The Beauty of Congestion

 

without 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.”

This Town Is Crazy, Nobody Cares

 

Dear Beck,

Morning Phase is terrific. Thanks for making it! I enjoyed pirating it.

I debated doing this. I had heard the same, stern lecture from labels, the law and lack-wit fans who told of taking food off the table of artists who live off shekels they make playing notes for a living.

Then I saw This Is War, a documentary that’s supposed to be about the contract dispute between the Jared Ledo-led Thirty Seconds to Mars and EMI. But it really is a stunning examination of the record industry, which routinely signs artists who sell, literally, million of records and relinquishes, literally, not a cent to its artists.

More important than the latent corruption, however, were the larger x-ray results of a cell structure that’s become the music industry. They show an organism that has apparently grown an ass where its head should be. And vice versa.

Please find the enclosed check for $8. ITunes is charging $7.99, which seems awfully cheap. But if the largest company and the third-largest record label in America says that’s what it takes to turn a profit, who am I to question?

But I’ll send it to you, since you actually created the work. Feel free to divvy as you see fit between fellow musicians, back up singers, recording techs, crew — and of course, producers and labels. You may enjoy doing their math.

And keep the penny.

Sincerely,

Scott Bowles

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TepvZCzakkg

 

Make It Quick, or the Pinkie Gets It

Always have a set of ransom demands.

One, it forces you to grapple with life’s inequities and mysteries, to face the unseen-yet-apparent, to reveal how you view the world and, more importantly, how you’d right it.

Two, you never know.

Hence:

  • Bring back the following words, in the following context: “swell,” as in ‘That’s great,’ not as in ‘That’s enlarged;’ “sore,” as in ‘I’m sore at you,’ not, ‘I’m sore from you;’ “hoosegow” in place of jail — or anything. (it’s just a kick-ass word.)
  • Officially declare three a magic number.
  • Invent and make mandatory the front goddamned brake light: Why is it the only angle you can’t see whether a car is slowing down is when it’s coming straight at you?
  • Atheists: admit it’s a faith.
  • Faith: admit it’s a science.
  • Science: make pets outlive us.
  • Add the Prius to the list of douchebag cars, joining BMW’s, Range Rovers and the Hummer H3.
  • Ban seatbelt laws. Americans have the right to be stupid.
  • Change the national anthem to ‘America the Beautiful.’
  • Stop using “impact” as a verb; it’s not.
  • Adjust daylight savings time so regular people care: “jump back” at 6 a.m. on a workday and “jump forward” at 4 p.m. on a workday.
  • Redefine rich. If a) You can buy anything on a restaurant menu or b) You believed you could be anything as a kid; you’re rich.

For every demand that’s not met, a hostage gets it. Beginning with “impact.”

In the meantime, I claim the following words, just because I don’t want them prostituted by the vernacular

“foist”
“shenanigans”
“miscreant”
“goddamn (small g)”

Oops. The gun went off while I pistol-whipped impact. I hope that doesn’t affect life in the hoosegow.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aU4pyiB-kq0