The "Older Driver" — A Primer

“If you can’t turn your head in the direction you want to travel, don’t travel in that direction.”

---Anonymous--- 

It seems to me when you gather with friends or enter a room filled with scintillating conversation, you can’t swing a dead cat around without hitting on an exchange of thoughts about the older driver.  So, having studied the subject for a number of years, I thought it would be helpful to provide a guidebook based on my best-selling publication, The Older Driver for Dummies.

First we have to provide a definition of the “Older Driver.”  The answer is surprisingly simple.  An “Older Driver” is anyone who operates a vehicle that is older than you are.

Now that we have an “Older Driver,” we have to provide a framework to determine what constitutes an “Older Driver Vehicle.”  Qualifying vehicles tend to change over time, gaining or losing status.   Fortunately there are national standards that are updated regularly and available free of charge on the Internet.  Therefore it is recommended that the official standings be consulted prior to branding a vehicle as an “Older Driver Vehicle.”  Those meeting the criteria are listed in direct proportion to the number of points accumulated.  Currently the overwhelming frontrunner is the Buick LeSabre.  Other vehicles making the cut are the Ford Crown Victoria, Mercury Grand Marquis, and Cadillac Coupe DeVille, along with the LeSabre’s brethren, the Park Avenue, LaCrosse, Lucerne, and the ever-popular Roadmaster.  Grandfathered into the list are vehicles such as the Chrysler Imperial, Studebaker Lark, and any Cadillac with fins.  So, based on this analysis, the mere presence of a Buick LeSabre would clearly predict an “Older Driver” is within striking distance. 

Each “Older Driver Vehicle” is equipped with all the safety equipment afforded a conventional vehicle even though the “Older Driver” does not use some of them, such as turn signals and seat belts.  The significant mechanical difference is the ODV must be specially fitted with a governor restricting its speed to no more than ten miles per hour less than the existing speed limit.  Acceptable after-market accessories are baseball style caps clearly visible in the rear window depicting any police agency or naval vessel.

Recognizing “Older Drivers” can be based in part on physical attributes.  From the front, they often cannot be seen above the steering wheel.  From the rear, they often cannot be seen above the headrest.  From the side…Well, you get the idea.  Observation of enormous wrap-around horse blinder sunglasses incongruent to the size of the face is a strong indicator of an OD.  And finally, as with any gang, the “flying of colors” should peak your interest.  Any male dressed completely in beige should be suspect.

Driving abilities — or lack thereof — is also helpful in the identification process.  For instance:

• The OD only uses his turn signal when it accidently catches on the sleeve of his Barracuda jacket.
•  “Older Drivers” always stop at traffic signals, — whether red or green — and remain there unfettered for one or more cycles.
•  Whether parallel parking or parking between lines, the OD is secure in his belief that wherever the wheels stop is close enough.
• For better or worse the "Older Driver" takes comfort in the fact that he has a 50/50 chance of stepping on the correct pedal.

 Inevitably during the course of these conversations mentioned at the beginning, the question always arises, “When should an older driver lose his driving privileges?”  Since the wisdom of the Driver Licensing Bureaus of the collective fifty states has failed to address this very point, it would appear this is far too difficult to answer.  But, I’d like to try.

The first time an undersized, beiged-up man older than you with large sunglasses and a Barracuda jacket drives his Buick LeSabre at least half way through the local Wal-Mart, jerk his license.

Full-Contact Grocery Shopping

As an adult male I’m somewhat of an anomaly in that I really like to shop.  I even like to grocery shop.  But earlier this week at the supermarket something went horribly wrong.  I had the list ready.  It was a beautiful autumn day.  And I was in a fine mood.

When I shop I like to park as far away from other vehicles as possible.  Not only do you risk having your doors dinged and bumpers bruised but you are at the mercy of those discourteous souls who wouldn’t dream of leaving their pet untethered, but for some inexplicable reason release their shopping carts to the powers of the wind and gravity rather than take the extra twenty steps to the cart coral.  These carts can’t find their own way home but they know exactly where to find my car — every time.  It’s why they sell rubbing compound at grocery stores.

Feeling secure with my spot half a town away, I got out of my car carrying my returnable bottles and at my feet was a shiny dime.  My lucky day!

Meijer, the largest supermarket in town, was recently remodeled with outdoor access to a dedicated bottle return facility.  Multiple state-of-the-art receptacles line the walls just waiting to accept your empties on their kelly green conveyors while scanning the barcode, all without human intervention.  It was all going swimmingly until I came to the final six bottles.  As the belt returned the first bottle of Bell’s Third Coast Beer, the screen alerted me “This Brand Not Sold Here.”  Since I had just purchased the beer at this store the previous week I tried two different machines.  “This Brand Not Sold Here.”  With no attendant present and a firm grasp of Albert Einstein’s definition of insanity, I decided to take it in stride, grab my bottle return receipt for $4.30 and get on with my grocery shopping.  Besides, with my lucky dime, I was really out only fifty cents.  Shake it off.  Onward to the main entrance.

I absolutely detest those large shopping carts.  Nothing can be worse.  I never need that many groceries and I always feel like I’m maneuvering a motor home through Smallville.  When I grocery shop I always look for the small shopping carts.  It’s a bit like a mushroom hunt though.  Seemingly everybody’s looking for one and there aren’t that many to be had.  And this is where my happy thoughts began to fade.  Out of one eye I spied a single small cart in a herd of dozens of monster carts.  Out of the other eye, an elderly woman similarly focused on me and said same cart.  No contest, right?  OK, in my defense she was deceptively quick.  Something made me think about that old Seinfeld episode with the last marble rye but I pushed that out of my mind.  Perspective.  Still without a cart and none to be found inside at either entrance, I returned to the parking lot and found a whole cart coral of them.  It must be great sport.

First on my list was yogurt.  Unbeknownst to me yogurt was on sale and turning the corner I thought, “Holy Mother of God!”  A Yoplait feeding frenzy was taking place right before my eyes.  Oh, the humanity.  I have since learned that the only thing that rivals a yogurt scrum is a sale on canned soup.  There was blood in the water and Harvest Peach on the floor.  Having long arms is particularly handy at times like these and I decided to wade into the fray desperately hoping no one would steal my small cart.  I had just clenched my hand around three possible candidates when an aggressive senior in a souped-up power chair plowed in – running over my foot .  Once going forward and once backing up.  Now in serious pain and having dropped one of my three conquests, I ran to daylight.  The two yogurts were not what I wanted, but they’d have to do.  Lick your wounds and move on.

Making my next turn I ran smack dab into a major case of aisle rage.  Vendors had half the aisle closed restocking.  A combination of small and large carts were tangled together and unable to get past.  And it was then that I realized I was wrong that nothing could be worse than a large cart.  Because in the middle of this traffic jamb was a super cart.  The basket is the same size as a large cart, but directly behind are living quarters for the four-or-so kids that were hanging off the sides.  It’s the double-bottom trailer of shopping carts.  The language that was flying prompted me to search for what was within reach in case I had to defend myself.  I finally settled on canned tuna.  They’re small, can inflict a fair amount of pain, and my rotator cuff isn’t what it used to be.  Luckily I was able to slip out unnoticed but I had lost my enthusiasm for shopping and headed to the checkout.  Not much longer.

I did not learn my lesson and waited in line for the self-checkout with my two containers of yogurt.  I watched as items failed to scan correctly, customers suffered from pilot error and attendants were called over for liquor purchases.  Finally my turn arrived and I scanned my two items sending them down the conveyor belt.  I paid little attention to the final tally and fed cash into the machine.  Grabbing my receipt I finally realized my items had obviously rung up incorrectly and I summoned a nearby attendant much to the chagrin of the dozen or so people who were waiting for my checkout.  I said, “I thought yogurt was on sale.”  She said, “It is sir, but not the Thick and Creamy.  Would you like to wait here while I get someone to exchange it for you?”  I didn’t even have to look.  I felt every pair of eyes boring holes in the back of my head and I knew I would never make it out of the store alive.  “No, thank you.”  Get the hell out of here!

The walk back to the car gave me a chance to cool off until I realized, out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, someone had parked right next to me.  I mean a pregnant squirrel couldn’t make it between the cars.  My driver’s door was right even with the passenger door of the close-parker.  With no chance to get in the driver’s door I got in the passenger side and slithered over the console.  Behind the wheel I took a deep breath and placed my purchase on the passenger seat only to find I had dragged someone’s fresh Bazooka along with me.  What else could possibly go wrong?  And as I reached into my pocket for the ignition key, I pulled out the returnable bottle receipt.

Testing the Depth of the Water with Both Feet

Jeff Daniels, a fellow Michiganian, is a well-known and very talented actor having been in dozens of movies including Terms of Endearment.  What many people don’t know is that he is an accomplished guitarist, songwriter and singer who performs a terrific one-man show.  He plays and sings his own compositions while entertaining the crowd with humorous personal anecdotes.  A few years ago I attended An Evening with Jeff Daniels during which he explained to the audience what encouraged him and gave him the confidence to play the guitar and sing in front of a crowd.  He wrote a song about that — If William Shatner Can Do It, I Can Too.

Back in 2003 Charles Barkley published a book titled I May Be Wrong But I Doubt It.  I have my own doubts whether Sir Charles actually wrote any of it and, in all honesty, I never read the book.  I thought it was pretty much a given that the title predicted the content and what I liked was the title and the confidence that it took to believe that anybody would even care about what he had to say.

So starting up this blog, what on God’s green earth makes me think that anybody might pay attention to anything I have to say?  And then I think, If Charles Barkley Can Do It, I Can Too. 

Besides that, CBS desperately needs to give Andy Rooney the soft boot and I'm available.  But we may visit that later.