eyes, lick our faces and romp around in the yard, chasing leaves and shadows and gusts of wind. The transformation is like, well … night and day.
Even so, I already love this little guy. He is fast becoming accustomed to the workday routine in my home office and shows every sign of being an ideal co-worker, office mate and lunch companion for the long haul. As I’ve already mentioned, in fact, he’s below me right now while I’m writing; his soft, warm fuzzy muzzle resting on my foot – sound asleep and dreaming whatever ridiculously cute puppies dream about.
He’ll most likely wake up just long enough to quietly escape my office while I’m on a client call or lost in thought over some other writing project and sneak out to find a new place on the carpet to deposit another “surprise” he has personally made for me to discover when I realize he isn’t underfoot any longer. But for now he’s sleeping the sleep of an exhausted puppy and storing up energy for another long, loud night ahead. Here’s hoping my wife gives me bright red ear plugs for Valentine’s Day. I’ll see you ‘round town.
As faithful readers know by now, I love to go a-wondering. For example:
I wonder … why we humans instinctively hunch our shoulders when walking through rain without an umbrella? Do we think our shoulders will somehow keep us dry?
I wonder … how many viewers quit watching last Sunday’s Super Bowl XLVII game after the kickoff-return-touchdown first play of the second half? For anyone who did, they missed one of the best second halves ever. I didn’t have a dog in that fight (a chip in that dip?) so I really didn’t care much who won – although it would have been nice for a California team to beat Baltimore – but good football is good football no matter who wins or loses.
I wonder … speaking of the second half of the game, how many of the big-spending advertisers were giving thanks Sunday afternoon to Entergy Corp. for that power outage? The way the Niners came roaring back after the half-hour-plus delay kept many hundreds of thousands of eyeballs glued to the screen who otherwise would have turned away from the blow-out that was the first half. My wife and I were seconds away from leaving a party and heading home when the power came back on both in the stadium and in the 49ers and suddenly, folks, we had a football game!
I wonder … still thinking about football, if the NFL officials give even a moment’s thought to all the kids in the broadcast audience for one of the most watched events in television history each year? From Janet Jackson’s “accidental” wardrobe malfunction in 2004 to yesterday’s national lap dance by Beyoncé – half time shows seem more and more about explicit content than entertainment. This is progress?
I wonder … if I’ll ever get the opportunity to spend a few hours behind the controls of a backhoe, bulldozer, skip-loader or some other big, yellow, testosterone-boosting, diesel-drinking machine that digs humongous holes in perfectly good dirt. Learning how to operate something with a massive metal bucket has always been on my bucket list.
I wonder … if the on-ramp to the eastbound 210 freeway at La Crescenta Avenue will EVER be repaved? I can feel the tread grinding off my tires every time I use that wretched stretch of asphalt. Pretty please, Caltrans?
I wonder … how President Obama can say with a straight face, as he did in a gun-control-related speech this week in Minneapolis, “… if there’s just one life we can save, we’ve got an obligation to try.” This, when just a week ago our nation marked the 40th anniversary of Roe vs. Wade which has resulted in the deaths of more than 50 million babies. To which I would respond using the President’s own words, “We don’t have to agree on everything to agree that it’s time to do something.” Agreed.
I wonder … how soon the act of mailing a letter will go the way of yellow pages, home phones and Thomas Brothers maps? I mean, it seems that as the cost of a first class stamp climbs higher, mail delivery is taking longer. Recently I’ve had mail take over a week to get to Montana, and a week-and-a-half to arrive from Maine. Any slower and it might be time to bring back the Pony Express.
I wonder … why so many guys can’t seem to flush a public urinal or toilet after going number one. I mean, water conservation is one thing, but laziness is something else entirely. I want to scream at the clods I regularly see who do their business, zip up and walk out without a care for the next guy in line. Yuck.
I wonder ... as long as I’m flush with curiosity; why no one has yet invented the glow-in-the-dark toilet seat? Wouldn’t that make perfect sense? And with that...
I wonder ... if it’s time to wrap up this visit to Wonder Land? Probably so. I’ll see you ‘round town.
In case you’ve been living under a rock since the holidays, this Sunday is the BIG GAME. As the nation’s mega-TV-watching event of the year approaches, the teams involved are most certainly gearing up to see whose reputations will be crushed in agonizing defeat – and whose will be hoisted high on the pillars of victory, fame and even greater fortune.
Oh, and between the commercials there will also be a football game played by two NFL teams whose names escape me at the moment.
Yes, even if you’re not in the advertising industry like I am, the grand and glorious spectacle known as the Super Bowl has become as well-watched and celebrated for the commercials shown during the broadcast as for the football played on the field – sometimes more so. I’m not being original in any way when I say that far too often the commercials are more exciting and memorable than the game itself.
This Sunday’s match up should be no different. The television audience around the world is expected to be so huge that advertisers have spent almost $4 million for each thirty seconds of commercial time during the game. That’s nearly $8 million a minute! These guys should be in Congress, spending money like that.
How important have commercials become to the Super Bowl phenomenon? On Monday’s Tonight show on NBC, host Jay Leno didn’t interview a single player from either team playing this weekend. Instead, his big guest was Donny Deutsch, celebrity ad man and frequent commentator on the network’s Today show. Naturally, Deutsch’s own agency created several commercials slated to air during the game which he duly promoted.
Many Super Bowl advertisers have learned to leak – or tease, if you will – their commercial “spots” weeks before the game itself in hopes of generating the all-important buzz that gets people searching for their spot online and sharing links to them on social media outlets.
From my own extensive experience, I know that many advertisers and the agencies that produce their commercials hope and pray that someone, or even better, some group, finds the spots offensive enough to try to prevent them from airing during the game. When that happens, my friends, it’s marketing nirvana. Already last week, the media was muttering about actress Kate Upton’s supposedly-too-sexy Mercedes commercial that will be exposed during Sunday’s game. I have no doubt the folks at Mercedes are thrilled at the faux controversy.
As I write this, several groups are up-in-tattooed-arms about a leaked Volkswagen spot that features an office worker from Minnesota encouraging grumpy co-workers to cheer up. The joke is that this whiter-than-Wonder-Bread worker has a heavy Jamaican accent. Horrors! I think it’s a brilliantly calculated effort that will have millions of eyeballs glued to the TV screen to see if the commercial runs, or if it will replaced by another one the agency already has locked and loaded (pardon the gun-related analogy, Ms. Pelosi) to air in its place.
By the way, as an example of the value of a well-made commercial aired during the annual Super Bowl, I would bet that more people remember Volkswagen’s adorable Darth Vader Kid spot from last year’s game than which team won the game itself. Am I right?
In spite the highly calculated internet leakage of many spots, viewers can still expect surprises during the game. From what I hear, many of those surprises will come from the remarkably risqué nature of the ads. Oh joy. Like we don’t get enough of that any other day of the TV-viewing week. Interestingly, and in spite of stratospheric costs, more advertisers than ever will run longer 60- and 90-second spots this year, too.
So who will end up the big winner this weekend? Only time will tell. One thing’s certain – it will be great fun to watch. And with any luck there might even be a decent football game in between. I’ll see you ‘round town.
