“Notes From An Uber Driver, Part 9”
Or How I Used To Work In A Writers Room But Now I Just Drive Other Writers To Cafe Stella
Y’all are the best. The support is insane. Your connections and calls on my behalf are already paying off. So in the words of the legendary and still alive Ozzy Osbourne, “I love you all.”
I woke up this morning, “needing” to drive for about two hours during surge pricing, but… I just can’t do it. I’m fried. And I just feel like drinking coffee and fighting ghosts on Twitter. (I’m @blacksab67, and a good Twitter hang. Follow me.) The good news is… I can “drive” anytime I want, and can grind later. (That’s what “ridesharing” ALWAYS feels like: grinding.) For now, I’ll be where my feet are — instead of freaking out about current the 2.5x rates near Western & 3rd — and I’ll write.
Let me just say a few things BEFORE I GET INTO SUNDAY MORNING RIDES OF SHAME. Yes, I know, I should write a book about this strange chapter in my life. Or a screenplay. But what I REALLY need is for you to say, “I love these Uber driving essays… let me send them along to my best friend from college who runs this, that, or the other thing, or such and such a company.” Because I’ve written tons of scripts for free, and that’s part of the reason that I’m currently driving people from Petit Ermitage in West Hollywood to Bestia downtown. You know? In fact, I think my animated spec HALL & OATES SAVE THE PLANET is the best thing I’ve ever written. But if no one is interested in an animated series starring Hall and Oates — who fight bad guys and monsters during the day, and rock at night — then I’ve just wasted six months on a script, and it’s not much better than bird cage liner. So no more “free”.
This is life in LA, and the gambling nature of the biz.
I look at Hollywood as a massive circus tent. Sometimes you’re the ringmaster, sometimes you’re starring in the show, sometimes you’re a clown, sometimes you’re a trained monkey or seal, sometimes you’re carrying cable or hanging lights, and sometimes you’re in the audience, just enjoying the whole experience. For awhile, it felt like I was somehow outside of the circus tent, and I was just running around and trying to find a hole in the canvas so I could sneak back inside. Now, I’m just dropping people off in front of the tent, and driving them to fancy restaurants when the show is over. Despite my best intentions, planning and scheming. Capice?
However…
The P22 doc will absolutely chronicle my ridesharing experience here in La La Land. In a fun way. ‘Coz while P22 is sleeping on a hillside behind the American Film Institute — which is one of his favorite spots — I’m driving trust fund kids to the American Film Institute. Which is right behind Immaculate Heart… Princess Meghan Markle’s high school. So the theme is survival. Understood?
On that note, the Griffith Park Observatory is a HUGE place to pick-up tourists. Especially on the weekends. It’s a thing, and there’s even an official pick-up and drop-off zone. I’m still mad that the Observatory lot is a pay-lot now, and I’d like to think that P22 has seen me once or twice… as I’ve driven a hot young couple from TRAILS back to their fancy apartment in the ever gentrifying East Hollywood.
- You get more bickering couples than happy couples. Not kidding. I was at my brother and sister in law’s house in Silver Lake the other night, and decided to do some rare “post 8:30pm” driving on my way home (using the destination feature). Minutes later, I picked up a young couple from Tabula Rasa in Los Feliz. A short ride — we were only traveling to Beachwood Canyon — but a tense ride, because they were bickering. About leaving a dog at her place? She said the dog was fine and was sleeping, but he was being a pill about it? I couldn’t tell, and didn’t really care. Interestingly enough, the two songs that played during this 6 minute ride were “Happy Together” by the Turtles and “This Time” by INXS.
“This time… will be the last time… that we will fight like this. Hey!”
I promise you this happened, because I remember sort of humming along with “This Time” while we were stopped at the light near the 7/11 at Taft & Hollywood. (Which is a portal to the Seventh Plane of Hell, in case you didn’t know. I think if you ask the cashier for the “Big Bite special”, he’ll sell you an 8-ball of cocaine.)
- Sunday morning rides of shame. Have you done one? Have you ordered one for somebody? Maybe someone you met at Pali Wine Co. in the Downtown Arts District? CUT TO your place. CUT TO fun. CUT TO you needing to get a stranger out of your apartment so you can be in your safe space again? Well, the Sunday morning rides of shame are a thing, and if I’m driving on a Sunday morning between 8–11am, I’m picking that person up. (I guess a fun SLIDING DOORS kinda thing would be me dropping you off at Pali, and me picking up your victim from your house in Atwater the next morning. I’ll put that in the movie.) Now, I don’t usually drive on Sunday mornings — the rates are generally low until around noon — but when I do, I usually pick up someone fun.
And here’s what I’ve learned. Many of my “rides of shame” started off their Saturdays with Person A, but ditched them as soon as they became a jackass, and then they switched to Person B. And that next hang was fueled with anger towards Person A. Our little pocket phone computers make it sooooooo easy to set up the next Tinder or Bumble date, and people are doing that THE SECOND they realize they’re with someone dumb. Both men and women. But lots of women, men. So don’t be an asshole. Or she’ll find someone more fun while you’re rambling on about the idiot producers who’ve been “ruining your script” and “taking (your) baby” from you.
- One Sunday, I decide to do three or four rides before the big Secret Club meeting in Hollywood (11am, Las Palmas Senior Citizens Center, Franklin & Las Palmas). Generally speaking, Sunday morning rides are relatively short, and divided between rides of shame, taking people back to bars for their cars (which they left behind the night before), and driving people to Farmer’s Markets for $9 brownies and $20 loaves of bread. So, on this particular Sunday, I pick up “Tonya” — that wasn’t her name, let’s just call her Tonya — from an apartment near 4th & Normandie. (Not an art deco building, a poorly built 70s building). I notice that she’s a) still in her Saturday night clothes, b) slightly Edie Brickell-ish, and c) barefoot. She immediately jumps in THE FRONT SEAT, which is beyond weird because most lady passengers sit right behind me. (I imagine that most women have the constant experience of getting hit on by their rideshare drivers? And that sitting directly behind us eliminates that annoying “rear view mirror conversation” thing.) And it was then that I realized that d) Tonya was still… hammered? More than hammered? Crazy? Or…
“I took acid last night, but I’m mostly down now!”
OH. OKAY, TONYA.
Right off the bat… TMI.. but good too much information. Because I’m the kinda person who likes to know what I’m dealing with. And if you’re still tripping, I’m not gonna bum you out by playing Slayer or Megadeth. You know?
I notice that we don’t have too far to go — Fountain and La Brea. And because it’s Sunday morning, traffic is light, so the whole ride will only take about 12 minutes. But that was more than enough time for Tonya to tell me that a) Eddie is a good lover, and that b) he drove all the way out to Topanga Canyon to pick her up after her date with some other asshole flamed out.
“Eddie’s the best. He wants to marry me. He didn’t care that I was tripping.”
Right. Tonya took acid at a party in Topanga with some other asshole, and when that guy turned into an asshole, Tonya called Eddie. And he drove all the way from Koreatown to Topanga so Tonya could start her night all over again. And for those of you playing at home, Topanga is A LONG FUCKING WAY from Koreatown…I guess Eddie loves Tonya.
“He’s so good in bed.”
(I had no response for that.)
Topanga is an old hippie canyon wedged between the Palisades and Malibu. Famous for its hippie music festivals, a couple of fun restaurants, a decent surf beach, mountain lions — P22 was probably born near Topanga Canyon, really — and the fact that Charles Manson kinda made Topanga one of his areas. This is a long way of saying… taking acid at a party in Topanga is still a thing. And, oh, it’s absolutely beautiful.
Tonya then proceeds to tell me that she met the other asshole — the Topanga guy — THAT NIGHT. ON TINDER. And she took an Uber all the way from her apartment near Fountain and La Brea to Topanga just to hook up.
“He seemed nice! And he had a cool photo. (PAUSE) Oh, what a pretty bus… “
Hearing “Tinder” and “Uber” in the same sentence made me long for the days when only rich people had cell phones, and Koreatown wasn’t a thing, and when you could actually drive out to Topanga in about thirty minutes because there were twenty million less people living in this goddamn city. (I’m describing the 90s. I am never not Gen X.) But now it’s all fucked because our little pocket computers are… fucking shit up. And making us do crazy shit. Like traveling all the way out to Topanga from West Hollywood just to hook up with some asshole. You know?!
We finally made it to her place, which was a block away from my third address in LA: 1244 N. Formosa. (The house my wonderful roommate Melanie Hoopes moved out of because it was infested with rats. I didn’t care: I was comfortably numb in the 90s, so I stayed. Melanie moved out right after I killed a rat behind our stove, and moved in with a friend in… Topanga Canyon. Swear to god she stayed with the legendary “Spoonie”, an Evanston mobster.) I think I mumbled something like, “Oh, this is my old neighborhood,” but Tonya didn’t hear me. She was already on the phone with Eddie, telling him he was “amazing last night.” Tonya waved “thanks”, shut the door, and skipped into her apartment. Leaving me more than enough time to get to my Secret Club meeting.
So let this be a cautionary tale. Be cool to your date or she’ll end up in Koreatown. With an Eddie.
Everything I tell you is true.
Here’s the popular surf beach at the end of Topanga.
On the ipod playlist!
The Buckinghams — “Don’t You Care”
Asia — “Soul Survivor”
The Turtles — “Eleanor”
Carly Simon — “You’re So Vain”
Elvis Costello — “I Hope You’re Happy Now”
More later,
Brando
