Rollin with the Homies

7 Feb

Oh hai! (you may pronounce that Ojai, which is a place I just visited)

I have just returned, within the last 24 hours, from one of the better trips afforded me by my job (maybe my boss felt bad about the fire cupping thing?), and I am excited to tell y’all how it went! In general, it was an extremely relaxing trip to Southern California, which included postmodern tapas (foie gras cotton candy and Philly cheesesteak zeppelins, for instance) at Bazaar at the SLS Hotel, a massage and some time in a hot tub, beers by the beach, and a super plush hotel room with THIS view:

I'll just be not doing any work over here, if you need me...

There were even outdoor fireplaces, which I have to say is my absolute favorite thing about California and the Southwest. Y’all and your totally unnecessary fireplaces! It’s adorable! You’re killing me!

But not everything was so relaxing.  The reason I was there, in fact, was to review the 2012 extended wheelbase Rolls Royce Ghost, a car the size of a swimming pool that costs $300,000 and goes 0-62 in five seconds. For those of you who haven’t met me, let me just say that I don’t even like to hold people’s iphones in case I break them (also, babies), let alone things that are worth $300,000 and have a habit of hurtling down mountain straightaways like a herd of stampeding elephants. Suffice it to say it was a little nerve-racking to have somebody just up and hand me the keys to this thing.

So I land at LAX, and call the publicist in charge of the press fleet, and a man who appears to be about 6’7″ shows up in a collared shirt and dress pants with the sparkling silver vehicle. Meanwhile, I’m standing on the side of the airport pickup ramp in a pair of shorts and a sleazy rocker tee, with ripped nails and a pair of old boots and my hair all catywompus. I’m wearing a pair of giant sunglasses and am so short that it appears I might need a phone book to be able to see over the steering wheel.

The guy looks at me.

“You are….. OneBadYamPajama*?” he says, a little nervously.

“Yup. That’s me!”

He looks me up and down. “Why don’t we go somewhere where I can, um, show you how to use the car.”

He drives to the Park N Fly near the airport (which is apparently where they stash all their press cars…. SHOULD you be looking to rob a car lot…) and proceeds to show me what every single button on the console does. One turns on infrared night vision, so I can stalk my prey, and one sets a cruise control distance between me and the car in front of me so I can just chill out and basically not even drive, and, I swear to god, one of them makes a fucking umbrella pop out of the door. The car is so ridiculously cool that I forget for a second that I will never in a million years be able to afford one of these things and I start connecting my phone to the bluetooth computer system so I can call my friends by saying “Excuse me, JEEVES, can you call Sarah?”

This is maybe a slight exaggeration. Ok, it's a plane. Shut up.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” says Tall Pants. “It’s not a good idea to be texting while driving. I give lessons out here and this girl I was teaching was texting on her cell phone the whole time and I was like, you know, you’re gonna end up on the pavement in a big smear…”

*cough* “I’m, uh, not 16?”

“Yeah, no, I know. I mean, of course you know that.” He laughs awkwardly.  I start fiddling with the navigation system and apparently impress him enough with my fearsome computer skills that he thinks I can safely be left alone with the car for 15 minutes.

“I’ll just go validate this parking ticket,” he says.


Next thing I know I am cruising the Pacific Coast Highway at like 110 mph, pulling up next to guys at stoplights in pickup trucks who are practically licking their windows over the car. And they look at me…. and I look at them… and then the light turns green and I go “Ha. HA! Sucka, this thing is the size of a hippo but it goes 0-60 in five seconds!” and I smoke them.

And this is basically what I do for four days, with intermittent stops at various valet parking lots, where the valets stare at me as if I am made out of money and steak and quaaludes and everything nice and park the thing in the front and don’t even charge me for it.  And all is well. Until I get to route 154 through the Santa Ynez valley, which is one of those roads they put in car commercials during the Superbowl and you look at the guy driving it at 250 mph in an Audi and you’re like, Jesus, that man must have balls made out of titanium. It was one of those roads, and while I am normally a careful driver, this car was so cool it made me feel like the Red Baron again so I just had to drive it like this:


And then when I got to the bottom I drove the Rolls through the drive through at In N Out so I could get a burger to calm my nerves. I think it still smelled like animal-style fries when I dropped it off. Tall Pants is not going to be pleased.

*Obviously not my real name, fools.


2 Responses to “Rollin with the Homies”

  1. OneBadYamPajama's Mildly Annoyed Friend February 7, 2012 at 12:42 am #

    Sounds fun. I mean, the story would have been better if you drove the Ghost from LA to SF, but whatever! I’m not bitter.

  2. OneBadYamPajama's Mildly Annoyed Friend Again February 7, 2012 at 12:43 am #

    Oh, and why does SARAH get a Ghost phone call? It’s not like she reads your blog.

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