IS SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA'S FUTURE IN THE TANK? SKY-HIGH COST OF GASOLINE IS PUTTING THE BRAKES ON LOS ANGELES LIFESTYLE.

Byline: Jeremy Deutchman

LIKE Americans everywhere, the recent spike in gasoline prices has me seeing red at the pump. With the cost to fill my tank soaring ever upward, my oil dependency is suddenly doing more than simply ruining the planet for future generations or supporting corrupt and dangerous terrorists in faraway lands; it's actually making me think about taking the bus.

Rising gas prices strike at the very heart of what it means to be an Angeleno. Next to our movie-star good looks and perfectly formed abs, we are most proud of our automobiles. Ask anyone on the street whether they'd rather have a functioning kidney or a zero-percent financing deal on a Range Rover, and I'll lay you 10 to 1 odds they'll go for the car.

Driving in L.A. is not just a means to an end, it's an end in itself, a lifestyle. We drive because it's convenient. We drive because it makes us feel free. We drive because this is the frontier, damn it, and who wants to walk to get a smoothie?

Like every native Angeleno, I spent my childhood longing for a car the way young birds yearn to fly. And at first, my wheels were wings, helping me see a city that had always seemed out of reach.

But with prices on a permanent rise, I find myself wondering whether being enslaved to my car was ever such a good idea. My budget, though not bursting, is beginning to show signs of strain. And traffic, the nemesis of all Californians, is getting to me in a way it never did before; after all, if I'm paying $45 for gas, don't I at least deserve to reach my destination quickly?

As anyone who's experienced L.A.'s clogged roadways will tell you, traffic these days has two settings: ``Rush hour'' and ``You might as well kill yourself.''

Perpetually stuck in the slow lane, my neighbor has become my enemy. I shake my fist at the unsuspecting senior citizen who won't go faster than 15 mph, and who can barely see over the dashboard. Once I would have admired his pluck, stamina and resilience in the face of old age. Now I lean on my horn and shout, ``Get a booster seat, Grandpa.''

And I am not alone. Across the city, drivers of all ages are speaking up in protest. What else but elevated gas prices and traffic-born rage would compel the woman in the car next to me to boast on her license plate frame that she ``goes from 0 to bitch in 30 seconds''?

With Memorial Day approaching and summer fast upon us, the problem will only get worse. Families across the country will soon pull out their atlases and prepare to usher in that most American of traditions: The summer road trip. What was once a budget vacation will, thanks to sky-high gasoline, now rival two weeks in Paris. In Los Angeles, people are already clogging the roads as they head to the beach to soak up some sun. Considering the distance that people must drive to get there (in L.A., everything is at least one freeway away), $2.39 a gallon for gas amounts to a kind of ``beach tax.''

President Bush, are you listening? You might have some wiggle room left. But a frustrated electorate is not something you want to face, particularly here on the Left Coast. Because no one gets in the way of a Californian and his tan.