Summer's over now, which means that I'm being shoved off of the highway and onto backroads much sooner during my morning drive. I used to be able to make it all the way to my exit on the highway, but now it's like the whole world has been jerked back into reality and they all meet in the morning to trudge the beaten trail together.
I always think it's interesting how so many people are trying to progress in the same direction but yet they have no idea how to do it faster than a snail's pace. Some mornings I hit the road and think that through some miraculous turn of events traffic will be both voluminous and simultaneously forging ahead at a steady clip. But then again, I haven't had coffee first thing in the morning in a while now and it might be seriously affecting my brain. Without fail, there is nothing miraculous about traffic these days, except its undaunting ability to morph me into a frustrated mess behind a fist-pounded steering wheel. So in order to avoid aneurysm, I flee the collapsing hoard, that beacon of vehicular incompetence, and take to slower and calmer roads with whoever else decided that the longevity of their sanity was more valuable than a straight(er) shot to their destination.
The back roads are really nice, though. Perhaps even a little too relaxing for those without a healthy dose of caffeine in their system. I slither between sprawling estates with manicured landscapes and scoot underneath bowing canopies that have tangled, over time, to create miniature tunnel systems that mute the sunlight and disrupt my satellite radio reception. I dodge those small plastic signs designed to look like children warning me to drive slow as I pass the country club's tennis court crosswalk. Very rarely is anyone out that early, but the heated tennis court is still steaming off the morning dew in anticipation. There are school buses that slow everything down, but they dip in and out of so many neighborhoods that time spent behind them is relatively fleeting. A few flashes of the red and yellow and they're gone. The traffic cop at the high school recognizes me now and we exchange waves as he motions me to continue. He's got a wild behavior about him that aides in his ability to usher oncoming traffic in multiple directions but not control his temper when disobeyed. He's laced into a few drivers who tested his patience, always turning back in my direction to shake his head after his angry diatribe and point me on my way.
As annoying as it is to be forced off of the easy route every morning, the back roads give me a chance to prepare and relax before I have to start my day. I don't have to worry about people floating into my lane, or slamming on my brakes to avoid sitting in someone's back seat. My biggest concern is trying to quickly get a look at the sky so my Sirius won't fizzle out as much. Truth be told, if I have to choose between intermittent satellite reception or wanting to punch the nearest living thing once I finally exit my car after an arduous highway excursion, I'll take to the woods any day.
The trick now is to just try and keep it a secret as best I can and let the crazies duke it out along their dotted lines.
Showing posts with label other drivers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label other drivers. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Monday
I'd say roughly 95% of everyone I drive past in the morning is a vice commutor.
Some smoke cigarettes, some smoke weed. Some drink coffee, some drink redbull, some tip flasks. Some people do blow off of CD cases, some pop pills. Some people masturbate, some... yes, some masturbate.
It takes a while to start recognizing the same people, but after getting to the highway between 7:40 and 7:45 for nearly a year, familiar faces begin to emerge from the crowd. That woman who smokes Parliaments, but bites the paper foreskin off the filter before she does, always gets on at Main Street. The guy who packs a bowl at Park and hits it passing the gas station is there most mornings. He works with computers, I think (or steals monitors and keeps them in his back seat). There's another guy who gets on at 42 who dumps his shiny boot flask into his coffee. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the masturbator is easy to spot once you recognize what's going on.
This trend isn't isolated to a few drivers, either, and that makes sense. These habits help us get through that part of the morning. For me, it's coffee, Howard Stern (with some channel changes during commercials), and the occasional cigarette. Mess with any of that, and I'd be upset about it. That time belongs to me. There are very few instances outside of my commute and my bathroom where time belongs to just me. I fill that hour or so with caffiene, nicotine, and raunchy humor. It's perfect.
I imagine most people are like that. They need those familiar, bad habit, routine elements to start their day. It's their reward for getting up. Or, in some cases, it's a way to deal with what they're getting up for. I could empathize with either view.
Does the woman smoking the cigarettes need them to calm herself down before taking a seat at her desk or waltzing into a meeting? Or is she just bored and that gives her something to do? Does the pot cloud or clear the guy's head? Either would immediately reveal how he feels about his job. Same goes for our boozing friend. And for the masturbator (as if we could forget), maybe it reminds her of the night before, or a night she wishes she could have. Or maybe she just wants to do something dirty with her hand before she punches the clock at the local franchise and keeps it stuffed and suffocated in a latex glove while she serves sandwiches and coffee. In the end, though, it's their time to spend without the need for justifications.
I can understand all of those scenarios. I can because we're all basically the same. We all merge into that giant snake every morning and need something--anything--to do with ourselves before we break off, minutes or hours later, to go about our own business. It's a strange portal, the highway. You get so used to it and its ways, its routine, that you need to separate from it with something of your own. You sip coffee and laugh at the radio. You sing as loud as you can and drum on the steering wheel. You blow smoke at it all. You rub one out. Anything to avoid letting the monotony suck you in and strip you of who you are.
The saddest thing you can see on the road at 8:03 in the morning is someone sitting in a silent car doing nothing at all.
Some smoke cigarettes, some smoke weed. Some drink coffee, some drink redbull, some tip flasks. Some people do blow off of CD cases, some pop pills. Some people masturbate, some... yes, some masturbate.
It takes a while to start recognizing the same people, but after getting to the highway between 7:40 and 7:45 for nearly a year, familiar faces begin to emerge from the crowd. That woman who smokes Parliaments, but bites the paper foreskin off the filter before she does, always gets on at Main Street. The guy who packs a bowl at Park and hits it passing the gas station is there most mornings. He works with computers, I think (or steals monitors and keeps them in his back seat). There's another guy who gets on at 42 who dumps his shiny boot flask into his coffee. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the masturbator is easy to spot once you recognize what's going on.
This trend isn't isolated to a few drivers, either, and that makes sense. These habits help us get through that part of the morning. For me, it's coffee, Howard Stern (with some channel changes during commercials), and the occasional cigarette. Mess with any of that, and I'd be upset about it. That time belongs to me. There are very few instances outside of my commute and my bathroom where time belongs to just me. I fill that hour or so with caffiene, nicotine, and raunchy humor. It's perfect.
I imagine most people are like that. They need those familiar, bad habit, routine elements to start their day. It's their reward for getting up. Or, in some cases, it's a way to deal with what they're getting up for. I could empathize with either view.
Does the woman smoking the cigarettes need them to calm herself down before taking a seat at her desk or waltzing into a meeting? Or is she just bored and that gives her something to do? Does the pot cloud or clear the guy's head? Either would immediately reveal how he feels about his job. Same goes for our boozing friend. And for the masturbator (as if we could forget), maybe it reminds her of the night before, or a night she wishes she could have. Or maybe she just wants to do something dirty with her hand before she punches the clock at the local franchise and keeps it stuffed and suffocated in a latex glove while she serves sandwiches and coffee. In the end, though, it's their time to spend without the need for justifications.
I can understand all of those scenarios. I can because we're all basically the same. We all merge into that giant snake every morning and need something--anything--to do with ourselves before we break off, minutes or hours later, to go about our own business. It's a strange portal, the highway. You get so used to it and its ways, its routine, that you need to separate from it with something of your own. You sip coffee and laugh at the radio. You sing as loud as you can and drum on the steering wheel. You blow smoke at it all. You rub one out. Anything to avoid letting the monotony suck you in and strip you of who you are.
The saddest thing you can see on the road at 8:03 in the morning is someone sitting in a silent car doing nothing at all.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Friday
The fuzz stole my sunglasses.
Well, they stole my car's sunglasses. I had bought my zoom-zooming Mazda 6s a few years ago as a used car that had been turned in by a lease holder. It was a rainy day, really not the best to be car shopping, but the car really caught my eye. Bright white with dark as night tinted windows. I remember thinking that they couldn't possibly be legal, but I honestly didn't care. The car was sexy and I wanted it. Up until 2 months ago, not a word was said (from anyone with a badge, anyway) about those windows.
As most stories like this go, the police eventually called me out on them. I blame the economy and their need for a quick and easy buck. The officer carefully strutted up to my driver's side window with his hand on his gun and the flashlight in my eyes. "Sorry, I can't tell if there's anyone else in there." I could already tell where this was going. He checked the tint level with a little electronic device that measured how much light would transmit through the glass. He told me they were "13," which was always my lucky number, and thus horrendously illegal. However, he said that if I removed them, I could easily get the ticket thrown out in court. Begrudgingly, I removed them myself and now have to deal with this new sensation I'm experiencing.
I feel so naked. I mean, I'm not a highway mastubator or compulsive nose picker, but I feel like all of my in-car privacy has been stripped away. People look at me now. That's the really big part of it. People would look before but I could tell that they were just trying to see what was inside, but to no avail. Now, they look at me and it's so strange to look to my side in rush hour traffic and meet the gaze of some person staring right back at me. I've lost my on-road anonymity and I don't like it. It's much more disturbing than I thought it would be. My first car didn't have tinted windows at all, so I thought nothing of it when people would look. But having driven a car that offers complete and utter privacy for three years and then losing that, it just feels strange to have this exposure. I also want to note that this is not some vain narcissism, an "Oh! Everyone is looking at me!" type of thing. People look at you when you drive. Not all the time, but enough that it gets awkward in slow rush hour traffic.
The sun, too. Jesus! When did the sun get so bright? When I lowered myself into the driver's seat and shut the door on the clearest blue day in the middle of summer, it was as if I had entered a 220hp cave with satelite radio. It was comfortably dim. I still wore sunglasses, but only when facing directly into the light. Otherwise, they were unnecessary until I ventured out into the world again. Now, I have to wear my sunglasses when it's a bright cloudy day. If I don't, I squint worse than Mr. Magoo.
I have to say that the only benefit I've experienced so far is that I can see better out of my side windows at night. Nighttime walkers and bikers, rest easy for now, for I can see you better than I ever have. Just a reminder, though, I'm getting the darkest legal tints that money can buy as soon as I can get an appointment to do so. So don't throw away those flashy reflectors yet. You'll need them.
Well, they stole my car's sunglasses. I had bought my zoom-zooming Mazda 6s a few years ago as a used car that had been turned in by a lease holder. It was a rainy day, really not the best to be car shopping, but the car really caught my eye. Bright white with dark as night tinted windows. I remember thinking that they couldn't possibly be legal, but I honestly didn't care. The car was sexy and I wanted it. Up until 2 months ago, not a word was said (from anyone with a badge, anyway) about those windows.
As most stories like this go, the police eventually called me out on them. I blame the economy and their need for a quick and easy buck. The officer carefully strutted up to my driver's side window with his hand on his gun and the flashlight in my eyes. "Sorry, I can't tell if there's anyone else in there." I could already tell where this was going. He checked the tint level with a little electronic device that measured how much light would transmit through the glass. He told me they were "13," which was always my lucky number, and thus horrendously illegal. However, he said that if I removed them, I could easily get the ticket thrown out in court. Begrudgingly, I removed them myself and now have to deal with this new sensation I'm experiencing.
I feel so naked. I mean, I'm not a highway mastubator or compulsive nose picker, but I feel like all of my in-car privacy has been stripped away. People look at me now. That's the really big part of it. People would look before but I could tell that they were just trying to see what was inside, but to no avail. Now, they look at me and it's so strange to look to my side in rush hour traffic and meet the gaze of some person staring right back at me. I've lost my on-road anonymity and I don't like it. It's much more disturbing than I thought it would be. My first car didn't have tinted windows at all, so I thought nothing of it when people would look. But having driven a car that offers complete and utter privacy for three years and then losing that, it just feels strange to have this exposure. I also want to note that this is not some vain narcissism, an "Oh! Everyone is looking at me!" type of thing. People look at you when you drive. Not all the time, but enough that it gets awkward in slow rush hour traffic.
The sun, too. Jesus! When did the sun get so bright? When I lowered myself into the driver's seat and shut the door on the clearest blue day in the middle of summer, it was as if I had entered a 220hp cave with satelite radio. It was comfortably dim. I still wore sunglasses, but only when facing directly into the light. Otherwise, they were unnecessary until I ventured out into the world again. Now, I have to wear my sunglasses when it's a bright cloudy day. If I don't, I squint worse than Mr. Magoo.
I have to say that the only benefit I've experienced so far is that I can see better out of my side windows at night. Nighttime walkers and bikers, rest easy for now, for I can see you better than I ever have. Just a reminder, though, I'm getting the darkest legal tints that money can buy as soon as I can get an appointment to do so. So don't throw away those flashy reflectors yet. You'll need them.
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