I arrive at my house party gig way too early. The trip from my part of Los Angeles to their part of the San Fernando Valley is not so far as the seagull flies, but seagulls don’t have to drive on the 405 Freeway which has turned into a 24/7 construction zone. One little bumper-thumper can jam up the road as if there’s molasses on the asphalt. That is why I leave extra early for my gigs these days.
So what to do with this bonus hour? I know. I’ll drive around. Sightsee.
That’s when I see, I mean really “see” that my windshield is streaked with splotches of 
gray goo, that a family of crows have left puddles of their digested breakfast on the hood of my car, that the sticky flowers that hang over our carport have turned the rear end of my white sedan into an explosion of purple mush. Obviously I don’t usually consider this an issue of major importance. But tonight I am parking in a client’s driveway and suddenly I want to make a good impression. Boy oh boy, where did that come from?
So I set out to find a drive-through car wash and finally land at a Shell Station. “How do you do car washes here?” I ask the nice man. First I plunk down $7.00. Then he meets me around the corner, punches some code into a machine and instructs me to drive forward, which I do and obviously do too well. “NO! NO! BACK! BACK!” He’s screaming now. There is genuine panic in his voice.
Finally I position my car just right, the nice man disappears and I’m thinking “like what the hell is going on here?” I have never been in a car wash where you just sit there and the car wash moves. How wacky is that?
But that is exactly what happens. All of a sudden a giant, watery, blowy contraption slides front to back and overhead. It feels like I’M moving, but how could that be? And where am I going? And the parking brake is on? This is very trippy. And it’s still just Cycle One: Wet down the car. Then the “magic cleaning machine” repositions itself in front and sprays ribbons of bubbly.
A couple rinse cycles later I’m getting the hang of this and am already anticipating the big finale. A mighty wind. But that is an understatement. It’s like this monster-machine has the power of ten thousand Hoover Vacuum cleaners set in reverse thrust. When the thing blows, my car shudders and sways back and forth and the poor windshield wipers thwap, thwap, thwap furiously against the glass. I swear I can feel the air pressure inside the “cabin” shift a millibar or two. This is turning into a “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” moment. Right here on the corner of Burbank and White Oak Boulevards.
And suddenly it’s over. A sign flashes “Drive Forward.” I grind the ignition because I’m so dazzled that I forget the car is still running—OOPS—then carefully re-enter the world as I know it and drive to the birthday gig in the hills. I might add, my car has transformed into a sparkling jewel. I can hardly believe it.
New experiences often befuddle and confuse me. But the second time through… Well, bring on the wind.
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