There’s an entire strategy of living in L.A. which involves doing everything you can to avoid gridlock. It’s the one I tend to live by. After all, I’m prone to road rage—if only of the self-directed variety—and the truth is that drive-time radio only seems to live to aggravate that feeling.

Whether it’s the news or it’s a morning talk show everyone is just pushing buttons. If you’re up early enough, and don’t have any personality juice coursing through your veins, it is an experience that is liable to turn you into a nice little rage ball.

At some point this goes all eye of the needle and right through the looking glass. Since I have suffered through the bullshit of other people’s driving and the incessant blathering of hack comedians and pundits I am owed a good day. I will not take no for an answer.

In this fashion gridlock builds character. It is the sharpening stone for L.A.’s samurai class.

I should expose myself to it more often, but I fear who I would become.

Reading: My Lunches With Orson, L.A. Son