Joy, At Last

I finally understand the logic (or lack thereof) of the joy ride.

I never, ever drive. NEVARR. Last time I drove I got into an accident on La Cienega that resulted in nearly $500 worth of damage. Thank god, that's not too much in the scheme of accidents-that-result-in-insurance-debates-and-the-eventual-outlay-of-money. Since then, though, I haven't been on the insurance, I haven't driven, and I haven't wanted to drive. Granted, most of that time I was in New York and driving was like, um, why? But still, there have been a number of weeks in LA, the City of Necessitated Driving.

Since my parents departed for Jerusalem last week, I have had to be at work on "The Westside"; while in theory, I was going to take the bus the drive (without traffic) takes 30 minutes, and the bus takes thrice as long. I wish I was exaggerating.

So I've driven. (Fates: don't you even dare. I will slit your throats. ALL OF YOU.)

So this joy ride feeling: I came home to-day and needed out, so I made up an excuse (to myself) to run an errand (Don't ask where. Fine, to the booze shop on Vista) with trashy "up" music playing. But that wasn't good enough. So I went around the block again with trashy 102.7FM music playing. It was satisfying.

OK, that was the lamest joy ride ever, but what I mean to say is I GET IT. And I WANT MORE.