Asphalt Groovin'
A fellow from a northern state yesterday told me that we Californians are horrible drivers. Like any good statesman, I was initially affronted by this declaration, and I made to defend my Western brethren with equally general soothsaying, but then I dropped into a window of thought, and found myself coaxed towards agreement.
I have ridden the roads of other states and nations, sometimes without choice, and I must here concede: the people of California drive like idiots. They become thoughtless, heartless monsters with hides of steel when they drive, as though they physically assume the forms and apparent brain sizes of the vehicles they pilot. We're really quite crazy behind the wheel, and our insanity does not fluctuate with relation to the business of our region. The smallest Schwarzeneggerin hamlet is just as likely to play home to an aspiring NASCAR entrant as the mad and cruel Los Angeles cloverleafs.
Racing for the winner's circle is not even our greatest goof, as in my experience, the opposite offense is the more common. I couldn't report what these folks are in search of, but I can say that they rarely seem to find it, as they crawl along demanding thoroughfares at speeds far below those recommended, before they make their abrupt choices without any concern for informing those surrounding about it.
No one likes to use turn signals in California. Tilting that plastic dowel, which juts but inches from their driving hands, a trifle upwards or downwards has become too great an effort for today's busy travelers, whose tunnels of attention are probably already filled by some demanding conversation taking place on their Chocolates, or else by the Venti Caramel Frappucinos they are balancing on their lips. I can predict with no small amount of confidence that my commute this evening will see me face death by uncommunicated lane change at least twice.
That defensive slice of me that was prickled when my friend made his first attack wants to put forth that the discourteous driving habits of the common Californian are actually indicative of a sensible, statewide philosophy, one which celebrates assertiveness, multitasking, and punctuality. When faced with the results of these teachings myself, however, my argument tends to deflate, as any idea that the SUV who just cut me off is helmed by a determined captain of industry is replaced by the image of a self-righteous, demanding dotard, whose expectations of entitlement have climbed to grossly high levels.
Well! It's time to go to work. I'll see you on the road, and though I cannot make a promise of it, I shall try not to present you with a rude, inflammatory gesture.
I have ridden the roads of other states and nations, sometimes without choice, and I must here concede: the people of California drive like idiots. They become thoughtless, heartless monsters with hides of steel when they drive, as though they physically assume the forms and apparent brain sizes of the vehicles they pilot. We're really quite crazy behind the wheel, and our insanity does not fluctuate with relation to the business of our region. The smallest Schwarzeneggerin hamlet is just as likely to play home to an aspiring NASCAR entrant as the mad and cruel Los Angeles cloverleafs.
Racing for the winner's circle is not even our greatest goof, as in my experience, the opposite offense is the more common. I couldn't report what these folks are in search of, but I can say that they rarely seem to find it, as they crawl along demanding thoroughfares at speeds far below those recommended, before they make their abrupt choices without any concern for informing those surrounding about it.
No one likes to use turn signals in California. Tilting that plastic dowel, which juts but inches from their driving hands, a trifle upwards or downwards has become too great an effort for today's busy travelers, whose tunnels of attention are probably already filled by some demanding conversation taking place on their Chocolates, or else by the Venti Caramel Frappucinos they are balancing on their lips. I can predict with no small amount of confidence that my commute this evening will see me face death by uncommunicated lane change at least twice.
That defensive slice of me that was prickled when my friend made his first attack wants to put forth that the discourteous driving habits of the common Californian are actually indicative of a sensible, statewide philosophy, one which celebrates assertiveness, multitasking, and punctuality. When faced with the results of these teachings myself, however, my argument tends to deflate, as any idea that the SUV who just cut me off is helmed by a determined captain of industry is replaced by the image of a self-righteous, demanding dotard, whose expectations of entitlement have climbed to grossly high levels.
Well! It's time to go to work. I'll see you on the road, and though I cannot make a promise of it, I shall try not to present you with a rude, inflammatory gesture.
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