RE: [DMCForum] Was terrible gigantic Suv's then tiny Civics, now a rant

["Jack Stiefel" <jackstiefel@xxxxxxxxx>]

Perfect, someone should run that nationally!

 

Jack Stiefel -- Tampa, Florida

 <http://www.fmtimemachine.com> www.fmtimemachine.com

Direct listen link:  <http://www.live365.com/stations/radiocape>
www.live365.com/stations/radiocape

 

  _____  

From: Farrar "Doc" Hudkins [mailto:dochudkins@xxxxxxxxx] 
Sent: Wednesday, February 23, 2005 2:49 PM
To: DMCForum@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: RE: [DMCForum] Was terrible gigantic Suv's then tiny Civics, now a
rant

 

Jack,

Here's an editorial a friend of mine once had
published in the Charlotte newspaper. You (and maybe
others) might find it fun. --Farrar

SLOW THOUGHTS IN THE FAST LANE: Scenes from the
grownups' paved playground
STEVE STOECKEL

Part 1: What Kills Us

Scene 1: I'm in the playground -- a long, narrow,
concrete playground for adults. The people who built
it have long ago moved on, leaving just a few rules
for fair play: an endless dotted line and a sign
saying "55 mph/45 mph minimum." The left side of the
dotted line is the realm of the Fast People, whose
swift vehicles and stern expressions speak of secret,
vital missions which exempt them from the "55 mph"
rule. I have tried twice over the years to join the
ranks of the Fast People, but my efforts were thwarted
by law enforcement officials. I gave up.

The right lane is populated by the Slow People, those
whose vehicles or philosophy forbids them from
traveling at high rates of speed. It's easy to dismiss
them as slow-witted, but I consider them more highly
evolved, since they've not rationalized away the fact
that we're all so very close to death here on the
playground.

As one who merely wants to drive the speed limit, I
spend lots of time in both lanes, and right now I'm
close to death. One of the Slow People, breaking all
the rules, is in the left lane, backing up a line of
Fast People led by a woman in an SUV the size of a
battleship.

She's inches to my left, an older, well-dressed woman
with assisted blonde hair and skin having the
pre-cancerous sheen of too many tanning sessions. She
has a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the
other, and she shrieks into the cell phone as if
calling in an air strike on the hapless Slow Person,
who doesn't respond to her blinking headlights. There
is a Slow Person ahead of me and several Fast People
are inching up behind me. I'm on the edge of panic.

We roll together for a mile or so like this, a
multi-car tableaux that, if I ignore the trees and
signs whizzing by, appears motionless and serene, save
for the SUV woman, whose screams are now loud enough
to penetrate her window and mine. The Slow Person
eventually pulls over to the right to make his exit,
oblivious to the woman's raised middle finger, and our
little group breaks up.

Scene 2: A city street. The right lane ends, and
there's a huge sign letting us all know that. Most of
us are in the left lane, patiently waiting to get
through the bottleneck. In the right lane are (again)
two types:

- Those too dumb to realize the lane is ending, who
merely drive until they run out of road and swerve
into the left lane.

- Those too crafty and aggressive to wait in line, who
drive to the merge point and then bully their way in.

As a small space opens in front of me, one of the
latter types noses his way in, nearly hitting me in
the process. I'm already angry for the delay, and as
the testosterone begins dripping into my veins, I
swear I can see the hair on my knuckles grow. My IQ
plummets. I barely resist the urge to mash on the
accelerator and cut him off. I believe testosterone, a
substance that makes one simultaneously strong and
stupid, is evidence of God's sense of humor.

I take a deep breath and let him in. He's adding only
a few seconds to my commute, and my anger is a gift
he's unworthy of.

Scene 3: I'm stopped at a light on Independence
Boulevard on a lovely spring day, car windows down,
classical music on the radio. A van and car pull up to
the light beside me on the right, and both drivers
jump out and begin inexpertly punching each other to
the music of Verdi. I'm close enough to hear fists
hitting flesh and the grunt of each man with every
blow. This continues until the light changes to green,
at which time both men jump back into their vehicles
and roar off.

I'm too stunned to drive, as is the driver behind me,
who stares at me, wide-eyed, in my rear view mirror.
We're not sure what we've just seen. Visions of a
cross-country championship-boxing match flit through
my brain. Have they been doing this for hours? Days?
What brought it on?

Part 2: What Saves Us.

I'm trying to get into a line of cars at a stoplight,
and no one makes a move to let me in until...

There it is: a nearly imperceptible nod of his head in
the direction of the space in front of his car. His
face bears no emotion, but he offers me a small gift,
a place in line. I raise my hand and feel my head bend
slightly down in what any anthropologist would
recognize as a vestige of a bow. We have just made an
ancient transaction, he and I.

This is what keeps us from running into each other or
exploding in rage: not the dotted line or the street
signs or the stoplights or the police, but merely eye
contact -- a metaphorical stepping outside our
vehicles for an instant and extending the same
courtesies we extend when standing in line with our
fellow humans.

I remember driving in the aftermath of Hurricane Hugo:
no stoplights, everyone with bad hair and no power to
go home to. Most folks had that "I know how you feel"
look as we made our own traffic rules. I remember
accidents were down that month.

I just wish it didn't take a disaster to get that feeling.

=====
"Forty-two," said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm.


            
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