Showing posts with label stall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stall. Show all posts

Monday, December 2, 2024

The lost art - Stick edition

We are gathered here today to mourn what’s become a dying skill. A cultural relic that once separated the casual driver from the true master of the open road: driving a stick shift.

Kids today look at a manual transmission the way a caveman might look at an iPhone: equal parts confusion and fear. Be that as it may, let’s have a good laugh at youngsters who will never understand the joy—and terror—of grinding gears.

Driving a manual used to be a full-body sport. Your left hand gripped the wheel while your left foot was a finely tuned machine dancing on the clutch. Your right hand held tight on the shift knob—custom leather if we were bein’ all fancy—and slid through the gears with precision timing.

As opposed to todays’ automatic transmissions, where you sit back and let the car do all the thinking.

Driving a stick came with one universal truth: You will stall the car. And because God does have a sense of humor it was usually when you were on a hill (mine was on La Cienega just before Sunset Blvd.), and the car rolled backward like a panicked toddler.

Still, there are some definite perks to knowing how to drive manual. For one, nobody will ever ask to borrow your car. Also, it’s probably the best theft deterrent on the market. No thief under 40 is touching that thing.

I can’t help feeling sad for today’s generation of drivers. While their self-driving cars will be convenient—and is it really driving if the car is driving itself? Discuss—they’ll never know the rush of nailing a perfect heel-toe downshift, or the satisfaction of cruising down the highway with your car purring in the sweet spot of fourth gear. They won’t have the connection with their vehicle that only comes from manually controlling every grunt and groan of the engine.

So, here’s to the gearheads of yesteryear—and the kids who think “clutch” is just a handbag. May we never forget the joy, frustration, and sheer chaos of driving stick.

If you’re feeling nostalgic and want to talk about it some more, come find me.

I’ll be the guy on the hill, rolling backward into traffic, trying to shift into first.

Friday, November 16, 2012

Urine no position to talk

I am a series of contradictions. I’m private by nature, but also a little social butterfly. Outgoing, but guarded. I like good conversation, but have no patience for small talk. I’d never describe myself as chatty, especially in certain places.

Like elevators. Or restrooms.

For some reason, the design of most men’s rooms is far too neighborly for me. At least a lot of them have the good sense to put up a divider between urinals. But even that doesn’t stop these lamebrains with full bladders and empty heads from wanting to strike up a conversation while emptying the tank.

Here’s my question: how starved for conversation are you that you feel the need to talk to a complete stranger while they’re peeing?

It usually starts with a head nod, and the usual, “Hey.” Who the hell knows where it goes from there: sports scores, cars, women. Happy to talk about them all.

Just. Not. Here.

It’s like going to clubs and seeing guys in the men’s room on their cell phones. Is that the best place to make the call? Not that urinals and toilets flushing don't make a lovely backdrop to the conversation.

Fortunately, side-by-side isn’t the only option where I’m currently working. There’s one urinal off by itself, a stall wall on one side, and a tile wall on the other. Conversation proof and private. Or as private as it can be in a public restroom. This is the one I use. If it’s busy, I’ll leave and go to another men’s room on another floor in the building. They’re all the same.

I know what you're thinking: if I want privacy, why not just use a stall? Because if I use a stall I have to close the door and lock it. I'm a bit of a germophobe. I don't want to touch more things than I have to, if you get my drift.

So a little advice when nature calls. Go, do your business, and leave. Don’t strike up a conversation, with me or anybody else.

Because you know what's almost more unbearable than being involved in a bathroom conversation? Listening to one.