Monday Mail: Driving where you don't exist

March 2, 2014 

And the only thing that Ray could say was, "It's Monday Mail."


Today's opening is from Arlo Guthrie's "Pickle Song," particularly this part: "Late last night, the other day, I thought I'd go up and see Ray, so I went up and I saw Ray, and there was only one thing Ray could say, 'I don't want a pickle; I just want to ride on a motorcycle…'."

That's my meditation mantra for relieving the tension of covering long murder cases. Or multiple murder cases, as the case may be.


It is finally March, so start counting the days to better weather and evening daylight: Daylight Saving Time arrives this Sunday. Spring comes at 12:57 p.m. March 20.


Today we have some reader feedback to a Feb. 8 column about the perils of driving around people who don't recognize you exist. And if no one acknowledges your existence, do you truly exist?

That is the sort of question you may ask yourself as you crash into an Uptown Broadway median sculpture trying to avoid colliding with another driver who pulled out right in front of you like you weren't even there:

Mr Chitwood,

I just wanted to thank you for the great article and to also say that I truly thought that you were speaking of drivers in Huntsville, Ala.


With all that space technology in Huntsville, you would think people there would know how to drive.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist, you know.

Lost in space

Here's another email about folks who drive like they're probing an alien planet and can stop or go or do whatever else they want as they pursue their mission, and the rest of us are nothing more than rocks on the landscape:


Your Sunday article about the discourteous drivers in our city was right on the money. As a service technician who spends a lot of time driving these streets I see so many drivers who don't have a clue where they are going as evidenced by their lack of use of their turn signals. Maybe a better word would be directionals. Either these folks are totally directionless or we have an epidemic of the most non-functioning automobiles in history. There ought to be a recall. I'm just saying ...

Frustrated driver.

Dear Frustrated:

I've started calling them Zombie Drivers, because they drive like they've lost all sense of humanity, and their brains have been reduced to basic motor skills.

They've become humanoids oblivious to anything other than their own, immediate needs.

Tim Chitwood,, 706-571-8508.

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