The slow-speed chase. It’s so much a part of living in California they oughta remove the golden bear from the state flag and replace it with a late-model beater.A bar around the corner from me used to run drink specials during slow-speed chases. Neighbors dropped in to watch the telly while sipping half-priced Coronas.
Speaking of my neighborhood, a chase passed by my house Monday night. And this time, the culprit was pimping in a very tony, white Bentley.
I was leaving an acting class in West Hollywood at the time, and my friend Jenn called me and helped navigate me home. It was some fancy traffic-controlling on Jenn’s part to keep me from getting caught on a shut-down freeway (cops have to follow procedure by clearing paths for slow-speeders and following them until they come to a stop. Though I’m sure LA’s finest would much prefer to just open fire on these idiots.)
I stayed off the freeway, since the Bentley and I were headed on a collision course. I cruised down side streets and as I approached the entrance to the 405 going south, Jenn gave me the green light, and she was right. I got on, looked over my shoulder and saw a cop holding up the north side. I was home free. Well played, Jenn.
The driver, by the way, finally came to a stop in North Hollywood, and wound up blowing his brains out. No word yet on the condition of the sumptuous Magnolia upholstery.
