Road Rage

I sort of think people are not terribly evolved. So when I hear people are going to therapy, I get very excited for them, even when I don't know them? You know why? Because people need to learn how to channel their anger in appropriate ways. Like, for instance, when you're mad the stupid legislators who can't pass a frigging budget, but instead they just start cutting the pay of their working professionals, you can't go kick the legislators in the shins. So where's an appropriate place to express the anger? Difficult question.
[I started to list some things that "one" might be hypothetically angry about, but it started to look all together too revealing, and you know how I feel about that.]

So what to do? One might go to therapy and learn some skills. Learn how to channel that anger into, say, a long run, kick-boxing, or screaming in appropriate places. Maybe learn how to breathe deeply and understand that life is not really worth getting your panties in a bunch over nothing.

Anyway. . . so I'm driving through San Luis Obispo last weekend, taking a little look before driving up to Arroyo Grande -- a few miles down the freeway -- and I encounter this scene: small streets, small shops, cross-walks every 1/2 block, tourists every 1/2 foot, lots and lots of cars driving down the main drag, stopping and slowing for meandering pedestrians, drivers patiently soaking in the cute town while they wait their turns to drive. My phone was sitting next to me on the seat, I had turned the radio off because I find it's easier to pay attention that way, and I was thinking, 'what a cute little place. Too bad I'm just passing through.' I had both front windows down half way because there was a nice breeze and it had been a long drive through the valley. And then I heard someone yell, "Hang up and DRIVE!!" I kind of laughed, turned to the right and saw a guy in an 'I've got something to prove' truck staring at me with wrath that only comes from years of pent up anger, probably stemming from something his kindergarten teacher said to him.
"HANG UP THE PHONE!!" he yelled again. I said half to him, half to myself, and half to the witness I wished I had, "I'm not on the phone, you weirdo." And again, "SHUT UP AND DRIVE YOUR CAR!!!" Huh? What was particularly interesting about this verbal fist he was throwing around is that no matter how many times he 'punched' me, his problem was not going to be solved. There were still going to be tourists, cross-walks, slow drivers (I was in fact just following someone, so it wasn't like I was stopping traffic for miles by going 10mph where everyone else was going 40.)
And again, I wasn't on the phone.
I can only assume this angry man needs some therapy.

Then I went to a party where everyone was very much in touch with his or her inner child and had tons of fun. It was like walking into a time capsule and even though everyone looked like they'd aged, they didn't act like it (though the conversations were markedly different), and they certainly didn't act as though time had passed. The love and affection and regard has not waned with time.



After a fun day of hula hoops and birthday cake, I stole off to continue my 'summer o' Indigo Girls.' Showed up, went to the box office, asked if they had any tickets, and she said, "We have a couple in the front row." Hmmm. Okay. So -- I hung out with the Girls, and Julie Wolf, and after getting over the 'I'm at a concert alone' thing, I had a fabulous night.
Got some bad photos of the girls:

And Ms. Wolf:

It also turned out I had a great place to camp for the night -- amazing stars the night before, a great view in the morning, and only the occasional snoring from my tent-neighbors.
A weekend of good therapy. Maybe Mr. Angry-Truck-Man could try it.