Mr. Toad's Driver Re-Education Program

Good morning, Class! And welcome to The Wild Wood Driver Re-Education Program and Speed Addiction Management.

I am Mr. Toad, and I'll be your teacher for this re-training course.

Now, like each of you, I have committed some... erm... minor infractions of the law on our local roadways. But l am here today to show you that it is possible to become 100% rehabilitated! (And possibly work off your debt to society in a teaching capacity.)

How?

Through a clever three-step regimen of Visualization, Desensitization, and Messing About In Boats.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Why, Toad, but you are a creature of superior intelligence and wealth, with good friends willing to do a motorcar intervention for you. And I am a mere thick, friendless human who had an issue with road rage, speed and/or car-jacking. How am I to live up to the example you set?"

Well, just keep in mind, we are not holding you up to lofty Toad Standards, and that should alleviate any pressure you might feel.

Now: Visualization and Desensitization. (We'll get to Messing About in Boats once mine is back from the shop.) But I assure you, once you complete this part of the course, you will see a motorcar, you will sit in a motorcar, but any need for speed will be vanished from your heart like an Alpha Romeo in a straightaway!

Look here up on the projector screen, and what do you see?

Why, yes, that's right, class-- it's a photo of a Lamborghini Murcielago in sunshine yellow! Notice its aerodynamic styling. Consider its four-wheel-drive.

Picture yourself behind the wheel... All those lovely, blinking controls before you, just waiting for your next move... Sitting in its plush, ergonomic seating...

Is-- is-- is it getting warm in here?... Could someone just pop open that window please? Thank you.

Now imagine you're turning the key in the ignition... Your flipper pressing down on that gas pedal and you're giving it a few revs.... Now do you really want to see if it can go from 0 to 65 in 3.4 seconds?

In mere moments, the Wild Wood Constabulary would be hot on your trail, as you leave destruction and devastation in your wake...

As you go on to break the hearts of your friends, who simply don't understand the beauty and power of motorcars like you do.

Who really don't appreciate the feel of the wind on one's skin and the landscape roaring past so that you feel nothing could stop you... Certainly not a few pathetic, underpaid bobbies with no sense of fun and...

Ahem.

No.

You don't want to test its turbo. Instead you imagine yourself easing gently away from the curb. Safely. With no special agenda. (yawn) You look around you. You feel the calm. You listen to the purr of the engine.

The engine...

What you do not do is you don't think how much louder that engine could roar if it were pushed up to its ripping 211 miles per hour as you tear across hill and dale, kicking up dust and overturning milk carts, tearing across the bridges, watching your neighbors leap aside to safety as your eye catches sight of that horn...

Oh, that glorious, shining, melodic horn! And you take one hand from the wheel and you reach and as you press it your heart gives a thrill as you hear its beautiful, beautiful voice singing out:

"POOOT! POOTT! POOT, POOOOT!!"

Hahahahahahahahahaha!

Er.

(Click)

Here is a photo of a Geo Metro...

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The Silent Communication of Commuting: Also About the Elmo Truck

*FLASH!* "You first, mister."

*FLASH, FLASH!* "Really? You mean it? Thank you!"

It was a very civilized moment on the roads yesterday, as another driver and I sorted ourselves out in a space wide enough only for Victorian carriages or natural childbirth.

I was feeling strangely magnanimous about my fellow man at the moment-- probably had too much Diet Dr. Pepper-- and I'd yielded way in the charcoal light of the autumn evening. The driver's surprise at this courtesy was expressed in happy high beams.

Funny how these signals we've come to use on the roads can mean one thing-- and can also mean exactly the opposite.

I mean, high beaming can say, "Please, go ahead." And "thank you." So basically, you could conduct a whole scene of those two gophers on Bugs Bunny using only your high beams...

*FLASH, FLASH!* "After you."
*FLASH, FLASH!*" Oh, but no-- after you."
*FLASH, FLASH!* "Oh, but I insist!"
*FLASH, FLASH!* "Why, thank you! You are too kind."
*FLASH, FLASH!* "No, thank YOU!"

(Humvee comes by, riding up over the back of both vehicles, crushing the drivers within, killing them instantly... )

*FLASH, FLASH!* "Ha-ha."

See, that's the thing. We have those Courteous Gopher high-beams, and then we have the Driver Teetering on Sanity's Edge high beams.

The ones that say:

*FLASH, FLASH.: "MOOOVVE, curse you! I'm leaving the job I hate... with the boss I hate more... to go home to my nagging wife and screaming, ungrateful kids... and get ten blissful moments to myself before they're home to make my life a living hell... and YOU are the meatsack between me and my destination. This is the frikkin' commute, you moron-- not Driving Miss Daisy."

I've met this guy before, actually. He comes in different variations in different places, but in mine, he drives a pickup truck with a great big red Elmo doll in the front window. He's run me off the road three times already.

And let me tell you, the irony is tangible when you begin to think your last view of life on this planet will be this blazing red Elmo screaming toward your windshield at 80 miles per hour.

*FLASH, FLASH!* "Yeah, that's right-- curse YOU, Elmo Truck! Do us all a favor and register for some anger management classes, mister!

Ahem.

So there's the high beams.

But waving's another one. I mean, waving can be, "Hey, thanks for not crushing my car in this merge..."

It can mean, "Hey, there's Gladys over there, let's wave at her and not pay any attention whatsoever to where we're driving..."

And it can also mean, "You tried to crowd me out, you bugger, but I merged in anyway so ha-jolly-ha-with-knobs-on. Thanks fer nothin'!" Sorta sarcastic-like, see?

And this doesn't even include the various hand gestures available to us. I mean, there is, of course, the ever-popular one-fingered salute...

But me, now, I prefer what I think of as the Jersey Hand Wave and Rhetorical Question Combo Pack. It's sort of a flat-palmed chop to the air followed by a, "What's wrong with you? What're ya doin'?" that no one outside the car can hear, but which still somehow makes me feel a lot better.

To spice it up, the "What're ya doin'?" can be followed by the nickname of your choice. I prefer to start out with things like "Chachi", "Snookums," "Sweetie" and then, in extreme moments, I escalate it to a few more colorful selections.

I just think it's great that without much direct vocalization, we can say so much, so easily.

But hey, if you see a dude in a monstrous-big pickup with a massive stuffed Elmo in the front window, playing chicken with you?--

Just get out of his way. I mean, I like you guys, and nobody deserves Death By Muppet.

A little smart give-and-take can make a big difference in getting to Sesame Street safely.

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Stan Randomdriver and the Turning Point

Hello and hi there, Good People of the Internet! Today we interrupt our regularly-scheduled Of Cabbages and Kings blog post for a very special public service announcement:

There is something that every driver on the road has, but few wish to address. It's lurking inside your vehicle at this very moment... And it's been there all along ... It's called... a "Turn Signal." Its purpose? To help others know when you're ABOUT TO turn. Not AS you're turning. Not AFTER you're already turned into the parking lot, parked and have gone inside for a decaf latte. BEFORE you turn. So please read the manual on your car to find out where your turn signal is located, and use it appropriately.

NOTE: contrary to rumor, the turn signal does not operate through use of telekinesis or psychic projection. You must lift your arm and pull the lever. Thank you.

Okay-- Hi again! Sorry about that, folks! I just had to get that out of my system, and I apologize for the paragraphs o' snark, because I know very well that it is NOT YOUR FAULT that we're discussing turn signals today. I know that my most excellent readers aren't guilty of neglecting the mighty signal because of... oh, I don't know... being afraid that using it too much will burn the bulb out sooner.

I know that this is not about you guys.

This is about the guy on Saturday who was going along at a normal pace and then decided to JUST STOP DEAD in the lane, prior to making a turn he never signaled for.

The guy who made me slam on the brakes and who I, thankfully, avoided hitting, only because I try to leave an appropriate cushion.

The guy who caused MY car to get rear-ended.

This is about THAT guy.

Stan.

Well, okay, I don't KNOW if his name is Stan or not. I made that up. Y'know, to give him some kind of human element. Because, see, Stan couldn't have missed the tires screeching and heavy machinery colliding behind him. And he just continued pulling his non-rear-ended vehicle into the store parking lot. There he parked, and spun himself into a cocoon until we left.

Meanwhile, the lady who hit me and I went around collecting our bejeebers. You know, the ones that had been scared out of us, and which were spilled along the side of the road.

Stan had tinted windows, so I couldn't even see his face to scowl at him.

On the up side, I have a plastic car. Well, "polymer." Which just means plastic with a serious mark-up cost. So in spite of being rear-ended, my car is essentially fine-- a few scratches. And me, my neck was just a little stiff for about a day.

If my car had not been made of advanced aerodynamic Tupperware, however, I would be even less amused about the situation. I'd be getting estimates and repairs, the lady who hit me would be footing the bill... And our buddy ol' Stan Randomdriver? Why, by now, he would have transformed from cocoon to some kind of moth, winging his way merrily like nothing ever happened, leaving destruction steaming in his wake.

So turn signals. The turn signal is your FRIEND, Stan Randomdriver. Don't ignore it-- Show it some love! I beg of you. For the safety of my fellow Pittsburghers. Run right out and give your turn signal a decent workout today.

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Have YOU folks had an encounter with one of the Stan Randomdrivers on our city streets? Share your story. Let's popularize that obscure thing called a turn signal, and make this world a better place!

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Driving Miss Crazy

I ended up behind a Student Driver today. Poor kid was going about 15 miles an hour, with even the exhaust spewing the stench of sweat, PowerAde and terror.

It reminded me of my own early driving days, and a particular trip where I returned home, not entirely sure I’d ever be allowed IN Canada again.

See, I’d learned to drive during my senior year of high school, taught by my mother. Now, I do believe Mom had my best interest at heart. But what a shy, nervous, overachieving nerd-girl like myself needed was a guiding hand… a calm voice… a vote of confidence.

And Mom’s guiding hands were mostly busy clinging to the door-handle while her voice shrieked, “Do you SEE THAT STOP SIGN?! STOP! STOP!!! For the love of Mike, STAAAAHHHHHP!!!!”

This usually started about halfway down the driveway.

So I went off to college with a license, but with very little real driving experience…

Also, a small eye twitch, when I’d hear someone say the word “stop.”

And when I graduated college, I got a job, as luck would have it, not far from my apartment. REALLY not far from my apartment. Like, I could see the office building, if I stood in my bathtub on tiptoes and peered out the window.

I was at that job about four years before the company moved locations and I suddenly had to have a car. So I took some driving lessons from AAA as a refresher, and was surprised to learn their teaching techniques varied quite a bit from my mother’s own unique style.

I’d only had my car about a week, when my supervisor decided that, great! Since I was going to this tradeshow to set up the corporate booth-- and since shipping a booth meant you could never be sure the booth wouldn’t accidentally be sent to Zimbabwe--I could just drive the booth to the show.

DRIVE the booth…

In a several ton moving vehicle…

An SUV, specifically…

Five hours north…

To Toronto.

You know: the one in Canada... A whole other country.

I said, “Okay, I’ll do it,” hoping he didn’t notice my eye starting to twitch. And I learned I’d be driving with a coworker, to help with the booth cases.

It concerned me somewhat that the coworker had children to support.

Or as I was thinking of them at the time, “the bereaved orphans.”

Well, my coworker ended up driving about half of the way before we stopped for gas, and she suggested I take the wheel the rest of the way into Toronto.

And once again, I didn’t want to admit the idea of driving this large, unfamiliar automobile on a road where there were, like, OTHER LIFEFORMS was somewhat of a concern to me considering my skill level.

So I got behind the wheel. Things were actually going very well on our way into Toronto. We joked, we listened to the radio, and two and a half hours went by with me not killing so much as a moth in the grill.

I was feeling good.

Then came the hotel parking garage. Or as I shall call it, my Waterloo.

Yes, my coworker had agreed to have the booth cases taken into the exposition hall, while I parked the SUV. And such was my relief over having made it into Toronto so smoothly—not so much as missing an exit—that I was already thinking happy thoughts of dinner.

Little did I know that the parking garage required you to take a ticket first. So I pulled in, and realized I was a bit too far away to reach the ticket. I opened my door and stepped a leg out of the car, to grab it and…

My foot slipped off the brake.

Did I mention that it was an underground parking garage, where there was a bit of a, well, SLOPE DOWN?

Oh, there was.

And so, the car began to roll forward, me half-in, half-out of the car. And there I was, being dragged alongside this SUV in the middle of a parking garage in the Great White North, while my coworker was waiting for me, having a glass of wine in the plush hotel lounge.

Just after I drove through the wooden arm barrier, I managed to get the vehicle to come to a stop-- my leg bleeding, one shoe lost, the driver’s side mirror bashed, and the wooden arm in splinters on the ground.

The next twenty minutes involved me tearfully explaining to some parking authority officers-- who my mind over the years has recorded as Mounted Police-- what exactly had happened that caused damage to the City of Toronto’s property.

Not knowing the local laws, I recall wondering if you could be ejected from Canada for this sort of thing.

Well, the Mounties were actually really nice to me. Probably because I was bleeding on their concrete and I only had one shoe. So they wrote up the accident and didn’t put me in the pokey over the cost of the arm or anything.

After locating my errant footwear, I headed up to the lounge. My coworker eyed me and said, “What took you so long?” I was limping a little and still bleeding, with eyeliner and mascara streaked into circles under my eyes.

I sat down and ordered a Molson, eye twitching. "The drivers around here are crazy ."


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