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The drive to LA from home is a 5 1/2 hour mostly straight shot down Highway 5, one with which I was intimately familiar in my UCLA days. When you reached the Grapevine, you knew you were almost home. You knew the endless pattern of passing semis, scanning the horizon for cops at 90mph and two-lane desert was over, and that you were leaving the free-living, birkenstock-wearing state of NorCal for the glam and glitz of SoCal. Back then you left the “killer dude”s for, like, valley speak, and the Hondas for Cadillacs (now Priuses for Porche SUVs).

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