A significant chunk of my commute takes place on a notoriously overcrowded stretch of highway. When I was a kid, the land on which the NerdCo empire now stands was primarily home to bunnies and blueberry farms, and the road capacity reflects this long-gone pastoral past; I now have ample time, in the near-daily traffic jams, to look around at all the personal grooming and other activities my fellow drivers have chosen to multitask with.
This is as good a place as any to point out that, hey, everyone: your automobile is not a magical Invisibility Capsule. I CAN SEE YOU in there, flossing and phoning and eyelash-curling, rummaging vigorously in your nostrils. You, buddy, alternating picking with applying the nose-hair trimmer? I SAW THAT TOO. I've watched a lady drive while reading a magazine and dangling her left leg out the window. My friend Funky D once saw a lady typing away on the laptop wedged between her breasts and the steering wheel. And I have borne witness to at least one instance of consummated erotic passion, which remains unhappily seared on my retinas a decade later.
Today brought a new one, though, as I observed the dude crawling along in the lane adjacent, while carefully taping up his hockey stick. Heh. Points for originality, my man.