55: The Law

In order to combat our dependence on foreign oil (and lessen the rape of our wallets by venture capitalists trafficking in oil futures), Sen. John Warner (R-Va.) wants to pass legislation to make the national speed limit on America's highways a mere 55 mph. Now I don't know about you, but if I'm rockin' the Locust, Blood Brothers, Anaal Nathrakh or Dillinger Escape Plan on the car stereo, I'm looking to create new personal bests in both land speed records and police evasion. I wonder exactly how many articles or reviews I've written that described someone's music as "the soundtrack for your next speeding ticket." I drive fast because I patently hate doing it. This is why I was never in a band: After two hours on the road, I turn into a beast that's one-part caged animal, one-part fidgety three-year-old.

Yesterday, I had to step out of work early to travel to Pennsylvania to attend a funeral for a friend's father. When I got in the car to make the trip (Time: Two hours, 39 minutes), I wasn't focused too much on the impending torture of driving. Maybe it was the mood of the occasion. Perhaps it was having to drop $48.02 to fill the tank up. For some reason, I just wasn't up to playing Carmageddon. I got stuck in traffic and didn't bitch. When the passing lane got clogged by some chain-smoking, haggard blonde in an SUV, I did not pray for God to give me five middle fingers on my left hand. I simply stayed in the slow lane, behind a trailer truck.

On the stereo was the latest Spiritualized disc, Songs In A&E, a pretty depressing affair since all of the songs are about death. (Causing it, experiencing it or perceiving it as a metaphor for the tragic end of something.) I found myself remarkably calm and actually enjoying the experience. At the end of the disc, I jumped to "Kylie From Connecticut," the somber, bittersweet closer on Ben Folds' impending release. I think I hit "repeat" on that one half a dozen times. So while I'm in driving stance, I looked down at the speedometer: 54 mph.

I looked at the clock on the dashboard and figured I'd better step this game a little. I threw in the latest power-violence sampler from Relapse and punched it, but the whole mood of it seemed forced and empty, so I popped it out and stuck in a collection of solos by punk-jazz pianistMark Springer. As I got closer to my hometown, the seething disgust I usually have gave way to sadness. I usually drag around a sack of emotional disdain for my hometown similar to what Santa travels with on Dec. 24. But this time I was genuinely bummed because the wide open spaces were filled with Home Depot, Dick's Sporting Goods and more below-average restaurant chains. The straight-shot was now perforated with traffic lights. Most telling was the faces of the drivers around me which looked equally saddened; I'd go as far as using the word "trapped."

I finally got to the funeral home and acknowledged my friend and his family. Talk soon turned to how much the town had changed, and not for the good. Memories of being able to walk two miles to a certain point were soon interrupted by warnings of bad neighborhoods, defunct businesses and empty storefronts where we used to go as teens and 20-nothings. As usual, the conversation led to memories of shopping for records in the basement of the town's big department stores. (My name is Jason, and I once owned every record by Emerson, Lake & Palmer.)

Although I drove back into Cleveland this morning with a migraine, I brought back a newfound appreciation for long drives at slow speeds. My wife thinks I was abducted by aliens and replaced with a similarly hideous android. Maybe Sen. Warner knows something I don't know. God, I hate when that happens.