Today I witnessed something we in Los Angeles consider akin to seeing the Queen Mother incognito in big sunglasses and a Yankees hat shopping at Herrod’s. Yes, bored with same-old-same-old celebrity sightings, mundane talk of investing millions in the next big action feature, and the [yawn] repetitive monotony of gorgeous weather, we crave something more … immediate, more … visceral.

In short, we, like no others on earth, crave a good car chase.

I had just parked at a curb in Culver City today when I heard a megaphone-voice say, “Stop your car.” Looking over my shoulder, I noted traffic stopped at a red light. Zig-zagging out of that traffic came a blue subcompact piloted by a twenty-something guy, his companion in the passenger seat. Close behind them came a Culver City police cruiser.

Let me interject here to say this: You do NOT want to fuck with the Culver City Police (shown here issuing a jaywalking ticket to an unlucky elderly woman). They are the most bad-ass, ON-your-ass cops on the West side, and if they issue you a six-hundred dollar ticket for driving on the wrong side of the road while you are simply sitting, parked, in the Target parking lot, you take that ticket, and you say, “Yes-Sir, thank-you Sir,” and you PAY it, and you even add a TIP, because they are fucking West-side federales, and they will Santeria your ass.

Back to my story. So the blue subcompact gets into the open intersection and does THREE DOUGHNUTS!!! Wooooo! On the third doughnut, they clipped the police cruiser on the front bumper! [Crunch] This all happened INCHES FROM MY DRIVER’S-SIDE WINDOW! And was I scared? NO! Because nothing would make me more acceptable to my fellow Angelenos, more consecratedly authentic “L.A.,” than being INVOLVED in a POLICE CHASE!

So, anyway, the subcompact sped off, weaving in and out of traffic. The cruiser burned rubber and gunned it after the guys, sirens wailing. It was SO EXCITING! I got out of my car, and those of us on the street were just abuzz with the shared excitement of having witnessed it. The only thing that could have made it better would have been possession of a video camera, so I could call Laura Diaz (whom every Angeleno has programmed into our cell phones) (“Hey, Laura! Where you at, dog?”) (*chirp*), and stream it to her so that current CBS programming could be interrupted to allow us all to bathe in the moment shared. Ah. L.A. pride. I’ve got it.