Interstate traffic is endlessly fascinating to me, and for some reason the pavement always causes the mental cogs to churn, sometimes far faster than the traffic itself. The road is a closed system, or so I’ve learned, within which human nature courses freely, resulting in a friction inherent in all the things you hate about driving: jams, accidents, road rage, and so help me Lord H2s.
What you have is a rush of free will bound by strictures and guardrails. Smoothing out traffic, I realized, may very well require manipulating reality to give the illusion of free will. Take a typical accident, for instance. The pile-up is usually cleared off the road quickly and cleanly. It’s the rubbernecking–the very human desire to consume the spectacle–that backs up traffic for miles. Meanwhile, opposing traffic whizzes by, powered by the gridlock of poor saps across the divider.
Now what if we got all sci-fi and used holograms to not only hide accidents, but always project opposing traffic as being jammed? Wouldn’t traffic flow a lot quicker? But enough of that. I want to switch gears a little and revisit the idea of a skill-based, modern Renaissance Man. One skill I’ve been practicing lately is the ability to identify unmarked police cruisers. I believe it’s essential, especially if you love to speed, and since the force tends to purchase cars in fleets, there are certain truths to glean–the presence of curled antennae, for one, or the unique shape of the Dodge Charger, which seems to be the model recently favored, or the aversion to foreign manufacturers. My car gets the best mileage at 85 mph, I swear, and I’m trying to be environmentally conscious. It’s a matter of avoiding the blue to get to the green.
Suffrage, in my world, typically means clicking the “thumbs up” icon on Urbandictionary.com for some ghastly new addition to our vernacular. I did that today–shituation was particularly worthy of approval–but I also voted in the primary, for matters of ostensibly greater importance.
This is the first time I’ve exercised the right. The prior two races struck me as they’ve always struck me–contests to choose whichever old dude was less offensive. But the candidates this time are unique, and even though the trappings of the race may appear the same, from campaigning to mudslinging to scandal to vindication, the agents themselves are physically different. And in my mind this assures some kind of change, if only because the world will regard them differently.
Originally I had imagined the precinct to be a Draconian hellhole, papers strewn every which where with lines out the door, and much of this was informed by the coverage back in double-aught. I mean, I still don’t really know what “Hanging Chads” means, though it sounds like something the French might do in a town square on Guy Fawkes Day. In reality, I was out the door in under ten minutes. These modern voting machines are slick. Of course, I hope by November someone invents a Firefox plug-in for online voting. That would be even slicker. I’m trying to cut down on this whole walking thing.
Each job has its unique “Oh, shit!” moments, and as I was browsing the news today it occurred to me that nobody is exempt from this phenomenon. For Obama and the whole preacher imbroglio, two Wrights apparently do make a left, as the good reverend’s second round of coverage appears to have all but blunted that compelling speech on race from a few weeks ago. When you’re a presidential candidate, the moment comes, I believe, when the personal brand you’re building is suddenly thwarted by reality–and the present, along with the darker corners of your history, connects firmly with your chin.
For another politician, the moment might be forgetting, say, whether the hooker was paid with non-sequential twenties or went straight on the Starwood. Or perhaps you’re working the register and realize, minutes later, you gave way too much change. Maybe you screw up your lines. Miss your mark. Walk into a surprise quiz that seems to be surprising only to you. Cobble together an analysis based firmly on the wrong data, only to realize this during the presentation. That last one? Been there. And I’ve got to tell you, as far as explaining the bum numbers go, “’Cos the leprechaun told me” only works so many times.
It’s been a while since my last OS moment, so I’m not sure why this train of thought pulled into the brainstation today, or why it felt so comforting. I guess it’s this idea of assured fallibility. It’s only a matter of time, you know? Of course, by stating all this, I’ve no doubt invited a string of such moments onto my person, in which case we’ll need to employ the plural form: “Oh, shits.”