I wish I could say that horn-honking doesn't bug me as much anymore. It still drives me nuts. I think my adrenal glands have been permanently conditioned to kick into fight-or-flight mode every time I hear the discordant blast of a Lincoln Town Car or Ford Crown Victoria (NYC's yellow cab). This must be similar to the deeply embedded response paleolithic man had to the sound of a mountain lion or bear growling right outside the cave. You hear that sound and the stress juices just start flowing. There's nothing you can do about it.

I still have this habit of turning my attention towards honking whenever I experience it on the street. I always want to know why. Why is that guy demolishing public space with his horn? Does he have any idea what he's doing? What's the cause? I have this sense that if I can just collect enough data about the causes of honking, then eventually this information can be used to develop solutions to help the motorists of New York City chill the F out. The data I've collected thusfar indicates, however, that the problem is not technological or structural -- it's cultural and pyschological. The motorists of New York City are freaking maniacs. Examined collectively they can only be diagnosed as sociopathic. They have basically forgotten that there is a world outside their own vehicle. They are unable to see how unnecessary and useless the vast majority of their honking is. It's so rare that a honk is issued to warn someone of an emergency. Usually, NYC honking is done as a substitute for using the brakes or just to express how pissed off the driver is. Rarely does the honking get anyone to where their going any faster.

The other day I was riding my bike up to Grand Army Plaza on a tough, slushy, winter day and found myself following closely alongside this fancy new Cadillac that was just pounding on the horn all the way up through Park Slope. We stopped at the light together at St. John's Place and Flatbush Avenue, a particularly heinous spot, where the guy let loose with another blast. I tapped on the Cadillac's (tinted) window and this very tough, hard looking Brooklyn dude rolled it down. Warm air and rap music billowed out of the car. I could see a woman's thigh in the passenger seat. It was nice and comfy in there, especially compared to the cold, wet street. The driver looked at me with a bored, Outer Borough, Can-I-Help-You expression on his furrowed brow. He clearly had no concept or care as to how much more miserable he was making life outside this Cadillac.

In a sort of friendly, upbeat tone I said, "That horn is loud. It's incredibly loud." Unlike in the past where I have actually screamed "HOOOOONNNNNK" into the driver's side window at the top of my lungs, this non-confrontational approach seemed to have good effect. He took it like I was telling him he had forgotten to turn on his headlights or had a piece of toilet paper dragging off the heel of his shoe. He made a sheepish, almost apologetic-sounding noise and drove on.


12:16 PM | Link |