Driving Past Money

In a world where not enough of us have enough money enough of the time, I get to drive by vast quantities of it every day.

You see, my commute takes me through Beverly Hills, twice a day. And if there is anything in Beverly Hills aside from a palpable sense of self-satisfaction, there is money. Which may explain the satisfaction.

Houses? Beverly Hills sports some truly fine houses. Actually, they aren't houses, they're HOUSES. A modest dwelling in BH represents a died-and-gone-to-heaven dream home for the rest of humanity. (Except those hobbit-cottage things - those are Mordorian nightmares)

Cars? Try Maseratis. And I always seem to be stuck in traffic behind one AMG Mercedes or another. Simply put, I've been cut off in traffic by vehicles worth more than my house (at least more than what it's worth now).

I'd add that Beverly Hillians deck themselves out in expensive finery, but I haven't seen many of them - outside their cars anyway. I assume there are nicely dressed people inside those HOUSES, but all I've ever seen are a few joggers (who may have jogged in from less toney Los Angeles proper) and yard trimmers who I am almost certain don't live there.

Now, before you draw the wrong conclusion, let me say that I truly admire the residents of Beverly Hills. Their streets are perfectly paved and uncannily clean. Their yards are beautifully trimmed. At least a few of them (presumably) stay in decent shape by jogging, and they drive really nice cars.

But I am having a psychic struggle viewing all that stuff every day. Especially viewing it while listening to public radio descriptions of wars, poverty, and general unhappiness. It would probably be best if I lessened my BH exposure.

Too bad then, the shortcut through the residential part of BH is a must. I'd rather slit my wrists than struggle down Santa Monica Blvd in the morning rush ...