Haggis

Musing on Life and Loss - another letter to Kimiko

2009-12-17T19:49:00.000-08:00

My Dearest Kimiko,

Here is another great truth of life, one that I hope you come to grips with sooner rather than later, for the sooner you accept this profound truth, the sooner you will find inner peace (or at least a relative dearth of angst, which for most intents and purposes is about the same thing). That great truth?

Life sucks.

Not all the time, not to the bone. But it sucks hard and it sucks often.

When I say life “sucks,” I’m not referring to the string of bummers one is likely to experience in any given week, like “Oh, this hangnail is ouchie,” or “What? We’re out of mustard?” or “Crap! I forgot to pick up Junior after his soccer game!” No, no, I’m talking about things for which “sucks” is a gross understatement, things for which there are no adequate words or appropriate actions, things that take a chunk out of your soul and leave a gaping, always aching wound inside you that even after decades of healing-time remains a bottomless reservoir of tears. I mean that “sucks.”

You had your first brief exposure to this sort of thing just the other day. One of your friends didn’t come to our annual cookie decorating party. After the party, you asked me why he didn’t come. I had known for a while why he didn’t show. Earlier, I had received a text from his mom, a friend of mine. She had given birth to her baby girl, and that baby girl had died.

The baby’s passing was not unexpected. My friend knew from her amnio results that the child would likely not make it to full term, and even if she did, would not live long after birth. But the promise of life is ardently held and grudgingly surrendered. And it is never forgotten.

I had to ponder for a moment whether I would tell you the brutal, naked truth or a truth dressed in soft sentiments and frilly, useless euphemisms, or maybe not even tell you the truth at all --you know, find a smooth, pretty lie to paint over the black blotch that life had just smeared across its canvas. In other words, I had to decide whether to shelter you from or expose you to life’s dark, bitter side.

“Jared didn’t come because, you know the baby his mom was carrying? Well, she had that baby, but the baby died.” I decided to expose.

I watched your face closely, watched it morph from one emotion to another as your child mind grappled with that hard, jagged fact. Finally, your expression settled upon one.

“That’s sad,” you said.

“It is,” I replied. And we said nothing more.

Loss happens and that makes us sad. But that is not what makes life suck. What makes life suck is that there is nothing we can do to stop loss from happening. You could spend your whole life searching for that magical, foolproof something that will protect you from it. You could be the kindest, smartest, most generous person. You could follow your religion to the letter. You could eat right and exercise in earnest. You could do all of the above. Loss will still find you. And it will kick your butt.

The religious will offer you God and heaven to blunt loss’ merciless edge, to make sense of what is ultimately senseless. I don’t blame them; it’s a comforting notion. But as you’ve probably already figured out even at your young age, your mother is not one to hand out easy answers or peddle platitudes, no matter how finely crafted they are. I can’t in good conscience reassure you with promises from deities I don’t believe in myself. However, I can give you this one, brave truth:

Life does suck, but I know with unequivocal certainty that it can be a warm, wonderful, miraculous thing, too. How do I know? Because, my sweet Boo, life gave me you.

2009-11-11T23:09:00.000-08:00

For those who are unfamiliar with it, haggis is a dish that consists of a sheep’s stomach stuffed with assorted sheep parts, mostly intestines, boiled until it becomes a gray, spongy blob of tasteless matter. I believe haggis qualifies only technically as food; that is, if you eat it, it won’t kill you. In terms of gastronomic appeal, only stray dogs, hyenas, and, possibly, desperately hungry Scots would call it a delicacy.

Desperately hungry Scots are the reason haggis landed on the Scottish culinary landscape in the first place. Back in the day, a hearty meal was hard to come by. When a Scot slaughtered an animal for eats, he used every last scrap because the next meaty morsel might lie days or weeks down the line. In the lean meantime with one’s choices narrowed to haggis or starvation, sheep guts probably didn’t sound so bad. Ugly, slimy, and stinky as it was, haggis helped people survive because it did the one thing it needed to do – it filled your belly. It gave your body fuel. It allowed you to continue living.

I believe we live in emotionally lean times. We are starving for meaning, for purpose, for connection. What we need is some haggis for the soul, some ugly, bitter truths that don’t go down pretty, but nourish us nonetheless. That’s what I hope to provide in the essays that follow. Haggis for the soul.

School Day

2009-01-23T14:00:00.000-08:00

We bring our children to school every morning, but we don’t always notice the familiar drama that regularly unfolds there, the slice of life, the window into parental love that displays itself quite brazenly in that slender space of time between when the school gates open and the tardy bell rings. But it is there, everyday for those who choose to pause for a spell, imbibe the moment. And breathe.

If you look, you see the father flagging down his son, waving the boy’s hat, and upon reaching him, yanking it down upon his head and securing it with a loving pat.

You see the mother waiting at the gate, watching until her little one arrives safely at her classroom door and is greeted by her gaggle of giddy friends.

You see the father giving his daughter a piggyback ride across the wet winter grass.

You hear a hundred “have a good days” and feel a hundred hearts hoping it’s even better than that.

You see smiles and hugs and kisses, dozens upon dozens given and received, some fussed with, some welcomed, but all bestowed with a depth of affection children sense but don’t notice, and parents feel but can’t articulate. But all are glad is there.

You watch your own child wriggle out of your embrace to run off with her best friend, and it fills you with that bittersweet joy that never fails to swell your heart with a warm soup of emotion.

The drama descends like a summer storm, sudden and brief, leaving hardly a trace of its passing except for the implicit promise that it will sweep through again tomorrow. And if we’re lucky, many tomorrows after that.

Study Studies Study

2009-01-09T14:15:00.000-08:00

In a recent study of studies, researchers discovered that 90% of studies show nothing. The other 10% of studies indicate that those 90% of studies are representative of most studies.

The study results confounded the study’s principal investigator, Dr. I.M. Wright from Fauk University. “We were certain our study would show that studies show something,” he remarked. “But it looks like we were wrong.”

Dr. Wright attributes the study’s surprising results to the results of studies. “Studies obviously don’t result in the sort of results studies were expected to result in. Instead, studies produce results that result in studies that produce no results.”

While those who conduct studies may be concerned by these findings, Dr. Wright says there is no cause for alarm. Although 90% of studies showed studies showed nothing initially, a full 42% of studies showed that they would show something with further study.

“42 is a very encouraging number,” Dr. Wright concluded.
Other scholars in the field are less optimistic and have questioned Dr. Wright’s methods. Dr. U.R. Wong from Southern Utah College of Knowledge Studies commented, “It’s clear that the study that shows that studies show nothing is based on a biased sample of studies. A better sample of studies might result in a higher percentage of studies that show something a higher percentage of the time.”

Dr. Wong suggests grouping studies according to size and over-sampling within those groups that are underrepresented. This would result in larger samples with less variation within groups, resulting in more reliable results. “It’s an effective method validated by years of study. Using it, we have effectively identified studies whose results show results.”

Dr. Wright stands by his method and his numbers. “Our study of studies is the most progressive and comprehensive study of studies to date. That our study shows that studies show nothing really shows something.”

Both Dr. Wright and Dr. Wong conceded, however, that more studies were needed to draw any firm conclusions.

Another Letter to Kimiko

2007-04-24T23:00:00.000-07:00

Dearest Kimiko,

Lately you’ve been saying something that concerns me a little. You say you want to be a boy. A boy. One of those gangly, goofy-looking, messy, reckless, spittin’ and scratchin’, thinks-he’s-Superman tykes that will push you down on the playground just to get your rubber ball. I’m not happy about that.

Logically, I know that it’s not uncommon for first grade girls to say such things. I was a tomboy myself. I probably said the same thing when I was your age, and I turned out okay -- five years of therapy, two years of Zoloft, and one intervention notwithstanding. I’m sure your daily declarations have little meaning beyond your fascination with the other of our species. But as a girl and a mother, I feel compelled to enlighten you on the clear advantages of girl-dom.

On the surface, I admit, it may appear as though being a boy carries great advantage over being a girl. For instance, as you frequently point out, boys can remove their shirts in public without fear of incurring indecency or prostitution charges (though certainly some dough-boys out there ought to be cited for indecency. Eeesh.) Boys can also pee standing up, which on camping trips and in public bathrooms often proves to be a highly desirable skill. But really, the advantages end there.

Well, unless, of course, you get into the sociopolitical arena. There men also possess an advantage. Men and, sadly, even women trust men more in leadership roles. People listen to men more closely. They perceive men as more decisive, authoritative, and rational. As a result, men more easily attain positions of power.

This carries over into the economic realm. Men are promoted more readily, often before more qualified women. They can have locker room meetings with each other to discuss important business, effectively leaving women out of the decision-making loop. Men give each other a leg up with their good ol’ boys network that as the name suggests, consists solely of good ol’ boys. Despite women’s impassioned political cries for equality, men still earn more money than women, even in the same jobs.

Come to think of it, in terms of personal relationships, men also fare quite well. Women judge men less on their appearance and more on personality traits such as sense of humor, intelligence and integrity, i.e. by who they are as a person and not on some characteristic wholly determined by genetics and money spent at beauty salons and cosmetic counters. This means men don’t get objectified. They get rewarded for being good and smart as opposed to cute and slutty. In other words, their worth is primarily evaluated according to matters of substance, which I firmly believe, makes it much easier to feel good about yourself.

Yeah, being a boy definitely has its advantages. Some pretty cool ones, too. Jeezus, they’ve got it good.

Still, being a girl is, you know. Good. Too. And there are reasons. I’m sure at least a few. Give me a minute…

Okay, so there is the most obvious reason. Women can bear children. We can create life.I know you won’t truly grasp why this is more incredible than anything a man can do until you experience it for yourself, preferably when you are older. Much older. Like when you’re around 30 years old, are financially stable and in a committed relationship with a responsible, loving life partner. Whom I like.
I can’t quite describe how it feels to know that a human being is forming inside you, a larva-like creature that you will watch grow into a full-fledged person, glorious in her strengths, gracious in her weaknesses, a tiny life form that will come to you one day and ask for your wisdom, or more likely, the keys to the car. A someone to love with a depth and complexity you will not experience with anyone else. Trust me. It’s way cool.

Granted, bearing children has its drawbacks. For one thing, when you bear a child, you end up with a child, and that child ends up taking over your life. Your identity, your needs, your desires fall second to theirs. In the budding mind of this waddling, whining wee one you had no life before she came to be. You have always and only existed to tend to her needs. You are not a person but rather some fleshy, lunch making, clothes washing, occasionally cranky, often nagging terrestrial god with no name of your own. You are so-and-so’s mom forever more.

Another drawback to bearing children is it tends to ruin your body. What was once a flat, taut tummy now landslides nicely over the top of your favorite pants. Round, firm breasts begin to look like sacks of cooked oatmeal. Eyes that shone with vim and vigor become dim with fatigue. You look older than your years, and you no longer have the time or energy to do anything about it. And that’s a good day.

But I’m supposed to be telling you what’s wonderful about being female, aren’t I? I know there’s something. Let me think. Oh, yes…

Women make the best friends. In this case those mushy chain emails that circulate endlessly are correct. Women know how to listen. They know how to show interest. They know how to comfort. Women will be there for you, even if they don’t want to sleep with you. They don’t require cuteness in a companion. Women clean up after themselves. They share. They return phone calls and emails. They apologize. And they understand when you’re a little PMS-y.

Of course, it takes more than two X chromosomes, an excess of estrogen, and a uterus to make a good friend. Lord knows there are those self-involved women who have all those goodies yet still fail to be a good friend to a sister, mostly because they’d rather have a man than your friendship. You’ll know if a woman is that type when she sits in your boyfriend’s lap at a party, then chastises you for being ‘uptight’ when you tell her to back off. Stay away from those wenches. They’ll cause you as much grief as a meddling mother-in-law. Which reminds me, stay away from them, too.

I’m afraid I haven’t made a terribly compelling case for why it’s good to be a woman, have I? For every pro to womanhood, I seem to find a con. I’ve almost convinced myself to consult my doctor about getting a sex change operation. Almost. Despite all the advantages men have, despite all the economic, social, and hormonal injustices they don’t have to endure, at the end of the day, I still don’t want to be a man. Why? Because this is me. Ups, downs, goods, bads, happys, sads, this is who I am. And I like it.

And that’s why I don’t want you to be a boy. Because being a girl is part of who you are, part of the unique and phenomenal package that is Kimiko Zoso. I wouldn’t change one cell in your body for all the money in the world, that’s how amazing I think you are. I hope you remember that the next time you see some guy ripping his shirt off on the basketball court or peeing on a tree. He ain’t you. And he never will be.

Proofread!

2007-02-01T08:18:00.000-08:00

I apologize for the lack of punctuation in the essay below. I didn't preview it before I posted it to see what the blog editor would do to my imported text. Let this be a lesson for us all -- always proofread!!
:)

Panic

2007-01-31T19:01:00.000-08:00

The day before my outpatient shoulder surgery, in anticipating how things would go, I was offered the opportunity to do something I hadn’t done in a while. Panic.

I was still good at it. It was like riding a bike. I hopped right back on the panic cycle and weeeee! Off I went. Before I knew it, I had bequeathed my belongings to my loved ones, lamented that I would never see my daughter marry, said “I love you” to everyone I ever cared about, and left instructions on where to disperse my ashes. That night as I lay in bed, a parade of morbid thoughts agitated my mind into a wakefulness not even desperate fatigue could knock out. What if this is my last day on earth? Have I any regrets? Will anyone miss me? Is there an afterlife? Will my husband remember to put the trash out without me to remind him?

Of course, the surgery came and went without a single glitch. All went as expected, and I woke up in recovery, groggy but very much alive. It seems my worry was all for naught, just like my husband said when he yelled at me at 3am the night before, after I had poked him awake to tell him I didn’t want his new wife to wear any of my jewelry.

Convalescing at home after the surgery, I wondered if my panic truly was a complete and utter waste of my mental resources. Or was there some underlying benefit, some enriching purpose it served?

I began to think about the other episodes of panic I had experienced in recent memory. Like the time my husband took my 4 ½ year old daughter on the tilt-a-whirl, and I had to sit on a bench, my head between my knees, so I wouldn’t pass out and be unable to strangle my husband for endangering my child on that catastrophe-to-be. Or the time I went on my scuba certification dives, and upon noting the unrelenting murkiness of the water, announced that scuba diving is for sanity-challenged danger junkies with a death wish, and I was far too normal to do it. Or the one and only time I went skiing. Or every time I’ve gotten on a plane. Or on a boat. Or in any vehicle I didn’t happen to be driving. Or out of bed…

Okay, so my husband had a point. On a very obvious level one could consider panic a fruitless expenditure of emotional energy. It didn’t help me enjoy or appreciate any of these activities. Truth be told, it sucked the fun right out of them. Panic chained me to my comfort zone and prevented me from experiencing something new, and for that clever evasion of risk all I got were sweaty palms, a dry mouth and a room-clearing case of gas. Worse, it didn’t change anything. The tilt-a-whirl still tilted and whirled, planes still flew, divers still dove. My worry didn’t render the world any more or less safe. Life went on regardless.

Like all good wives, however, I would not concede totally to my husband, and thus decided to scour my experiences to find [evidence] that would prove him wrong, or at least less right. My ruminations convinced me that panic does indeed have a few benefits. For one thing, panic instantly reminds you that your heart is still beating. This is always good to know in that instant right before your shortness of breath causes you to pass out. Then for those of us who don’t exercise regularly, panic may be our heart’s only aerobic workout. One hundred and twenty beats per minute? Ha! We panickers can top 200, and we can sustain it for a distressingly long time, or collapse trying. Additionally, panic warns us that danger may be near. Granted, it’s like setting off an air raid siren when a gentle beep would do. But being reminded to exercise a measure of caution in challenging or even threatening circumstances can often prove prudent.

The most important and consistently overlooked benefit of panic is it lets you know where you stand on existing. If you don’t care about your well-being, if you feel ready to relinquish this world for the next, you have no need for panic. If scuba diving carried no risk of harm or death, would I have panicked? No. If surgery never went wrong, would anxiety have seized me? No. It’s only when the possibility – however remote – of injury or death exists that panic can take hold. Simply put, panic is your psyche shouting, “I want to live!” So no matter how sorry or boring or screwed up your life may seem, if you panic, rest assured you are not ready to pack it up. You love life, and you want to keep living it. Which means somewhere inside you, you have the desire and the potential to work past your panic and put it in its proper place.

Recognizing this advantage of panic, I realized I didn’t have to hate myself for panicking, nor did I have to exorcise the demon completely from my being. A degree of anxiety was normal, perhaps at times, healthy. I wasn’t a freak of nature who should be completely overhauled; I just needed some work in the trusting-myself-and-the-world department. I could work on that.

Several months after my surgery, my husband and I got the opportunity to go river rafting. The familiar pangs of panic threatened to overwhelm me once again. This time I recognized what they were all about, and that took my anxiety down a notch. I told my husband I’d be happy to go. Right after I notified my next of kin.

File this under 'whaaaaa...?'

2005-03-03T23:30:00.000-08:00

March 2, 2005. I was sitting in my usual spot at my usual Starbucks in Union City, along with a dozen or so fellow coffee-imbibing patrons. For once, I was thoroughly engaged in my work. I rarely lifted my eyes from my computer screen to observe the endless stream of normals that wash in and out with the workday tide. I remained transfixed on the task at hand, dedicated, motivated, unmovable,

Until...

Someone walked in with an entourage of men in dark suits and dark glasses. I didn't see the commotion. I felt it. The energy in the room went from zero to giddy instantaneously. People no longer sat, but stood and gawked and pointed every manner of portable electronic device at this person, hoping to snap a frame of proof that, yes, indeed, they were there when

Governor Arnold Schwartzenegger walked into my local Starbucks!

Finally, I noticed the three black Ford Explorers outside, the cops, and the man himself as he approached the counter to order his coffee. And finally I realized that I, too, had some manner of portable electronic device that I could point at him because, hey, why not snap a frame of proof that, yes, I was there when

Governor Arnold Schwartzenegger walked into my local Starbucks!

My friend Trevor got to take his drink order. The rest of us had to buzz like star-struck bees around a hive. Or is that 'like flies around a steaming pile'? I guess it all depends on your political proclivities.

In any case, I did get two pictures of the Governor, but if the truth be known, they could be photos of Vin Diesel, Jean Claude Van Damme, or the Korean guy who does my dry cleaning for all you can tell - cell phone cameras suck, by the way - so, I don't have any solid evidence to back up my surreal tale. You'll just have to believe me when I tell you

Governor Arnold Schwartzenegger walked into my local Starbucks!

Proof or no, this episode proves, I think, that writing for countless hours at your local Starbucks while nursing a coffee-enhanced beverage and your private delusion that you have a frappucino's chance in hell of making it as a writer DOES have its rewards, like

Governor Arnold Schwartzenegger may walk into your local Starbucks!

Oh, yeah. And your writing might improve, too.

Driver's Ed

2004-12-23T22:53:00.000-08:00

You know those jerks who drive the freeways like they own them? They dart between cars at breakneck speed, relentlessly tailgate anyone who has the gall to observe the speed limit, and cut people off in thick traffic just to gain one car length of progress toward their destination. That would be me. While I'd like to spend this time justifying my actions, I also find drivers of my species to be both annoying and frightening. I, too, shake my fists at them as they fly past me in a mobile rage, though perhaps for different reasons. My fellow aggressive drivers remind me of how many silly and senseless risks I take for a fleeting taste of speed and a sense of control.

By way of recompense for my foolish, senseless behavior I offer the following public service. I will explain the how and why of my driving so you can devise an effective defense.

The first point that I will bring to your attention is there isn't one type of me, me being a chronic aggressive driver. There are actually three major types of me: the crazy teen, the type-A, and the manhood-augmentation driver. Perhaps the most frightening, and yet the most predictable, of the three is the crazy teen driver. I say crazy 'teen' because most drivers in this group are in high school or college. However, a notable proportion of crazy teen drivers are simply older folk who have yet to graduate emotionally from high school.

With reasonable accuracy, you can identify crazy teen drivers by their cars. A hopped up Honda Civic hung low to the ground, low-end Toyotas (any year), or any old, American-made station wagon is typical crazy-teen driver transport. Crazy teens choose Civics and Toyotas because they are cheap (relatively speaking) but still offer some modicum of power and sports car agility. Mom and Pop can afford to buy one for junior, and junior can usually afford to upgrade it, even on teenage wages. The old American station wagons aren't exactly chosen. They're Mom and Dad's throw-aways, beater cars intended for use and abuse by junior's leadfoot and gaggle of homies. Or alternatively stated, they're a 'you're lucky you even got a car' car.

You can also identify crazy teen drivers by their driving behavior. Crazy teen drivers always drive fast. Their raging hormones and their underdeveloped sense of mortality compel them to daredevil speeds. Two minutes can feel like a lifetime to them, so if gaining a car length gains them a tick of the clock, they press the pedal.

Because of their adolescent impatience, crazy teen drivers also weave through traffic as though it were a static obstacle course. On the up side, this tendency makes their behavior predictable. If your lane is moving faster than theirs, they will cut in front of you. If their lane is going faster, they won't let you in it. In other words, they will maneuver themselves into any open space, no matter how tight, that will cast them ahead that much more quickly. They do this without fail; it is a postulate of their driving.

Should you encounter a crazy teen driver, heed this advice. They just want to get past you. Your best defense: stay where you are. They'll zip past you quicker than you can grumble your favorite expletive.

As with the crazy teen driver, you can identify the Type-A by the car he or she drives. Not surprisingly, Type-As most often drive a Mercedes, BMW, Acura, or Lexus. They also occasionally choose SUVs, as long as they aren't a Kia. Type-As choose these high-end cars because they like everyone to know what their kill or be killed attitude has earned them.

With respect to Type-A driving behavior, one conviction shapes everything they do: Type-A drivers truly believe they own the road. No matter what lane you're in or how fast you're going, you are occupying their stretch of road. If they want in your lane, they expect you to surrender it. If they want to go faster, they expect traffic to part like the Red Sea. When you find a lone driver in the carpool lane or someone driving on the shoulder or running down orange cones, it will undoubtedly be a Type-A. Rules of the road don't apply to them because they own it.

Because of this attitude, you don't often find Type-As darting in and out of traffic like crazy teens. Instead, they tailgate. They will ride one short foot off your tail and flash their headlights at you until you acquiesce. And in that situation, that is the best defense - acquiesce. The Type-A's belief that they own the road is unshakable. They would rather go out in a blaze of mutilated metal than let you act like you have a right to the road.

The final type of aggressive driver is what I politely call the manhood-augmentation driver. Manhood-augmentation drivers often resemble Type-A drivers in terms of the cars they drive. They are often found behind the wheel of a BMW, Mercedes, Acura, Lexus and the like, but typically they choose the SUV and sports car models instead of the sedans. Occasionally, they choose oversized, American-made pick-up trucks. Regardless of the car chosen, manhood-augmentation drivers go top of the line, buying all the obvious bells and whistles. In fact, the ostentation is a necessity for the following reason.

As the name suggests, manhood-augmentation drivers need to increase their beast, magnify their man, pad their lad. Their massive, masculine vehicles are essentially 2-ton steel prostheses on wheels, and they drive their macho-mobiles accordingly. In other words, they thrust, thrust, thrust their car into traffic until it bursts from the pack. Having then shown everyone who's boss, they slow down for a spell to admire their achievement. They repeat the process as desired or whenever another driver asserts a threat.

Dealing with manhood-augmentation drivers is similar to dealing with crazy teen drivers. Don't move. Just ignore them and play like a dead fish. They'll leave you alone. It does not boost their large and fragile egos if there is no challenge in the conquest. Of course, if you have a bit of the imp in you, and particularly if you are a woman driving a plain 4-speed econobox of a car, you can easily vex the augmentation driver by anticipating his break from the crowd and thwarting it. The figurative castration will not only severely agitate him, it will provide you a glorious minute of taunting victory.

A critical part of understanding me, the aggressive driver, is understanding how we view you, and in this case, 'you' is anyone who isn't me. For example, if I am a type A driver, then everyone else, including other aggressive drivers, is 'you'. Although crazy teen, type-A and manhood-augmentation drivers may frighten and annoy 'me' on occasion, they annoy and frighten far less than the other types of 'you' on the road. The other 'you' fall into two general categories: roadblocks and regulators.

Roadblocks do precisely what their name suggests: they block the road. They drive slowly, quite frequently in the fast lane, and nothing, I tell you nothing, can get that little doggie to move along. They plant themselves in the lane they choose. They never exceed the speed limit. It's as if their cars are incapable of going any faster, and sometimes that is the unfortunate case. All the while they remain completely oblivious to the fact they're blocking the road. They are clueless in the first degree.

Now while all roadblocks exhibit the same driving, or perhaps more appropriately, non-driving behavior, there are notable subtypes. First, there is the elderly roadblock, i.e. old folks behind the wheel. Their roadblock behavior is best illustrated by example. Just the other day, I observed an elderly woman merge on to the freeway at about 35 mph. She then proceeded to put-put on over to the fast lane where she finally maxed out at a stunning 50 mph - in the fast lane, mind you. On coming crazy teens and type-As screeched to a resentful halt (anything slower than 50 mph is a halt to us) behind the little old lady in her little old late 70's corolla. She didn't move an inch, never hastened her pace. At one point she hit her brakes for no apparent reason, which sent the type-A behind her into a horrified skid. Oblivious to the ruckus she had caused, the old lady then put-putted back across the freeway, changing lanes slowly and without warning, and made her exit. Her behavior was not only obstructive, but unpredictable. Elderly roadblocks frighten 'me' drivers more than any other driver on the road, aside from drunken drivers, which is another essay altogether.

The second type of roadblock is the old clunker, someone in a car that really shouldn't be on the road anymore, but through the miracle of jumpstarts and inertia still is. The most common old clunkers are beat-up small pick-up trucks whose beds overflow with miscellaneous junk, 1970's VW buses, pre-1990 Cadillacs, and any Geo. No matter what the model, however, don't provoke the old clunker to exceed their comfy 50 mph. If they should happen to oblige you, first you'll hear their feeble engine backfire violently, then you'll see a big, thick cloud of exhaust wafting toward you, then you'll come to a complete stop behind the now-stalled car. Don't push them; they can't do it. Go around.

One final type of type of roadblock is the distracted driver. They're those irritating bubble brains who talk on their cell phones, look for things in their purses or briefcases, or read important documents, or just the morning paper, while they drive. Distracted drivers aren't roadblocks because of their speed (they usually hang around the speed limit). They're roadblocks because they're hyper-oblivious to the road around them. They do stupid, careless things. They get in your way without even realizing just how dumb and dangerous they're being. At least we aggressive drivers realize that we're being jerks. We simply choose to overlook that fact. Distracted drivers, like the elderly drivers, are completely and blissfully unaware of the havoc they leave in their vehicular wake. For that reason, they are similarly terrifying.

Regardless of the type of roadblock you may be -elderly, old clunker or distracted - heed the following gentle, well-intended admonishment from all the aggressive drivers waving our fists ½ a car length behind you. If you can't drive faster than 65 mph, get the hell out of the fast lane. You're in our way.

The other category of 'you', the regulators, also block the road. They plant themselves in the fast lane then cruise at a lazy 60 mph or less, just like roadblocks. Unlike roadblocks, however, regulators know they're in our way. They see us in their rear view mirror anxiously tailgating them. They see us try to pass them on the right. But no matter what tactics we cleverly employ to get around them, regulators always seem to find speed enough to keep us behind them. They feel it is their civic duty to keep everyone going at their mph, regardless of whether it is legal, safe, or sensible. They, as their name suggests, want to regulate traffic.

We aggressive drivers would like to send regulators the same message we send to roadblocks: get the hell out of our way. But to that less-than-gentle admonishment, please add a middle finger salute, a scathing glare, and the suggestion you go coital on yourself. Thanks.

Having delineated the major traits and behaviors of both aggressive drivers and their adversaries, the roadblocks and regulators, there remains one last point to make. Regardless of the type of driver anyone is, we all share one critical characteristic. We all possess a healthy dose of individualism. Indeed, it is this individualism that makes aggressive drivers completely disregard the safety of others in their single-minded determination to get to their destination. It is this individualism that makes roadblocks blind to other drivers. In the cozy confines of our four-wheeled castles, we are king. We regard the world beyond our car doors as irrelevant. We don't care what happens outside, as long as we can get to where we are going in our own time and in our own way. Considering how deeply we cherish this abbreviated ideal of individualism, is a driver like me - like any of these types - so terribly surprising?

Letter to my daughter

2004-10-01T22:35:00.000-07:00

My Dearest Daughter, Kimiko,

There's something you need to know, something you need to hear from me. Listen close and learn.

People are dumb.

They don't always intend to be dumb. Sometimes they do. In either case, don't let dumb people dumb you down. Heed the following advice, and they never will.

Don't be a Republican. Don't vote Republican. Don't trust Republicans. Don't dine with Republicans. And for god's sake, don't give Republicans money. They have enough already. You see, little girl, Republicans (well, their politicians at least) aren't what they say they are. In reality they're ugly, nasty ogres who eat their young and belch horrific smelly slime and say "fudge" when they mean "fuck." It's all about appearances with them, you see. And profit. They only care about things that maximize their economic, political or sexual gain. You, dear daughter, if you are as smart and wonderful as I think you are, will maximize nothing for them. So steer clear of Republicans.

As for Democrats, they're generally decent folk, but don't trust them either. They may care about you and yours, but they don't usually have the cajones to do anything about it.

Don't trust the media. Just because something's in print or has been reported by a trusted news source doesn't mean it is true or is something you should heed. "All the facts that are fit to print" (or televise for that matter) doesn't mean all the facts, or even all the relevant or important facts (both highly subjective concepts anyway). It means the facts that some obscenely wealthy guy in a big glass office far removed from our world thinks will sell his papers or score Nielsen points. Dumb people take this rich guy's facts at face value. They'll believe that corporations aren't evil, racism doesn't exist, and Britney Spears is a musician, if Dan Rather tells them so. Smart people like you, on the other hand, question such facts. You will consult other sources. You will apply logic. You will not mistake blonde hair and big boobs for talent.

Don't drive fast and crazy. I know you'll want to because Mommy does (but Mommy's different; she's got places to go, people to see...) and because sometimes it seems like the appropriate thing to do, like when some fool drives 65 in the fast lane (idiot!). But don't do it, don't drive fast and crazy, because when you crash, you'll crash hard and large with a spectacular flourish of sparks and crunching, cracking metal. While that may seem like a romantic way to die, you will be dead, and death is pretty permanent. Mommy doesn't want you to die, ever. She wants you to live eternally, or at least past her own passing, which to her then defunct mind will be, effectively, the same thing.

Don't strive for Fame and Fortune. Fame and Fortune are hairy boars in Donna Karan suits, Versaci pumps, and nifty Prada bags to match. Sure, they look good, but they're still pigs. They can't give you anything of true value, no matter how much they snort and squeal. They may promise and (I hate to admit) can sometimes deliver the world, but always for a price: your soul. Child, your soul is a universe of stars. Don't exchange it for a pork chop.

Don't misunderstand me here. By saying "don't strive for fame and fortune" I'm not saying shun money and recognition. I'm no Quixote, nor should you be. Money does make this awful world go round. But when it comes to earning your living, do what you love. Do something you believe in. You only get one turn on this merry-go-round. Make it meaningful.

Don't admire people on TV. Just because they're on TV doesn't mean they're smart. Odds are they aren't. Or if they are, they aren't on TV because they're smart. They're on TV because they look good or because they're doing something dangerous or moronic, or because they look good while doing something dangerous or moronic. There is a wealth of people who are far more deserving of your worthy admiration. People like the teacher who inspires you to write or teaches you algebra. Or your grandparents, your great grandparents, people who gave up much - much more than I have - to ensure your life is better than theirs. Or your best friend who will listen to you prattle on about your neurotic mother and all her neurotic deeds - no, love and adore this friend, because there will be many such conversations, perhaps too many.

Don't hang around dumb people. Granted, you can't become dumb through osmosis, so merely being near dumb people can't "endumben" you. But, there is such a thing as a dumb mob mentality which may sweep you away, flailing helplessly in a torrent of idiocy until it carries you someplace you'd rather not be. Like Texas.

Don't inherit your Daddy's sense of rhythm, or more accurately, his lack of rhythm. I hate to tell you this, but your Daddy dances like a white guy. Like a whiiiiiiiiiiite guy, I tell you. He thinks air guitar is a dance step. It's not. Don't let him convince you otherwise. I admit, dancing like a white guy doesn't make you dumb, but it certainly makes you look dumb, which in this instance is just as bad.

Last but not least, don't listen to your mother. In fact, forget this letter altogether. Only dumb people don't make their own decisions, and I don't want you to be a dumb people. So, do your own research. Come to your own conclusions. Most important of all, be your own person. You are far smarter and far more beautiful a soul than I could ever have hoped for. Stay that way. And remember, Mommy loves you, will always love you. Even if you decide to be a dumb people.