Adapted from an email to JPH, April 11, 2013:
For a month or so I was commuting from Belmont Shore, Long Beach, to Mission Viejo. Inevitably each morning I would be stuck in southbound 405 traffic, and, having consumed the requisite amount of coffee to be able actually to drive a car, I would need to pee. Bad. While painfully coaxing my manual transmission Datsun, nicknamed "Mobu Al Deep," stop and go, stop and go, stop and go down the freeway, each release of the clutch corresponding to a nearly catastrophic bladder squeeze. And then I would finally reach the soulless office park where I was temping for a software company and release a huge stream of urine upon whatever poor, leafless tree had been planted there to offer people the illusion of shade. I say 'illusion' because later, at the end of the day, eager to get the hell out of there, I would have to wait and wait and wait for my steering wheel to cool off before I could touch it long enough to guide that heap of a car back out onto the freeway. But the weather is lovely.
I like pop music.
Cf. the Chevy Chevette
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