CALIFALOOZA, or DUDE, WHERE'S MY GAS, or PAY ATTENTION TO THE ROAD ABBY

California....what can I say.  You know what they say about California girls, or at least what Katy Perry says about California G-U-R-L-S, which really pisses me off, being from New York and not exactly at my optimal physical fitness.  Even as I sit on my poolside hotel balcony, here in Palm Springs, there are bikini-clad woman sunning it up at 10:30 am.  Go back to bed, bitches.

So how was the ride in to Southern California?  Not too impressive, honestly.  I mean, after you've seen Tucson, AZ (above), the desert out here looks pretty pathetic (below).  

 

My camera was so unimpressed, it clearly refused to focus on anything but the insect cemetery on my windshield.  I have bugs from at least 15 states on my car, incidentally - it will probably belong in a museum by the time I'm done Road Trippin'.  Like, a really nasty one.



I had forgotten how bad Southern California drivers are, until reaching the border.  I inherently knew this because my older brother used to be one, tearing up the mountains of Escondido, CA, unsuccessfully racing Mexicans in his Subaru Brat, back in the early 90's.  I have some fond memories of being strapped into a back-seat harness at the age of 10, listening to my brother play Metallica The Black Album with the volume up so high it shook the Orangina I had a death-grip on, absent-mindedly chewing beef jerky clutched in my other hand as wind whipped through my hair and thinking: "today is the day I die."


Anyways, instead of going to my happy place...

...I preoccupied myself with communicating to fellow I-10 drivers ("[Expletive]!! [Expletive]!! [Hand Gesture]. [Expletive]!!").  Despite having 4 bars on my cell phone, I was unable to make phone calls or even send dangerously-crafted-at-80-mph text messages to anyone I knew, rolling into Cali yesterday evening.


All this drama led me to the following state of dehydration:

Car dehydration.  All that negative concentration on "Why are these drivers such #@$@s?!!" and "Why don't my @#$ing friends call me back?!!", and pretty soon my gas light was on, and the desert was long.




PANIC soon set in!!


I made it to a Chevron with 0.188 of a gallon left in the tank.  Thank you, Jesus.  I know we haven't been exactly close, but you came through for me, and I appreciate it.




Walking into the bathroom in the Chevron, a woman approached me.  The conversation went something like this:


Woman:  "Excuse me!  I just want to let you know that you have a piece of toilet paper sticking out of your shorts, from the last time you stopped to go to the bathroom."


Me: (Feels back of shorts and pulls off piece of toilet paper.) "That would have been Arizona."


Woman:  "Wow, you must be really embarrassed."


Me:  "I guess I should be.  But the only person looking is the back of my seat."


Woman:  (Eyes me with pity and goes into a stall.)




So, that's Cali for you, and I can anticipate that the looks of pity are only going to get worse, as I go into the heart of plastic-surgery-and-yoga-land, wearing shirts that say things like "Down and Dirty with Crabs", holding a Wendy's bag and a coke, and undoing the button on my (hopefully T.P.-free) shorts as my expanding gut frees itself from the restriction.  Well, my license plate does say Florida on it, at least.

Check you later!
~A