Just because I haven't been venting quite as frequently, that doesn't mean my daily drive has suddenly become benevolant. I've just been dealing with unremarkable low-grade suffering lately. Until last night, that is.
I'm still toying with the George Washington Bridge as a regular route, because all the tunnel based trips involve fancy manuevering through Manhattan along with a healthy dose of carbon monoxide poisoning. Usually the return trip along the GW isn't too bad. This was not the case during my typically torrent Wednesday drive. I had yet another inexplicable backup in the Bronx to deal with, holding me nearly in place.
What amuses me about being stuck in this particular stretch of road is that such backups are invariably accompanied by panhandlers trolling the stopped cars. I personally am one of those people who almost never gives money to someone who's simply begging for it. Last time I "donated" to such a cause is when I got lost in a NYC bus station and decided the easiest way to find my to the correct bus was to pay one of the regular residents for some advice.
The Bronx beggar of the day for yestreday had one of the usual signs: "will work for food". I wanted to roll down my window and give him some free consulting: "You know, our society has a well defined interface where people can work and receive money for food in return. It's called getting a job". I suspected he would be less than gracious for that advice.
My great luck returned this morning, when I again tried to traverse the GW. This time it was at 7:40 am, which I thought would be early enough to avoid really bad traffic. The whole problem with my early commute is that morning Greg is a moron who makes stupid decisions like that; late-night Greg would never make a bonehead move like that.
While sitting at the toll booths for half an hour, not quite awake yet, I started drifting off into dreamland. Every day, I grab at least four CDs as music for my driving (multiply by the days in the year and you'll see why I've bought so many discs--I chew through listening to them at a ferocious rate). This morning's selection was "Whitesnake", from the "I play this in my car because I'm embarrased to own it and don't want anyone to overhear" part of my music collection. Between my far from lucid mental state and hearing "Still of the Night", I suddenly found myself having a vision. Tawny Kitaen was on the hood of my car, dancing and contorting about. David Coverdale was standing nearby, occasionally muttering "ooh, baby". And a guy behind us was wailing away on some sort of electric violin.
And then I remembered that the hood of my little commutermobile is far too small to contain the full bounty of flesh that is Tawny. My fantasy shattered, I reached for some money to pay the toll with and drove through.