Dear Hilary Clinton

Dear Secretary Clinton:

I applaud you on not only your recent trip to Myanmar, but also your newly grown-out hairdo. How, however, awkward was this:


"Why yes, Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, it DOES look a little like your outfit, doesn't it? I mean, this just happened to be the pants suit, barrette and earrings I pulled out of my suitcase... What's that? Well, now that you mention it, I guess it's a little Oriental looking... No, of course I'm not trying to patronize you! I just thought, y'know... when in Burma... ha! Ha. Whoops."

Sincerely,
Dear Crabby

Dear Today's Headlines in the LA Times:

Dear LA Times headlines, and their various subjects:

It's a variegated news day today in the Southland - and I felt that some of the day's stories needed to be recognized.

Occupy LA, in keeping with its counterpart in New York, celebrated the movement's two month anniversary (two months is, very appropriately, the port-a-john anniversary) and staged a march/rally/protest/brouhaha in downtown Los Angeles. As per usual, anything LA does plays second fiddle to most things that occur in New York. However, I would imagine that LA's chapter of the Occupy movement is a boon to the vast, pervasive homeless population of Downtown, who have now found themselves in the midst of a sudden cohort... a cohort with food. And laptops. For many in LA, the Occupy movement is just yet another reason not to go Downtown. ("Downtown? I haven't gone downtown in years!")

More interesting than LA's righteous and jobless storming the Bank of America tower (Ask them how I can get one of those debit cards with my picture on it!), were the OTHER, non-sequitir headlines:


Good on you, LA Times, for not letting these important stories fall through the cracks!

First of all, the tomfoolery with the goats and the pitbulls is just tragic. In some godforsaken part of town called Lake Los Angeles (where, upon a cursory Google Maps inspection, there appears to be no lake), some pitbulls did damage. "Animal control officers Wednesday were still looking for a fourth pit bull involved in the deadly mauling of 42 goats in the Lake Los Angeles area," says the LA Times. I, for one, demand an autopsy, because how cute are these pit bulls?


They look like they wouldn't harm a fly. Even if it was a fly on 42 live goats.

According to the article, the "mauling" occurred "at a property at 164th Street and Avenue Q." Perhaps the pit bulls, confused by the address, thought that goats were actually puppets. I know my childhood Spaniel used to eat my stuffed animals, too.

The next headline worth looking at is the one about the motivational speaker who got shot by the police... in Berkeley of all places. This is practically a line from an Alanis Morisette song. This story to me is just a further invalidation of the entire career of life coach. "Envision yourself as a strong, confident, evolved, sentient being... as you refuse to put down a gun when the police tell you to." All jokes aside, this is obviously tragic. Although I still don't know how it was related to the Occupy LA story.

And last but not least, what is to me a story of what makes America great: An effete Jew with a sibiliant 's' who attends an Ivy League school and isn't old enough to drink has almost won a school board election in the California city where two years ago he graduated from its high school. You might try to butch it up with your un-ironed shirt and unbuttoned collar buttons, but we're onto you:



What a nightmare for the La Canada High Phys. Ed. teacher - ("not 'gym', gym's the building!" spaketh Mr. White, my high school P.E. teacher) - to have the kid you terrorized because he was terrible at football only two years later effectively become your boss. This is every 98-pound weakling's fantasy.

Never mind the fact that I would think being a full-time student three thousand miles away and not being a full-time resident of your community might invalidate one's eligibility, but presumably going abroad, getting wasted at frat parties and other collegiate activities might at the very least interfere with regular attendance at school board meetings. (Not to mention, the last thing most people want to think about in college is high school.) But good on you, Andrew Blumenfeld, for committing to this civic-minded task! And at this point, you trail three-term incumbent Jeanne Broberg in an extremely close race by only two votes in a recount. You clearly are smarter and more ambitious than I... I can't even figure out how to put a tilde symbol over the 'n' to properly spell La Canada. First order of business if he wins? Speech therapy for all elementary school students with a sibilant 's'.

I always say, LA Times, that local news in the un-unified LA sprawl pales in comparison to the news of my more provincial home state Massachusetts, but today proves the exception to the rule. Tomorrow, I'm sure we're back to gang shootings and car chases. I can't wait.

Sincerely,
Dear Crabby

Dear Homeless Hoarder

Dear Homeless Hoarder:

Homelessness is no laughing matter. Butt cracks, however, very much are.

Every neighborhood in Los Angeles has its respective kooky homeless person, each with his her own quirks and/or mental illness, and particular brand of chiaroscuro in the patterns of dirt on their exposed appendages. In my old neighborhood in Los Feliz there was Margaret (as I'd named her... pronounced "Mahhhh-gret" with a Boston accent), who generally stayed in the square mile radius around Vermont in Los Feliz village; favoring either the bus stop at the intersection of Vermont and Franklin or the doorway of the Christian Science Reading Room at New Hampshire and Hollywood Blvd. Margaret either traveled light or had one particular cardboard box she operated out of, as I never saw her with any possessions in tow, but she seemed to switch up her ensembles with some frequency. Margaret never really opened her eyes beyond a squint, nor did she ever panhandle, but I occasionally saw her with a lit cigarette in hand, so she wasn't entirely devoid of means.

There's the man in the wheelchair who scoots his way up and down Beverly and Rodeo Drives in Beverly Hills, passing the hat. Someone once told me they saw him get off a bus holding his wheelchair, set it up, then rolling himself into his prime panhandling position. Charlatan or intrepid businessman? You decide.

Then there's the legion of homeless patrolling the island at the intersection of San Vicente and Wilshire. Designed as if it were made for panhandling, I envision a neighborhood homeowners association-type meeting being held over a rotation schedule for the long island running the ten car lengths-worth of wealthy West LA drivers held captive waiting to turn left: "Alright Abner, you've got it Tuesday through Thursday, but Wanda has the evening commute. And for cryin' out loud, get a bigger piece of cardboard. No one can read your sign!"

And Santa Monica is a Canaan for the homeless of Los Angeles. I'm sure most of us have had the "Oooh, look at that hot dude!" experience, only to get a little closer and realize the individual in question is a little too tan, his hair a little too long, his backpack a little too overstuffed. Whoops. The homeless of Santa Monica are usually a more Buddhist, zen, refined breed, however; not looking for anything other than peace and relaxation near the ocean. They generally leave you alone and work on their tans rather than stand on a corner and scream about the government. If I was a homeless person, I'd live in Santa Monica. It's the deranged ones that would choose to be anywhere else in the city.

SUCH is the homeless person who frequents the general radius of Beverly Blvd. and Melrose from Orange Grove to Curson, a vicinity which handily includes my apartment. This individual stretches the definition of homeless, as he dwells exclusively in the bus station at Genesee and Beverly, so regularly that I suspect people actually wanting to wait for the bus need to ring a doorbell.

When not ensconced in the Plexiglassed, perforated metallic bosom of the bus stop bench, you, Homeless Hoarder, patrol the streets of my neighborhood pushing what must be the most overloaded shopping cart in Christendom. This cart, which I've had occasion to inspect parked outside the bus stop enclosure, is FILLED with crap. Brooms, rakes, trash bags, suitcases, a metal folding chair (suspended over the broom handle so that it hangs outside the cart). And I'm not saying the gym bag that was stolen off my front porch last year is in there, but it's not out of the realm of feasibility.

For some reason, I'm unsure if it's ventilation oriented or naturally occurring, you, Homeless Hoarder, have developed a stance where, as you push your cart through the neighborhood (loudly and rattlingly, often very early in the morning), unless it is covered by the long, down coat you wear from time to time, easily the top third of your ass is exposed. As you lean forward onto the handle of your shopping cart, your shirt bunching into the small of your back, you treat the neighborhood to an experience even more unpleasant than driving through its giant potholes. Yickkkk.

Now don't get me wrong - I have no problem with this homeless person regularly patrolling the streets of my neighborhood. Well, maybe a small problem. What I DO mind is seeing his giant exposed butt as he passes by my living room window... conservatively... three or four times a day as I'm lying on the couch trying to take a nap. Homeless Hoarder, I beg of you, pull up your pants. If you look hard enough, you'll probably find a belt in your cart. If not, I'll come down to the corner and leave one for you at the bus stop.

Sincerely,
Dear Crabby

Dear Preachy Garbage Truck

Dear Garbage Truck:

Thursday is garbage day in my neighborhood. Between the recycling, yard waste and the actual refuse-collecting trucks, there is a constant parade of hurdy gurdy-ing diesel engines and air brakes parading up and down starting at 7:00 in the morning. The seemingly infinite number of them blocking the narrow streets of the neighborhood often stand in your way of reaching a major thoroughfare.

Imagine my surprise when, inching along behind a truck this morning, I noticed it was decorated with multiple didactic directives:


For a closer look:


Is it just this particular garbage truck admonishing the domestic abusers who might be encroaching on its slow-moving self? Or does the entire city of LA badge their sanitation trucks with the Futures Without Violence-sanctioned bumper stickers? And if so, was this something they discussed at a staff meeting? "Let's use our influential platform - the back of a garbage truck - to see if we can make a difference in society." I'll have to keep my eyes peeled on Thursdays to find out.

Frankly, if I'm a wife-beating dirtbag, I just don't know how powerfully I'm going to be swayed not to raise my fist by a sticker I see on the back of a garbage truck. But who knows. I certainly don't. I've never hit anyone in my life... not even sure I'd know how. Meanwhile, I have bigger problems. My dishwasher's broken and it's pissing me off, and my roommate hasn't been doing the dishes... and it just makes me SO mad that one of these days I'm just going to haul off and--- oh, shit. Never mind. There's a garbage truck.

Sincerely,
Dear Crabby

Dear Women Who Wear Saris

Dear Sari-Wearers:

Make no mistake, wearers of Saris: I'm all for tradition. Traditions often prove hugely comforting in our lives - a certain meal on a certain day of the week, a certain ritual at the holidays, a lucky pair of socks on an important day at work. I both honor and embrace tradition, ergo, would never want to be cast as someone who lacks an appropriate reverence.

Except when it comes to Saris. The sari, perhaps one of the most easy to fold items of clothing (I believe it is one continuous bolt of cloth) can be traced back to the Indus Valley civilization in 2800-1800 BC - long before the days when Anna Wintour could snap her fingers and a trend would change. So while the Sari has withstood the test of time, I would like to posit that we've reached a time and a place when the Sari is no longer appropriate.

Sari-wearers, living as I do in the West, I don't see many of you. And when I do, you're never an exotic, young Bollywood dancer sashaying down the street. Nay, you are invariably a 60-90 year old woman in the grocery store or at the gas station, not in the best of shape, your midriff, bared to varying degrees depending on the drape of the sari, decidedly flabby. And, let's be frank, any midriff-baring is just too much. Such as you, middle-aged Sari-Wearer, in the Beverly Glen Starbucks over the weekend:

(before this woman adjusted her sari, considerably more flesh was exposed.)

Sari-Wearers, I implore you, cover up your flabby FUPA. I pray to Vishnu I never have to look at one again.

Best Regards,
Dear Crabby

Dear Angry/Vicious Note-Leaving Neighbors:

Dear Neighbors:

Clearly, we the residents of the Fairfax district know the unique hell that is finding a parking spot on the street in our neighborhood. Well, at least some of us do, as I am fortunate enough to have a driveway that can not only accommodate my car but those of visiting guests. But I certainly feel for the rest of you, forced to duke it out for the precious few spots available.

Most of the sections of curb on the streets between driveways are two cars long. Yesterday evening, the driver of a black Audi took it upon himself to park smack dab in the middle of a section, thereby eliminating any chance two cars could park there. I specifically say him in this case, as it appeared the driver's seat was far enough back from the steering wheel to indicate the driver was a man. And FAR be it from me to stereotype, but when one sees a poorly parked car whose driver's seat is in what must be its forward-most position, (essentially assuring whatever petite person behind the wheel would be instantly decapitated if the airbag was to deploy), one might be inclined to utter a "surprise, surprise." But for your average six foot tall male? There's no excuse for such a flagrant disrespect of neighborhood parking mores.

Clearly, all hell breaks lose when someone displays a lack of courtesy of this caliber. Not one, but TWO of my neighbors took a page from the Dear Crabby book, adamantly blasting this disrespectful individual with strident indictments:



AND


(My favorite part of this one is the "P.S. I pissed on your door handle." In my opinion, that's taking it a little too far, but I admire the author's alacrity.)

The the glove-compartment napkin admonishment, while undoubtedly raw and effective, I find a little cruel. Often they're scribbled in malicious haste, and later you're haunted by visions of remorse, that note you left on the poorly-parked Buick potentially telling cataract-riddled 87-year old Great-Aunt Evelyn to go fuck herself. Darling old Evelyn, while she might've parked like Helen Keller, doesn't deserve that kind of bullcrap at this advanced stage of her life. That's why I prefer the official-looking citation put out by my personal heroes at youparklikeanasshole.com; this gets the point across, cuts down on regrets (such as pissing on a door handle), and also allows one to, much like a Citizens Arrest, to essentially issue a Citizens Parking Ticket:


It gets tiresome being the self-appointed enforcer, quixotically meting and doling unto a savage race time after time, and in this case it was a pleasure to see someone else throwing themselves on the asshole grenade. I was able to stand by and merely chuckle, my car safely ensconced in my driveway, above the riff-raff jockeying for the precious few parking spaces on the street; my crabbiness reservoir remaining blessedly full for next time the dam is released - it can't be long from now anyway. In the meantime be compassionate in your Citizens Parking Citations, and think twice before leaving a nasty note for poor Great-Aunt Evelyn, even if she can't park for shit.

Best regards,
Dear Crabby

Dear Major Motion Picture DRIVE

Dear DRIVE:

You presented me with a singular movie-going experience recently. Ryan Gosling is undoubtedly a hugely talented actor with a broad range, but it was especially enjoyable to watch him play a role that included a very small amount of actual talking. I find the striking figure that Gosling cuts undermined whenever he opens his mouth - as he consistently sounds very much like the actual character he played in DRIVE: a guy who might roll out from under your car covered in grease and say in his signature breathy, phlegmy cant - "brakes'r shot" - a masculine, recently awakened Jackie Kennedy with bronchitis.


Be that as it may, it was a pleasure to watch him flex his muscles (theatrical and otherwise), crack his knuckles (his signature move in the film), and watch a buncha people get blown to high heaven. The body count to character ratio in this film is alarmingly high. By my count, nine people were killed (shot, stabbed, stomped to death, forcibly drowned, impaled or otherwise eviscerated) in a film with approximately eight major characters. There was a A LOT of violence in this film. So much so that it presented an all-too clear divide in theater 1 at the Landmark at the Westside Pavilion; a theater that is, for whatever reason, lousy with the elderly at all shows starting before 9pm. Navigating the sheer number of walkers, canes and wheelchairs in the lobby and Lexuses with handicapped placards in the parking garage is a tricky exercise requiring a Gosling-esque deftness of hand-eye coordination.

While many members of the audience were hugely engaged, even bursting into spontaneous applause at one point as Gosling made short order of a pair of armed, malice-perpetrating hooligans by turning their own weapons against them, at least a dozen people left the theater. These dissatisfied patrons included one elderly woman seated in the front row, who, while lurching into an upright position with the aid of her walker during a particularly quiet scene, ripped a very loud fart, easily audible from our seats in Row J. (This classic old-person-getting-out-of-a-chair fart was particularly favored by my late grandfather, who, while not acknowledging that it was happening in any way, would look you in the eye as he farted, testing the will of your decorum.) This set off a burst of muffled tittering amongst quite a few patrons as, her verdict on the picture audibly rendered, the woman walkered her way out of the theater.

In spite of the gratuitous violence and near pants-pooping of a fellow theater patron, I enjoyed the film, and, more importantly, was hugely proud/unnerved to be seeing it in Los Angeles. This movie pulled no punches on the city, presenting a gritty downtown, Echo Park and far eastern reaches of the Valley; neighborhoods of which I've barely plumbed the depths, neighborhoods I wouldn't be comfortable hot-air ballooning over. The thing about this movie is that it totally validated the deep, institutional unease I feel about this city. For a movie with a Canadian star directed by a guy from Denmark (outsourcing as we do every job in America these days), it handily put its finger on the pulse of, if not my Los Angeles, but the Los Angeles I fear and know is out there. And that was the crux of it - the kind sof violence shown in this film is violence I feel on a very deep level is happening somewhere in LA all the time. People getting stabbed in parking garages? Check. People getting shot while robbing pawn shops? Check. Christina Hendricks getting blown away by a shotgun at extremely close range? Double Check. (This scene was particularly disturbing, as someone stood in a parking lot outside the bathroom window of a motel she and Gosling were in, aiming at her through one of those LA-special Venetian slat windows that have always inexplicably freaked me out. Now I can bolster this irrational fear with a little legitimacy.)

One of the films' strengths was that it so gracefully captured the pleasure and Lone Ranger-essence one feels of driving on LA's empty roads at night. In a few scenes, Gosling goes for a ride in his customized, 70s El Camino-ish thing, and I very much got it. I've felt that feeling, granted, not on the way to or from a bank heist, but regardless, it is liberating.



Driving home after consuming a prodigious amount of Mexican food (and margaritas) later in the day, I channeled my inner Gosling and flew down the newly resurfaced stretch of Wilshire Boulevard by the Los Angeles Country Club, a view of Beverly Hills and Downtown twinkling in the distance glimmered before me. I rowed through the gears, pushing my car's wheezing turbo to its limits -all I needed was a pair of driving gloves, some phlegm in my throat, and the doll from Lars and The Real Girl in the passenger seat, and I just might achieve Gosling status.

And then, acting up as it has over the past couple of months, my ten-year old gas gauge failed me. The light never having even come on, I straight-up ran out of gas, and chugged to a stop on Beverly Drive. Ryan Gosling I'll never be. I sighed, and called AAA.

Sinerely,
Dear Crabby

Dear Susan Orlean / The Goats of Downtown Los Angeles

Dear Susan Orlean / Goats:

I've never read your best-known work, The Orchid Thief, but I certainly enjoyed the movie upon which it was based. As a regular reader of your blog on The New Yorker's website, I've had mixed feelings about your impending temporary move to Los Angeles from your farm in upstate New York; I've been afraid that one of my go-to bastions of East Coast-ness (refreshed biweekly) was going to abandon me. I regularly read your blog for articulate observations on the very rural, agrarian, and often specifically fowl-focused minutiae which you will likely have to temporarily abandon during your move to the concrete jungle. However, I am happy to see that you have already began to demonstrate your interest in and outreach to the bestial portion of the Los Angeles community, both here and here.

I had read the latter story in the New York Times - bolstering my opinion that the best reporting on the west coast generally comes from the east coast - this evidenced by the fact that after a thorough scouring of the LA Times, I could find no reference to said downtown-toiling goats. (I've long contended that the best local news team in Los Angeles is that of TMZ - and they probably don't care about goats across the street from the downtown courthouse, unless Lindsay Lohan was their for an arraignment and stepped in their shit.) Regardless, I was pleased to find that you, Susan Orlean, had picked up on this story of Angeleno civic interface with the animal kingdom, and I actually think it demonstrates the kind of out-of-the-box thinking that LA at its best is capable of and needs to drum up with greater frequency.

Ms. Orlean, I can assure you that even transplanted out of your upstate farm with all of God's great and small creatures, you will be right at home in Los Angeles. Not only are there plenty of animal lovers and municipally-employed goats to be observed, but if you sit long enough on the patio of the Starbucks at the corner of 26th and San Vicente in Brentwood, a decidedly upscale and residential area, you will hear amid the throaty growls of accelerating Porsches, paradoxically, a rooster crow somewhere in the neighborhood. I've heard it with my own ears. Hopefully this, along with LA's Urban Chicken Enthusiasts, will be enough to satisfy your yen for fowl. It'll be just like back on the farm - only with a macchiato in hand instead of fresh milk. But I assure you, there is more to the animals of LA than how they are so narrowly portrayed in the media:



Sincerely,
Dear Crabby

Dear Carmageddon

Dear Carmageddon:

For those who've been living under a giant rock locally, or a somewhat smaller rock nationally you might've missed that you, Carmageddon, is rearing its beastly head this weekend. Ubiquitous Amber alert displays on freeways (and ones I hadn't noticed were ever there on surface streets) across the city ominously warn citizens of the pending apocalypse: "Expect Big Delays, July 16 and 17! 405 Freeway closed from 101 to 10." What this means is essentially "Don't even attempt to back out of your driveway for the entire weekend or you will die." I for one, want to live. To live! And as a result I will be traveling only by foot or unicycle this weekend.



However, I want to extend my respect and admiration to the California Department of Transportation, as not only is this bold act of Shakespearean proportions bringing Los Angeles one ginormous step closer to the completion of the 405-widening project, but it is unifying what is usually an ununifiable city in an uncommonly comprehensive fashion.

I've lived in Los Angeles for almost four years, and if I've learned one thing it's that this city is beyond fractured; geographically, physically, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. Our voter turn-out is minimal, athletic ra ra-ism is on the wane due to plummeting public opinion of the Dodgers, and the scope of the entertainment industry fails to reach far enough to unite the bejeweled Beverly Hills middle eastern women who won't make eye contact with you with the armed gang bangers of East LA who will happily make eye contact, but only because they're about to stab you.

New York, for instance, despite having as fractured a populus as Los Angeles, musters up in spite of itself a greater imperative of citizenship, a kind of civic solidarity that gives the phrase "New Yorker" a wide-ranging definition and tumescence; a transcending pace, a brashness, nationally evident (to cite an easy example) in the wake of 9/11. Bostonians, Chicagoans, even most likely Minneapolis-ians (or whatever they call themselves) can lay claim to some sort of transcendent local identity. In LA, Carmageddon has become the default conversational shoot to shit - it's the weather we don't have, the ten lanes of the Sepulveda Pass the town center we don't gather in.

Carmageddon, you've cut through LA's strong streak of self-imposed isolationism! You single-handedly have given this city a rallyying cry, a thesis, a raison d'etre! The Oscars, the Emmy's, the Golden Globes - not only predictably annual and small potatoes in import and scale, compared to you! I salute you - you have brought LA together like nothing before, and, presumably, nothing for quite some time. And to celebrate this momentous occasion, everyone who lives in Los Angeles is going to be staying home.



Sincerely,
Dear Crabby

Dear Marilyn Jorgenson Reece Memorial I-10/405 Interchange

Dear Marilyn Jorgenson Reece Memorial Interchange:

Many, indeed most, Angelenos have had the misfortune of having to sit stuck in traffic on the 405 - one of the most heavily traveled freeways in America - as it crosses the 10 in West LA. Recently, illogically stuck there at 2pm on a Sunday, the usual involuntary primal scream emanating from my body, I had occasion to look up and notice a sign amidst the debris of the literally and figuratively steamrolling 405-widening project; a proud, green sign poking its head out of the rubble next to the highway. I'm sure few people attending the jointly-held 10 and 405 balls on a regular basis know that the name of that junction is in fact the "Marilyn Jorgenson Reece Memorial Interchange."

When I first saw the sign, I got a hearty chuckle at its length and specificity as I pictured whatever blue-haired Westside philanthropic dowager had the sad misfortune of having one of the most congested, godforsaken, poorly-surfaced highway interchanges in the western hemisphere named after her. What a miserable brand of posterity, I thought. However, as my mind wandered at work the next day, I googled Marilyn's name. It turns out she wasn't a fussy old matron draped in jewelry who donated money to form a foundation for the rehabilitation of ex-dogfighting Pitbulls in Boyle Heights that earned her highway-naming rights, but Ms. Reece was in fact the civil engineer who designed the 405/10 interchange itself back in the early 1960s.

A native of South Dakota, Ms. Reece graduated from the University of Minnesota in 1948, and was the first licensed female civil engineer in the state of California. Out of 1,500 applicants to take the state licensing exam in 1954, she was the only woman who sat for it. She supervised construction of the entire interchange project, during nine months of which she was pregnant with her second child. The three level interchange was completed in 1964 and universally lauded, including by Urban critic Reyner Banham, author of "Los Angeles: The Architecture of Four Ecologies," who admired the "wide-swinging curved ramps" connecting the two freeways.

"It is more customary to praise the famous four-level [interchange in downtown Los Angeles]," he wrote, but the I-10 and 405 interchange "is a work of art, both as a pattern on the map, as a monument against the sky, and as a kinetic experience as one sweeps through it."

Ms. Reece's daughters, in speaking at the dedication of the interchange in 2008 four years after their mother's death said that their mother poured so much of herself into its construction and that it played such a large role in their childhood that they began to think of it as another sibling.

Obviously, the transportation-based landscape of Southern California has changed considerably in the past fifty years, with an exponentially increased number of cars parading up and down its narrow, winding five lane freeways, and there is no part of our freeway system that is not currently overtaxed, the interchange in question included. But I have every confidence that the now-named Marilyn Jorgensen Reece Memorial Interchange served its purpose admirably (and then some) when it was first completed. While driving it now, it is dirty, tired, weed-infested and dingy, a sad legacy to an impressive effort, like so much of the current state of America's innovative Eisenhower-era interstate system. Indeed, the newest and most kempt parts of the interchange are the 2008 signs bearing its new name. But when viewed from above, far away from the traffic clogging and the graffiti decorating it, it iss revealed the extent to which the interchange has a grace, a delicacy, and dare I even say, a certain Georgia O'Keefe-ness to it; combined with an earnest, modernist 1960s practicality; these elements presumably stemming from the practical Midwestern visionary who designed it.

Occasionally, on a very late night run to LAX or trek to Santa Monica, the highways emptier than usual, one can still channel the same freedom of movement and "kinetic experience" that was so innovative in the 1960s as you pass from the 10 west to the 405 south, on a ramp "designed to accommodate speeds up to 55 miles per hour," your car eagerly leaning into the curve as the centrifugal g-force attempts to fling you westward, all the way down the 10, through the McClure tunnel and into the ocean beyond.

Ms. Reece, this crab salutes you.

Sincerely,
Dear Crabby

Dear Patrons of Yogurtland

Dear Patrons at Yogurtland the other night:

Yogurtland is not, and will never be, Swirls and Scoops of Grafton, Pinecroft Dairy of West Boylston, Uhlmans of Southborough or Kimball's of Carlisle; the mom and pop ice cream stands of my youth, manned by the blond and tanned cheerleaders of their respective burgs. However its by-the-ounce thrift (if you spend more than $3.50, you are a fatty), combined with its smorgasbord of self-serve, fat-free flavors and toppings and myriad locations (including around the corner from my office) make it generally a worthwhile destination.


My roommate and I, in the mood to satiate our sweet tooth, were pleased to find the Yogurtland on La Brea blessedly devoid of the normal throng of be-Vanned, be-acid-washed 'tweens one usually encounters there on a cool Monday evening. After making my way through the oddly L-shaped toppings inlet, I tried to secure a table on the sidewalk. There were five tables, three occupied; one by three asian people, with six chairs at it. The two unoccupied tables were entirely devoid of chairs. I asked the Asian table if they were using all of their chairs.

"Yes," came the response.

Taking pity on me, some folks from the other tables down the way eagerly pushed their empty chairs towards me, and Richard and I took a seat.

As I continued to shoot the chair-hogging Asian table dirty looks, another couple came outside looking for a seat.

"You using all those chairs?" the man asked.

"Yes, came the response.

But this guy wasn't having it.

"Right now?" he asked.

"We are waiting for our friends," came the heavily-accented response.

"Are they here right now?" they guy pressed.

"No," the Asians sheepishly acquiesced.

"I didn't think so!" And he yanked two chairs away. Instantly, I was smitten by this man, and could not contain my smote-ness.

"We got the cold shoulder before you," I whispered at him conspiratorially. He turned around and looked at me, a little more wild-eyed than I might've expected.

"Well, you know, I just won't take no shit from no one!" He said, looking me square in the eyes.

Oh no. I had made a fatal social miscalculation. This man was not the ballsy hero I had hoped for, but, in fact, a slightly deranged lunatic. The pleated khaki shorts and white shirt I thought had been ironic were serious. I looked down at his shoes - you can always tell by the shoes - although I only had a brief moment in which to register his footwear before being compelled to resume his death stare. I couldn't tell you what they were, but my subconscious definitely registered something olive-colored and unfashionable. He continued:

"Sometimes you just gotta get up and say to yourself "I won't take shit from no one today!" he thundered at me, his oddly demure wife concentrating intently on her mochi. I had little time to shift my ire at the Asian table into anxiety that this crazy person would somehow morph his inability to take shit onto me.

As I nodded ferociously in an attempt to mollify this unfortunately shod, disquieting Libertarian, my heart sank somewhat. While I respected this man's attitude towards the chair-bogarting Asians, he was just another let-down in the Los Angeles ice cream seeking population; a city with whose inhabitants I am becoming decreasingly able to interact in a civilized fashion.

Unlike the soccer teams of Swirls and Scoops, the families of Uhlmans, the eccentric Concordians of Kimball's, the patrons of the sundry Yogurt Lands are foreign and uncouth. 'Going out for ice cream' remains a tradition relegated to the humid summer nights of the east, forever caught in the crosshairs of more innocent times. But we all need ice cream, end of story. So next time I go to Yogurt Land, I'm bringing my own picnic table.



Sincerely,
Dear Crabby

Dear People from Minnesota

Dear People From Minnesota:

Los Angeles is a city of people from other places - often other places where car insurance costs significantly less than it does here. Ergo, it's not common to, in traffic, frequently notice license plates from out of state; newly-minted denizens here to live the Hollywood dream, but refusing to pay a California registration fee. There are the plates that make sense; Arizona (where every U-Haul is registered), Nevada (where many rental cars also seem to be), New Jersey and Florida (frequent exporters of its citizens, for obvious reasons), and even Illinois. But for whatever reason, here in Los Angeles, Minnesotans, you are ubiquitous; I cannot go a single day without seeing at least one car with a Minnesota license plate.

Old pieces of crap, souped-up BMWs, a Mercedes behind a gate on a dead end high in the Hollywood Hills. It's not just the volume of cars from Minnesota, it's how many of them seem unlikely candidates for having ever even been there; and it makes me wonder if it's either a Minnesotan conspiracy that's exporting so many of its citizens (and vehicles) to LA, or perhaps it, as a state, just has perversely low car insurance rates, and all of these cars are registered either to people who own a cabin somewhere on Lake Superior but live in Brentwood, or who have cleverly gamed the system, and convinced the MN DMV their mailing address is in fact a P.O. Box in West LA.

Regardless of the ubiquity of Minnesota plates in LA, there are a fair share of those from the New England states as well, and they never fail to elicit a pang within me; a potential sense of recognition, real or imagined, and the possibility of, if not a shared common experience. I have without a doubt sped up to sit next to the Jetta from Connecticut at the stoplight, or the Corolla purchased at Ira Toyota in Danvers; I've even lingered by the Outback with the Vermont plates frequently parked on my street hoping its owner might appear so I can strike up a conversation that might just make my day, and smack of rambling stone walls, church steeples and maple syrup.

But Minnesota, for whatever reason, takes the cake for most uncommonly common. Perhaps it's the the toe-numbing winters that send people here, or a fatigue of everyone being so nice all the time. Or perhaps its the powerful, magnetic draw of the Coen brothers' success, hometown heroes making good, sending vibes of creativity to the Midwet; their legacy a siren of artistic promise summoning its young denizens to the City of Angels to seek their fortunes and ply their trade in entertainment, doncha know?

I believe, however, the Coens both live in New York. So, Minnesotans, pay the high insurance premiums like the rest of us. We're all in this together.

Dear People Who Hang Shit On My Door:

Dear Shit-Hangers:

I came home from work today, and was greeted with this:



And this:



These items were, in no particular order, a brochure for membership at Gold's Gym (the nearest location to my home of which I'm not even sure), a take-out menu for a Korean BBQ restaurant, and an enormous flyer for Universal City Nissan. And the piece de resistance? The Verizon Yellow Pages.

I already belong to a gym. I'm less likely to go to a restaurant if they advertise by door-flyering. I'm certainly not in the market for a Nissan Sentra, no matter how attractive its lease offer. And I can't remember the last time I actually handled a phone book, other than to hurl it into the closest recycling bin.

The flyer-papering in my neighborhood is out of control. Most front doors are a scant half a dozen steps off the sidewalk, and we, the good people of the Fairfax/Mid-City district, are sitting ducks. I've seen you, diminutive Shit Hangers, (and you are always diminutive), scampering through the neighborhood, Flyer-Bjorn satchels stuffed with pamphlets slung around your shoulders, and I just want to scream at you "If we WANTED to buy a Nissan, we WOULD!"

I wonder, does each advertising establishment find its own Shit Hanger, or is there some sort of Shit Hanging service that distributes this colossal waste of paper en masse? And if so, what do you call yourselves? Shit Hangers, LTD? And where do you advertise? Shit Hangers Monthly? These are the questions that trouble me every day when I come home and there are eight business cards on my front porch for E-Z House Kleening.

I'm getting ready to either put a "Post No Bills" sign on my front door, or, better yet, booby-trap it. It'd be worth the entire day sitting behind the door, armed with a can of silly string and an air horn, lying in wait for the next brave soul to venture onto my porch, spreading their gospel of discount movers, non-English speaking maid services, and mom and pop Indian restaurants. I would savor the moment, hearing an unsuspecting Shit Hanger creep up onto the porch, insert his (or her) flotsam and jetsam into my screen door, and I'd yank open the Wizard of Oz booby hatch in my front door, and let him have it: "HONNNNNNNNNNNNK!"

Surely that would be enough to get my door on the coveted "Do Not Hang Shit" list. I'd be thrilled if that were to happen, as I already have a big enough shit list of my own.

Best regards,
Dear Crabby

Dear Elizabeth Taylor

Dear Elizabeth Taylor,

"These have always brought me luck," you said in your White Diamonds 30-second spot, as you removed your famously gaudy earrings and handed them over to some ambiguous men in an ambiguous black and white Moroccan watering hole. When I first saw this commercial, I didn't know anything about you, this voluptuous woman in a white dress with the iconic mole, other than that you seemed very different from most of the women I ran across on a daily basis. I hadn't yet seen Cleopatra or Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? I didn't know the story of your relationship with Richard Burton, or the seven other people you were married to. I didn't know of your friendship with Michael Jackson, or your championing of AIDS research. I didn't realize you were the same person I'd seen when my parents and I watched National Velvet. I didn't understand that your fragrance was the least famous thing about you.

But I always remembered that commercial, especially as it was revived now and again around the holidays. I remember its foreignness, its glamor serving as a taste of a lifestyle incomprehensible to an 8 year-old from Massachusetts who, as a treat, got to eat dinner in front of the TV once a week.

My relationship with you never really changed, per se, even after I saw your movies, watched you on 20/20, or saw on TMZ that you'd dropped in again at the Abbey in West Hollywood in a wheelchair. But, I would wager, it was the allure of that White Diamonds commercial that summoned so many, and perhaps, in part, myself, to pursue something your aura conjured up-- something exciting, accomplished; summoned to this strange, phantasmagoric city of angels, the narrative and soul of which your life and career have formed an indelible part.

"That stuff smells like bug spray," I remember my mother saying once, the commercial airing as she passed through the room. "Don't dump on Elizabeth Taylor!" was my inexplicable, knee-jerk response, "whoever she is." I smelled the perfume, years later, and it sort of does. But that wasn't important to me as I sat, munching on my fish sticks at the coffee table in the dim light of the den, watching whatever my nerdy, effete 8 year-old self saw fit to program my evening with. It is this childhood frame of reference, one among many for aspirants across the world, that will continue to bring us luck.



Best Regards,
Dear Crabby

Dear City of Glendale (And Your Malls)

Dear City of Glendale:

A friend and I once made a rule: Don't go to Glendale.

A section of Los Angeles a scant three miles from where we lived at the time, we instituted this rule after being, among other things, stuck in inexplicable traffic jams without fail on our way there (causing us to be repeatedly tardy for movie showings), as well as having, bar none, the worst car-shopping experience of most likely anyone's life there, wherein an elderly Chinese Nissan salesman chased after us as we tried to drive out of the parking lot shouting "We try for you make better lease payment!"

With these factors in play, plus always being vaguely uneasy about the possibility of being stoned by stuffed grape leaves at the hands of Glendale's copious Armenian population, we decided to institute a Glendale moratorium, and never looked back.

Recently, however, I had some time to kill after work before meeting a friend in Silverlake, the hipster haven on the east side of Los Angeles, at a restaurant whose patrons, regardless of gender, weigh less than 100 lbs and whose small, ugly dogs sport almost as many tattoos as their owners.

I also needed to make a stop at the Apple Store, and the most convenient location between Burbank and Silverlake, of course, was in Glendale. So I took a deep breath, and sallied forth to where I understood the Apple Store to be, at the patriotically named Americana at Brand.

"The ultimate shopping, dining and entertainment destination: The Americana at Brand in Glendale. Your Shopping & Entertainment Resort®" their website proclaims. (Note: Brand Boulevard is, in fact, the street on which the mall is located, however its name, combined with its dozen car dealerships, does lead one to believe that the street was created merely as an ode to commerce.)

Sister to the Mid-City neighborhood's The Grove, the Americana is an orgiastic splooge of retail in an already overly image-conscious community; the Burbank-Glendale axis is the one of $80K Mercedes' with tinted windows, whose drivers make up for in earing studs and oversized t-shirts what they lack in higher education. A collection of relatively high-end stores (J. Crew, Barney's Co-Op) and condos available for purchase, the Americana clearly strives to conjure up the feeling of the Grover's Corners town square of yore... albeit one with ambient Frank Sinatra music piped in. With its roving trolley and giant fountain reminiscent of the one in front of the Bellagio in Las Vegas, the Americana is, truly, both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

After parking and descending the escalators under an elaborate, chandelier that looked like something out of an Edith Wharton novel, I emerged into the cool Glendale evening, and made my way to the information kiosk. Try as a I might, I could not find the Apple store on the map.

"Where is the Apple Store?!" I barked at the bewildered girl working the hair extension/scrunchy cart next to the information kiosk.

"Apple Store? Across street," she responded, her middle-eastern accent as pronounced as her dark roots fading into the rest of her peroxide blond hair.

"Across the street?" I said.

"Apple Store is at Galleria is across street," she explained to me. "This is Americana."

And if this wasn't Americana, I don't know what was.

Across the street, I discovered, is the old, depressed, droopy-eyed step-sister to the new Americana, the Glendale Galleria. A holdover from the 80s, the Galleria's JC Penney and Lane Bryant easily fail to conjure up the same level of prestige as its flashy new rival. After feeling extremely white (whiter than even usual) after my trip through the Galleria, I finally fell into the Apple Store, sandwiched between a store called Shiekh Shoes and Mrs. Field's Cookies.

"I thought you were across the street," I said to the Apple store salesman.

"We're actually opening a store over there," he said knowingly.

After completing my purchase, I headed back to the Americana, in search of something inexpensive to buy to get my parking validated. As I made my way out of J. Crew with a new pair of socks, the hourly fountain show was in full swing. While "Come Fly With Me" crescendoed, a few of the already scant patrons at the Americana on a chilly Tuesday night took note of the fanfare. Most, especially the couples in velour track suits and sensible shoes, continued their shuffling and conversations in foreign languages, as did the old men puffing their cigars and cackling on the bench in front of Victoria's Secret. I, however, stopped briefly to contemplate this patriotic hymm to capitalism, and, looking around me, wondered if it was this, this Americana, that I and my fellow patrons were nostalgic for. Perhaps in the future, I'll stick to my rule, and just do my shopping online.



Best regards,
Dear Crabby

Dear Brandeis Runner (West Coast Chapter)

Dear Brandeis Runner:

Lately, as I have exited the underground parking garage on Palm Ave. in downtown Burbank on my way to work, I have encountered you. You are an Asian man, probably in your early thirties, dressed as if you are on your way to one of the many vaguely generic financial or legal firms which occupy the other floors of our office tower. Your glasses are a little too large for your face, and not in a cool way. You wear loafers, and not in a cool way. And, for some reason, you're running.

The first time I became aware of you, you were barreling noisily up the sidewalk behind me, arms and legs flailing as if a bear was chasing you, an earnest, furrowed expression on your face as if you were doing a complicated math problem in your head, or trying to take a shit.

I had thought, nay, hoped this sighting might be an isolated incident, but I saw you again last week. You ran, pell-mell, up the stairs next to me in front of the building.

"Running late?" I asked cheerfully, feeling a quixotic need to garner an explanation as to your behavior, a self-deprecating sign that of the two of us alone on the steps, I wasn't the only one currently finding you ridiculous.

"Yeah," you sneered back at me, with a surprising amount of "what's it to you?!" antisocial vitriol for someone sprinting like a whirligig through a public place while wearing dress clothes. You seemed surprised, perhaps even irritated, that you'd been noticed. Noticed, and labeled: a Brandeis Runner.

--

Some background: At Brandeis University, my alma mater, there was a certain element of, to put it diplomatically, freakishly dorky morons that helped comprise the student body. And while every selective, academically oriented college has its fair share of Bufords, Brandeis semed to have received an uneven distribution. Within this foolish minority (although one that often felt like a majority), there existed a group referred to as the Brandeis Runners. My friend Alison and I take credit for, not creating, but in fact discovering this sub-sect of the university populace, which, let me be clear, had absolutely nothing to do with the track team. They were often any combination of overweight, unkempt and/or slovenly, in possession of large, unwieldy backpacks, and wearing, generally, the least appropriate attire possible for physical activity, i.e. overcoats, dress shoes, scarves or sophisticated orthodonture.

And, they ran.

They ran through the campus in the same vein as the Asian man from the sidewalk in front of my office, limbs flailing, on pedestrian paths while classes were changing, with a fiery urgency that seemed to imply that if they didn't get where they needed to go at exactly ten past the hour, that whatever low-level Sociology class or Judaic Studies seminar they were late for not only wouldn't happen, but might spontaneously combust, and they'd all have blood on their hands.

The Brandeis Runners were a source of wonder for me and Ali. Did they know one another? Did they plan these guerilla blasts through campus, their overstuffed L.L. Bean backpacks filled with the writings of Isaac Bashevis Singer taking people out as they whip along the pathways as classes change? Were they a precursor to Flash Mobs, only far less zestful and happiness-inducing? Or were their dashes up Library Hill or the crowded steps to the Rabb Humanities Quad as approximately 3,000 people attempted to relocate themselves in a ten-minute period merely a chance to slip a quick few minutes of cardio into their busy undergraduate schedules?

Ali and I decided that no... no, these individuals, whom it would be misleading to in any way refer to as a "group" were mere coincidence. The Brandeis Runners were, and, indeed, most likely still are, completely ignorant of one another (as they may indeed be of many things). They are people whose individual actions not only gain them membership to a club of which they are not aware, but in fact sustain it. A paradox, no? Imagine being a a charter member of a select, recognized phenomenon (as this in fact was after Ali and I were done calling peoples attention to it, have no doubt) that you had no idea existed, whose character you helped form, in spite of yourself. It was this legacy that the Brandeis Runners unwittingly brought to themselves.

--

Today, standing with a colleague at the crosswalk, I realized you, Brandeis Runner were standing in front of us, waiting for the light to change.

"Watch this guy," I said to him. "He'll run when the light changes."

"Whaaa?" Patrick said back to me.

And sure enough, when the light changed, you were off like a shot, lunchbag in hand, bowleggedly bounding up the street, most likely having no knowledge of that fact we, or anyone, had taken note.

And so, Brandeis Runner, it is this tradition to which you unwittingly pay homage, this sodality to which you belong, despite the fact that you most likely did not attend the university itself. You remain, in spite of yourself; an outpost of dweebishness, of antisocial behavior, on the sun-drenched sidewalks of downtown Burbank, easily a charter member of the Brandeis Runner West Coast Chapter. I look forward to both rolling my eyes and getting out of your way as you hurtle past me, conjuring up memories of a younger, more innocent time, sitting on the benches of the Brandeis campus with my friend Ali, Aramark Boulevard Cafe chicken wrap in hand, just waiting for a sighting of another Bradneis runner to laugh at. We always knew it wouldn't be long.

Best regards,
Dear Crabby

Dear Jews Across the Street

Dear Hasidic, or at the very least Orthdox, Jews who live across the street:

Hymie and Rivka, your house is a dump. In a neighborhood of generally well-manicured, well-maintained fourplex stucco buildings from the 1920s, yours is an eyesore. Shrouded behind an unruly thicket of rhododendrons, your dumpy-ass maison is the sad sack of the street.

Your home is, however, unmatched in squalor, by this:



This unfortunate, 20+ year old Chevy Rape-Van (which I think was actually the official General Motors model designation), is, sadly, yours. It is a disgusting abomination. It is rusty. It blocks our view when backing out of the driveway. It squeals unpleasantly on the rare occasions it actually starts; aided by the muttering of Talmudic prayers and Hebrew Hammer-powered jumper cables. And one of these days, Hershel, as you bend over it, tinkering with the engine, it is going to suck your two-foot long beard right into the timing belt, sending your black hat shooting into the air.

Frustrated as I was by this van's presence, the best car is, as my father always says, the one you own. Imagine my frustration then, when I discovered, however, that this van is NOT, in fact a mode of transport, nay; it is essentially used by you, Schlomo and Bathsheba, as an extension of your closet. Haphazardly filled to the brim with everything from unused bicycles to old tax forms, the van is essentially a Pod with wheels, accessed only occasionally as one would a distant corner of the basement.



This van is never driven out of the neighborhood, only moved from one side of the street to the other so as to avoid ticketing on street cleaning days. Frequently, this seems to be directly in front of our living room windows, providing us with a picturesque view into the van and its sundry piles of shit. Avram and Chavah, in a neighborhood populated by yuppies who often park their Volkswagens and Prius' (Priii? Priam?) on the street, whose elegant old buildings are generally well maintained, I wish that you'd dump the rolling closet, take a hedge trimmer to your front yard, and literally clean up your act. And if this doesn't happen, I will take advantage of the law a friend brought to my attention and report you to the city of Los Angeles next time you don't move your Jew Canoe for more than 72 hours.

And don't make me do that. Because then I'll probably feel bad, and have to go to temple to pray for forgiveness.

Best Regards,
Dear Crabby

Dear Prostitute In A Residential Area

Dear Residential Prostitute:

I saw you this morning, at about 7:15, as I crossed Hollywood Boulevard on Genesee. It was a beautiful morning, cool, crisp, with a surprisingly brisk wind. Out for an early-morning run on, ironically, city-wide garbage day, I was startled to see you.

You were picking your way daintily down the sad excuse for a shoulder on Nichols Canyon Rd., a surprisingly rural outpost just above the hustle and bustle of Hollywood Boulevard as it approaches Fairfax. You wore, well, not that much - especially given the time of day and ambient temperature in the low 50s. Your black vinyl and/or pleather hot pants and tank top ensemble, so far away from its usual milieu of velvet rope or street corner in a red light district, was as arresting for me as it was for the warrant you'd no doubt been issued at some point in your life for solicitation. It was difficult to discern whether or not you were a professional, but, on this weekday morning's walk of shame, you certainly looked the part. Walking anywhere in Los Angeles, even to a museum, or temple, is sad enough, but a walk of shame? A tragedy.

Frankly, Residential Skank, your presence jarred me as I quietly ventured into the Hollywood Hills; this neighborhood of shabbily elegant old homes does not often play host to streetwalkers wandering a mile or so from the proverbial corner of Hollywood and Vine. The stark light of day revealed your smeared eyeliner, your askew eyelashes; and though I no doubt didn't look so hot after three uphill miles, you looked like a disaster in the middle of happening. You shivered as you awkwardly hopped toward the intersection, easily more of your skin exposed than covered; the strangely dainty ermine boa wrapped around your neck doing little to warm you, the stiletto heels proving not the most arch-supporting choice of footwear for an early-morning stroll.

As we passed one another, we exchanged a knowing look - a look essentially saying "we both know what's going on here." Grasping only your sad, off-brand clutch, you hopped awkwardly on the poorly surfaced road, as there are no sidewalks in the hills, bound for, hopefully, a car, a full-length trench coat, and, perhaps, a new beginning.

On a lighter note, I wish I'd had my camera.

Best regards,
Dear Crabby

Dear Taxi Cab Whore

Dear Taxi Cab Whore,

It's official, you've hit the big-time. Your attractive, comely visage has been graphically imprinted on the rear window of a Los Angeles taxi cab:



You are a hometown hero; your parents and childhood clergymen must be so proud. I happened upon your (figurative and literal) star vehicle at the early hour of 8:45 am at the intersection of Barham and Forest Lawn as I made my precipitous, barely awake descent into the Valley. However, after being confronted with your advertisement, I found myself all-too awake; the muscles in my face involuntarily forming the harshest, staunchest, lip-curling sneer of revulsion physically possible; it brought a whole new depth of feeling to my facial epidermis, as if it had just experienced some sort of electrical stimulation.



Let me ask you, Taxi Cab Whore, are you OK with the fact that your skanky self is come-hithering 24/7 on the back of a taxi cab? Does "Deja Vu Showgirls" (whose website states: "1000's of Beautiful Girls & 3 Ugly Ones featuring reviews, ratings, club comments, free passes, coupons, special offers. Locations Coast to Coast") compensate you handsomely for this dubious way to make a living? I certainly hope so. Forgive me though, Taxi Cab Whore, if I don't make the trip down the 5 freeway to E. Commerce Avenue to find out.

Never mind that the cabs in Los Angeles drive like oozing amoebas, slouching towards some sort of indeterminate Bethlehem devoid of smoothly moving traffic (the LA taxi experience is the polar opposite of New York's), but do they also need to be slathered with advertisements for strip clubs? There are enough stymying, mind-numbingly repugnant aspects of living in Los Angeles... do we also need to be confronted with naked women before 9am? Not that it isn't disquieting at any time of day, but at 11pm coming home after a few drinks on the west side, I can at least shrug it off with a chuckle. In the valley in the morning, however, it's just depressing. We know this city is a cesspool, do we need to be reminded of it while sitting in traffic? I honestly don't know what's worse, you, or a pro-life government-sanctioned license plate.

So, Taxi Cab Whore, don't be offended if I steer clear of your risqué cabs, as not only do they offend my delicate, puritanical, Massachusetts-formed sensibilities, but I can't imagine those cab drivers can see that well out the back window.

Best Regards,
Dear Crabby

Dear State of Massachusetts, for a Change

Dear State of Massachusetts:

In the midst of my recharging, rejuvenating respite in the greatest state in the country, imagine my shock, dismay and general appalled-ness to find, on Christmas morning, when we pulled up at the on-ramp to 290 on Lincoln Street in Worcester, that THIS exists:



The above, affixed to a Grand Cherokee purchased at Bancroft Motors, is in fact THIS:


Never before have I seen a license plate with so much to say about a woman's uterus.

Personally, I find anything more than a decal demonstrating an affiliation with a school, affinity for a sports team, or a parking sticker in poor taste on a vehicle. And while other special interest plates in Massachusetts and beyond (supporting youth hockey, the Blackstone Valley, endangered water fowl, etc), are relatively benign, and certainly have very little to do with the more politicized aspects of the female reproductive system, this one is just too much. Massachusetts, although you obviously have your fair share of pro-life residents, I am disappointed by your lack of good taste, and that this plate was allowed to exist in your RMV system.

In addition, Massachusetts, I was unable to believe that this was an initiative that originated with you, and, upon conducting a little research, I discovered that the proceeds for this special interest plate in fact benefit an organization based in Florida called simply Choose Life, Inc. Their mission statement reads:

"To work with interested citizens within Florida and other states to create and promote the sale of a specialty license plate with the slogan "Choose Life" whose proceeds would be used to facilitate and encourage adoption as a positive choice for women with unplanned pregnancies."

Nowhere, Massachusetts, could I find anything at all that enumerated on what these facilitating and encouraging organizations were. The entire website, and in turn, organization, appears to be dedicated solely to the proliferation of this license plate, which, according to an article in the Boston Globe from last June, is now available in about two dozen states, each which individually lobbied to have one: "...The plates are coming to Massachusetts because of an often lonely campaign begun in 2003 by Merry Nordeen, 47, a secretary at St. Joseph Parish in Wakefield.

'I prayed really hard for this — I prayed for seven years, and God didn’t disappoint me," Nordeen said in a phone interview."

The MA branch of this organization has a website very similar to the national entity's in that it seems essentially to deal only with the license plate itself, and not specifically what they're going to do with the money it raises. The national organization's statement reads: "The Choose Life License Plate is a wonderful way to raise public awareness and much needed funding to support the positive choices of Life, Adoption and Safe Havens for unwanted pregnancies and newborns." While this is obviously not a terrible initiative, and adoption is certainly a wonderful thing, having a slogan that assaults you with "DON'T ABORT FETUSES!" while you're on the way to work in the morning or to buy milk is a little abrasive, not to mention preachy.

I would imagine, as well, it is also the rare woman who gets counsel about her reproductive system from the bumper of someone else's car as she turns her head while driving through the parking lot at Applebees.

At this time, no other state has a Pro-Choice sponsored license plate. One was actually rejected in Tennessee. And while there are actually no great legislative or legal hoops to jump through to make a special interest plate available (just signatures and money), and various courts have ruled that special interest license plates are a mixture of government and private speech and therefore can't discriminate among the messages it selects, can you imagine the uproar that would ensue if NARAL suddenly came up with a plate essentially reading "Abort That Shit"?!? Heavyset women with helmet hair and puff-paint sweatshirts would be picketing in no time.

Legislative issues aside, Massachusetts, I am saddened by you with this state-sanctioned license plate. Not only do I smell a rat with this fishy, ambiguous organization (a pregnant rat... who's certainly not going to have an abortion), but you should know better. Leave this kind of trumpeting, proselytizing hoo-ha to the south. Or Kansas. Meanwhile, to all MA residents with one of these plates, I'd look for a healthy dose of ACLU card-carrying middle fingers being extended from Priuses and Volvos from Newton or Jamaica Plain... their drivers pregnant or otherwise.

However, Massachusetts, after the wonderful backdrop you just served as for my Christmas vacation, from Worcester to Boston to Cape Cod and beyond, for this lapse in good taste, you are swiftly forgiven.

Happy New Year (all the way from Los Angeles),
Dear Crabby