You're Making Me Hate You (12 page)

Be comfortable. Be original. Be careful what you wish for. There are times and places to look your best and there are also those days when “screw this” is a great mind-set to have. Personally I try to merge those days as much as possible. Sure, you could set your watch to my sense of style, but hey, somewhere between Jeff Goldblum in
The Fly
and Doc Severenson from
The Tonight Show
, The Great Big Mouth abides. I don’t need leather or lace, silk or canvas, or anything that comes with an expiration
date. When all is said and done, I can rock the crowd in pajama bottoms, a Slayer T-shirt, my Scot’s golf cap, a
Star Wars
zip-up, and some checkerboard Cons.
Or
I can go all out and really try for something disturbing, like what I wore on Halloween at the Hammersmith Apollo six years ago.

Some of you remember. Don’t make me do it again.

USE YOUR FUCKING
turn signals.

That’s right: no build-up, no funny story, and no cool segue in which I save a puma from a blender that has suddenly become self-aware,
Terminator
style. We are diving directly into the deepest shit possible. It’s so simple and yet it seriously causes me fits of all-consuming, homicidal rage. I have honestly
followed
people to wherever they are going—or as far as the madness sustains me. One time I pulled into the driveway behind a particularly inept fuckhole behind the wheel of a Chevy Cavalier as they parked in their garage; I only left when it looked like they were going to dial 911. Another time long ago—I don’t remember the year but I remember it was December—I pulled a rage-brake so hard that I spun out in the middle of Valley West Drive. Luckily there was no one around to ram into—damnit … —but I was so angry that I forgot where the hell I was going in the first place. I couldn’t even remember why I was on the west side of Des Moines to begin with. All I knew was that I really
needed to pummel someone with the hood of my car. But seeing as I couldn’t do that, I sat perpendicular, blocking two lanes of traffic, gripping the faux-leather wrap of my steering wheel, biting back venom. Finally I just gave up my prior endeavor and instead went to the mall and bought action figures.

This is what your dumbass driving “skills” make me: a livid, forgetful collector—or hoarder, as my wife calls me—who has a tendency to fishtail in light snow at major suburban intersections.

All because you people can’t do something simple like pull up or down on a thin plastic/metal stem protruding from the side of your steering wheel,
well
within reach of those stupid little hands of yours. For fuck ball’s sake, its use and meaning for existing is in the name of the contraption itself! It’s a
turn
signal. You use it when you are going to fucking
TURN
! Not after you’ve already turned, not seconds before you make the actual turn, not incorrectly when you panic because you realize you haven’t signaled at all so you signal left but you’re actually turning right, and for that matter not bothering to signal at all. You use it when you turn. That’s why it’s named a fucking
turn signal
. This isn’t algebra. Shit, this isn’t even pressure to write a fucking haiku. It’s an example of only the most common of common-sense gestures.

I get it: you were too busy texting to pull on it. You were too busy turning to let me know you were doing so safely. You were too busy smearing Avon and mud on your face in an attempt to blend in with your “coworkers” to be bothered with that tawdry little function in your fucking Kia Sedona. Fine. But here’s the thing: when you don’t do something you are required to do for safety reasons while you are handling a motor vehicle, I don’t care what side of the fucking car you are on. SIGNAL THAT YOU ARE TURNING. I will definitely ram a motherfucker to
prove a point. And I know enough police officers who would agree with my reasons to get away with it.

As you might assume, this chapter is all about your garbage excuse for driving. Of course, you’ll understand that I myself am not included in these infractions. I am an impeccable driver—not one accident in all my years of firing up Detroit engines for transportation. The weird thing is, according to
everyone
I know, I’m one of the worst drivers to be in a car with. How the fish dick fuck stick does
that
work? No accidents on my record, no crazy Evel Kneivel stunts, no rolling from the car as I drive it toward a building full of bad guys, and yet I am the one they won’t get in a car with. You have got to be fucking kidding me. I know for a fact that some of these friends of mine have been in accidents that were
their
fault. I know for a fact that most of them have had their licenses revoked at
least
once in their lives. But I’m the big bad daddy long-legs scaring the children as blood flows red on the highway? Show me on the doll where that makes
any
sense …

There
were
a few little missteps: the speeding tickets, the parking tickets, the time I got pulled over and my car was searched because, and I quote, “You
look
like you take drugs, son. Of course I pulled you over.”
That
guy was a judgmental prick, but I got even. I made him get a warrant to search my car—made him sit there and wait with me until the warrant got there. Then I made no attempt to help him as he pulled my car apart, looking for drugs he “knew were there.” The officer who brought the warrant apologized to me. The other officer, who was older, tried to give me a ticket for speeding after the fact, but I contested it in court and won. The older cop was slapped with a warning for harassment. Nothing against any other member of the police, but if he’s out there … fuck you very much, officer.

So yeah, I’m a perfect driver in my own head. But aren’t we all? I think that’s where the problem stems from: the fact that we all think we’re great behind the wheel, kind of like how all guys think they’re awesome in bed and how all women think they’re fooling anyone when they say they don’t talk with their friends about how we are in bed. This is Hakuna Matada in its purest form. It is what it is, as I am prone to say at any given time during the day. It’s a lot like incompetence in a weird way. Someone who’s incompetent doesn’t
know
they’re incompetent because they don’t know what they don’t know, and even when it’s pointed out to them, they can either accept it or contest it with slang, slurs, and silly expletives. So yes, my furry friends: you all suck the butter stick at driving. But don’t let it get you down, because it’s a universal affliction.

Here’s something else that chaps my chowder: check your fucking mirrors and blind spot before you change lanes or make a turn. Some people just meander over without even seeing whether they’re clear. This is a case of “I’m the Only Driver on the Planet” syndrome. The turn signals go in that category too. But you know you’re dealing with one of these creatures when you’re tooling down the highway, doing fine with the car next to you … and suddenly you’re nearly being forced off the road by the pseudo Mad Max wannabe in the other lane who didn’t give a shit whether anybody was there or not. Then when they do realize that this is a public road and someone else is on it, they don’t give you a look of attrition; they look at you like it was
your
fault, like you snuck up on them even though they were behind you. Awareness is three-fourths of the issue when it comes to good or bad driving; the other quarter involves knowing what the car is capable of. Here’s a hint: it’s big as shit and has been known to kill. Figure it the fuck out.

If the roads were Crash-Up Derby, I wouldn’t give a square toss—I’d fly a plane and drop balloons full of feces on you as I cruised overhead. But the mean streets aren’t supposed to be that mean. They are lines between points A and B—means to an end, the way through the maze. You’d think with the awareness that roads are options and driving is a commitment, this would be simple physics. However, it all gets jumbled. It appears that awareness of the road and driving is optional with little commitment. That’s like forgetting to light a gas stove, sticking the turkey in, letting the house fill with gas, then firing up a cigarette.

Los Angeles can suck it when it comes to driving. Seriously.

That fucking city is packed with incredibly fucked drivers, every one of them oblivious, full of entitlement, and asking to get crushed under my wheels. It’s not like New York, where driving is a challenge and you hold on for dear life. It may terrify you, but you respect it in the Big Apple—it’s all about precision, timing, and speed. Oh, and a shitload of honking horns and screaming East Coast accents. I can back that shit all day. You know you’re going to have to deal with some crazy shit, so you prepare, but at least you know everyone else feels the same way. This is not the case in California, where “depending on how the energy feels,” an asshole in a Prius may not make a left turn all day because their chakras won’t allow it. These people make turns from THE MIDDLE LANE; as far as I’m concerned, they
earn
the dents in their fucking cars.

I finally figured out why people in LA drive like shit—it’s because they
walk
like shit. While I was making
.5: The Gray Chapter
, my wife and I were living in Venice. So I would go for runs on the boardwalk down by the beach. The upside to this was miles of twisting, turning, paved foot/bike paths, winding
along the coastline and offering you a wonderful view of some of the good shit California has to offer. The downside was enough to make me want to run to the end of the Santa Monica pier and jump in with an armload of free weights to make sure I bottomed out and drowned completely. These tracks would be littered with people just meandering about, looking at the sand or the sky or the skate shops in the market areas. If you remember the airport chapter, you know my feelings on people who just train off at the brain and give the appearance that they were just released from a basement dungeon loaded with shellshock. The people on the boardwalk make those people look like they’re running heated marathons. You try to run by them; they just casually get in your way. They
see
you coming they just think to themselves “fuck it” and spread out across the lanes like they are at a protest. Hey, Grandma! Get the Fuck out of my way! I don’t give a shit that you’re eighty-three—I made the mistake of eating Del Taco at four in the morning! I need to run this garbage off before I accidentally shit myself!

So the walking is reflected in their driving. You’ll be following some jerk off in his or her Corolla, wishing death on them because they’re cruising around at a healthy 23 mph, when suddenly their stupid brake lights come on, you nearly crush right into their ass end, and they begin the most painfully lackadaisical turn known to man or beast, not even using the turn signal until they are halfway through the intersection. No amount of honking, cursing, yelling, or gesturing of legal firearms can harsh their mellow. They didn’t even realize it was their turn until they got right on top of it. It’s times like these that make me wish I had a fucking flamethrower on hand.

Christ, I need to wipe my mouth: I’m frothing over here …

It’s a miracle to me that I don’t have more notches in my gun barrel. That’s not me admitting that I have a gun with notches
representing kills I may or may not be responsible for. “I have never killed anyone for being stupid.” I used those marks to denote a quotation, and that could have come from
anybody
, really. So as far as
you
know, “I do not have a gun with notches representing kills I may or may not be responsible for” … said someone, somewhere most certainly.

Let’s stay in California for a minute—if we really have to. Here’s another issue on the road I fucking loathe: people in “high-end” cars who feel the need to rev them up and float in and out of traffic. Now, when I say high end I don’t mean real high end, like your Ferraris, Porsches, Aston Martins, and whatnot. I mean Honda Accords with spoilers equipped with engines that sound like bored-out lawn mowers, complete with primer paint jobs and the giant window decal in Old English font that reads something
tough
like “REBEL” or “THUNDER.” You know the cars I’m talking about. I can almost
guarantee
that we all make fun of these dickheads on a regular basis. They zip in and out of the flow on the road, thinking we are impressed. The only thing impressed on us is the fact that the driver is a ball bag with a license.

You may be getting the idea that I dislike driving. This is not the case at all! I love being behind the wheel, floating down the road at a healthy clip, music cranked, windows down, letting the breeze keep me posted on how fast I’m actually going. I love driving, especially on the highway. Where most people seem opposed to long road trips, I positively love them. I used to go on long trips all the time. The highway is close to being the last place where you can get out on the concrete and fly with no restrictions outside of the usual speed limits and regulations. But notice I said “close.” I have to add this because of an affliction I call the “Left Lane Conspiracy.” In Britain and other places where the driving is reversed, you may call it the “Right Lane
Conspiracy.” But for now I’m going to describe it from an American perspective, so just convert on your own terms depending on where your life happens to hit the gas.