(Road) Rage

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• August 28, 2016

Much of my time is spent in my car.  As a traveling clown, I spend hours playing music too loud, to drown out my non-stop, often horrific thoughts, as I make my way to a gig.  Usually, I’m singing along, zoned out, and occasionally talking (by talking I mean mumbling) to myself.

In my defense, my road rage has decreased immensely in recent years.  When I first started driving, I was terrified.  All the time.  This is because when my Dad taught me how to drive, he frequently reminded me that I wasn’t driving a car, I was driving a weapon that was the leading cause of death of people my age (I’m not sure that statistic is true, but either way, I believed it and never fact checked it).  I was reminded of how lethal driving was because anytime a wreck was in the news, my Dad would be sure to point it out.  If someone died because they were driving too fast, drunk, or texting, my Dad made sure we knew about it.  And so, I was scared to drive on any sort of highway, because my head was filled with totaled cars, and I couldn’t stop envisioning “Final Destination” type disasters on the road.

I started comedy at 20 years old, so by that time, I had my 2001 Nissan Altima for two years, and I seldom drove it, as I usually rode my bike to work, but this was mostly to save money because gas at the time was crazy expensive.  My thirst for stage time quickly dispelled my fear of driving, as I was driving all over the place for gigs.  Suddenly, I was no longer afraid of driving, because I was scared to go on stage, which wasn’t nearly as strong as my fear of being a pussy, which is really the only reason I’m a comedian today.  Because I’m afraid of being a pussy.  But my growth from fear only led to the realization of something I already knew: I love going fast.

Thus, I started speeding, everywhere.  My addiction to adrenaline trumped the images of crashed cars my Father had once drilled into my brain.  And while I’d prefer it if I were wildly successful, if I were rich in my early 20’s, I would surely already be dead, my Porsche wrapped around a tree somewhere.

In my early to mid-twenties, my road rage was unpalatable, though if I had guests in my car, I would hide this, and drive slower (I care very little for my own life, but when there’s a passenger in my car, I remembered that a car was a death trap, and if they died in my car, I would be responsible.  Thanks Dad!).  On my own, forget it.  Not only did I aggressively curse people out, my middle finger was used to excess, and I became that cliche asshole New York driver every one hates.  That was me.

In many ways, that’s still me.  But in my old age, I’ve calmed down quite a bit.  I’m not speeding like a lunatic (but this is more of a fear of tickets than crashing).  The anger is still there, trust me.  It’s there.  Every week I spend hours in traffic, but usually, it’s because I’m on my way to a gig, and I’m better now than I used to be at seeing how that’s a good thing.  That’s my passion, right there.  No, not sitting in traffic.  Stand-up.  But sitting in traffic is part of being a comedian.  And sometimes, I can even enjoy it.  I can enjoy going super slow, listening to music, and thinking about bits or screenplays.

I’m not the picture of perfect mental health (in case you didn’t know).  Because I’m frequently yelling at people merging onto the Grand Central, “IT’S A ZIPPER! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. HE GOES, THEN YOU GO. IT’S SO SIMPLE. YOU FUCKING IDIOTS. MORONS!”  If I had the power to set cars on fire with my mind, the streets would be littered with blown up cabs and uber drivers.  I’ve wished death upon drivers whole families.  I’ve yelled at women that their babies deserved Zika.  I’ve cursed the elderly to drive off cliffs.  Why?  The answer is simple: I’m not really a good person.  But driving doesn’t cause rage.  I’m just full of rage, and my car acts like a cone of silence where I can curse my brains out, and say the most awful things, and have no consequences.

If I could openly curse people out on the subway and not get stabbed, I would.  Once again, if I had mind control powers, I would clearly be the villain.  What do these goddamn immigrants have against deodorant?  I will vote for Trump just so you can be deported.  This motherfucker isn’t going to give up his seat for that old lady?  What is wrong with people?  I hope he slips and falls and has to walk with a cane the rest of his life, and people don’t offer their seat.  Why are people giving up their seats to children?  Children have tons of energy.  You never heard of headphones, guy?  What a fucking moron.  Lady, you’re still ugly with make up.  Who eats BBQ ribs on the subway?  I hope he chokes.  I really hope he chokes.  Am I the only sane person in NYC?  That’s a horrific thought.

The point is, people are awful beings and I look forward to death.  Wait, wait.  That wasn’t the point.  What was the point?  Oh yeah.  The point was, road rage isn’t road rage at all.  It’s just rage.  I don’t know why I have so much of it.  I think, nowadays, I’m more angry on the subway than I am in my car.  For one, I can let it all out in my car, where it’s just me, and no one can hear how much of a lunatic I am.  But also, because I don’t drive to my soul crushing day job.  I take the subway to my soul crushing day job.  I drive to gigs, and to the beach, and to things I like to do.  Things that make me happy.

Traffic sucks, it’s true.  It’s one of the prices you pay for living in an awesome city.  Sometimes, yelling at a BMW for cutting you off is totally warranted.  But other times, when you’re cursing the world, maybe you ought to take that time in the car to look at what’s really causing the anger.  You literally have no where else to go.