You Fight Well, Young Grasshoppa.

In August, my sister and I spent a Sunday afternoon in West Hollywood for a friend's birthday. After hanging out for a few hours, in which we observed bad dancing and Lucy put money in a man's panties, we headed back to the OC.

I was behind the wheel, and as we made our way down Santa Monica boulevard, we talked of little else besides men's panties and possible dinner options once we got back. Right as I turned onto the 101 onramp, we took on a hitchhiker.

His thumbs were really hard to see.

This little guy jumped on the windshield of my car and immediately hunkered down for the ride. As we made it further and further out of LA, he made it clear that he had no intention of getting off until we had reached his destination. Impressed, we named him Duke.

We had a few close calls, at one point I even wondered if he had died. Every now and then one of his legs would come off the windshield and flail helplessly in the wind, then Duke would clamp back down again and hold on. He was kind of a badass.

"A car would have paid for itself by now."

Once I got to our freeway exit, Duke began moving as he sensed the car slow down. He crawled up to the top of my car, and promptly jumped off and went on his way. He didn't even offer me gas money.

Asshole.

Parsimoniousness aside, I was impressed by little Duke's determination. He held on for dear life on the windshield of a car going more than 70 mph for an hour. Unfazed by a sliding grip, he managed to make it the whole drive, knowing exactly where he wanted to go and how he was going to get there.

Just one of the many signs I have encountered on the journey.