Monty Mikho
03-29-2008, 07:09 PM
By George Klass
I live and work in the greater Los Angeles area. I used to commute about 40 miles in each direction to work and back every day on the L.A. freeway system. If you have ever driven on the L.A. freeways you what it’s like. If you haven’t, here is a typical description.
If your commute is going with the normal traffic flow, meaning that you are going in the same direction as everyone else, you are driving at about 6 MPH in stop and go traffic. You have a severe headache, eyestrain and you are as tense as a stretched out rubber band. You are doing everything in your power to maintain enough attention to avoid running into the idiot in front of you (the one with the burned out brake lights, both of them) and are appealing (if you are religious) to the grace of God to keep the idiot behind you (in the big, heavy, Hummer SUV) from plowing into your rear end.
As you can imagine, this is no way to start or to end your day. Is it any wonder why Southern California is the Prozac capital of the world?
Because my commute was against the normal traffic flow, I get to barrel along at about 80 MPH bumper to bumper. I’m less than two car lengths behind the guy in front of me. I know that’s too close but if I allow any more space, someone will pull in between us. By the way, I can’t see either through or around the vehicle in front because it’s a Chevy Suburban (I was drive a Mustang at the time), so I have absolutely no clue what’s in front of him.
Along side on my left is a lady in a Dodge mini van with a bunch of kids. She is reaching (and looking) back at one of them, attempting to either slap or punch him for doing something he shouldn’t. She hasn’t looked forward through her windshield for about a quarter of a mile.
On my right is a good looking blonde in a Volvo who is both fixing her hair (the sun visor is down so she can use the mirror) while at the same time, talking on her cell phone. One hand is working on her hair and the other is holding the phone. Maybe she is steering with her breasts, I don’t know.
Now I check my rear view mirror. The guy behind me is so close I can’t even see the front of his car. If this was Daytona or Talladega, he would be taking air off of my spoiler. As it is, my Mustang and his grille are virtually one and the same. Fortunately, he has both hands on the steering wheel. I know this because his head is cocked over at a 45-degree angle so that he can cradle his cell phone between his shoulder blade and his ear.
When I finally reach my off-ramp, I realize that I have been holding my breath for the last 30-minutes. I bet that even Jeff Gordon couldn’t do that.
Now, I’m not the greatest driver in the world, and I can tell that my reaction times have slowed a little with age, as well as a slight decrease in my peripheral vision. But I still have decent driving skills and I actually pay attention to traffic, road conditions and such. Hey, I have a valid California Drivers License, do I not?
The problem is that all of the idiots around me (probably) have a valid license too. In California, it seems, anybody can get a license. In fact, the driver’s test is easy. The Driving Inspector with the California Department of Motor Vehicles (an organization that employs only the finest, brightest and most helpful group of people on the planet) doesn’t even take you up on the freeways during the driving test. The Driving Inspector is not stupid. He values his life and wants to be able to see his wife and kids when he comes home after work in the evening. He just wants to see if you can parallel park, and as long as you cause less than $1,100 damage to the cars either in front or behind, you get your license.
I have been told that the DMV Driving Inspectors have an abnormally high suicide rate, but I haven’t confirmed it.
I live and work in the greater Los Angeles area. I used to commute about 40 miles in each direction to work and back every day on the L.A. freeway system. If you have ever driven on the L.A. freeways you what it’s like. If you haven’t, here is a typical description.
If your commute is going with the normal traffic flow, meaning that you are going in the same direction as everyone else, you are driving at about 6 MPH in stop and go traffic. You have a severe headache, eyestrain and you are as tense as a stretched out rubber band. You are doing everything in your power to maintain enough attention to avoid running into the idiot in front of you (the one with the burned out brake lights, both of them) and are appealing (if you are religious) to the grace of God to keep the idiot behind you (in the big, heavy, Hummer SUV) from plowing into your rear end.
As you can imagine, this is no way to start or to end your day. Is it any wonder why Southern California is the Prozac capital of the world?
Because my commute was against the normal traffic flow, I get to barrel along at about 80 MPH bumper to bumper. I’m less than two car lengths behind the guy in front of me. I know that’s too close but if I allow any more space, someone will pull in between us. By the way, I can’t see either through or around the vehicle in front because it’s a Chevy Suburban (I was drive a Mustang at the time), so I have absolutely no clue what’s in front of him.
Along side on my left is a lady in a Dodge mini van with a bunch of kids. She is reaching (and looking) back at one of them, attempting to either slap or punch him for doing something he shouldn’t. She hasn’t looked forward through her windshield for about a quarter of a mile.
On my right is a good looking blonde in a Volvo who is both fixing her hair (the sun visor is down so she can use the mirror) while at the same time, talking on her cell phone. One hand is working on her hair and the other is holding the phone. Maybe she is steering with her breasts, I don’t know.
Now I check my rear view mirror. The guy behind me is so close I can’t even see the front of his car. If this was Daytona or Talladega, he would be taking air off of my spoiler. As it is, my Mustang and his grille are virtually one and the same. Fortunately, he has both hands on the steering wheel. I know this because his head is cocked over at a 45-degree angle so that he can cradle his cell phone between his shoulder blade and his ear.
When I finally reach my off-ramp, I realize that I have been holding my breath for the last 30-minutes. I bet that even Jeff Gordon couldn’t do that.
Now, I’m not the greatest driver in the world, and I can tell that my reaction times have slowed a little with age, as well as a slight decrease in my peripheral vision. But I still have decent driving skills and I actually pay attention to traffic, road conditions and such. Hey, I have a valid California Drivers License, do I not?
The problem is that all of the idiots around me (probably) have a valid license too. In California, it seems, anybody can get a license. In fact, the driver’s test is easy. The Driving Inspector with the California Department of Motor Vehicles (an organization that employs only the finest, brightest and most helpful group of people on the planet) doesn’t even take you up on the freeways during the driving test. The Driving Inspector is not stupid. He values his life and wants to be able to see his wife and kids when he comes home after work in the evening. He just wants to see if you can parallel park, and as long as you cause less than $1,100 damage to the cars either in front or behind, you get your license.
I have been told that the DMV Driving Inspectors have an abnormally high suicide rate, but I haven’t confirmed it.