Only in L.A.

I'm in SoCal, here for Thanksgiving week with family. Usually I fly into Bob Hope (nee Burbank) Airport, but this trip I came via LAX. There may be a spot in the world that's laying down a bigger carbon footprint, but if so, I don't want to go there. The airport itself wasn't too crowded, but outside, in the passenger pickup zone, it was zoosville, an unbroken stream of vehicles—passenger cars, buses (shuttle and public transit), taxis, vans, pickup trucks, police motorcycles, airport utility vehicles—all maneuvering, honking, creeping, making their way in a slow counterclockwise circle around the terminal, eyes peeled for an opportunity to dart into or away from the curb. Add to this mix the intermittent P.A. announcements ("The white zone . . . ," etc.) interspersed with Muzak that was nowhere near decipherable, and flight-deprived nicotine users puffing away, and you have a scene from one of those surrealist movies where you can't ever figure out what the whole thing is about. Many of the vehicles have a theme. I saw one white passenger car covered with a lacy decoration of pink vines, flowers and butterflies, the name "China Laundry" on the door. Another, a white 12-passenger van, had "H.I.S Tours" stenciled on it in blue, the "I" encircled by a halo. When I saw it, no one was aboard.