The Wanderer by Scott O'Malley

In defense of the freeways.

“They should just build a subway,” says the person who recently moved to Los Angeles (or is visiting and considering it), sitting on the 405 freeway. The problem isn’t in what they’re trying to say, i.e. “here is a grand problem that needs an equally grandiose solution,” but in how it’s said. By that, I mean, they say it with such “matter-of-fact” bravado, with such obvious condescension, that one would wonder if this region was governed by Atari-bleeping Mooninites (see first link below) the past 50 years, Governor Davis excluded. I give ‘em a glance and think, “this city is 100 by 100 miles, San Francisco is 7 by 7, apples and oranges, they built something that’s good for Staples Center, you wanna act so you’re gonna move out here anyway so this is life, and life is unfair!” Yet say, “Yeah, good point, hey check out that smokin’ Asian broad in the Mustang.”

Modern day freeways are like modern day Christians with a military background- they can be attacked without substance, without risk, and serve as a scapegoat to any inconvenient problem. “Late to work?” Freeway. “Getting fat?” Can’t walk to work, always on the freeway. “Not enough diversity in schools? Why is life unfair?” Ah, it’s gotta be those damn Christians. And I say that as a disenfranchised Catholic (I was born Catholic.)

Sure the freeways are smelly slabs of concrete somehow indirectly abetting terrorism. But the point here is they can nourish our daily routines in much the same way as going to the gym and sipping a morning cup of Good Morning America. In fact, they can be an experience in unto itself. It’s a tough sell, but I think I’ve earned the right to try.

Several years ago, a friend and I arrived for summer internships. We stayed with my brother in North Hollywood, and to save money, shared a car. We did this, however, without knowing the location of our respective huts of indentured servitude. He scored one in Santa Monica, while I ended up in Hollywood. For Angelinos I need not say more, they get it. For those not familiar with LA, I liken the commute to watching your dog defecate the living room floor, cleaning it thoroughly, and then realizing your toilet is clogged. Twice a day, five days a week. The only respite was the fact that you were half asleep. (I know a friend who drove to work, took the elevator 12 floors to our office and asked, “How did I get here?”)

Admittedly, I’ve been very fortunate in life as a professional, read that as “non-faxing, copying, appeasing office biznatch.” My commutes have been downright brilliant. My friends put more miles on their cars in 8 months than I do in 3 years. I took surface streets until this past January, when a new gig reunited me with the 405, albeit for a mere 10 minutes a day.

Making Sense.

Life makes sense on the freeway. Many believe everyday life is mundane and boring, and so they, like me, jump out of airplanes, watch dumb movies, and get drunk for a sense of drama. The craziness is somehow “out there.”

Philosopher Rollo May, in “The Courage to Create,” suggested the contrary, saying our lives are bizarre, chaotic, and crazy 24/7. He goes on to argue that it’s the job of the Artist, or anyone for that matter, to make sense of it.

Here’s my interpretation- a David Lynch film is closer to reality than Reality T.V. Like one morning my evicted neighbors blasted Celine Dion in a final sonic bulge to enrage the other neighbors who complained about their frequent noise. See, my now ex-downstairs neighbor was a rave DJ. I could handle all that stuff, but the whiny Canuck’s voice felt like a depth charge from “Das Boot,” I spent the rest of the morning eating lemons. Or, my friend David awoke one night to hear his neighbors violently arguing whether or not Moses is in heaven. “No doubt that punk-ass is eating swine on some over-puffed cloud.” (My interpretation.) And to think we live in the South Bay. We don’t live in Hol

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»  Aqua Teen Hunger Force
»  The Commute
»  "The Courage to Create" by Rollo May
»  Das Boot
»  Cult of Macphisto