| Time to go |
[Nov. 23rd, 2009|12:36 am] |
Awright, dammit, now I'm pissed.
If I have one more itch, one more sniffle, one more fucking night tossing and turning trying to find just the right position to mouth-breathe so I can fall asleep, I'm abandoning the whole mess and moving the fuck out.
Something in this environment is slowly killing me. It seems I'm allergic to fucking air.
I hate Colerain Avenue. I hate this obviously mold/pollen-infested apartment. And tonight, just as I finally dropped off to sleep, my roommate decides to get on the phone with, I guess, his mom at 11:00 and talk, loudly I might add, just outside my bedroom door. I dunno, I guess that's the best place in the goddamn apartment he can get reception on the portable phone or something.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I disapprove of him calling his mom every night after work, but one, he never sat anywhere but the living room out of hearing range before. Two, she's hard of hearing, and three, he has a speech impediment making him hard to understand, so the combination of the last two make for relative shouting when he speaks.
I like the guy. Helluva roommate. But the time has come. Goddammit, I feel imprisoned here. I almost feel like I'm supporting him. He pays his way, on time, but he's getting old faster than I am (always sick or injured), and he has a low-paying shit job he has zero aspiration for climbing above. I'm afraid what will become of him should he have to look for another roomie, but at this point I don't care. If he doesn't want to improve, he's not gonna drag me down.
Jesus, reading that makes me look selfish. But this arrangement, the apartment, the mold and/or the pollen that's been spewing from the tree five feet from the central air system's intake are slowly killing me. I can't breathe, physically and metaphorically. |
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| The single cocoon |
[Nov. 7th, 2009|01:50 pm] |
Why am I single?
Because I'm used to it.
I've opined here before that I don't want to die alone. That's inevitable. We all die alone. I just don't want to die lonesome.
No, it occurs to me that I've been single so long because I got used to coming home whenever I pleased and cleaning only when the dirt physically threatened me. I went out every night for years and completely rejected all things female because of one stormy relationship. The bottle became my buddy.
Well, the bottle got kicked to the curb for 17 years. Yeah, now I drink again, but it ain't the pacifier I let it become once before. It was once a crutch, an excuse.
But what I'm finding out now is that any hint of trouble or drama sends me running, probably out of habit more than anything.
Yeah, I don't want to be lonesome, but I gotta learn to share a little more of myself. That cocoon was too comforting for too long. I've become good at listening, but I'm having trouble finding anyone who will listen. Maybe the problem is that I just don't recognize when someone is listening.
Have I rejected friendships subconsciously because I perceived listening as nosiness? Is this trouble or drama I perceive nothing more than interest I became habitually adept at rejecting?
Stay tuned. I'm < 4 years from coming out of my social isolation. Still just getting the hang of it.
I don't want that cocoon any more. |
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| Curious cause? |
[Oct. 12th, 2009|02:26 am] |
Insomnia. I'm growing familiar with it, especially on Monday mornings.
Why Monday? I don't know. I have no clue.
After last week became the third straight Monday morning of waking for seemingly no reason, I began to suspect outside forces. A noise. A car horn in the parking lot. An alarm in an adjoining apartment. All guesses. I have not been able to pinpoint it.
This morning I awoke. 1:30 A.M. I got up to use the rest room, and I could see that the lights from the living room/kitchen were still streaming in through the space under the door to my bedroom. In the minute I was in the rest room, the lights went out, and my roommate's bedroom was dark.
See, my roomie works second shift. He gets home after 10:00, and his cool-down time is afterward. I never have problems with this, as I usually go to bed around 9:30. I'm not always asleep when he gets home, but we usually respect each other by being quiet, I while getting up in the morning, and he when getting home at night. It works out well.
But now I've grown suspicious. The speed with which he turned out the lights and went quiet and dark is not like him. But then, maybe it was just coincidence. Maybe it was time to crash, and crash now, just at the precise moment I got up to use the rest room. Maybe I'm imagining he's up to no good and was afraid I'd catch him at it when he heard me get up.
But if he's the reason I'm waking every Monday morning, I'm gonna find that Frankenstein monster he's building and destroy it before it menaces mankind like it's already menacing me. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 13th, 2009|07:56 pm] |
Do not respond to this post.
Nothing here to see.
Move along. |
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| Riverfest |
[Sep. 7th, 2009|01:38 pm] |
Last night's fireworks show was awesome as usual.
I don't know how they do it, but Rozzi's Fireworks keep coming up with new stuff. Every year I think to myself "how are they gonna change it up this year?"
Maybe it's the synchrony with the music track. Maybe it's the knowledge that it's the last big festival of the summer. I dunno how they do it, but last night they wowed me. They shot more stuff off the bridges this year than they ever have. At times, with a wall of fireworks on three sides in front of us, it felt like being in a room full of fireworks. Like the station or not, when they shoot off fireworks that spell out WEBN, it's cool as hell.
Speaking of WEBN, the riverfront fireworks started in 1977 as a 10-year birthday party for a station that, at the time, was a hip free-form station (albeit already in the throes of the beginnings of corporate ownership in the 70s) much like what WOXY is now. The station decided to tow a barge up the river and set off fireworks in front of the Serpentine Wall in Cincinnati. They supposedly were expecting a few thousand people, and were surprised to have upwards of 50K show up. It has grown to include both sides of the river, and estimates every year put the head count around 500K nowadays. When the bright flashes illuminate the riverbanks and surrounding hillsides, I tend to think that number could be low. It's just a sea of humanity.
The early years were something of a free-for-all in the crowds. I like to compare it to a mini-Woodstock (to read the reviews of that concert) in that a sea of people descended on the park to have fun, get stoned, and watch things get loud. Folks climbed the flagpoles. They jumped off the bridges into the river. There were jugs of electric kool-aid. There was a people-toss, where 20 or so folks took turns holding a canvas tarp, counting to three, and tossing the next turn-taker as high into the air as possible. There was a group who brought little red wagons carrying kegs, stereos, and car batteries. Everyone staked out their area on the lawn with a blanket. The first year, a train stopped on the tracks (now inactive) that line the riverfront park, and 50,000 people had to crawl under or through the train cars to get out. :D
We got along well until the mid-80s when the redneck mullet contingent started wrecking things in alcoholic stupor, resulting in the banishment of alcohol from the fest. The crowds thinned a few years, but they're back to full strength, and everything seems relatively peaceful again. Of course, with crowds that size, there will be isolated incidents, but overall things run much more smoothly now.
What a great end to the summer festival season. |
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| Golf: a good walk wasted? |
[Sep. 5th, 2009|09:23 pm] |
The golf course can be a place to get away and walk off thoughts. Some times, like the last two times I played, the game itself can be thought-inducing.
The other night I played a course that's relatively wide open, at least for this area. Harbin Park's course in Fairfield is basically up, along, and back down a couple wide open hills with a smattering of trees. I started on the back nine, and six of my first nine holes had approach shots from beside, inside, or behind trees- the very few that are there.
I played Mt. Airy today, as a good tree-lined course will narrow my focus. Didn't help. Along about the fourth hole, my knee decided to buckle for no good reason. It gives no warning. It doesn't hurt nor is it injured. It just goes.
So I started to think about ballplayers and I realized why they suddenly decide to hang up the gloves, pads, or sneakers. One day you wake up and the body just refuses to work, at least consistently.
I know why golf is so popular. Every round is a microcosm of daily life. If something happens that undermines your confidence, you either learn to deal or things snowball. When the physical part starts to degrade, it means the mental part must pick up. I learned a lot about golf and life many years ago by reading a sports psychology book: Mental Toughness Training For Sports by Jim Lohr. You learn to keep track of your mental state as you play by tracking several statements on a written list immediately after playing, rating how you felt while playing on a scale of 1 to 5.
This checklist approach became second nature after a while, and helped me greatly when I went back to school. Golf as an analogy for life is not a stretch.
So I learned something the last two times out on the golf course. As I age and still want to play, I will have to work more on the mental game. Also, this aging thing affects life in general. I'm becoming forgetful. The hair's getting grayer, the teeth more crooked, and the belly bigger. The mental game has to be honed in life as well. I'm no spring chicken, and to stay ahead of the decline, the brain has to be exercised.
Dang it, now I want to play again. |
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| Is it fall? |
[Aug. 30th, 2009|08:31 pm] |
72 and sunny today. I had to go out and get some of this day all over me.
Played Mt. Airy and shot a 60. Rather respectable considering my knees and my elbow have been acting up. Caught up with a couple who were playing in front of me while they were looking for a lost disc. I found his after he found an orphan disc someone else had long ago given up on. I played along with them for the last seven holes after that. She had been throwing one of his discs up to that point (and doing quite well with it) and I suggested she try the one he found. She immediately started throwing straighter. I think I just introduced a casual golfer to the nuances of differing disc types. |
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| It's happening |
[Aug. 26th, 2009|05:27 am] |
The great Facebook meltdown has begun.
Everyone's so busy posting useless surveys, links, and updates, that the damn site doesn't work half the time any more.
I knew it. They can't keep up.
Ah, well, my time there is as limited as it is here. I wouldn't miss it if it blew up for good. |
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| Helluvit |
[Aug. 11th, 2009|08:29 pm] |
No reason. Just wanna post to see if anyone's there.
Work. Disc golf. Internet arguments.
Nothing much new here. |
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| *crickets* |
[Aug. 2nd, 2009|12:55 pm] |
Helloooooo.....
Anybody in here? |
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| A short story II |
[Aug. 1st, 2009|09:37 pm] |
Where am I? Whoa, what a dream. Or was it, is it still...? Last thing I remember, let's see, uh, yeah. My bike. I was in 10th gear with my brother chasing me.
No, wait. The dream. Last thing I remember was...
Shit, I'm confused. I gotta meet friends for disc golf tomorrow. Disc golf? Why does it seem like I made that up?
"Mom, what happened?"
"Oh, Russ, you took a bad hit on the head. We thought you wouldn't make it."
"Yeah, I remember waking up and passing out a bunch of times in the ambulance. But, wait, why was I riding my bike? And..., geesh, Mom, Ron is, was, is only like eight years old. What, where, how..."
"There, there, you probably had some hallucinations or something. You took a good hit. I'm so glad you woke up!"
How could that be? I remember Ron chasing me like it was 20 minutes ago. Wait, it was 20 minutes ago, I guess. I mean, I'm in the hospital, on a stretcher, and I remember fuzzy bits and pieces of the ambulance ride. Let's see, I was in 10th gear. I cut through the corner lot. There was a paper drive truck parked there. Then what? Oh, the driveway; the cut-through to St. Ann's church. There was a, what..., a car? It had to be. I hit the car, didn't I? I couldn't see him. So, accounting for the time I had to be down, and waiting for the ambulance, yeah, 20 minutes. Ow! My head! Man, I never had such problems with numbers or simple calculations give me a headache like that. Okay, so time doesn't matter. But I was just riding my bike. Why didn't I drive? And why was I going back home to my house on Jackies? My parents moved out of there 20 years ago. And Ron, why is, was, is he only 8? And my mom. Geesh, she looks younger than me.
"Mom?"
Why is my voice so high? Is it cracking? Yeah, that's right, it just started doing that last year with the whole puberty thing.
Puberty? Voice cracking? Bike?
"Mom? What, who, how did you get so young?"
"That's a strange thing for you to say, Russ, but thanks! Maybe I'll like these side effects if I could just get the doctor... NURSE!"
"Mom! They're busy. Can't you see all these stretchers out here in the hall? I'm not bleeding or anything, so they'll get to me soon enough."
That sounded remarkably strange and mature to me for a kid of 14. I was calming my mom down.
But, the dream. Was it? I'm 52, I'm not 14, right? Was it a dream? Now wait, I just figured out how long I was out. I hit my head. I could imagine a lot with a proper hit, right? Why am I being so analytical? In 14 years all I've ever done is ace science and math tests, ride bikes, and build models. Now I'm using the other side of my brain? How is it a 14 year old knows all this left/right brain stuff? Am I really..., did I dream..., I mean, I'm 52, not 14. What the hell?
"Mom, where is Ron's family? I mean, Denise, Rachel, Nick, Erik, you know, his wife and kids? Why, um, I mean, Mom, I'm confused. How is he 8? How am I 14? I celebrated every birthday for those kids. Now their father is younger than any of them? Mom, what happened?"
"Russ, You're scaring me. Try not to think about that." Now she was telling me to stay calm.
Now, let's think. I have a disc golf get together tomorrow. I'm gonna drive down to Mt. Airy Forest and play with friends I know from the internet, friends from the message board of an online radio station.
A station that doesn't exist. A game I've never heard of. The internet? Home computers more powerful than the ones running the NASA space program? And a car? Damn, I'm 14!
"Mom, can I go back to sleep?"
"No, the nurse gave you some stuff to keep you from passing out. They're afraid you may not come out of it. Try to stay awake, Russ."
"But, Mom..." I don't know what to say. Is this the dream? I mean, the 52 year old stuff, I remember all my experiences like I lived them all. Way more happened than what I remember in this 14 year old stuff. Yeah, I'm dreaming this hospital and the wreck again. I mean, the 52 year old me remembers the bike wreck 38 years ago. I had a concussion. They let me out of the hospital with just a headache and bruises. Dad had the bike fixed for only $13 and I was riding it the next week with its crooked front fork down the street with no hands. I remember the wreck scene. I was floating above it. I could see my brother racing up the street screaming. I remember Mr. Hagemann getting out of his blue '68 Corvair after I hit it. And Paul from the Tresler-Comet station was running over. I could see it all from above. Then I woke up in the ambulance the first time.
"Mom?"
"I'm here."
Then out again. Then waking up again. And out. In and out for what seemed like 20 times during the three minute ride to the hospital.
And then, the weirdness started happening. Was it just puberty? I started 10th grade shortly after that. My birthday is in July, so I'm always the smallest and youngest in class. Now, here I was in the Big School. Second year of high school, but in those days 7th through 9th grades were in another building. There were hundreds of kids in the Big School I didn't know. Half of us came from Colerain Junior High, and the other half from White Oak. And my voice was changing. And girls, well, they looked different. Made me feel funny. And my head was doing analytical things. I was thinking more about where I was in the world, what my purpose was. I didn't care as much for the science and math, although it still came to me like falling off a log.
The weirdness. The high school. Puberty. It was all in the past, right? But here I am in the hospital, 14 again. I just wrecked my bike. Again?
"Mom, I gotta tell you something. I think I had a dream. I mean, I know I had a dream, but it was so real. I lived 'til I was 52. Ron got married first, then Jan, then Ray, and then Mark. Jan got divorced and remarried. I never did. Dad died. You live in a condominium now."
"Russ, just stay calm. The doctor's coming."
She wasn't listening. She was busy trying to convince herself the doctor was coming to me next. It doesn't matter, though, because this is the dream, right? I mean, I did live 52 years, didn't I? I've never dreamed anything like that. Dreams are spacey. They fade in and out and make no sense. My 52 years were real. Smells, sounds, feelings.
But this, this is real. I can feel this cold vinyl cot. I see the hallway full of stretchers. Why is this place so busy? I hear the sounds. They're not morphing and changing like dreams do. How did I get back to 14 again?
Continued...?
©Frizgolf Press 2009 All rights reserved.
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| Laid |
[Jul. 29th, 2009|06:25 am] |
It's no secret. It's been a while.
A long time ago, I made up my mind I wasn't gonna just Get Laid. I was gonna find the right girl and fall in love first.
I had a girlfriend. We were young. I thought it was love. Maybe my Catholic upbringing and the requisite guilt played a part during and after that relationship, but I vowed to not be the hound I saw my friends as being.
Trouble is, there was image. I played along. I always talked a good game. Can't look all ghey in front of my girl-hopping friends, right?
Oh, I used to take it as a compliment when folks would think I was just another wolf.
"You'd fuck that, right?"
"Oh, yeah, bend 'er over and horse-fuck her 'till my balls flapped off her stomach!"
"Hah, hah!"
"Hah, hah!"
*grabs beer in a manly way*
And so on for much too long.
I suppose I brought it upon myself by playing along out of fear of looking abnormal all these years as I hear it today. I'm 52 years old. I really don't give a fuck what people think of me any more, and when buddies give me that ol' familiar elbow and a wink when the voluptuous babe walks by, I know they expect ol' Russ to nod in approval. *wink* "Yeah, buddy, I would, too" is what they wanna hear.
Well, I'm sick of the facade. Maybe there's really something wrong with me, but, no I don't want to bend her over, ol' buddy. No, not just now. I really want to see her smile. I want to know what she's thinking. I like her shoes. Her hair. That dress. And if she smiles back at me and actually wants to talk to me, that gives me just as much of a thrill as any of those imaginary conquests of the past could ever muster in my mind.
Damn. Looking back, had I felt all along like I do now, I know I'd be ahead of the game and have no doubts. Young. Image-conscious. Afraid (homophobic?) of looking like less of a man should I admit I wanted to fall in love before ever having the audacity to show off my junk. Today, I don't care what people think. Fuck 'em.
And the next guy who elbows me in the ribs and says "eh?" when he catches me looking may well get a piece of my mind.
Blargh. I'm tired of being lumped in with all the cock hounds of the world. It makes me feel so... primitive. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 19th, 2009|10:38 am] |
I sometimes wonder if the time I spend wishing I was happily hooked up with a Soul Mate (whether such a thing even exists) matches or exceeds the time married folks spend wishing they were single again.
I'm a slob.
I sleep in.
I disc golf constantly.
I go to shows when I want.
You know, etc.
Even the ideal Soul Mate would have to be mighty tolerant. |
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| Missouri breaks |
[Jul. 9th, 2009|10:02 pm] |
Off to Columbia, MO for three days. I'll have no internet. Just a cell phone.
A long drive, some disc golf, meeting up with friends of up to 25 years, and picking up some massive supplies of New Belgium beer, should all be good for the soul.
I need some time off to clear the mind.
See you all back around here Monday. |
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| Hope. |
[Jul. 8th, 2009|06:09 am] |
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Well, it's official. I can go back to not giving a damn any more. |
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| Hope |
[Jul. 6th, 2009|06:31 am] |
Yeah, hope. It's a strange wellspring of emotion, and it manifests weirdly.
So, yeah, a year and a half ago I gave up hope. Not once, but twice.
This year I found out that giving up on hope doesn't make it go away. Oh no. It comes back. With a vengeance.
So the hope built again from the ashes of the last time I'd trusted it. I wondered "dare I trust it again?"
Well, like a fool I did. What kept it from crashing harder this time was the fact this cycle repeated. Yet another dashed hope from winter '07 reappeared. You'd think that right after re-trusting and re-losing an old dashed hope, that I'd resist it happening again, especially right on the heels of the last restored, previously-thought-to-be-forgotten hope.
See, that's the problem. I never had a chance to let go and curse away the previous restored hope when the next restored hope popped up.
Following this?
1. Met girl. Clicked amazingly. Too well.
2. Met another girl immediately after #1 left.
(I'll spare the rehash. Go back and read February & March '08 entries.)
3. Girl 2 contacted this spring. Date set. She cancels.
4. Girl 1 contacted after #2 cancels. Date set. She cancels.
Both times, last year and this spring, I barely had time to deal with hope bending me over and breaking it off when it was picked right back up and restored with the next opportunity.
Now the crash is gonna happen again, and I know what that felt like last year after the double whammy finally washed over me.
It's double again. Hope lost, picked right back up, and *crash* again.
This hope. What is it? Did I exorcise it last year, or is the fact it rekindled (twice) a precursor to a harder drop this time? |
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| D8N |
[Jul. 5th, 2009|09:24 pm] |
Disc golf today.
We were kinda afraid it would be too sloppy to play with all the rain we got yesterday, so we decided to head to Dayton and play Belmont today. On the way, we stopped at a drive-through joint to get a sandwich off the Route 73 exit of I-75. The road off 73 was called Sharts road. I giggled like a ninth grader. Heh, heh. Sharts. Who would put a restaurant on Sharts road?
The course was surprisingly dry. We chose Belmont because from past experience it's usually the easiest to play after rain. Good drainage and lots of grass. But the dirt was bone dry. Apparently Dayton was spared the wrath of the rain clouds.
Had a relatively good round. Gotta work on the putting. I threw my best shot of the day just screwing around. I'd already thrown a tee shot on the 18th hole, and with my bag on my shoulder I threw a second tee shot, a sidearm right to the pin. I should use that shot more often.
We topped it off by trying a Mexican place we'd never been to on 725 in Springboro called Las Piramides. Pretty good chow. Had chicken nachos and a Dos Equis dark lager. Mighty tasty finish to a good day. I sprung for the tab since my buddy always drives. He likes his air conditioner better than mine I guess.
Now I just gotta watch out for those sharts. :D |
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| A short story |
[Jul. 4th, 2009|11:52 pm] |
Such a delusion. Such a great parlor trick.
Oh, I've figured it out. It's a test. Life here on Earth is an illusion. I'm being led to believe there's love, life and happiness, and that people find each other with the merest ease. I'm to believe there's a man for every woman, a woman for every man. Happily ever after and all that.
But I know what's going on. I know that if I fall for it I'll lose my soul. If I resist and die single, having never fallen for the made-for-my-mind trap that supposedly all humans embrace, I will have won, right?
It's the only explanation. It's the only way to reason why what seemingly occurs naturally everywhere else in this (fake) world eludes my grasp. It's all a test. I'm experiencing, lo actually touching and feeling, this world you all call home. Well, it's worked well so far, but I'm on to you people. When I "die" and awake from this induced test, I'll have passed the scrutiny of my analysts performing these experiments.
Yes, the ones who fall prey to mere carnal lust and animal urges are doomed to repeat their mistakes through reincarnations of their earthly souls until they finally get it.
Well, I got it. I'm ready. I may live another 40 of your Earth "years" or I may "die" tomorrow, but I now rest assured that I've finally solved the riddle of damnation. I shall no longer commit myself to mere animal urges. I'm ready for whatever further purpose my illusory experts have in store for me.
Please, Earth people, friends, members of my elaborate illusion, continue to tempt me with tales of culinary delights, travel destinations, or a love that transcends all. But I now know it all to be a farce. An act. A program, delusion, a work of art so convincing it took me all of almost 52 of your Earth "years" to realize.
My uncles were the smart ones. The oldest siblings of my mom and my dad both left this Earth, or illusion if you will, intact of such common carnal animal desire. I am but a legacy. It was meant to be. We're rare, we legacies. We have a further purpose. We carry the gene, in your earthly parlance, to be able to recognize this passage to another form of being. And so it shall be. I embrace the transition, whenever the illusionists see fit to bring it upon me.
Fare well, my friends. I thank you for encouraging me. I thank you for sharing your tales of sensory delight while I partook of this most vivid test of my will. I hope that your souls, as they appear to me now in this experiment, will each find their way through this earthly grittiness to their own ultimate purpose. It appears the soul needs to be recycled enough to come to a realization, and I now find peace in that discovery. I shall continue to partake of the earthly delights as I walk among you. When my further meaning is realized, I shall speak well of all your souls.
©Copyright Frizgolf Press 2009. All Rights Reserved. |
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| Apartment life |
[Jul. 4th, 2009|09:22 pm] |
I'd heard it for years. "Russ, when are you gonna buy something? You're throwing your money away renting!"
Well, I'm not so sure. The money I spend in rent would be easily covered in maintenance expenses on anything I may have bought. At the very least the taxes on a lot of homes come close to what I pay for rent. (I have a roommie.)
To paraphrase Mitch Hedberg, "I went to Apartment Depot the other day. It's just an empty warehouse where we all stand around and say 'we ain't gotta fix shit!'"
So not only do I not have taxes or maintenance expenses to worry about, when something breaks I just call the landlord and have it done for me. I never shovel snow. Don't have to mow grass. Never clean leaves out of the gutters. Never have to paint, fix concrete steps, repair broken windows, etc... you get the idea.
It's worth it to me to pay monthly for peace of mind. The only thing I lack is a garage where I can park the convertible and do maintenance on the cars.
I'm spoiled now. I've been in apartments so long I don't know if I'd even want to have a house even if it was given to me. I've become too accustomed to lack of maintenance. I've only shoveled snow once in 30 years. Plus I'm too close to retirement now to open a long mortgage, not to mention too old to be climbing ladders and hauling bricks or tree branches around.
Nope. I'm gonna take that money I saved on house maintenance and taxes to buy a house boat and dock it in a canal somewhere in the Florida Keys when I retire. Maybe I can afford a Checkmate boat too, so I can get the hell outta Dodge when the hurricanes come. |
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| Road Rage Chronicles |
[Jul. 4th, 2009|08:55 pm] |
The Leader Of The Pack
You've seen the one. The driver who Can't Be Last. He passes you on the freeway and slows when he gets in front of you. So you go to pass and he speeds up again.
You gotta fake him out. Stay back until he gains on someone else in the lane, then you downshift to pass 'em both at the same time. Most times this cures him, especially if you have a chain of Nascar buddies drafting you as you pass 'em. Every once in a while, you just can't shake him, and you gotta pick your time to rev it up a few notches to put some distance between you.
The Pack Leader manifests himself on ordinary side roads as well. He's the one driving 5 MPH under the speed limit when you're behind him on a two lane road. But if you should follow him when he turns onto a four-lane, guess who suddenly finds the gas if you should change lanes to pass him? Oh yeah, the Pack Leader, the Control Freak.
There's something about this tendency. There's a book to be written. If Freud was alive today, road rage would consume his studies. You've all experienced the driver on the expressway who races from behind you only to dart in front of you to get off an exit. It's like there's some cosmic scoreboard keeping count of cars passed and we're not all in on it. Gotta. Pass. One. More. Before the exit.
He's thinking "I Must Not Be Last. I win. You lose." Somewhere in this loser's life there's a lack of control, so he's gaining it back by reassuring himself that as long as there's someone in his rear view mirror, he has some small modicum of control left in his life. He has won. No bird, no hand signals, no horn from you will ever change that. He's not doing so well everywhere else, so behind the wheel is the only place he has any sense of control.
©Copyright Frizgolf Press 2009. All Rights Reserved. |
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