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If somebody cuts me off on the freeway, I get hit with a sudden adrenaline rush–racing heart, wild eyes. My tongue gets mean, road rage kicks in, I’m either honking or braking or hitting the gas. After it’s all said and done my heart rate might return to normal, maybe in about fifteen minutes. But for the rest of the drive–if not the day–I’m rarely the same. The incident shocks my core a little bit, and that’s a hard sensation to shake. Don’t trust me with heavy machinery or fine Japanese knives after that. Don’t even hand me the remote control! I’m useless!
So how does barber Heng Song, of Alaska, witness an SUV blowing through the front window of his shop (narrowly missing his cutting station)–and resume his job to completion? (After taking a moment to confirm everyone was safe and the police were being called, of course.)
I HAVE NO IDEA.
Song is one Badass Asian Barber, that’s for sure. And a cooler cuke than I could ever dream to be.
Man, I’m so curious to know how that haircut turned out.
Last week, two dudes got into a fight after a road rage incident escalated on a Staten Island highway, and one of them, Yao Zhou, 35, a sushi chef, cut up the other guy, Jack Zaiback (pictured left), 23, with a sushi knife. Zaiback got in some blows, too, cutting Zhou above the eye with his fists, and both men have been charged with first-degree assault.
But they should have been charged with first-degree fucktardedness. Because they pulled over to rumble and, I mean, who does that? It’s one thing to mouth off to another driver–I have been known to get into it with assholes on the road and talk about how tiny their dicks are, and I’m not condoning that, either–but pulling over? Pulling a knife? Apparently, they were rolling on the ground, on the shoulder of the highway, Zhou brandishing a knife, before a patrolman broke up the fight. It’s amazing that one or both of them didn’t get killed. That shit’s just plain stupid.
I have TWICE been the victim of metal-induced Asian road rage. Picture this: two months ago, I’m driving to my parents’ house in Orange County, windows down, sunroof open, Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” a-blasting, me happily a-nodding along and a-drumming on my steering wheel. I pull up to a stop light. The music is kind of mortifyingly loud, but no one is around to force the feeling, until a young 20-something couple in a suped-up (read: lowered, old, and grubby) Nissan roll up on my right. The girl (passenger), perhaps pre-road hummer, is leaning into the lap of the guy (driver)–but as they pull to the line, they both stop to look at me.
But what do I care? I’m not embarassed of “Puppets,” for chrissake, it rocks! Who would laugh at this near-perfect opus? Plus, I’m not in high school, these guys are total nerds, and my V6 could out-dick their four cylinders any day. If we were moving, that is.
The light stays red. The girl points at me. They join together in laughter directed at me. I look straight ahead and begin to fume, becoming adamant at this point–I’m not going to acknowledge their ridicule or turn my goddamn tunes down! They’re kids! Kids, I tell you! Nerds! Mediocre-looking nerds!
The song ends and the gentle opening riffs of “One” cue up. I fast-forward on my iPod until the noodling begins. I turn the volume dial clockwise.
Their laughter erupts. I hate these motherfuckers! What in god’s name do they have on their iPod, I wonder rudely (albeit silently)–Oasis? Late-adopter Death Cab? Fall Out Boy? Weezer? What the fuck?
The light turns green. I slam on the gas, flying off the start far more aggressively than I am accustomed to. The guy gets a kick out of this and slams his foot down, too. Soon, we’re flying through a residential neighborhood, with houses whizzing by, angry grandmas going into conniptions on the side walk. I’m blowing through stop signs and not reading speed limit signs–hells bells, I’m defending my honor, here! And the honor of James Hetfield! Grubby Nissan guy starts to tail me.
This goes on for awhile. Suddenly, I get a call on the BlackBerry from Dad. I’m about to pull over to answer it when I realize I’m thirty seconds away from their house. I slink over to turn into their gated community. The couple collapses into even more laughter, growl their little engine, spit out the window, and race off.
All I’m thinking is: Metallica? Really?
Two weeks later, I’m cruising in East LA, griping about the 90-degree winter heat to the tune of Slayer’s “South of Heaven.” A dude in a royal blue lowered Integra (I’ll have you all know that the low Integra is my car alma mater) comes up on my left, flips me off, and barrels down the street.
All I’m thinking is: Slayer? Really?
I don’t know what it is about me, loud music, imported cars, and angry millenials, but they don’t seem to fucking mix. So it is with deep pride and joy that I declare my love for Boris, a fucked-up Japanese metal band that has been around 4-eva and is still doing awesome shit.
I mean, even if you didn‘t like the way they sounded, you’d have to give them big ups for having one dude that looks like Bowie and a tiny chick that makes a lot of noise. But I like the way they sound–loud, in my car, with my windows down.
Take that, muthafuckaz!
We get it: The Dalai Lama is hip. The Dalai Lama is cool. The Dalai Lama is Hollywood.
Don’t get us wrong– We love His Holiness so very much. Hell, we’ve busted China’s chops in his defense.
Our ears perked up when we found out that this week, we could actually buy the official car of the 14th Dalai Lama on eBay, for the minimum bid of $75k. How bitchin’ would that be?!? We imagine that somehow its peaceful vibes could remedy one’s road rage, and probably make that person’s skin look great (this is not confirmed).
And then we looked more closely at The Dalai Lama Foundation’s latest auction: the *bonus* to your buy? A meet-and-greet with this botox-faced wacko:
Er, we’d rather have a date with her facialist. Jen and I have no space in our lives to visit with the woman who pioneered the modern age for an upskirt epidemic, in honor of peace.
Guess we’ll have to stick to raging in the Volvo. Oh well. We enjoy it.
Nissan recently unveiled Pivo 2, a concept car that allows you to drive sideways and has a robot sitting on the dash to assist. Pivo is egg-shaped and looks like a giant, jolly cup of Boba tea. Since the wheels turn 90 degrees, there’s no need to learn how to parallel park anymore. Also…
Like its predecessor, which was unveiled two years ago, the new Pivo has a cabin able to revolve 360 degrees, eliminating the need to reverse.
The robot feature helps you to navigate and assesses when you’re tired and need to pull off the road. The company also claims it can sense when you’re angry and helps with road rage…by nodding or shaking its head.
Whoa. Hold up. Admittedly, Pivo 2′s robot is adorable. But if someone’s screaming obscenities or laying on his/her horn or cutting me off in Friday afternoon traffic, there is no way that little guy bobbing his head is going to prevent me from giving somebody the finger and popping off at the other driver. Not unless Pivo’s robot comes with duct tape and some hand restraints, too.