Anyone who knows me knows that I hate nothing quite as much as driving. I have a mental block about the whole thing. I’m on intimate terms with the energy it requires to pedal up a hill, so the concept of barely exerting your foot to propel a deadly assemblage of metal, glass and fuel forward at horrifying speeds is more than I can grasp. As they say, you need only scratch the surface of hatred to reveal fear. That’s right: I am scared speechless by vehicles and the people who drive them.
Oddly enough, the traffic report is one of my favorite parts of the local morning news. The traffic reporter, who favors short-sleeved, belted jackets, comes on every 15 minutes or so. First we see the endless expanse of brake lights on I-84, our highway without a shoulder. That’s followed by a shot of the people from Vancouver sitting at a dead stop while they wait to get onto the bridge to Oregon. Finally, there is almost always a jam on the Sunset, which connects Portland and the suburbs in Washington County. “It’s a good idea to give yourself a few extra minutes this morning,” the traffic reporter says cheerfully.
So I started wondering about a couple of things. First, give yourself a few extra minutes this morning for what? That’s simple: give yourself a few extra minutes so that you too can sit in traffic. I guess there are some useful things that could be accomplished while sitting on a jammed up highway. People could think about their relationship with God, maybe. Or they could masturbate, which would perhaps lead to contemplating their relationship with the universe, especially as a beautiful Oregon skyscape gradually, as if by magic, unfolds all around them. But, speaking more practically, I suppose people could post a status update to Facebook, or send some Tweets, or read e-mail messages to prepare for a 9:30 meeting – but read only in a half-assed sort of way, because it is impossible to really read something with one eye on traffic, even if it is at a standstill, but that’s okay, because being too busy to really prepare for a meeting is a status symbol like no other. I guess the most productive thing people can do when they sit in traffic is call everyone they know on their cell phone and explain, in excruciating detail, how bad the traffic is and then say very insightful things, like, “sorry, but we’re gonna have to push the meeting out a bit because there’s no way I’ll make it on time.” Or they can call their office, or their assistant, or some other poor soul to ask the question that, based on my many years of listening to one side of cell phone conversations, is the number-one concern for the mobile crowd: Did I get any messages?
Nope, sorry, no messages, but someone did leave a question: Where the hell are you going? I live in Portland, which is consistently lauded for its technological sophistication. You can’t go anywhere in this town – including my front porch – without being subjected to someone blaring into a cell phone. There are laptops everywhere, from the hardware store (seriously) to the hospitals and hotels. Coffee shops in my neighborhood don’t even boast of their wi-fi capabilities anymore. That would be as redundant as a Chinese restaurant announcing “We have rice!” Even I receive text messages … on my land line, where they are translated for me by an automated voice. Why then are the roadways clogged every morning with vehicles, most of them carrying only one person?
I’d like to know more about it. I’d like to stand in a jam on I-84, say, and go rap my knuckles on car windows and ask the drivers to tell me about where they’re going, and why they’re going there at this particular hour. Maybe someday I’ll do that, but for now I’m really enjoying sitting on my couch with my coffee and enjoying the traffic report instead. The mornings have been noticeably cooler lately, and the sun rises later by a few minutes each day, and that blur of red and white lights on the screen as the traffic reporter whizzes through her delay update sort of puts me in the mood for Christmas, which is right around the corner.
Oddly enough, the traffic report is one of my favorite parts of the local morning news. The traffic reporter, who favors short-sleeved, belted jackets, comes on every 15 minutes or so. First we see the endless expanse of brake lights on I-84, our highway without a shoulder. That’s followed by a shot of the people from Vancouver sitting at a dead stop while they wait to get onto the bridge to Oregon. Finally, there is almost always a jam on the Sunset, which connects Portland and the suburbs in Washington County. “It’s a good idea to give yourself a few extra minutes this morning,” the traffic reporter says cheerfully.
So I started wondering about a couple of things. First, give yourself a few extra minutes this morning for what? That’s simple: give yourself a few extra minutes so that you too can sit in traffic. I guess there are some useful things that could be accomplished while sitting on a jammed up highway. People could think about their relationship with God, maybe. Or they could masturbate, which would perhaps lead to contemplating their relationship with the universe, especially as a beautiful Oregon skyscape gradually, as if by magic, unfolds all around them. But, speaking more practically, I suppose people could post a status update to Facebook, or send some Tweets, or read e-mail messages to prepare for a 9:30 meeting – but read only in a half-assed sort of way, because it is impossible to really read something with one eye on traffic, even if it is at a standstill, but that’s okay, because being too busy to really prepare for a meeting is a status symbol like no other. I guess the most productive thing people can do when they sit in traffic is call everyone they know on their cell phone and explain, in excruciating detail, how bad the traffic is and then say very insightful things, like, “sorry, but we’re gonna have to push the meeting out a bit because there’s no way I’ll make it on time.” Or they can call their office, or their assistant, or some other poor soul to ask the question that, based on my many years of listening to one side of cell phone conversations, is the number-one concern for the mobile crowd: Did I get any messages?
Nope, sorry, no messages, but someone did leave a question: Where the hell are you going? I live in Portland, which is consistently lauded for its technological sophistication. You can’t go anywhere in this town – including my front porch – without being subjected to someone blaring into a cell phone. There are laptops everywhere, from the hardware store (seriously) to the hospitals and hotels. Coffee shops in my neighborhood don’t even boast of their wi-fi capabilities anymore. That would be as redundant as a Chinese restaurant announcing “We have rice!” Even I receive text messages … on my land line, where they are translated for me by an automated voice. Why then are the roadways clogged every morning with vehicles, most of them carrying only one person?
I’d like to know more about it. I’d like to stand in a jam on I-84, say, and go rap my knuckles on car windows and ask the drivers to tell me about where they’re going, and why they’re going there at this particular hour. Maybe someday I’ll do that, but for now I’m really enjoying sitting on my couch with my coffee and enjoying the traffic report instead. The mornings have been noticeably cooler lately, and the sun rises later by a few minutes each day, and that blur of red and white lights on the screen as the traffic reporter whizzes through her delay update sort of puts me in the mood for Christmas, which is right around the corner.
