Every morning I have the pleasure of waking up in Sherman Oaks and taking the 405 to work in Santa Monica.  Every afternoon I have the pleasure of leaving work in Santa Monica and taking the 405 back to Sherman Oaks.  As James Frey notes, “When shots of the massive traffic jams of LA appear in films and television shows, they’re usually taken in the ten-mile stretch of freeway between the junctions of the 405 and the 10 in Santa Monica, and the 405 and the 101 in Sherman Oaks, which are two of the five busiest highway interchanges in the country.”  I loathe the 405.  I’ve never gotten a tattoo because I can’t think of anything I want to have marked on me for the rest of my life, but if I do get one it will probably read “FUCK THE 405″ in bold caps.  My first and only tattoo.  I actually hate it that much.  The following is a perfect description of the 405:

Driving on the 405 is like standing in line for a roller coaster.  You dread the line, you know you have to deal with it, you get in it, and then you slowly inch your way forward for what seems like an eternity.  It’s always hot, something always smells, you always regret having decided to get in the line.  Unlike a roller-coaster line, however, there is usually no payoff when you get on the 405.  Whether you’re getting on another highway, freeway or interstate, or getting on one of Los Angeles’s larger surface streets, the only thing you get is more traffic.  More traffic.  More fucking traffic.  Fuck.