I Hate Numbers

After finishing my second double espresso, making thank you calls to the company of friends and hosts from weekend gatherings, and scraping the remains of my gravelly baritone voice off the bottom of my house-bound slippers, I felt like Pho.

It's a Vietnamese soup. Lots of bits of rare beef, fresh basil, bean sprouts and sometimes, if you're lucky, tripe. Organ meat. The other white meat. Um-yay. Hangover be Gone!

After lunch Ack, the ex-husband/best friend, and I decided we were going to go book shopping. Books. Again, um-yay. The hot Lava dude, whom I'm sure I scared off, as I'm prone, hasn't written back, but he did leave me with a tasty little tidbit: The WE book, by Yevgeny Zamyatin, translated by Mirra Ginsburg. In this future no one has a name; everyone has a number.

I love dystopia-based science fiction. I find it amazing how some people have the vision of being able to see a land so marred, a government so corrupt and a century later we're living it.

On the way, we were driving slowly along Queen Street East. Rush hour. Drivers on their phones, in non-descript minivans driving poorly in front of us, on their way to buy chocolate croissants from one of the best French bakeries in the city. Not a good enough reason to get into an accident.

I gave up my little car during the separation, but I still get to drive it every now and then, like I did today. Wheeee! I love driving. I love everything about driving, but I respect the power of the car and I respect the road.

There are people, mostly gay guys, that if they could, they would issue out Fashion Citations. Little tickets made payable to some seriously fluffy organization, sponsored by Ecstacy, that promotes good taste, (kitschy bodaciousness) or fashion sense. Socks with sandals would warrant a citation. Myself, if I was Ruler of The Free World, I would make people take their driver's exam every year. And issue out

The Road Rules of Engagement:

1. Absolutely NO cellphone use while driving in the car. I don't care if you've got one of those "clever" little Matrix devices that clip onto your shirt and is stuck in your ear. If you're having a fight with your wife, or you're having a heated meeting with your worst client, I do not want to be in your remote vicinity because you're going to be driving badly. Pull over.

2. Use your freakin' indicator! Signal your intent. We're not telepathic. Everyone needs to know what you're just about to do. That means cars around you, pedestrians, cyclists, Granny on the Green Light. Everyone. I know a dude with a missing arm that still indicates.

3. Do not use your brakes unless your intent is to actually stop. There are people on the highway, no one really close to them, that just like to push their little size 6 feet on the horizontal pedal just for what? Fun? Testing? Not sure. This is the thing about putting your brakes on: If there is someone behind you that can't see ahead of you because of #4, they're going to freak and put their brakes on because they actually think there's a real emergency that warrants brake use. This just sets off a chain reaction, causing unnecessary bedlam and traffic jams, extra pollution, lateness and anxiety in all involved. Don't do it.

4. Why do you need to tint all of your windows? Which takes me to #5.

5. I like smoking pot, too. But not in my car.

6. No one should have a license if they can't parallel park... well.

7. Only fling cigarette butts out your window if you're going below 40kms, which works out to be 24.8548477(mph) according to this. It's freaky on the highway at night, especially if you've done mind expansion drugs and are now starting to tap into alternate universes.

8. Just like when your parents and teachers taught you how to cross the road, the same thing applies when you're doing a U-turn: look ALL ways.

9. Do not buy a car too big for you. Hummers are too big for everyone.

10. If there is grey/black matter shooting out of your tailpipe go directly to your mechanic.

11. Get directions on where you're going BEFORE you embark. Here's a nice place to go.

... and we're back.
Two cars ahead of us there was some dude, with his Matrix earpiece, who during rush-hour traffic pulls a #2 and #8 simultaneously and gets hit by a Durango going in the new direction Dumb-ass wanted to go in. No one was going especially fast, but the Durango, trying to avoid excessive damage and mangling of his aged mother-in-law in the backseat, made the snap decision to veer right and hit a cement planter (a City initiative to "spruce up my shitty neighbourhood) without first bumping the van a couple of feet ahead. The planter stopped the Durango, but had it not been there and in its place a pedestrian instead... hmm. Don't really want to picture that.

The Matrix Minivan driver comes out of his vehicle, which he just leaves in the middle of a 2 lane street, running, arms flailing, complaining about the damage and says, "Look what you've done!" I've just rolled down my window. I said, "Buddy, I saw what you did. You are singularly the worst driver I've seen today. What just happened now was entirely your fault."

And I got out of the car.

Turns out he's a film guy. I hate film guys. He was working on Cinderella Man, a Ron Howard production starring Russell Crowe, which shut down a major artery in my neighbourhood for the summer.

The reason why I hate film guys is because the industry is fairly similar to the Army. Everyone has a number. I hate numbers. I've been fired repeatedly. Reason? Insubordination. I will maintain that is the *best* reason to get fired. Yeah!

In the film world there is what's known as the Call Sheet. This is a piece of paper with everyone's name on it, except for those that come in groups, like Background Extras (extra people). Extras are the people playing in the background of scenes in movies. If Al Pacino is having a nice little lunch with Colin Farrell, everyone who is eating lunch around them are extras. Extras are bottomfeeders in the film world. Producers are deities, apparently. Within the industry anyone who has a higher "number" then you, can without being reprimanded, in fact be actually encouraged, to treat that person "below" them like vermin scum.

And then they walk into the world with this same attitude.

So Film-o tries some ludicrous business manouever of saying he recognised the driver. "Are you in the film business?" No, was the curt reply. Normally when someone announces they are in the film business, and I got out of it shortly after seeing the responses, people generally fall all over themselves to find out about this career that seems so tantalizingly glamourous. It's so not, unless you find working 14 hours a day, doing mundane work, being filthy and exhausted glamourous. After realising that tactic wasn't working, Film-o was doing this weird staccato coughing thing. He was turned instantly into a little locomotive. The Little Engine That Could drive like a fucking idiot.

I think I began waxing accusative when he turned to me and LOST IT saying, "Look! You're only a witness! Stay out of this! This isn't any of your business!"

Well.

I came dangerously close to calmly saying, with a sly little smile, "You don't have to yell." And kissing him on his forehead.

The cops had been called. I was going to stay as a witness, but after hearing his admission to guilt I decided to just leave my phone number with the Durangos, just in case they needed to stick it to Film-o later. Gladly.

And I still needed to go get my book on why I hate numbers.