Column: Driven to Distraction on "the" L.A. freeways

September 18, 2009, by Gale HammondPeople in Southern California love their freeways. Ask them how they get to work and they'll say, "Well, I hop onto the 405 but it'll likely be bogged down so I'll take the 5 'til I can grab the 101, then jump down, turn around and …" If you're confused, join the club. I mean, what's up with with our neighbors down south and all the "thes" in L.A.?

Speaking of "the" freeways, have you experienced rush hour in L.A.? And by rush hour I mean anywhere between 12:01 a.m. and 11:59 p.m. - and that's just on weekends. Yep, rush hour in SoCal is approximately 27 hours long. Per day. And the abnormal occurrence when you actually find a freeway not strangled with vehicles? That's right. Traffic immediately clogs up because just ahead three lanes are now closed due to Caltrans sand-blasting graffiti from a freeway overpass at a cost of approximately $90 jillion, which has nothing to do with traffic, but still. I'm just saying.

And the term "rush hour?" What sicko thought that one up? When is the last time you "rushed" anywhere in L.A.'s rush hour traffic unless it's to a hospital to treat the lethal blood pressure you acquire as you sit trapped in a steel hotbox while a huge diesel big rig blows smoke up your tailpipe.

Something you should know about driving in L.A. is that you never arrive anywhere on the same day you left. I don't care if your destination is two exits down the road. You will encounter traffic jams the likes of which have never before occurred on Planet Earth. And carpool lanes? Forget about it. L.A. carpool lanes are scientifically designed to keep you from entering them. Ever. Unless possibly you are the driver of a hearse transporting a dead person because carpool lane signs don't technically state that all of a vehicle's occupants have to be alive.

But suppose you stumble upon one of those rare times when the planets all align in perfect order and you're maintaining the L.A. freeway required minimum speed limit of 97 miles per hour. Suddenly the road is teeming with drivers careening violently past you. This is the beloved L.A. phenomenon known as the "I'll-Drive-Like-A-Bat-Out-Of-Hell-Regardless-of-Where-I'm-Going-Just-Because-I-Can" state-of-mind. And that's just the CHP officers. Hahahaha - no, I just made that up. L.A. freeways are the last place you'll find a CHP officer. I mean, they'd be crazy to drive on those roads.

What you WILL find sharing the road with you in L.A. are fast, expensive cars. Ferraris. Lamborghinis. And at the other end of the spectrum? Ancient, custom-by-crash "muscle cars" that blow past you like you're standing still. But for heavens sake, DO NOT HONK at the other drivers. In L.A. honking or other signs of annoyance will get you shot. Seriously.

Occasionally you'll encounter drivers courteously using their turn signal indicating their intent to move to another lane. This is a major alert that you are following a car from another part of the country driven by an old person. That's right. It is against the law to use turn signals or to be old in L.A. Besides, L.A. drivers like to surprise you with their quick impulsive moves on the highway. Angelenos are just fun like that. So if you're following a vehicle with its turn signal engaged, it's safe to assume that said turn signal was activated by a geriatric driver somewhere around Bakersfield.



And I hate to complain but could those freeways get any more confusing with their myriad of names? Interstate 5 is called the Golden State Freeway or simply "the 5." If you're south of downtown, I-5 is the Santa Ana Freeway. Even further south, I-5 is the San Diego Freeway. As is the Big Daddy of all SoCal freeways, "the 405" - legendary as one of the country's most congested highways. But hey! It's the only place in L.A. where you can park for free!

You could call Interstate 10 plain old "Interstate 10," but where's the fun in that? It's referred to as the Santa Monica Freeway or the San Bernardino Freeway - depending on which direction you're traveling. Unfortunately I'm not making this up.

And the highway we know here simply as "101" or the Bayshore Freeway? Yep, those full-of-fun folks in L.A. have a whole bevy of names for that one. In some areas it's the Hollywood Freeway. Driving toward the southern coast? It's the Ventura Freeway. Or the Ventura Freeway could be SR-134 if you're in Burbank. Got all that? Nope, me neither.

So what do you do if you're going to L.A. and find yourself stuck on one of "the" freeways? You pray. You pray REALLY HARD that gas climbs to $20 a gallon. Now THAT would clear away some serious traffic!

Column: Don't mess with me: I can't find my can opener!

September 4, 2009, by Gale HammondToday, an important announcement: I have undertaken a risky project at Casa Hammond. Things could get ugly here, friends. I am re-organizing my kitchen cupboards. And as my friend Linda recently reminded me, "re-organizing" falsely implies that once they were organized.

This nonsense all started a few days ago when I couldn't find the orange that I swear I bought. I checked the fruit bin in the fridge. The kitchen countertops. Behind the coffee-maker. I even looked in the bowl containing the artificial fruit in case it had slipped in there unnoticed, attempting to make its getaway.

When my diligent search failed to produce the darned thing, I proceeded with Plan B. Since the orange was to be part of the evening's dinner salad, I'd go with the next best thing: canned mandarin orange sections. Yes, Julia Child would have been wringing her hands at my use of a "canned good," but hey! Somebody has to keep those packing plants in business!

Oh-oh, this wasn't good. My canned oranges were also MIA. Searching the pantry fruitlessly - and yes, that was a pretty awful pun but just roll with me here - I suddenly remembered that the canned oranges were wedged in next to the popcorn - and no, don't ask.

Canned oranges in hand, I paused to think: Where was the can opener? Now I know there are at LEAST three can openers in the utensil drawer (or rather "drawers" since every drawer in the place seems to contain multitudes of utensils of one kind or another. Where was the old, hard to hold and harder to crank "Early Marital" can opener? Or the more hand-friendly can-opening device I purchased when it appeared the marriage was going to last? I'd even settle for the ultra-technical can opener contraption that senior NASA scientists would have difficulty operating.


The last apparatus is an offering Mr. H. tried to anonymously dump under the Christmas tree a couple of years ago. I say "anonymously" because we'd had that "No Home Appliances for Christmas" talk before. You know; that's the talk on Christmas morning that follows your opening of a beautifully wrapped … toaster (or drill press or what have you). Mind you, I haven't eaten toast since approximately Woodstock. My spouse on the other hand? That's right; it's on his menu every morning, and that fancy new appliance certainly delivers a kick-start to his day. But I'm not bitter. Nope. Not me.

So the handwriting was on the kitchen wall. It was time to gut the cupboards and drawers because heaven only knows the last time this took place but I'd hazard a guess that my youngest was still in diapers.

And isn't going through the kitchen cupboards similar to an archeological dig? For example: There's the powdered milk I purchased during my Earth-Mother-Yogurt-Making era. Hopefully all the live cultures and freeze-dried bacteria made a respectable exit and aren't feeding a family of mice somewhere under the floor. And here are the Wonder Breakfast Cookies that were supposed to save me so much time when I was rushing off to work. The only "Wonder" was in how awful they tasted. Those hockey pucks were so nasty I wanted to stay in bed until lunch just to forego breakfast.

And wait! Hold on a second! What's this? Waaaaaay back in a hard-to-reach cupboard lay my old plastic-ware Jell-O mold. Back in the day we used to burp those plastic-ware bowls more than the baby. All that harmful air trapped inside until - whoosh! Your food could stay fresh for thousands of years! It was practically a religious experience, I'm telling you. And my right-of-passage into adulthood would have been complete with my plastic-ware Jell-o mold except for one tiny hitch. I never made Jell-o. Making Jell-o reminded me of … well, chemistry. Not that I'd ever taken chemistry, mind you, but if I had, it would have been hard.

Although organizing my kitchen was the order of the day, the real predicament came in figuring out what to do when I realized I had somewhere in the neighborhood of eight spatulas and half a dozen sets of measuring spoons. And what of those more obscure kitchen gadgets? I couldn't just go disposing of them all willy-nilly, could I? Good heavens! There may be Martha-Stewart-worthy dinner parties on the horizon that could never come off without my Indian wok or my clever little Spudnik potato masher.

Meanwhile, I must stay focused on getting organized so I can find my kitchen tools in a timely manner. Maybe I'll just take a couple of these spatulas and drop them off at the donation location downtown. But which ones? Wow. This is irritating. In the meantime, can I interest you in a nearly new, 30-year-old Jell-o mold?