The Luck Of The Jordish

For lack of anything interesting having happened over my weekend, I shall now regail you, fine readers, with a tale from my first week in the land of the golden sun.

First off, you should understand that I have never been issued a speeding ticket. I have been in two minor accidents, both of which were arguably not my fault, and I have been pulled over once four years ago; I got a warning, which by now has been expunged from my record.

The second thing you should understand is that if you have never driven on a five lane highway at seventy-five miles per hour in the black of night, the 405 at midnight is a TERRIFYING experience. Suddenly you're trying to keep track of 5 lanes of traffic in rearview mirrors which are completely unsuited to the task, and which are shining about 30 pairs of headlights directly onto your retinae. Seventy five is just the average speed - you have to weave in and out of the nutjobs doing ninety and the grannies doing 55.

So there I am, driving somewhat erratically because, hey, I think I'm about to die, when the sirens and the flashing lights kick off behind me. "Oh shit," I think, "the perfect end to the perfect driving experience."

I don't even know the ettiquette for pulling over in California, because there's basically no shoulder - so I continue to the nearest exit and take it, obviously aggravating the cop as he shines his beam right into my left sideview and gets on the loudspeaker to say "Make a right and pull over when it's safe," in a tone that suggests he is calling for backup and preparing to bludgeon me.

I'm sitting at the end of the exit ramp, and there's a red light. I wait for it to turn green, so that I can make the aforementioned right turn and pull over. The light turns green. I begin to drive forward, when out of nowhere arrives my Redneck Hero! A beaten up old ford pickup roars through the red light at high speed with the windows down and the country tunes blasting. I slam on the brakes. And the cop forgets about me and takes off after him.

I slunk away and got back on the highway, thanking the gods for my rescuer's poor breeding and general disregard for traffic safety. When I got home I noticed that one of my taillights was hanging from a wire, so I pushed it back in, shrugged, and ate some dinner.

Moral of the story: my insurance rates are better than yours.