Blame the decline of Western civilization on lousy drivers

Is it just me, or have local drivers gotten madder and meaner in the last year or so? I know, I know. Citizens have been complaining about Nashville drivers since people started riding mules around town in the 1800s. They're still complaining today, and they'll probably be complaining when the Jetson cars start raining down out of the sky.

I don't know how folks got around town between the mid-19th century and the early 21st. But when I arrived here in the early '80s, drivers were unusually friendly. Every day, someone would stop to let me pull out on West End. Better yet, they'd give me the "thank you" wave when I let them pull in front of me. Well, those days are gone. It's been a long time since I got a "thank you" wave from another driver. These days, it's more the "bite me" wave.

I blame three things. First, people who had plenty of money and were eating steak a year-and-a-half ago are now eating steamed beans and their own fingernails. That's the kind of unwanted lifestyle change that can cause a seeping adrenalin leak. Believe me when I tell you, a little extra adrenalin every day will make a person irritable.

Second, people are driving vehicles that are way too big for them. A lot of soccer moms who bought their monster trucks a few years ago have sent their soccer players off to college. Now, when it's time to run errands, they're stuck with the hassle of fitting the 3-ton family Armada into a parking space. For those of you not familiar with the Nissan Armada, it's not a whole fleet of vehicles, as the word "Armada" implies. It's just the size of one.

Anyhow, if you doubt the headaches that come with owning a truly a Brobdingnagian vehicle, just drive through the parking lot at The Mall at Green Hills, and check the bumpers on the parked cars. Many, if not most, will have a telltale bowling-ball-sized dent in the corner of the bumper. Oops! The new bumper will probably cost about a grand. Such misfortune will bring out the grouch in a monster-truck driver—the kind of grouch who squashes other grouches.

Third, people ride around messing with their phones all day. They can't put 'em down. They've got itches they can't scratch. When you're the second person in line at the red light, check the driver in front of you. That person will be digging her phone out of her purse (if she doesn't already have it up to her ear), and she'll miss the green light because she's talking, or texting, or both. Don't think a Bluetooth is any better. Maybe it frees up your hands, but is it worth it to look like one of the Village People about to bust into "Macho Man"?

I've done some unscientific experiments, and those experiments tell me that there's a whole lot of phone-related idling and inattention going on at Nashville's stoplights. And when people finally get through the intersection, they start driving like they're in a hurry to get to their wreck, like that unfortunate L.A. Metrolink engineer who couldn't put his phone down last September.

A couple weeks back, I was driving east on Charlotte Avenue when a car broke down in the westbound lane. Well, don't you know, drivers behind the crippled car just pulled right into the oncoming traffic, established their own moron-only lane, disregarded the high likelihood of head-on and T-bone crashes, then started turning left onto White Bridge Road. At my count, about 20 cars took the challenge.

Meanwhile, out in the sticks: It's not just the in-town drivers that have gone reckless. My buddy Bruce Mott tells me that some of the drivers out in his neck of the woods have turned suicidal, like tractor-happy rabbits, power-line-chewing squirrels and windshield-busting deer.

"There's a stretch on Highway 70," Motts says, "just west of Watertown, where there's an obvious double yellow line that goes around a curve. Everybody knows that a double yellow line means 'no passing.' But every time I go around that curve, the rules disappear. I get passed by tractor-trailer rigs, redneck pickup trucks, and cars full of really enthusiastic cigarette smokers." Then he added, "They might have a reason."

"What reason might that be?" I asked.

"Well," Mott said, "that reason might just be methamphetamine."

Sweet Baby Jesus! Not that I'm the rule-maker nor do I want to be, but I say we'd be a little happier and maybe live a little longer if we went back to the nice hospitable waving. And when it's time for a new vehicle, consider a mid-size. And for cryin' out loud, keep your phone in your pocket until you can get the thing parked.

I now return you to your regular teeth-bared, phone-addled, meth-crazed demolition derby.

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