Imagine you call a friend, just to see what’s up.

You ask what she’s doing. She explains she’s sitting in a leather chair, sipping almond mocha coffee, jamming to this haunting tune by Chris Cornell.

You’re envious, right? Now, put her in bumper to bumper traffic.

You’re so glad you’re already at work, right?

But why? When it isn’t urgent, when little is actually on the line, why is a traffic jam as loathed as a root canal? Particularly when we know we’ll come across it, which is all the time.

I realized this when foul weather forced me to abandon the bike for a cage. Even a mini clown car like the Fiat feels like a tractor trailer.

Yet I also knew, from zipping by the idle on the bike, that I’d have to face life in the stopped lane. I’m fatally punctual, anyway, so I gave myself more time than I needed. Stopped at Circle K for a Diet Coke. Chose my favorite playlist. And hit the 405.

What a sight. Such anger. Impatience. People cutting me off to get two lengths ahead and slam the brakes? To get where? A cubicle at work? A couch at home? What makes 5 mph such torture?

It was cold, but sunny. I cranked the heat, opened the sunroof, which beheld true daylight, straight to the face. And the song was right — Cat Stevens’ Tea for the Tillerman. And I sipped the soda, took a bite of donut, and thought: is this not what we’d like to be doing when we reach our destination? More likely: could what awaits us at the end of this drive be far less enjoyable?

“Beautiful Day” came through Random/Shuffle fate. All I could think is: When you’re in such a rush to get somewhere, how do you see the Santa Monica Mountains in the backdrop?

I’m sure I’ll forget this the next time I’m five minutes late for dinner. I shouldn’t, but that zen moment is as fleeting as an open highway.

What truly provoked such peacenik blathering was the sight when I returned home. I was in the drive-through (which should be called the Scott-through) on Balboa Blvd. when I saw a Breaking Bad-style RV, with these words spray-painted in black — not stenciled or straight, but as if the RV had been tagged:

GET OFF THE ROAD OR OFF YOUR PHONE!

He barely fit all the words across the length of the mini home. Stranger still: all the windows were open, including the back. There, a cute, scruffy mutt (perhaps a shepherd mix) with a red bandana sat in the seat, furthest back, simply pant-grinning and looking forward. Not lolling his head out, not sniffing the world as it passed. Just beamed forward, as if aware he’d scored a chauffer.

And I wondered. What is this, this form of road rage? Did you get hit by a guy talking on his cell phone? Do you hate technology, like Saul’s brother? Did you accidentally sext your boss?

Regardless, it seemed an odd mix of warmth and venom. As if to say, “Hey, you on the phone! Fuck you! And say hi to my dog, Bob Barker!”

And I don’t think he understood how easily anger can undercut your message. All I could think in the car was, “God I wish I had my camera phone.”