Dumb Driving

As I drove down Victory Blvd, a souped-up Honda Civic with tinted windows and a racing spoiler swooped up beside me, tailgating the car in front of him. Suddenly, he swooped into my lane and cut me off with no warning and only inches between our bumpers.

The Souped-Up Civic moments before I impaled it.

I quickly pulled the yellow lever where my cigarette lighter used to be.

ZIZZZ-THUNK!  A grappling hook shot out from the front of my SUV, smashing through the Civic’s trunk and gripping his bumper.  His tires spun and smoked in futility as I reeled him in like a prize marlin.

Road rage fantasy? At one time. But now “rage” had turned to “crusade.” This was not just some brutish impulse for vengeance. This was a higher calling. I lowered the finger and raised my fist to clean up the streets of L.A.

After all, the NHTSA (National Highway Traffic Safety Administration) estimates that somebody dies in a car accident EVERY 16 MINUTES in the U.S.  That’s 90+ deaths per day and 30,000+ deaths per year, as well as 2.5 million injuries and 500 trillion megawatts of road rage.

But what’s the cause of all this mayhem? Aggressive driving? Distracted driving? Drunk driving? Yes, but also ignorant and oblivious driving. They all fall into one simple category: “Dumb Driving.”

So, about a year ago, I took up my crusade against Dumb Driving, and started modifying my Humvee. After months of hunting down special parts and illegal gizmos, and many late nights bolting, welding, and testing, my SUV was ready – but it now looked more like an SUB (Sport Utility Batmobile).  “The Pile Driver,” as I called her, spewed a guttural roar and moved with the ominous grind of a WWII tank.

My modified Humvee ... "The Pile Driver"

Which brings us back to the souped-up Honda Civic impaled on my grappling hook.

I guess I could have just explained to the Civic driver that he should be more courteous, since aggressive driving accounts for about 10,000 traffic fatalities per year (more than one death per hour).

But the grappling hook was more effective. After slowing him down and letting a wave of cars pass by, I felt I had made my point.  So I retracted the hook, detaching his rear axle, and went on my way.

Minutes later, I spotted a drunk businessman staggering out of a dive bar on Sepulveda Blvd.  After stumbling into his Ford Taurus, he fishtailed out of the parking lot and into my sights.

It might have shaken him up to learn that a person is killed in a drunk driving-related accident every 48 minutes in the U.S. – about 10,000 deaths per year (many of those innocent victims).  But I knew that would fall on deaf (or drunk) ears. So I pulled up behind him and pulled the red lever.

KRANGGG-WHIRRRRR! My SUV rocked as two hydraulic garbage truck arms extended from each side and clamped onto the Taurus, sealing its doors shut. Another hydraulic arm wielding a fire hose extended and lurched forward to puncture his roof. Hundreds of gallons of warm beer gushed into the Taurus until the driver was floating in yellow brew like a Mapplethorpe art project, sucking air next to the rear-view mirror. I popped his tires, made a quick anonymous call to local police, and left him to float into destiny.

The Taurus I filled with beer. I added a few goldfish just for kicks.

A few blocks later, a girl in a VW bug began drifting into my lane. I was witnessing the new #1 killer of teenagers in motor vehicles: texting while driving. I flipped on my RDHS (Remote Device Hijacking System) and shot a magnetic transmitter onto the side of her car, assuming control of her phone and vehicle (don’t ask how).  I shut down her engine, stranding her in the middle of Ventura Blvd., and dictated directly onto her text screen:

“YOU ARE BEING MONITORED BY FEDERAL AGENTS. YOUR TEXT IS NOT WORTH ENDANGERING EVERYONE AROUND YOU! IF YOU TEXT WHILE DRIVING, YOU WILL GO TO PRISON. WE ARE WATCHING. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE!”

I saw her jump out of her car and run away screaming as I drove off.

Cruising along Vanowen Blvd., I noticed a double-parked Corolla blocking the right lane and backing up traffic. Pulling the blue lever (no sound effect, these babies were quiet) two forklift arms extended and lifted the Corolla, carrying it safely to the next side street and unclogging the lane. A few drivers cheered me on. This was getting fun.

Seconds later, I felt my head and chest vibrate as a Ford Escalade pulled up beside me booming rap music at a deafening level.

Would he be curious to know that blasting loud music while driving can reduce reaction time by up to 20 percent, as well as prevent one from hearing sirens of ambulances and fire trucks?

I knew he wouldn’t, so I shot another RDHS remote transmitter onto his roof and took control of his car audio system (again, don’t ask how) via my own headset microphone. He nearly jumped through his roof as my voice boomed from his car speakers:

“TURN DOWN THE CRAPPY MUSIC YOU ARE INFLICTING ON EVERYONE AROUND YOU. YOU ARE MAKING EVERYONE’S HEAD VIBRATE WITH NOISE POLLUTION. AND YOU JUST CUT OFF AN AMBULANCE ON ITS WAY TO SAVE SOMEONE’S LIFE.”

After giving him the bit about Federal Agents, I connected him to the Neil Diamond XM station and continued on my way.

Next, I headed for the 405 freeway on-ramp at Victory. The minivan in front of me insisted on going 35mph to merge into 75mph traffic – normally a death-defying act of stupidity that causes abrupt braking and precarious swerving. But I just shot another RDHS transmitter, took her up to a much safer 65 mph, and easily slipped her into traffic.

This is what tailgaters deserve. Back off, man!

I spent the rest of the day crusading against Dumb Driving.  A tailgater got a blast of raw sewage across his windshield; a cigarette butt flicker got 75 pounds of ash dumped into his lap; and a freeway fast-lane blocker got … well, he didn’t get anything, because that’s when I got caught.  I was about to fire another transmitter when I looked in my mirror and noticed a cavalcade of police cars on my tail. (Why do my stories always end like  this?)

Of course, leading police on a high-speed chase is the most reckless act of Dumb Driving. It endangers the lives of everyone around you and pulls law enforcement from other important duties – cause for a good beating, if ever there was one.

I pulled over and decided to take my lumps. But, in some small way, had I made a difference in the fight against Dumb Driving? Would I be the champion of smart drivers everywhere? The face of revolution on American roads?

As the handcuffs clinked onto my wrists, I realized I was just another road hazard in the Dumb Rush Hour of life.

Breaking Shamu

The U-Haul rental guy tilted his head, “You need a truck big enough for what?”

“Shamu,” I leaned in and whispered.  No need to draw attention. We’d have plenty of that soon enough.

“It’s an Orca .. a killer whale. About 20 feet long, 11,000 pounds.”  The look in his eyes told me I’d gone too far. This could blow the whole operation. I had to recover fast.

“I’m kidding,” I chuckled. “Just give me your biggest truck. Err, with a ramp.” And so began the greatest jailbreak in history.

But make no mistake: I’m no PETA maniac. I bask in my position atop the earth’s food chain. I eat chicken, wear leather, and have no problem with animal testing that saves human lives. So why this sudden drive to free a killer whale?

It all started on a recent trip to SeaWorld. I was just hoping to see a few dolphin tricks, and in no way prepared for a jolting spiritual connection. But it happened. In one of Shamu’s grand leaps, his eye—then his mind—locked with mine. He told me he was going stir crazy, and “couldn’t spend another day circling this shot glass.” I had to bust Shamu out of this joint.

The moment when Shamu made obvious eye contact with me. Our destinies were locked.

Since childhood, zoos and aquaria have evoked both fascination and revulsion within me.  Yes, I love to gawk at the planet’s most amazing creatures. Who among us has not had a “Three’s Company opening montage” experience near the lions’ den?  And getting splashed by Shamu, for many, is akin to holy baptism.

Yet, the sight of a caged animal pacing or gnawing on a cage (called “stereotypy”)  fills me with horrified sympathy. These magnificent creatures were meant to be free. According to WSPA (World Society for the Protection of Animals), “In the wild, killer whales…travel as much as 99 miles in a day. But in captivity they have access to less than one ten-thousandth of 1% of the space available to them in their natural ocean environment.” Wow. That’s like you or me living out our days in the living room … which some of us actually do, but that’s by choice.

But zoos and aquariums can’t be totally evil, right? Don’t they do some good in the world?

According to WAZA (the World Association of Zoos & Aquariums) the world’s 1,300 zoos and aquariums attract over 700 million visitors per year, with about $350 million annually going to conservation efforts.

In fact, the SeaWorld & Busch Gardens Conservation Fund “supports wildlife research, habitat protection, animal rescue, and conservation education in more than 60 countries. … and has granted $7 million to conservation projects.”

Think it’s all PR fluff? The respected journal Science recently concluded that “conservation breeding in zoos and aquariums played a role in the recovery of 19 of the 68 species (28%) whose threat status was reduced according to the IUCN (International Union for Conservation of Nature) Red List.

Shamu and I taking final measurements. We pretended not to know each other to avoid tipping off security.

And so, with mixed emotions, I pulled up to the SeaWorld security gate just before 8:00am. A stolen SeaWorld employee pass got me through to the back loading dock, only minutes before Shamu’s morning feeding. I used a chloroform-soaked handkerchief to dispose of Shamu’s handlers, but getting the big guy into the truck was going to be more difficult.

I backed up the truck to the edge of Shamu’s tank, and his massive nose bobbed approvingly from the water. As I lowered the ramp into the tank, Shamu dove down and circled a few times as if to gauge the physics of this stunt.  I heaved a couple buckets of mackerel into the truckbed to get him in the mood, and stood back. Suddenly, in a splash of atomic proportions, his gargantuan frame rocketed out of the water and into the truck, causing it to shudder and creak.  A couple wriggles of the tail, and he was in.  I revved the engine and made a beeline for the gate. A right turn onto Mission Bay Ave., an ironic fishtail, and I started the 10-minute sprint to the Pacific Ocean.

Of course, would saving one Orca really make a difference? Wouldn’t they just capture more? My friend Tina sent me this video that seems to document the brutal methods of aquariums in capturing dolphins and whales.  However, in 1995, SeaWorld announced that it would no longer capture dolphins and whales from the wild. They say the animals are now only obtained through captive breeding, loans, and purchases from other marine parks around the world.

Despite all this, I feel that captivity is just not what God/The Universe had in mind when he created these spectacular beasts – a point made more salient by Shamu’s old friend, Tilikum. This 12,000-pound goliath expressed his opinion by killing three people at SeaWorld (admittedly, one was a crazy homeless guy who jumped into the tank after hours). Most recently, he killed trainer Dawn Brancheau (you can actually find video of the horrific scene, but I won’t post it here). OSHA fined SeaWorld $75,000 for that little incident, and the park instituted numerous new safety measures. But believe it or not, Tilikum recently returned to performing. Surely Shamu knew that even killing his trainers would not relieve him from his duties.

Police in hot pursuit of me and Shamu.

I jammed my foot on the accelerator, but could only lumber toward the beach at 40mph.  Shamu’s massive size strained the pathetically outmatched U-Haul engine. A quick glance in my side mirrors revealed a cavalcade of police cars, and a loud-thuk-thuk-thuk meant a police copter above. The U-Haul grunted and groaned under the heavy load as I rounded the last curve before the coastline.  There would be no time for a 3-point turn to back up to the water. I would have to go Kamikaze, sacrifice the truck, and hope that Shamu could wriggle his way out into the surf.

Ignoring the commands from the police bullhorns, I aimed the U-Haul like a giant missile toward the blue-green waters, and the truck vaulted over the curb onto beach.  SHOOOOSH! We came to a sickeningly abrupt halt as the truck smashed into the fine, soft sand of the San Diego beachfront. The sand! What was I thinking? Why didn’t I choose a boat launching dock?

But it was too late. Man, beast, and machine lay wrecked only yards from our goal. From here, the memories are foggy … a stretcher … a giant crane lifting Shamu … a grateful wave of a massive black fin … and then jail. For both of us.