»In which I am full of bile

Perhaps it is a side-effect of being in West L.A., but my fellow man has me chafing, irritable, and ready to swing a wooden bat in their general direction. Before I reach that extreme, however, perhaps I should enumerate my grievance, all of which concerns courtesy:

holding a door open

this is a small piece of consideration: as one passes through a door, one notices another behind you, and at least prevents the door from abruptly closing in that person's face. Not so: many times I have needed to scramble in order to keep the door open. I am taken aback that the oversized shades many people wear are not protection enough, as the sun blinds them to anyone but themself

holding a door open, the corollary

When I instinctively held the door open, I never received a smile, a thank-you, or a similar acknowledgement that the other person and I existed on the same plane. ... Perhaps that is because we do not.

assuming the world is your ashtray

(To borrow a phrase.) The number of people who cut in line, at the coffee-shop, at the valet (what is it with the ubiquitous valets?), at the maître-d', all saying, "I'm just getting a [something apparently small], I'll only be a minute, I am more important than you anyway".

Driving

Descartes ("cogito ergo sum") had it wrong. Ago machinam ergo sum is the Divine Equation of Existence.
At one point I found myself feeling sorry for someone driving a dilapidated old Nissan down the streets of Brentwood, and shook myself back to reality. Fuck cars, fuck private transport, and fuck Los Angeles for buggering the street-cars and buses. Repeatedly. Fuck 'em in th' ear.

Jogging in the street

Hopeful, I think that they might meet some disaster with the boobs who are driving as though they are all alone. Especially the jackasaurus jogging down San Vicente with his baby in a stroller, precariously just within reach and just within the door zone.

Theme music for this list: Why You'd Want To Live Here.