Monday, 11 May 2009

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  Smobbin in the TL

  I live on a narrow two-lane street in the middle of a downtown area.  On either side of the street are numerous shopping venues, restaurants, and theaters.  It’s a very popular place to hang out, and you’ll find many people walking up and down the street at any given time of the day.  I drive down this street everyday and if there are enough people and if the weather is nice enough, I’ll roll down my windows and blast Shook Ones by Mobb Deep through my audio system. 

  Now, I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking that people who play music at deafening volume levels in their cars are dickwads.  I could not agree more with that sentiment.  I’m fully aware that I’m being a total toolbag whenever I’m bumping east coast gangsta rap to the local pedestrians of downtown Burbank.  But that’s exactly why I do it.  I like seeing the looks of disgust from the teenagers hanging out in front of Urban Outfitters as my music drowns whatever insignificant conversations they’re having.  Every now and then, I want to be a douchebag because sometimes being a douchebag is fun, especially when it’s at the expense of bored teenagers who don’t’ have cars.

  Another place where I like to play my music obnoxiously loud is along the 101 freeway on my commute home from work, but this is for entirely different reasons.  On any weekday afternoon, the 101 becomes Los Angeles’ longest parking lot.  It’s painfully congested with stretches of the freeway not moving at all.  This makes me want to leave my car on the freeway and just walk home.  If not for the law, I’m sure that everyone would do this regularly.  But there’s a phenomenon that has been going on along the Ventura Freeway over the past few years that’s added another dynamic to the afternoon commute.  People have been meeting other people while stuck in traffic.  The Ventura Freeway has become the new happy hour for people who are too stuck in traffic to make real happy hour. 

  I first heard about this phenomenon a few years ago on the radio, but I never actually believed it happened to real people until it happened to me.   One afternoon I was stuck in traffic on the 101 South at Balboa Avenue.  I was listening to Rapper’s Ball by E-40 at an inappropriate volume and contemplating setting the cruise control, ghost-riding my whip, and Crip-walking the rest of the way to Burbank when the driver to my left yelled at me.  She said, “Hey!”

  I looked over and saw an attractive girl in sunglasses driving a BMW.  (She was probably only deceptively attractive, as any non-fat girl in southern California who wears sunglasses and drives a BMW automatically looks good.)  “Oh, hey!” I said.

  “Good song!”

  “That’s how I roll,” I slickly said.  “Where are you going, miss?”  I have no redeeming qualities.

  “Sardo’s.  Burbank.  Do you know where that is?”

  “I’m there all the time,” I lied.  “See you there?”  I winked, even though I had my sunglasses on.

  “Yeah!” She smiled and rolled away.

  I don’t understand loud music.

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