wideeyedfunk

Category: Social Commentary

The world would be simpler if everyone just lived my way.

  • Packing Beets (Beats?)

    The WideEyedSpouse and I faced each other across a bin full of iced up, dripping beet bundles. Hundreds of other beet bins were slushing around behind me in the warehouse. Always interesting to see what’s on the docket at the food bank.

    We volunteer on Saturday mornings once a month or so. I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m grateful to have food no matter what. Maybe because I think everyone owes society something.

    I’ve repacked macaroni from massive pallet size boxes almost 5 feet tall into small 8 ounce bags. I’ve shifted weird collections of donated dry goods – cereal, cookies, crackers, whatever not-quite-expired off-brand stuff stores donate – into family sized boxes.

    This time, we were repacking beets. I like beets just fine, but let’s be real honest with each other. Beets are not first on anyone’s list.

    While I folded leaves over and shoved bunches of beets into their plastic mesh sacks, I thought about the folks getting the beets. I know they will be healthier for fresh food. Beets are powerhouses.

    Beets can be delicious. Beets also taste kind of like dirt and the root and the leaves require a certain intensity of preparation. With every sack I filled, and I alone filled dozens, maybe a couple of hundred I don’t know, it’s all lost in a red juice, icy water haze, I heard the recipient saying, sort of sadly, “oh boy, beets.”

    Maybe some folks did say that. And I sure put positivity in every sack.

    At the packing table with us, a bunch of kids from a local private high school were packing beets, too. They were quick, and my goodness did they talk. They sounded like a flock of birds, high and quick voices, ceaselessly chattering. It was charming. We learned about their friends, their rooms, their upcoming class trip. So much more and I bet they didn’t think we’d listen.

    They carefully shook all the icy water from the beet leaves – onto each other. The kid who showed up late got the worst of it. Sometimes five bunches of beets got shaken on him. I was collateral damage a lot. Somehow the WideEyedSpouse never got it. He stood clean and tall and inviolate. I was specked with beet sauce.

    Anyway, we packed beets and bounced and nodded along with the radio blaring from across the warehouse. Crunch, crunch – leaves shoved in half. Stuff, stuff – beets pushed into mesh bag. Bounce, bounce – carry empty beet bin over to the trash to dump out remaining ice and leaf waste. Bang! On the dumpster along with the beat to knock it clean.

    The spouse and I sang along, hummed, smiled at each other. The radio was tuned to an oldies station, late 1980s and early 1990s rap. It was wonderful. “I left my wallet in El Segundo. I got to get it. I got, got to get it” we sang together.

    In a lull between the beats (commercial break), I overhead our table mates talking about the music. “This would be waay better if we could pick the music.” I bet you could change the station I thought, but why would you?

     “Man,” the tallish kid with red hair said, “this is such grandpa music.”

    Oh. Sigh.

    Well, maybe I shoved the next bunch of beets into their sack a little harder.

  • Aggressive decency.

    Most days I tell myself, today feels good. Birds chirp during morning dog walks. Hankie Smalls the Corgi and Miss Tibbit the Useless Little Black Dog – innocent and protected – are untroubled by politics, economics, or impending societal collapse. They are cheerful and hopeful every single morning. Interesting adventures in the confounding universe await. They smile at me and expect love back. So I smile and feel good, breathing deeply in the cold, hydrocarbon scented city air.

    Then comes the newspaper. The morning news on the car radio. The news synopsis emails. The Facebook feeds. From them I learn who died and how. Who was assaulted, harassed, or disempowered. Who has had their legal rights, access to medicine, or control over their own bodies stripped from them in the night as our political leaders sneak sly, lobby-fueled, religion-fired legislation into the system. The senators must be tiring of my letters.

    Ugh. I grit my teeth and work through it, distracting myself with the minutiae of academic program management and research.

    Time is passing and green stuff is sprouting in the garden. I pruned the pear trees and the blackberry canes. When the snow melts, hah, it is blizzarding right now!, when the snow melts I’ll trim the ornamental grasses.

    But it bothers me every day, who am I to take joy in the universe, in the fresh cold morning, and the coming spring? Humans keep on revealing their inherent awfulness, and I feel powerless to mediate the impacts.

    Is being kind enough? Is growing a garden, petting some dogs, and writing to the powerful enough? Here’s what I think: these things aren’t nothing and every positive action, every tiny commitment to decency contributes to the greater good. The plan: grit my teeth, carry on, and smile while I shove decency down the throats of the asshats. Er. I mean that figuratively, of course I do.

    Here, look at the picture of the happy corgi with me and we’ll all feel better…

    IMG_1355_3-14

  • Independence Day.

    Thanks to the bold minds and brave signers of the Declaration of Independence, and their willingness to see it through we are here now:  equal, free of abuses, repeated injuries,  and usurpations from Government, free of a Government which refuses to pass laws, free from the obstruction of justice, free of taxation without representation…er.

    Ok.

    Well.

    Thanks to the bold minds and etc. etc. were here now: basking in a glorious summer day of picnics and simply joys. The people of the WideEyedHousehold came of age in one of the New Jersey shore towns, working to serve the holidays of one hundred thousand city-folk. Now, we wallow in the quietude and privacy of a day of independence, without obligation.

    Sweet Tibbit the Useless-Little-Black dog waits patiently for more raspberries to ripen on the thicket in back yard. She already harvested all within reach using her front nibble teeth, stretching her neck, balancing her dainty toes on the edges of the raised beds to reach more. Hamish watches, pretty sure this is Not Allowed but not sure enough to administer chastisement.  I rescued enough for yard-raspberry French-toast for breakfast.

    SmokedThe WideEyedSpouse hovers over the bounty of his 16-hour overnight pork shoulder smoke. Ten pounds of darkly barked smoked pork await conversion into pulled pork sandwiches, tacos, omelets, pizzas, stews, Shepherd’s pies, burritos, lettuce wraps, grilled cheeses, soups, stir-frys – who knows what desperate lengths we’ll go to.

    The baby-toe cactus and the Venus-fly-trap feel it too, exploding with vegetation regeneration in mad blooms, and yes, picnicking in the case of the fly-trap. A desiccated gnat carcass is revealed as one trap slowly reopens in the morning sun.

    Plants

    I stand on the freshly scrubbed front porch, watching the flag undulate lazily over the bees tending their lavender in the garden. Main Street is quiet for once. Instead of driving here and there, bustling and hustling, the Good People of Buffalo seem to be taking the day. The park was full this morning of bikes and kids and dogs and golfers. We weaved and bobbed among them all on the park loop until my bike chain broke – creeee-clank – and then we walked with them.

    Flag

    Independence Day.

  • Voting feet.

    So…the WideEyedHousehold had to leave our archery league.

    Not because of my broken wrist: the little bones in there are cemented back together after several months. I get an exciting zing every time I release the bow string, adds to the thrill of the moment. And, not because the Spouse’s reconstructed clavicles feel like marbles rolling around in his shoulders – although apparently they do. Lesson: don’t fall down when riding a bike. Twice.

    We’ll still probably stick arrows in the archery butt in the dining room. Maybe. We’ll see.

    The thing is, we had a choice to make. A family-level ethics choice. The choice centered on the issue of tolerance. The WideEyedHousehold runs on tolerance. People have their own ways and it is not my business to re-educate the Spouse when he makes the bed wrong (I do not like it when the sheet pattern is in the wrong direction) and it is not his to help me be a crumb-less eater in his car (he can’t help but watch, fretful and worried, when I have nibbles on road trips).

    A member of our former archery league is a self-proclaimed universal hater. He invents new words and glories in the use of antiquated terms for people who are not like him. After particularly vituperative language bursts, the Spouse would say “Hey now, that’s not necessary.” I would say nothing because I didn’t know what to say. I’m a member of two, maybe three different hated groups . Instead I turned my back and disassociated, trying to be tolerant of this other way of life.

    I don’t get to tell people how to behave in a free society. Do I?

    Last week the Spouse and I realized at the same time but not together – simultaneous private musings fueled by kindred ethics I suppose – that we could not tolerate this any longer. Other members of the league have made their peace with this person’s perspective – or they agree with it. The Spouse and I cannot. We do not.

    It happened for me after the hater used offensive terms to describe women, people of color, indigenous people, and gay people in one long sentence and no one, including me, said anything. I’m not cool enough to say “Oh hey now, that’s not necessary.” If I had opened my mouth I would have attempted to tell this person how to behave. I would have stripped him of his dignity to defend someone else’s.

    I don’t get to tell people how to think and speak in a free society.

    I do get to vote with my feet. The people in the group are good and nice with families and well-paid taxes and caring attitudes. But. I can’t be a part of a group that tolerates open hatred. I can’t tolerate it myself. I am ashamed it took me two years to recognize that staying was tacit approval. Thanks feet, for voting.

  • Not cold in the library.

    I don’t get out much and when I am out and about my interactions with Other People are confusing. Confusing for me because these days I’m not super great at tracking communications unrelated to my work. Confusing for them because I am entirely unpredictable in my responses. For me the Other People seem like a radio station fritzing in and out. I respond to the portions I comprehend. Recipe for weirdness.

    But. Sometimes my difficulties are surpassed.

    The WideEyedSpouse and I were at the Central Library downtown on New Year’s Eve (Friends, this is how I ring in the New Year. With books.) The Central Library is a tricksy place filled with lunching corporate workers, homeless people in from the cold, retired people, people on long bus layovers, and kids. I keep my eyes to myself and my hand on my wallet – always good business in any city or university library.

    I waited for about three-fifths of my lifetime for the person ahead of me to do the self check out. He kept getting his two books and library card out of his library sack and checking out first one, then the other book. He’d pick up the sack handles and start to move away. Pause for thought. Rescan library card. Check out one, then the other. The first two times I was fooled but I’m a quick learner and I stood patiently waiting for him to work through his OCD. I gazed into the middle distance and listened to the whir of the escalator behind me.

    The OCD patron got through his cycle and I stepped up with my stack of sci-fi, romance, memoirs… I set them on the gray check out reader pad and scanned my library card. Beep. The air to my left moved in an unexpected way and I looked up swiftly but not, I assure you, like prey –  “Hi. I’m Matt,” announced a youngish male-person with a dark blue stocking cap. His voice was a little breathy, he was nervy about something. He smiled and tilted his head, maybe showing me his swirly neck tattoo. He had agreeable teeth. Not at all crystal methy. So I answered. “Hi Matt, what can I do for you?”

    “Are you cold?” he asked me. I wasn’t. In fact I was wearing a heavy wool coat, snow boots, and a scarf. Interesting, I thought to myself. “No. Not particularly. Why do you ask?”

    Young Matt looked at me like I wasn’t super bright and said, “You’re wearing a skirt. You’re the only girl in here wearing a skirt today and it’s cold outside.” I looked at him while I thought about my answer. Maybe Matt was a young anthropologist from another time or place (in human disguise?) and he was interviewing to understand Downtown Buffalo (Earth?) cultures. Maybe Young Matt was often cold himself and just had to know how I could stand it. Maybe Nefarious Matt’s buddies were circling around to grab my purse or, longshot, maybe he was hitting on me. It was impossible to interpret from his open and cheery attitude. So I answered him, “It isn’t too bad today. It gets uncomfortable on super windy days, so I don’t wear a skirt then,” I smiled at him and gathered up my checked out books.  “Oh,” he started, and then was gone. I didn’t see him leave – I looked to my right to see if he had moved around the book check station and there was the WideEyedSpouse, approaching with big booted strides, looking even taller and bigger than usual in his winter boots and coat.

    The Spouse pretty clearly scared off Curious Matt. I was happy to see the Spouse, as always, but now I’ll never know what was happening in that conversation.

  • Revolution Style | Look Your Best During NSA Interrogation!

    Our government has failed us and it is time to oust the dysfunctional ruling body and call for a revolution, but we don’t want to be caught in the wrong outfit when the NSA comes for us, do we girls?! Make sure you have on pieces that leave you comfortable and put together after days in an unmarked NSA detention cell! You’ll look fresh and fashionable in “who’s this criminal?” NSA instagrams and you’ll be ready for your CNN interview as soon as you’re released!

    The Dress – An unstructured, lined silk with ¾ sleeves and a fanciful pattern in a darker palette won’t bind up, won’t show blood stains after you’ve been slapped around, and silk is tough! A quality silk can take rough wooden benches, handwashing in toilet bowls, and won’t rumple past a certain “I’ve been up all night” élan!  The ¾ length sleeves will keep you warm during cold phases of environmental torment and can be pushed up when the heat is on! Be sure to find one with a charming lining, you can remove it and have two dresses – one to wash and one to wear! I like Anthropologie’s Isle of Skye dress.

    Shoes – You may be thinking flats here for long term comfort, but you’d be wrong! Consider those cold cement floors and the steel grates in the waterboarding chamber. Ouch! I recommend a solid soled boot with a slight chunky heel, like the classic Fyre 12R Engineer Boot. It will look good with the dress and the dress lining, can be worn in warm or cold conditions, and with that heavy heel it doubles as a bludgeon if you are detained with less savory characters than yourself!

    dressSocks – Smartwool, all the way. With bacteria fighting properties and a squish that won’t squash, the Smartwool light hikers are MEANT to be worn several times before washing. The perfect detainee sock!

    Underwear – Now girls, this can be tricky. Be sure you have on clean underwear as soon as you call for the revolution so you start fresh. I recommend an ensemble that is tidy and modest but shows that you are not embarrassed to be seen in your unmentionables!  The Commando ™ CYA Panty is opaque and well-shaped without being matronly and is made of quick dry fabric – so easy to clean! For your top, the Chantelle Rive Gauche T-shirt bra will stay comfortable and keep you structured. With its lace trim you will be the belle of the strip search cubicle! Most important, both these choices will stay sag-free during de-lousing and waterboarding.

    Wrap – Go with a cotton or wool pashmina big wrap in a solid color, patterns show poorly on TV and we all want to look our best in the top secret interrogation video footage.  The wrap will be your blanket, towel, pillow, and splint as you endure the rigors of questioning and detention, so find one you like!

    Hair and Makeup – Go for a charming, curly tousle that shows well after days of sweating through the pain, and as always girls, 24 hour water proof mascara for stressful situations!

    Ready to look your best for the NSA? Great!

    Once you are dressed and ready to go, have a look at the Preamble to the Declaration of Independence. When you, like me, see that the government is once again(!) perpetrating egregious offenses against us, then it is time to call for the revolution!

    Rise up!

    Speak out!

    Demand a truly democratic governing body!

    Revolution.

  • Budget Sequestration Made Me Eat Cheap Peanut Butter.

    The WideEyedHousehold must make decisions about financial sequestering by prioritizing categories of expenditure. Just as our Senate is divided in debates about preferential priorities, so we are. Just as our nation must make difficult choices, so we must. “Compromise” in the WideEyedHousehold results in unpalatable solutions, as it does in our nation.

    As you may know, I dreamed of an exotic winter break far from snowy Buffalo. Last week during spring break, we ate lunch at the Ikea just outside of Toronto for our international vacation. The basic parameters of an exotic, international locale with regional cuisine were met. They were met stupendously if the rumors about horsemeat in the Ikea meatballs are true. How intrepid of us to eat the little meat balls all unknowing, even with an unconcerned panache.

    As you may know, the WideEyedSpouse likes beer. I like to eat. He feels that beer sort of is food. I feel that food is food. The Spouse prefers good beer. I prefer organic, limited ingredient, small batch peanut butter. Our preferential priorities battled at Wegman’s. The beer lobby won. I still got the peanut butter, but at radically reduced funding. Evidently the beer drinker’s lobby in the WideEyedSenate is far more powerful than the peanut butter eater’s lobby.

    I fear for the next battle. I mean “compromise”.

  • Debating Obedience and Disempowerment with Dogs

    Miss Tibbit explores the limits of her autonomy within the bounds of Authority.

    “Miss Tibbit,” I addressed her hindquarters as she strained away from me with all the power in her small frame. “Miss Tibbit,” I repeated and shortened her leash during a brief lull in the pulling. Her head snapped when she hit the end of her lead sooner than expected. She gave me a dark look that clearly said, What do think you’re doing?

    I reeled her in and asked her to sit by my foot. She refused. Flatly.

    “Miss Tibbit, do you know what obedience means?” She glanced at me from the corner of her dark eye. No. She was not being truthful. She watched a squirrel in the tree above us. She heaved at the leash in dog rampant, front paws flailing toward a submissive Golden Retriever across the street. Over her shoulder between choking gasps and yips she said, But I do know what disempowerment means!

    I gasped. The audacity. Disempowerment indeed!

    A good, obedient boy trusts Authority to know best.

    I asked Hamish to join us. He was illicitly rolling in a moldering worm and finished up before coming over. He, always a gentleman, sat by my foot and looked up at me smiling. What can I do for you?

    “Hamish, do you know what obedience means?”

    Sure. It happens when I comply with your rules and submit to your authority. He sniffed Miss Tibbit’s foot and walked on.

    I thought to myself: EXACTLY. “Miss Tibbit,” I called forward to Miss Tibbit, who now had her snout shoved into a clump of dense spring grass, “Miss Tibbit, did you hear Hamish? This is how we live within a society. We all agree to obey higher levels of authority and to conform to our culturally derived rules for appropriate behavior.”

    Miss Tibbit bravely delivers her anti-authoritarian oration while under the restraint of Authority.

    Miss Tibbit looked up, plump shreds of grass dangling from her lower lip. What happens when Authority establishes rules prohibiting my ability to perform actions demanded by my cultural milieu and my own good conscience? What happens when an entire subset of citizens is uniformly stripped of autonomy by Authority and society at large? Is it not my right, even my burden to protest these removals of individual autonomy? Hamish’s ears perked forward and he watched Miss Tibbit with interest. I didn’t like him being exposed to her radical ideas. He has always been a good boy, no trouble at all. We walked on down the block while I thought about it.

    Ah, I had it. We stopped for a moment under the bower of a large blooming cherry tree. “But Miss Tibbit, you are meant to trust me to know what is best. You don’t understand the dangers of the cars, toxic lawn treatments, other dogs. The world is too big and too complex for one small dog of limited experience to understand.” Hamish nodded at me, Yeah, he said in his small voice.

    Obedience and civil disobedience.

    Miss Tibbit snorted and shook her body, tail lashing a little longer than the rest of her. I didn’t choose you, your authority was granted by the system. And you don’t trust me. You don’t believe that I have the ability to know something you don’t, or that I might be not disobeying but instead attempting to negotiate a situation outside of your awareness or concern.

    Hamish cocked his leg against a hosta. I think Miss Tibbit is advocating civil disobedience, he said. I didn’t see anything particularly civil about her heaving and straining against the leash, or yipping and barking at everything and nothing. It looked like plain old disobedience to me. But she and Hamish were making potentially valid points and I probably should consider their perspective. Perhaps later.

    Authority rewards obedience.

    “Who wants a cookie?” I asked. They bounded over and like good dogs sat on haunches in front of me. They deftly snapped their treats from the air. It was nice and quiet and calm while they chewed. No trouble at all.

  • Dental hygiene at what cost?

    The husband contributes a guest essay while the WideEyed…Wife travels for work.

    I am the husband of the beautiful and talented author of the wideeyedfunk blog you are slowly falling in love with one week at a time.  I am your guest author this week as the wifey is off doing her big-brained, intellectual work in another one of the 50 States. When I am not absent mindedly looking for the ketchup or awesomely rewiring our light fixtures in a drunken stupor I am allowed to go outside and play with the public at large. You can see some stuff out there if you open your eyes and look around. Sometimes you see good things and sometimes you see things you wished you hadn’t, but there is always something.

    Here’s an example of the latter:

    This past weekend I was sitting in the car waiting for the spouse to come out of a store.  I was passing the time with my iPhone watching a movie on Netflix and marveling, as I often do, at the wonders of modern technology.  When I was young a telephone was heavy, it could be used to whack a burglar in a pinch.  It had a rotating dial that schoooooook—ch-ch-ch’d its way back and forth as you dialed each digit in the phone number in question. AND it had a cord that attached it to a jack on the wall. If you were out and about and needed to call someone then you needed a payphone and some pocket change.  Disgusting things those pay phones…did they ever get cleaned?  I don’t think so.  All that spittle, face oil, ear detritus, and other disgusting effluvia just piling up on the receiver year after year. Yuck. If you wanted to see a movie you went to the movie theater…another arguably disgusting public experience.  Now you can do both…on a phone that is the size of a wallet. Amazing.  It will never get old to me.

    Anyway…I digress.  So there I was sitting in the in the car minding my own business watching my movie and marveling as indicated above.  In my peripheral vision I see a car pull into the space in front of me.  No biggie…still watching my movie.  Again, in the periphery, I see the driver door open.  Movie still has my attention.  A female head and attached shoulders lean out from the interior of the car.  Not a whole person, just the head and shoulders.   I am starting to think that maybe, just maybe this could be one of those “see something” moments.  My instincts were validated seconds later as a stream of spit jetted forth from her mouth on to the unsuspecting street below.  Spit? I guess that cheapens the moment somewhat and girls are made up of sugar and spice and everything nice so let’s try to pretty it up a bit…a cascading water fall of liquid erupted forth from her mouth and showered the ground below?  Either way…it happened.  I saw it. THEN…a hand shot out from the interior of the car and it was holding a toothbrush.  Oh…I see.  All the sudden it wasn’t a gross experience anymore…it was simply good dental hygiene.  Well ok, I can respect that.  Good dental hygiene is important at home or on the go.  Carry on my good woman! Spit out that toothpaste with pride! My respect for this person was renewed…for a moment.

    My good feelings were soon shattered as the hand swung down and knocked the toothbrush against the bottom of the car. Umm. What?! What am I supposed to think now?  Gross right?  Will that toothbrush ever be used again?  I hope not. Certainly not…right?  I mean, she might as well have just knocked it against the street.  The filth of humanity is on the street and gets kicked up onto your car as you drive.  Your toothbrush and the bottom of your car should never have the pleasure of meeting. It’s not a written rule but I am sure Emily Post would have a word or two on the subject.

    So as I sat there trying to gather my thoughts, the car slowly drove to the opposite side of the street and parked again. A man soon emerged from a nearby house, walked to the car, gave the woman a quick smooch and then climbed into the passenger side. Nice right?  Maybe it’s a date and she was stopping for a quick tooth brushing before picking up the man.  I can appreciate that…very considerate. But I couldn’t stop wondering if that toothbrush had been through this routine on previous occasions.  How would that guy feel if he had just seen what I saw?  Would that quick smooch have happened?  Maybe the date would not have happened. But, at that moment, my wonderful wife climbed into the car and suddenly all was right with my world again. I drove off and left the two strangers to enjoy their…let’s go with date.

    Don’t forget to brush!

  • Dear Other Drivers, You Don’t Own the Road. Sincerely, Me.

    You don’t own the road.  I know it is so hard to believe and so profoundly, deeply unfair, but you don’t own the length of road between where you are now and where you want to be. I don’t mean where you want to be in 1.2 seconds because, ok, you might arguably have rights to that space. I am saying you don’t own the whole path from A to B. You also don’t own all of the lanes when you are going around a curve that actually requires you to steer. You don’t own the entire street, even for the few moments you are stopped in the middle of it to send off a quick text. Therefore, you don’t need to have fits when someone else, namely Me, goes around you, merges into a lane you have claimed, makes a turn several hundred feet in front of you, takes an exit you were thinking of using, or stops for a red light that you intended to run.

    Because you don’t own the road, it is equally unnecessary to punish me for my use of it. I do enjoy your aggravated gesticulations, including the head shake, fist shake, wide open palm wave that indicates your shock at my actions, and the very classy, very classic middle finger. I particularly like the performances where you mime punching me, shooting me, or shaking me by the neck. I admit that I find more disturbing your swerving toward me, tailgating me, and the ever effective pulling in front of me and slamming on your brakes. But you know, I have ten airbags. I’ll probably survive the wreck. Will you?

    I find it curious that none of you, upon our mutual arrival at the natural foods co op, are sufficiently committed to your defense of road territory to actually speak to me outside the confines of your auto armor. If you feel strongly enough about my trespass that you are willing to teach your toddler passengers new words and gestures, perhaps you might consider real communication with me.

    We aren’t having a race. I mean it. I am not racing you. If I happen to pass you, it is because you are going slower than me. Most likely you are going slower because you are on the phone or texting. When I do pass you, I am not emasculating you. Or stealing your feminine power. I am not trying to beat you home – I don’t know or care where you live or when you get there. I am not trying to get to the co op before you do, because I am pretty sure they have enough organic French lentils for all of us.

    Because it isn’t a race, if I attempt to merge onto the highway, I am certainly not challenging your position in the flow of traffic. I know, I know, it feels like I am pushing you back, diminishing you, making you a loser when I merge. But I promise, I won’t contest it if you must accelerate wildly to pass me after I squeeze into your lane two seconds before you run me off the road.

    Even if you did own the road, I’d still use your space, and if we were racing I would win. You see yourself as the Road Warrior, you are the BMW or the Peugeot in the Ronin chase, you are playing Grand Theft Auto in real time, you are the master of all of you survey in your powerful machine thrumming with the might of 90 or maybe even 400 horses. But make no mistake, you aren’t the master. My car is faster, nimbler, and probably smaller than yours – it has the trifecta of urban maneuverability. I could take you if I wanted. Easily. But I am polite so I don’t. Most of the time.