There are no gas stations in Beverly Hills.
Okay, there are two (according to the NFT Guide) - one at Olympic and Beverly Drive, and one at Little Santa Monica and Crescent. There's also one that's not listed in the guide on Wilshire right next to the Beverly Hilton.
All of these gas stations, might I add, are of the "76" variety (actually I think they're a BP company now) and are at least 10 cents per gallon over market price, and there's an impressive stretch of high-end retail that's sans filling stations of any brand. If you pick the wrong part of Beverly Hills to stall out in, you're in for a long hot (or cold, or wet, depending on the time of year) walk followed by and extremely expensive gallon of gas, my friend.
Guess what happened to me today?
I had some errands to run in Santa Monica, so after a quick stroll on the beach I headed back across town in an attempt to beat the rush hour traffic. My gas gauge has been broken for some time now, but it's normally not a problem - I just fill up when I've driven a certain number of miles or it's been a few days, but since I've been working at Paramount and haven't been driving, I forgot about the system and stalled out right in front of Crustacean (the food's fantastic, in case you were wondering).
In the midst of my digging for my phone to call AAA (okay, I screamed "shit" for about a minute first), the driver of the car behind me started to lean on the horn - despite the fact that my emergency flashers were on and I'd had my arm out the window, waving motorists around. For good measure, I'd gotten out and put the hood up - the universal symbol for "Don't honk at me, jackass, my car's stalled."
For those of you not familiar with Beverly Hills, there's a certain type of woman there - bleached blonde hair, botoxed yet somehow pinched faces, overly yoga'd bodies, nose jobs, cheek, chin and breast implants, liposuction, bleached teeth, Hermes bag, blank stare. They all look exactly alike - they've gone to the same surgeon, I guess, but the first time you see it it kind of freaks you out. Once you're used to them it just seems kind of sad.
The one behind me had decided that somehow leaning on the horn of her luxury coupe was going to make AAA get to me faster. If only it were true.
Finally, I walked back to her car to see if I could get her to understand that all she had to do was pull around and she'd be back on her way to, well, wherever.
"You're blocking traffic and some of us are in a hurry!" she yelled as I drew even with the driver's window.
"Well, as you can see my vehicle is currently disabled, so why don't you just pull around?"
"I shouldn't have to! Why don't you get a decent car? One that isn't... polluting the planet!"
As soon as she said it, I looked down at her car and saw the shiny little metal plaque - V12.
No, no, no. You may not sweat me for driving an SUV (a V6, btw) when you're tooling around town in a car with a 12 cylinder engine.
What I desperately (oh, so desperately) wanted to say was "Well, if you could just manage to suck a few extra cocks this month, you could buy me a Prius and save the world!", but I bit my tongue. After all, you never know who's somebody (or married to a somebody) in this town.
What I actually said was "You do know that my truck gets better gas mileage than your car, right?"
At that very moment, the AAA guy pulled up with a gallon of gas and friendly directions to the nearest overpriced 76 station.
I started up my offensive, planet-destroying truck and continued on my way, and Botox Barbie zoomed off to, well, wherever.
Couch of the Day: