Wednesday, January 27, 1999
Being behind the wheel breeds Southland superficiality
PEDESTRIAN: L.A. car culture’s pervasiveness reveals reliance on
materialistic trends, lifestyles
If you read my column regularly, then you probably already know
a few things about me: I do not have a cellular phone or pager, I
do not have a modem, and I do not have a television. You may find
some of these anti-technology idiosyncrasies a bit weird, and
perhaps even unhealthy. If you do, then I suggest that you stop
reading this column right away, as I am about to spring something
which you may find not only shocking, but utterly offensive to your
turn-of-the-millennium California sensibilities.
I am a 22-year-old of able mind and body living in Los Angeles,
and I do not drive.
I do not have insurance. I do not have a car. I do not have a
license.
I have never driven an automobile.
Some readers departed after my initial warning and some others
probably just fainted, so kudos to those of you still reading. You
have demonstrated uncommon tolerance, even if your tolerance falls
short of approval. You may be expecting a quick explanation.
I grew up in a large Eastern city where auto insurance rates
were high and public transportation was satisfactory. Few of my
high school friends drove, and for almost all of high school I was
too young to drive. In college I knew many drivers, but my
undergraduate institution was not car-positive. As my four college
years passed, I realized that I was a member of an ever-shrinking
minority of non-drivers, but I never felt much pressure to join the
fraternity of motorists.
This only explains a late start. After all, I have been living
in Los Angeles for over two years, and Providence has endowed me
with the pecuniary means to drive. Why am I not in the driver’s
seat?
It is often said that one must have a car in this city. This
statement does not mean that one absolutely requires an automobile
to go about life’s business. It would be more apt to say that one
must have a car to fit in in this city. Missing Persons rightly
sang, "Only a nobody walks in L.A." The city does not require you
to drive. It merely assumes that you drive.
This is not to deny that there are real benefits to car
ownership. The city is something of a sprawl, but in this, it is
not unique. Most Sun Belt cities are equally spacious, and with
increased suburbanization, older metropolitan areas are becoming
quite similar. Even amid this massive urban sprawl, though, many
distances one might need to traverse are not so overwhelming. I am
within walking distance of roughly three dozen movie screens and
just as many coffee shops. How can I claim I am isolated by
distance?
It may be the case, however, that Los Angeles life is
inordinately stacked against pedestrians. My daily walks to and
from campus are full of peril and annoyance. Motorists routinely
run stop signs and often take affront when my presence in the
street prevents them from doing so.
Sprinkler systems, busy overwatering lawns, force me to step off
the sidewalk or suffer a strong spray. I must cross Wilshire
Boulevard, but before doing so, I must press a button, begging
permission to stop the traffic so that I may walk.
I seldom encounter other pedestrians, and when I do, they tend
to add to my troubles. Quite recently I found myself trapped behind
someone who was slowly waddling down the sidewalk. Her mildly
corpulent form was positioned in the very center of the path,
leaving no room to pass. I was forced to step onto the grass, but a
quite audible squish reminded me that I had found yet another
overwatered lawn, and my shoe was striped in mud.
I certainly admit that a car could make certain things easier.
Ease, however, begets laziness. Suppose I got a car. One week my
apartment would be too far from the grocery store to walk while
carrying my bags. A week later the mile-and-change walk to campus
would seem a bit much, especially if I am tired. Soon I shall be
Harris Telemacher in "L.A. Story," hopping in the car to go less
than a block. I do not need this; I am sufficiently lazy as it
is.
We all know that the Southern Californian’s relationship with
the car is unique, but I have yet to explain why. There is more to
it than mere geography.
I have done some traveling throughout the United States, and I
feel I can say that we Americans have lived up to our reputation
for being shallow and materialistic. As an migrant to this corner
of the country, I feel I can also say that Southland (I hate this
term: I always think of Lynyrd Skynyrd) denizens have lived up to
their reputation for being shallow and materialistic (even by
American standards).
Geography explains the plethora of cars, but shallowness and
materialism explain the significance of cars.
If you are looking to do some conspicuous consumption, an
automobile could be your optimal purchase. Even a cheap car costs a
fair amount, and the more expensive your car is, the more lucre you
advertise. What is best about cars (as opposed to other expensive
commodities) is that they are both large and mobile. If you want
lots and lots of people to see your car, they will.
For the superficial, an automobile provides the perfect
exterior.
Whether one drives a charmless sedan, a flashy sports car, or an
emetic sport utility vehicle, the explanation is the same. The car
is, quite literally, a hard outer shell.
It provides protection from external abuse while obscuring its
inner contents (which are often not as pretty or interesting as
what is on the outside). In a car-happy culture the superficial
soul allows this literal situation to take on figurative
importance. One can hide inside one’s car.
So, with L.A. life being as it is, the car becomes tied to the
driver’s personality. They spend lots of time together, and the
driver realizes that the car is integral to his identity. The car
displays wealth and character. The car hides the rest. Once the car
and driver become so entwined, it is virtually impossible to sever
the ties. It is then that the car is necessary. The driver needs
the car to be himself, and so he treats the car with reverence. The
car becomes a fetish. The car becomes a love object.
It is this sort of auto erotica that I oppose. I wish to steer
clear of the pitfalls of California life, and it is already
difficult. One cannot simply drive a car; one must incorporate the
car into his identity. I have trouble sorting out my identity as it
is. Why add two tons of steel to the mess?
Patrick Friel
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