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Come, Share The Shortage |
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Is it one of the many optical illusions of living in Southern California, or does it seem that as SUVs grow into mobile subdivisions, parking spaces are shrinking like a Hershey bar left out in the sun? Down at the local Ralph's, the slots are barely generous enough to contain a 10-speed bike, let alone an Extra Tierra Mastadon with Optional Desert Storm Road Package. The gap between parking lot fantasy and reality has created an inventive So Cal maneuver known as the butt-outski. This occurs when the owner of an International Assault and Harvesting Pteradyne parks so that the vehicle's butt protrudes into the adjoining — and usually — last available space in the lot. The commanders of these terrestrial 737s are probably of the opinion that they are somehow entitled to the last two parking spaces west of El Centro to protect their precious sheet metal, and might even have the brass to deny that they are effectively mooning passersby with their Peterbilt posteriors. The butt-outski is distinguished from that other lapse of auto civility, the butt-inski. A butt-inski occurs when some maniac with bared fangs swoops into a space that has already been "stalked" by another driver. (Spot stalking having been recognized as a legitimate form of behavior by the 1985 Los Angeles 24 Hour Fitness Center Parking Conventions.) Nor is parking space the final frontier of California Claustrophobia. There is also a housing shortage, a water shortage, a highway shortage, an education shortage, a shortage of those willing to pay $17.98 for a CD, and a health care shortage, just to name a few. The state government in Sacratomato is spending considerable energy trying to convince the Sheeple that there's an energy shortage. (At the same time, they're telling anyone who will listen that the "energy shortage" was created by Enron.) What a Wonderful World is envisioned by the Flex Your Power campaign. Seniors sweat out their days in stagnant apartments, kids dump their cereal on dirty floors, and laundry piles up in fetid heaps as Californians wait in patient squalor for the Witching Hour of 7 p.m., like Cinderella in reverse. • Dear Flex: Due to shortage of roads, I just got home; it’s 6:45. Is it OK to bathe now, use the microwave, watch Seinfeld rerun? • Dear Flex: Should I keep the TV off too, so I can’t see Flex Power commercials? • Dear Flex: If watching Flex Your Power commercials makes me want to turn on every appliance in the house, does this mean I’m a baaaad Californian? Could I turn 'em all on if I won the lottery? Other things that could wait until after 7 p.m.: state gubernatorial campaign, collection of state sales tax, seat belt tickets from California Highway Patrol. Something there's no shortage of: Californians. Does this mean we’re going to conclude on a note of Exclusion, the dreaded "last man in" syndrome? No way! Come one, come all. Share in our shortages. Bring your humvee, school bus and Winnebago. Discover yourself hot, pungent, and in dirty clothes, circling a parking lot waiting for the last space south of Eureka, only to be aced out by a butt-inski, or even a butt-outski. Discover yourself in California! Rich Acello is a syndicated columnist; you can reach him at richace@cox.net
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