I had never owned a car before I moved to Los Angeles. During my first job interview here, when I was asked if I had reliable transportation, I lied. "Of course," I said, thinking of my roommate at the time, who seemed pretty reliable and had given me a ride to the office in Santa Monica.

Technically, therefore, it wasn't a lie.

I went out that weekend and rented a car, figuring I'd buy one later.

And I did, plunking down cash and taking that very rental off their hands. Never having owned a car before, I didn't have the foresight to realize one of the consequences of my purchase: White cars get dirty fast.

Especially in LA. There's lots of soot and smog in the air, and I live a few miles from LAX, which allows for many fine particles of who knows what to settle down from the jet alleyway above and attach themselves to my car like it was their mission. I end up washing my car about every two weeks, taking advantage of the local Chevron's $4.50 Tuesday special.

Throughout July, I let my car go unwashed. It was half experiment, just to see how dirty it could get in a month, and half indignant rebellion. Why should I let the forces of nature dictate that I pay $9 a month just to keep my car presentable? Was I constantly pulling up to star-studded red carpet galas? Was my car under tabloid scrutiny as I made appearances at various scenes?

No. My white Geo Metro was either parked on the street or waiting for me in a Hollywood garage while I was in improv class. Nobody, except for me, much cared about how it looked.

And yet, there I was last night at 11:15pm, in a gas station with a squeegee, wiping down my windshield.

I had just given in earlier that day and had it washed. The layer of soot and grime had become too much. The crushed, crusty berries from whatever tree I had been parking under were too numerous. The leaves stuck in the wipers stuck too fast to be swept out with a simple pull on the wiper lever.

I took her over to the car wash, bought the $6.95 wash to compensate for the off month, and tipped the handwash guy two bucks before he could shoot me a look with any disdain.

After the wash and wax, my car was shining, white and bright. I felt as proud of my little car as ever. It cleaned up nice.

So, when I came back to it last night after class to find a huge heaping helping of pigeon shit on the windshield, I was pissed.

I had parked in a garage, but that didn't deter this damn bird from flying in, locating the white car, perching on a pipe over it, and letting loose with the waste of whatever he happened to snarf off Sunset that day.

"Fucking. Bird." I was addressing the pigeon. It was still there, above my car, a look of smug self satisfaction on its' little bird face, unique to someone who has just shat upon your car and doesn't really care.

I wanted it to be intimidated and fly off. It called my bluff. I pulled out of the space and turned on my wipers, succeeding only in smearing the bird waste over my window.

I drive a white Geo Metro. It's nothing fancy, but it gets incredible mileage, and hours earlier, it had been spotless. At quarter after eleven, I was in a gas station at Beverly and La Brea, erasing the insult from my windshield.

I'm not adopting this as a theme in my life, I'm not blaming God Himself personally for this. But...after a stressful month of no luck in the employment department, a tough bout with homesickness, and on the day that I finally decide to get my car washed, only to have it used as a bird toilet, I had to wonder "Where's the love, baby? Where is the love?"