Driving Lessons

I hate it when people can't do whatever they went. Especially when they're behind the wheel. Whether I'm responsible or not, I feel like the grinch who stole Christmas. 

Take, for example, the young woman who was attempting a right turn in a residential neighborhood I frequent. Palming the steering wheel as she attempted her turn, the vehicle swung wide as she was unable to sufficiently corral the heavy tires and 19” wheels of her SUV with a single hand.

This because her remaining hand was tasked with keeping the all-important cell phone pressed against her ear.

I don't know if she was giving consent to have her mother taken off of life support or making an appointment at her favorite nail salon, but the call was clearly a critical one and demanded completion—whatever the cost.

It was fortunate that as a technology-bereft ancient, I was only driving and thus was able to brake, giving her the entire width of the roadway to complete a turn which should have required half that space.

None of this is especially unusual, given the six-hundred or so miles I put on every week in the course of my job. It is practically routine.

What was unusual was the reaction of Iona Apple.

Curious to see the face of my latest bout with motor vehicular negligence, I glanced at Ms. Apple as we passed and discovered that she was glaring at me! 

Dismissing the possibility that she was a scam artist upset that her plan for engaging a metropolitan bus in a head-on collision had failed, I realized I had exhibited the unforgivable gall of being there.

Yes, I had compromised her awesomeness. Her inalienable right to drive however poorly she needed to when it infringed upon her use of technology. She wasn't guilty of distracted driving; I was guilty of seeing it.

OK. Got it.

But despite the injured feelings, I admire this woman. Her addled priorities and twisted sense of causality are flawless. They are perfectly representative of twenty-first century America. 

Her phone call completed, civilization may now continue for another day. Or at least until the next incoming call.

Under the Influence

I suppose this is as good a time as any to ruminate on the suspension given Colts owner Jim Irsay by NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell.

Timing, it is said, is everything. And Irsay's stunk. He had the bad luck to cross the commissioner's radar in the wake of the Ray Rice kerfuffle, and with opening day just a few days away, there was no way Goodell was going to go through that again.

So while Rice was suspended two games for knocking out his intended and dragging her about their hotel by the hair, Irsay was suspended for six and fined half a million dollars because he:

a.) Wore non-approved NFL gear

b.) Let Peyton Manning walk

c.) Drove while intoxicated

d.) Failed to renew his subscription to the NFL Network

If you guessed c, you are correct.

(An exception will be made if you chose b and reside in Indiana.)

OK. Don't get me wrong—driving while tanked is plenty serious. But not exponentially more serious than dragging your girlfriend around by the hair after you've introduced her face to your NFL running back-sized fist.

Furthermore, I am the very last citizen of the United States to come to the defense of the very wealthy, particularly those who did little more than pop out of the right, er well, you know.

But I am suffering from DWI fatigue.

Having re-invented myself a little over a year ago as a bus driver, I now log about eight-hundred miles a week. Which works out to forty-thousand miles a year—give or take a construction detour or two. And let me tell you: I don't see many drunks. (This was true even when I was younger and drove more at night.)

What I do see are lots of distracted drivers. Men, women, adults, teens and in-betweens. They're all over. Like a plague.

I have lost count of the drivers who absentmindedly drift across lane dividers and lane markings into mine. Or who fail to stop at stop signs. Or the mobile Shakespeares so engrossed in composing life-changing texts they don't notice the light has changed from red to green.

They are everywhere. Everyday.

Yes, there was a time when chronic alcoholics who got behind the wheel needed to be reigned in. Needed to be given something besides a cup of joe down at the local PD.

But I am thrilled to report that as a society, we get it. Driving under the influence is a bad thing. According to MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving), incidents of drunk driving are half of what they were in 1980.

Despite this, our media, our law-givers and our law enforcers continue to reinforce the impression it is the most-serious crime an individual can commit. It certainly is the highest-profile one.

Which brings me back to Jim and Roger.

Having erred so badly on the Ray Rice case, Goodell followed our lead and used the reliable whipping post of DWI as a public relations tool to erase any doubts that he is, indeed, a tough guy intent on eradicating bad behavior in his NFL.

(At least when he can—players who offend for the first time are only levied a comparatively paltry fine of fifty-thousand dollars.)

It smacks of piling on.

Thirty years on, I wish we'd devote the same resources to distracted driving that we do to driving under the influence. And while we're at it, get manufacturers all-in for the public good.

For instance, I am unable to make an input on the GPS unit in my bus while it is moving. Using motion sensors to similarly disable cell phones, tablets and any other device in a moving car would be a great start.

A car driven by a distracted driver is just as lethal as one driven by a drunk. And sadly, they're far more prevalent. It's time to look up from our screens, recognize it and adjust our policies, enforcement and public awareness accordingly.

The Newspaper

I am decidedly old school. My phone is connected to the wall. I listen to music on something that could never fit into a pocket. And I unlock my car with a key.

I also read newspapers.

Little holds the promise that a Sunday newspaper does. In its beautiful heft lies the world. International, national and local news. Sports. The Arts. Travel. Business, automobiles, real estate. Op-Ed pieces actually called Op-Ed pieces (and not news). Nothing is like reclining on a couch or bed and exploring its crisp, creased recesses.

Best of all, newspapers always work. They never crash—and they’ve been wireless since day one. There are no dead zones. No pop ups. There’s never a problem with connection speed. Or passwords. Or viruses. And if they get wet, they dry instead of die.

And another thing: ever hear of someone getting carpel tunnel syndrome from paging through a newspaper?

Inevitably, they also have their critics. “They’re old and slow.” “By the time they come out you’ve already heard everything.” “They take a whole day to be updated.”

All true. And that is the crowning glory of a newspaper. It is slow. Tell me the advantage of a media where speed replaces insight and speculation trumps fact. Wasn’t there a reason we frowned on knee-jerk reactions?

The dissolution of newspapers raises another concern. In a world fragmented by PDAs and texts and cell phones and blogs and instant messages and Blackberries, what is our common denominator? Where do we gather to commiserate? To laugh? To cry? To debate?

In a world of participatory media, do we risk becoming a society of writers without readers? Speakers without listeners?

The Tower of Babel springs to mind.

Yes, I am old school. Laugh at my ink-stained fingers if you must. But at 30,000 feet, tell me who’ll be laughing when we realize we left our respective media in the departure lounge.