People and Cars

A character in the popular 80’s film The Secret of My Success once said: “Something happens to a man when he puts on tie – it cuts off all the blood to his brain or something.” This soundbite collided with my neurons right about the time a guy in a BMW decided to weave his way through traffic without so much as a turn signal last week. If the blood really does stop flowing to the brain when a man puts on a tie, is the same true of anyone who gets behind the wheel of a luxury car?

Maybe it’s the sense of entitlement that a luxury car endows on the owner that convinces them that the rules don’t apply to them:

“Stop sign? Ha! Stop signs are for the proles! I’m behind the wheel of the epitomy of German-engineering – out of the way, peasants!”

God, how I loathe them.

In some cases, I wonder if the cars themselves are actually engineered to encourage this behaviour – is the turn signal level in a BMW Z4 located somewhere really inconvenient? In the glove compartment? Under the seat? In the trunk? Or did ze krafty Germans eliminate it altogether in the name of efficiency and some extra legroom?

I originally suspected the root cause was that people driving these cars felt they were somehow better than everyone else on the road. But even if that were the original cause, given the plethora of overpriced “luxury” cars on the road in Vancouver that can no longer be the reason. One of first things Ashley noticed when she moved here was the number of high-end cars, and how every car, even the non-luxury cars, were immaculately groomed. And she’s from New York – you know, the place with all the guys in suits and ties that eat currency for breakfast (little know fact: greenbacks are a surprising source of dietary fibre). So if every Thomas, Richard, and Harold in Vancouver can afford to buy (or, shudder, rent) a BMW, Porsche, Mercedes, or even Hummer, what is the source of this behaviour?

Fear not, for I have a theory…people are idiots.

Now, before you retort with “No, you’re wrong Brendon! People are rational and thoughtful beings!”, hear me out. It was only when I observed a pedestrian step into a crosswalk, looking in the opposite direction from traffic flow, traffic, I might add, that was flowing through a green light perpendicular to the pedestrian’s route, that the truth became evident. I realized that in my previous observations the luxury cars were a red herring, a distraction that prevented me from seeing the underlying cause of bad driving: people. People talking on their cell phones. People checking their makeup. People who can’t see over the steering wheel. People who were too busy trying to look cool to notice the traffic backup, only to end up in the middle of the intersection when the light changed – yeah, people are looking at you, buddy, but not for the reasons you think.

The solution is simple: get rid of the idiotic people. So the next time a pedestrian wades into rush hour traffic without the benefit of a crosswalk light, do Mr. Darwin a favour and turn that bozo into a car bra. Only you can stop idiocy.

Are We Adults Yet?

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it feels like being an adult. It crept up on me so stealthily, I had hardly noticed until a newscaster last week mentioned how “an adult male” had been apprehended doing something or other. And that the man was twenty-three. Twenty-three? Uh-oh, I thought, did I become an adult somewhere and not notice? I sure don’t feel like an adult.

(I can already hear my friends in the web’s version of the cheap seats yelling “and you sure don’t act like one either!”)

Remember elementary school? I remember the heady days in grade two at St. Mary’s Elementary, watching in awe as the grade sevens filed into the gym for an assembly. They were tall. Their voices sounded deep. They got to site on benches instead of the gym floor. And I didn’t have proof, but I was pretty sure they had hair in places I didn’t. They were adults as far as I was concerned.

On arriving in the seventh grade, I was disappointed to learn that, contrary to my earlier belief, I was not an adult. Sure I was tall, but dammit, my knees hurt from growing. My voice was deeper, but had the unfortunate tendency to switch octaves more often than Coldplay‘s frontman, Chris Martin. Those benches hurt my ass and lower back. I had confirmed that seventh graders had hair in weird places, but I sure as hell couldn’t grow a beard if my life depended on it. Sigh. Not an adult yet.

I turned my gaze forward another five years, to the grade twelve students at the local high school. They had cars. They got to pick their own classes. And I didn’t have proof, but I was pretty sure they had done some of the things described in my sex education class.

Five years later and again I experienced disappointment. Sure, I thought with pre-nest-departure artificial bravado, I could drive – but nowhere was worth driving in this hick town. My classes were alright, but not especially useful in the enabling-a-six-figure-salary-and-Porsche-in-the-driveway department. And, confirming my fears, I was definitely falling behind: not only could I still not grow a beard, but I had definitely missed having any of that casual teenage sex my seventh grade sex education class had warned me against. Sigh. Not an adult yet.

And so it the pattern repeated: university? Sigh. Not an adult yet. An employee in the workforce? Nope. Sigh. Not an adult yet. Then I turned around one day, 28, still only shaving once a week to hear some newscaster call a twenty-three year old an adult. What the hell.

Adult? I sure don’t feel like one. Will I ever?