It’s not in the news much anymore—unlike the 1990s in particular—but “road rage” is still a fixture of urban and suburban living. It’s so commonplace that an excitable but no-imagination public has moved on to saucier topics like non-binary bathrooms and Zoomer men who allegedly have no interest in getting it on—bang a gong!—with live females.
Last week, my wife was dropping me off at the Splice Today office (a grungy one-floor space cluttered with water bottles and empty Amazon boxes) in Baltimore and as always took a shortcut through an alley between St. Paul and N. Charles Sts. Near the exit was a parked car, like a dead skunk in the middle of the asphalt, and Melissa gave a friendly courtesy wave to the motorist, signaling that pulling over several feet would be nifty. The lady rolled down her window and screamed, “You entitled piece-of-shit cunt, just drive on the sidewalk! I’m not moving! Can’t you see I’m an elderly cripple!”
She was middle-aged—I figured 50 or so, though a rough-looking cunt—and wasn’t handicapped as was clear when she stepped out of her presentable auto, ready to rumble. “I’ll beat your ass any day, bitch, why don’t we have a drag race.” She could’ve been in drag, and entitled, but we figured it was best to let her melt into a puddle and not take the bait. Melissa, on occasion, gets feisty when encountering A Moving Violator (minus the vulgarities), but it was early in the day and she went the Friday Morning Isn’t Alright For Fighting route. And, as is usually the case with drooling loudmouths, of any economic station, the woman (who wasn’t, swear to God, cradling a bottle of Wild Irish Rose), backed off, moved her car and that was that.
I was deposited at the office, had a curbside smoke, and then dialed my sister-in-law Mary in Santa Barbara for a catch-up. She was appropriately wowed hearing the bulletin that I now own five cuckoo clocks, the latest (one with Pinocchio and Geppetto in starring roles, flanking the wooden chains) a much-appreciated birthday gift. The day before, my brother, who cracks up when we’re talking and one of the birds sings, joked that maybe I’m going a little cuckoo. I reminded him that I came out of the womb in 1955 with Cuckoo DNA. He gave a trans-Atlantic nod, and we segued into speculation about how Putin—who hasn’t yet seen the whites of Trump and Bibi’s eyes—is going to exploit the Mideast conflagration, if he’s so inclined, which you’d expect he is. Zelensky, now the Invisible Man, didn’t merit a mention in our half-hour chat.
Is “road rage” a first-cousin to “roid rage”? Could be. My son Nicky and I were at Yankee Stadium for Game Two of the 2000 World Series, remembered for Yankee Roger Clemens throwing a broken-bat splinter at the taken-aback Mike Piazza and then huffing and puffing back to the mound. The Rajah (who, like Barry Bonds and Curt Schilling, should be in MLB’s tainted Hall of Fame) was a character even when he wasn’t on the juice, which he still denies. I remember watching Clemens, in the cinematic fourth game of 1990’s ALCS, Boston vs. Oakland, wearing “war paint” on his face and getting tossed by the home plate ump in the third inning for telling him to “keep your fucking mask on.” What a commotion, and since the A’s always beat the Sox in Clemens’ time with Boston, it was a silver lining to Oakland’s sweep.
The photo above is of my mom, at 43, behind the wheel of our new fire-engine red Valiant. Unlike my dad, a fearless driver (and patient wingman when teaching his five boys how to drive and change a tire), mom was tentative on the mostly sleepy roads of Long Island. When I was a kid, there were sneering (no road rage) open-window jibes, like “Sunday driver” and “Get a horse!” Mom paid no attention and continued on our run to five different supermarkets (none of them government-run), chosen for the coupons she’d clipped in The Pennysaver. She loved to gab, anyplace, anywhere, and often on Southdown Rd. or Main St. she’d see a friend, slow down and exchange long-winded pleasantries. I’d get irritated, but abided by driver’s rules. One more note: my parents never swore. When vexed, on rare occasions, mom would exclaim, “Damnation!” or “Oh, Hades!”
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: John Barth’s The Sot-Weed Factor, Agatha Christie’s The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding, Roald Dahl’s Kiss Kiss and Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham are published; Ian Rankin is born and Richard Wright dies; W.D. Snodgrass wins the Poetry Pulitzer; Arnold Palmer wins the Masters Tournament; Celtic Ash takes the Belmont Stakes; Rafer Johnson is the A.P.’s Male Athlete of the Year; Elvis’ “Stuck On You” is RCA’s first mono/stereo release; Neil Young (14) founds band The Jades in Winnipeg; Jane Lynch is born and Margaret Sullavan dies; Etta James’ At Last! and Miles Davis’ Sketches of Spain are released; Johnny Preston’s “Running Bear” is a smash hit; Ben-Hur wins 11 Oscars; and the first Domino’s Pizza is opened, in Ypsilanti, Michigan.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023