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They say, “you are what you eat.” We have to agree. In LA, they also say, “you are what you drive.” That’s a little harder to digest. In the world’s ultimate car culture, your vehicle of choice can mean so many things. A car can be a fashion statement, a sense of identity, a status symbol, a political statement, or even just a necessary hunk of metal that gets us from one place to another. For some of us, choosing a car is an angst-ridden decision, filled with the fear of not doing the right thing. But who’s to say what’s right for whom?!
YOU'LL NEVER DRIVE THAT SUV IN THIS TOWN AGAIN!
- Jackie Marcus, Contributing Writer
It’s not just for show, you know. Some people who saw the Oscar telecast this year have been quite vocally skeptical about Hollywood’s true dedication to the environment. Living in Hollywood- all day, every day-- I can tell you from first-hand experience that this town really is going “green.” And the pressure to keep up with the growing movement has become quite nerve-racking. Hollywood is a place where perception is reality, appearances are everything, and everyone drives.
Cars are a big deal in LA – the city is so spread out and the traffic is so terrible that your car is basically your second home. Shopping for a car in Los Angeles has become as important an activity as choosing your first grown up sofa – it’s a big investment and you’re going to spend a lot of time sitting in it, so choose wisely. My most recent foray into car shopping a few years back raised a number of unique challenges: Are the cup holders in a convenient spot to hold the inevitable “breakfast in a cup”? – smoothie, cereal, yogurt parfait – whatever. (Forget spending money on a kitchen table, this is where I’ll end up having the most important meal of the day.)
My car is also my vanity – where, after breakfast of course, I do my make-up in that nice lighted mirror. As the field of choices began to narrow and it was time to pull the trigger, I realized my car was also becoming symbolic of my vanity in the other sense of the word. I mean, who doesn’t remember that scene from ‘Vacation’ with Christie Brinkley in the red Ferrari? But let’s face it. She’s Christie Brinkley and she didn’t need the Ferrari. I, on the other hand, thought I needed all the help I could get. From the time I started working in entertainment business, it was understood that the car you drove was a sort of measure of the success you had achieved. For example, your hand-me -down Japanese import with stained floor mats and a backseat that looked like you were using it as a storage unit was symbolic that you were an intern with very little closet space in your sublease. Your boss’ sleek European sedan, on the other hand, sent the message that he/she has worked hard enough to have a home so large that your aforementioned sublease would fit in its garage.
When I was able to lease a new car, everyone around me was urging me to splurge on the new SUV all the cool kids were driving. It was fast, luxurious and had excellent cup-holder placement. And all the room I could ever need for the big dog and baby we were planning. Then why was a little voice inside my head saying “This is a bad idea.”.
It was a turning point. I’ll admit it - I went with vanity and ignored that little voice. And almost immediately, my supposed “treat” to myself became not only one of my biggest regrets, but also a sort of scarlet letter. Thankfully, when you make a bad decision in this town, there is no shortage of people who will come right out and tell you so. First it was the nice guy at my local gas station who fills up my tank and checks under the hood - even when I pull into self-serve. “Expensive,” he tisked. I thought he meant the new car – until he handed me the $75 receipt for the gas. My wallet was hurting, but not as bad as my conscience. There was no way you could escape watching that number climb and see how wasteful it was. I felt terrible.
Piloting this sucker around while it wantonly devoured fuel became increasingly more embarrassing. Almost overnight, the people who used to drive the very same car were dumping them as fast as they could for hybrids and bio-diesels. Those who once thought my new car was hot, now chastised me publicly for my poor choice. I pulled up to a private party at Norman Lear’s house to see Robert Kennedy talk about his new book “Crimes Against Nature.” After his inspiring speech, I panicked. How could I possibly hand the claim ticket to the valet and have these people see me get into my big SUV all by myself? I stalled, I chatted, I went back inside “to use the restroom”… but at a certain point there was no place to hide. The kind gentleman who had parked my car pulled it up and smiled - “Here Miss, I remembered this one was yours.” Gee, thanks. An easy task as my “tank” stuck out like a sore thumb in a sea of Priuses. As I climbed is, a particularly snarky agent who is the bane of my existence on even the best of days, didn’t miss a beat. As he lectured/ humiliated me for my horrible choice of transportation, I realized the only appropriate use for this big thing was to maybe run him over. Other than that, he was right. It served no good purpose and I really shouldn’t be driving it.
The same thing happened after lunch with my good friend Scott. As he got into his shiny new black hybrid I asked “What happened to that sexy German convertible you used to drive?” “Oh, that’s over,” he responded. I guess the sports car was great for taking out hot women, but wouldn’t be a very good choice of transportation for his new buddy Oscar. You see Scott produced “An Inconvenient Truth.” When did Hollywood become so green? It seems like just yesterday I was watching Al Franken was saying “You’re good enough, smart enough and gosh darn it people like you” on SNL. Now I’m standing arm’s distance from Forrest Gump himself at a fundraiser for Franken’s Minnesota Senatorial bid listening to his impassioned and quite brilliant speech about the necessity of using wind power and other alternative energy sources. (At least this time I skipped the valet and parked my albatross three blocks away.)
I was still mulling this over the next day when I thought I had finally found a fellow hypocrite. At last! Someone who, like me, was torn between doing the right thing and the difficulty of shedding the bad habits of Hollywood excess. Like an early morning African safari – I spotted him and then slowly moved in closer to get a better look. There he was, ducking out of the back VIP entrance of Giorgio Armani’s Rodeo Drive store. Dashing, debonair, Oscar-nominee Leonardo DiCaprio. I pulled into my secret parking spot in the cramped Beverly Hills alley, turned off my engine and waited. Was he really going to get into the backseat of that enormous Suburban/ GMC idling at the valet? Perfectly coiffed in dark sunglasses he hopped into that enormous tank of a car with the ease of James Bond. Ha! I thought. Even good old Leo isn’t perfect. But as the driver pulled away I saw them – the bumper stickers proudly proclaiming “Powered by Bio-Diesel” and “Stop Global Warming”.
I looked in that perfect little make up mirror and thought “Forget vanity – it’s time to make a change.” And I found myself sitting alone in my big, empty SUV, counting the days until my lease finally expires.
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