Freeway of Love

This weekend, due to the kindness of an almost stranger, I saw Aretha Franklin at The Hollywood Bowl, a wonderful outdoor music venue. A diva of enormous proportions she is, but an incredibly talented and lovely one. Watching the Queen of Soul slowly strut across the stage while ad-libbing words and runs to "Respect," I felt such joy, witnessing that true passion never wanes. At 67 years-old, Ms. Aretha Franklin, is still riding on the "Freeway of Love." Maybe not in a pink Cadillac, but I hope to be doing the same when I'm her age.

However, I must say that not a lot of people in L.A. are full of love when driving on the freeways. You can feel the anger and irritation, the second you start down the entrance ramp. The cars move slowly, if they move at all. A cacophonous orchestra of tires squealing, horns blowing, rap music blaring, and various Mexican pop songs challenges the auditory sense. So, instead of contributing to this madness, I just repeat a mantra. "I love all of you. I love all of you." I silently say this over and over. How exciting was I that it seemed to be working. Then, the magic disappeared. Yesterday, on the 101, coming back from brunch in the peaceful haven of Topanga Canyon, I became an official resident of L.A. Two drivers blew the horn at me when I tried to merge into their respective lanes to avoid the accident in front of us. Then the driver in front of me slammed on his brakes for no apparent reason. The driver behind me blew his horn and screamed some obscenity. It happened, and I had no control. "Up your ass, fuck-face!" I shouted. Somewhat embarrassed by my outburst, I flagellated myself but not for too long. "I love all of you. I love all of you," I began repeating.

Wanting company for my drive to the Petco last evening, I invited Shug to come along. She was so eager to leave the apartment, but once we got to my car, she planted her feet firmly on the ground and lowered her head. "Come on, girl, and get in," I said. I rubbed her forehead, and instead of either the sweet, sad, or fearful looks that she uses to manipulate me and get her way, she had a stare that I've never seen. It was a diva stare. An Aretha Franklin stare. If she had opposable thumbs, I know she would have snapped her claws and shrieked, "You must be crazy! My ass ain't getting in no car here in L.A.!" On the walk back to the apartment, I know what Shug was thinking. "You can take your crazy self out on that highway if you want to but leave my panting ass out of it."

"I love all of you. I love all of you." If I repeat this enough, maybe the roads will begin to clear of congestion and disgruntled and hateful drivers. If Aretha can ride on a "Freeway of Love," why oh why can't I? Probably because I'm not driving a pink Cadillac.