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Thursday, August 12, 2004
I wasn't always a bad driver. In fact, once upon a time I was a very good driver. Very polite. Accomodating. Easy-going.
But then I realized that on the cut-throat freeways of Southern California, politeness is not only unnecessary, it puts you at a distinct disadvantage. If you are a nice guy on the road, you will finish last.
Here's what I learned:
Always go as fast as you can.
You can probably go 20 mph faster around corners than it says you can.
Never leave more than three feet of space between you and the next car, or some asshole will cut in.
Never let some asshole cut in. Especially if the asshole is driving an SUV.
Avoid crappy-ass cars. They will go slow.
It's important to take note of your fellow drivers - especially on surface streets - so that you know who is likely to accelerate the fastest. If in doubt, get behind the most expensive car.
Honk first, think later.
Avoid breaking at all costs.
Scoot along the exit lane as far as you can. Some poor sucker will let you in later.
Never let some jerk who's been cruising along the exit lane cut in. Let some other poor sucker do that.
If you do put on your turn signal, wait until a second before you change lanes. If people think you're about to cut over, they will speed up.
Always wave thank you! - It prevents road rage.
But then I realized that on the cut-throat freeways of Southern California, politeness is not only unnecessary, it puts you at a distinct disadvantage. If you are a nice guy on the road, you will finish last.
Here's what I learned:
Always go as fast as you can.
You can probably go 20 mph faster around corners than it says you can.
Never leave more than three feet of space between you and the next car, or some asshole will cut in.
Never let some asshole cut in. Especially if the asshole is driving an SUV.
Avoid crappy-ass cars. They will go slow.
It's important to take note of your fellow drivers - especially on surface streets - so that you know who is likely to accelerate the fastest. If in doubt, get behind the most expensive car.
Honk first, think later.
Avoid breaking at all costs.
Scoot along the exit lane as far as you can. Some poor sucker will let you in later.
Never let some jerk who's been cruising along the exit lane cut in. Let some other poor sucker do that.
If you do put on your turn signal, wait until a second before you change lanes. If people think you're about to cut over, they will speed up.
Always wave thank you! - It prevents road rage.
Friday, August 06, 2004
IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE RIDING MY ASS,
YOU'D BETTER BE PULLING MY HAIR.
The only thing worse than someone cutting you off on the freeway at rush hour is if that someone is in a big-ass truck, and the only thing worse than that is if that big-ass truck has a crass bumper sticker on it that you then have to contemplate for the next forty miles.
There’s nothing like pulling up close to read something, peering at it through your bug-spattered windshield, straining to make out the words through the glare of the sun, and slowly realizing that it’s telling you you’re an idiot.
At first I felt foolish, like I had been trying to pick up a dime that was glued to the floor. Then I was offended. But after some contemplation (and believe me I had plenty of time), I began to look at it somewhat differently. Was it not the driver’s caustic, ironic commentary on the insufferability but ultimate triviality of modern travel in Southern California? Acknowledging the inevitable proximity of another vehicle, she pokes fun at the quiet desperation inherent in those hard-won inches… or whatever. Bitch.
***
Someone in my journalism class is an overachiever. I noticed her right away. Skinny, perky, with chunky, tortured artist glasses. Today she tried to bust into my conversation with a nice kid from D.C. She kept adding irrelevant comments as if we were talking to her, which we weren’t, like, since we were talking about differences between the East Coast and the West Coast, “everybody wanted to go to Duke or Yale.” Even though we weren’t paying attention to her, she continued enumerating expensive elitist schools that “everybody” wanted to go to. Everybody being cute, skinny, white, over-privileged overachievers like her. (Don’t tell me I hate her because I imagine she’s a slightly younger, slightly thinner, slightly more accomplished version of myself. Just because she works for a newspaper and writes stories daily – “which is exhausting but sooooooo rewarding!” – that would be no reason to abhor her on sight, right down to her cute, undernourished little tummy. Somehow seeing someone who is a mirror image of myself – or a more perfect version of me – inspires the deepest rancor in me because I am afraid that other people see me like I see her. Please tell me I have a little more grit than that.)
I’m all about having grit, lately. I don’t want to be one of those writers whose experience consists of angsty college years in an elite liberal arts college, followed by a white collar job with other angsty, pasty, over-educated recent grads, followed by a stint in grad school and a teaching fellowship and a politely received novel about a fictional character’s angsty college years at an elite liberal arts college and subsequent white collar job with other angsty, pasty, over-educated recent grads. Of course the novel will criticize the elite liberal arts college for lacking the nit and grit of everyday experiences that would have given the writer something more interesting to say, but of course the reviewers will be mildly pleased because they all went to the same schools.
***
The secret to making friends is finding the kid to hate. You know that kid, the one everyone in second grade suddenly decided they didn’t like and continued to torment and finally ignore until in her misguided quest for affection she became the school slut and rumor had it that that back injury wasn’t really from volleyball – I heard it happened because she was having sex! The kid to hate is not always an actual person, of course. It can be a company, or a group of people, or a mindset. Ideally you would have something that you like in common, but in practice, it’s much easier if it’s something you hate.
Today it was SoCal residents and their materialistic impulses and general vacancy of thought. Road rage itself could yield a good hour-long conversation, and today it provided plenty of fodder (until the Overachiever tried to break it up). Even so I felt a certain horror of the familiar talking to the nice (Jewish?) boy from D.C. I crave it and yet it repels me. It’s fascinating to find I have something in common with a stranger, but there’s a moment when it comes too close, when it seems to point out the un-uniqueness, the generic nature of my existence.
***
A life is an odd thing to have. Sometimes it seems to me a possession like any other, perhaps the only one you get for free. But it is a rather willful toy, impossible to hold on to and to manage as neatly as I would like. Try as I might I’m always getting spots on it, always too late with the stain remover, letting it get scuffed and ill-using it. It’s a long-term investment, life. Fortunately or not, it demands that you contemplate how you are going to manage it. Without the prospect of ever throwing it away, you have to constantly handle it with an eye to the future. You only get one, so there’s no fucking up. (Ironically, since you only get one, this is impossible.)
The process of getting older is the process of disillusionment. When you’re young, you think, “It’ll all work out in the end.” When you grow up, you think, “If I’m not careful, there’s a good chance it won’t.” – all the while fearing that it is this very mentality that is depriving you of the derring-do that would have brought you the sought-after success.
Driving up to L.A. always makes make contemplate my mortality. Hurtling down the lane at death-defying speeds, I can’t help but wonder when a second of inattention is going matter.
YOU'D BETTER BE PULLING MY HAIR.
The only thing worse than someone cutting you off on the freeway at rush hour is if that someone is in a big-ass truck, and the only thing worse than that is if that big-ass truck has a crass bumper sticker on it that you then have to contemplate for the next forty miles.
There’s nothing like pulling up close to read something, peering at it through your bug-spattered windshield, straining to make out the words through the glare of the sun, and slowly realizing that it’s telling you you’re an idiot.
At first I felt foolish, like I had been trying to pick up a dime that was glued to the floor. Then I was offended. But after some contemplation (and believe me I had plenty of time), I began to look at it somewhat differently. Was it not the driver’s caustic, ironic commentary on the insufferability but ultimate triviality of modern travel in Southern California? Acknowledging the inevitable proximity of another vehicle, she pokes fun at the quiet desperation inherent in those hard-won inches… or whatever. Bitch.
***
Someone in my journalism class is an overachiever. I noticed her right away. Skinny, perky, with chunky, tortured artist glasses. Today she tried to bust into my conversation with a nice kid from D.C. She kept adding irrelevant comments as if we were talking to her, which we weren’t, like, since we were talking about differences between the East Coast and the West Coast, “everybody wanted to go to Duke or Yale.” Even though we weren’t paying attention to her, she continued enumerating expensive elitist schools that “everybody” wanted to go to. Everybody being cute, skinny, white, over-privileged overachievers like her. (Don’t tell me I hate her because I imagine she’s a slightly younger, slightly thinner, slightly more accomplished version of myself. Just because she works for a newspaper and writes stories daily – “which is exhausting but sooooooo rewarding!” – that would be no reason to abhor her on sight, right down to her cute, undernourished little tummy. Somehow seeing someone who is a mirror image of myself – or a more perfect version of me – inspires the deepest rancor in me because I am afraid that other people see me like I see her. Please tell me I have a little more grit than that.)
I’m all about having grit, lately. I don’t want to be one of those writers whose experience consists of angsty college years in an elite liberal arts college, followed by a white collar job with other angsty, pasty, over-educated recent grads, followed by a stint in grad school and a teaching fellowship and a politely received novel about a fictional character’s angsty college years at an elite liberal arts college and subsequent white collar job with other angsty, pasty, over-educated recent grads. Of course the novel will criticize the elite liberal arts college for lacking the nit and grit of everyday experiences that would have given the writer something more interesting to say, but of course the reviewers will be mildly pleased because they all went to the same schools.
***
The secret to making friends is finding the kid to hate. You know that kid, the one everyone in second grade suddenly decided they didn’t like and continued to torment and finally ignore until in her misguided quest for affection she became the school slut and rumor had it that that back injury wasn’t really from volleyball – I heard it happened because she was having sex! The kid to hate is not always an actual person, of course. It can be a company, or a group of people, or a mindset. Ideally you would have something that you like in common, but in practice, it’s much easier if it’s something you hate.
Today it was SoCal residents and their materialistic impulses and general vacancy of thought. Road rage itself could yield a good hour-long conversation, and today it provided plenty of fodder (until the Overachiever tried to break it up). Even so I felt a certain horror of the familiar talking to the nice (Jewish?) boy from D.C. I crave it and yet it repels me. It’s fascinating to find I have something in common with a stranger, but there’s a moment when it comes too close, when it seems to point out the un-uniqueness, the generic nature of my existence.
***
A life is an odd thing to have. Sometimes it seems to me a possession like any other, perhaps the only one you get for free. But it is a rather willful toy, impossible to hold on to and to manage as neatly as I would like. Try as I might I’m always getting spots on it, always too late with the stain remover, letting it get scuffed and ill-using it. It’s a long-term investment, life. Fortunately or not, it demands that you contemplate how you are going to manage it. Without the prospect of ever throwing it away, you have to constantly handle it with an eye to the future. You only get one, so there’s no fucking up. (Ironically, since you only get one, this is impossible.)
The process of getting older is the process of disillusionment. When you’re young, you think, “It’ll all work out in the end.” When you grow up, you think, “If I’m not careful, there’s a good chance it won’t.” – all the while fearing that it is this very mentality that is depriving you of the derring-do that would have brought you the sought-after success.
Driving up to L.A. always makes make contemplate my mortality. Hurtling down the lane at death-defying speeds, I can’t help but wonder when a second of inattention is going matter.
