Last month I drove from Central Oregon to San Diego.  That’s over 1,000 miles each way.  One thousand miles of me being alone in the car although I did have Ray Charles, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones and lots and lots of Beatles to keep me company.

But that did not mean my mind did not wander.  When you’re alone in a car for hours at a time going in basically a straight line for two days, you tend to have thoughts.  Strange, disturbing and, at times, bizarre thoughts, but thoughts nonetheless.

For example, why do different bugs have different gut splatter colors?  I had the spectrum on my windshield and the front of my car and no two appeared to be alike.  On Bug Gut Splatter Design Day, did God ride around on his Harley-Davidson Softail smiling as big as only He can and when He got home did He check in the mirror to see which bug gut splatter colors were most aesthetically pleasing?   Did He notice that all green would be kind of dull and red would be more than a little disturbing and the occasional burst of purple would keep a lonely driver wide awake and alert on a two-day drive though the state of California? 

And just who was in charge of naming the cities along Interstate 5?  I assume it would be someone with a wicked sense of humor who was also, at least, bilingual.  How else do you explain Los Baños?  And how in the world did the City of Angels, Los Angeles, end up such a hellish place to drive?

I believe it had something to do with my all-time brand-new favorite bumper sticker I saw on my journey: “Sold my dyslexic soul to Santa.” 

All I know is the automobile drivers of Los Angeles are all really angry, really late and really not afraid to die.  And it’s contagious.

I hadn’t even cleared Burbank before I, too, learned the multiple purposes for my car horn, that one of my fingers had more power than the remaining ones and most importantly, driving through Los Angeles County is to be gotten over with as soon as is humanly possible.

For those of you not familiar with the freeway system there, they have roughly 10-14 lanes of road on each side and it is still not enough.  I believe there is a law that says if you are anywhere within the Los Angeles County limits, at least once an hour you must go get in your car and drive onto a freeway, any freeway, and curse.   Then, you may go home.

By the time I hit Camp Pendleton, my clutched fingers had worn grooves into the steering wheel, I had gnawed a hole through my bottom lip and I was having deep, meaningful conversations with the bug splatters in between periods of gently sobbing.

In Central Oregon, my home base, we do not use automobile horns.  It is considered extremely rude to use it in anger and if you are caught doing so, they have the right to take away your flannel shirt (our motto: We Dress Comfy) and use your naked body as new roundabout art.  It is also useless to use your horn in order to shoo away any woodland creature who may have strolled onto the street upon which you are driving.  The woodland creatures here are uppity and if they burst into song it’s usually some bawdy bar ballad with obscene lyrics.  They have a real attitude of “Hey, we were here first so yes, we really do own the road, and if you honk at me, I will defecate on your car.  Slowly.”  It’s really no use to charge ahead and hit them because they’re all in cahoots together and they’ll gang up on you and use your vehicle for even more disgusting purposes while you wait in line at the drive-up espresso shop.  Then, word will get out and the human community will shun you and you will be forced to move to Los Angeles and learn how to curse.

It’s not worth it.