This is an entry from February 20th, 2005 from the car:

We’re on our way to Daytona Beach in Florida. We’re entering roughly our ninth hour of driving, and our third driver. Conditions are semi-dangerous, as it is raining pretty hard and this car isn’t the greatest at handling in good conditions, but I think we’ll make it.

The trip has been pretty fun so far, although as soon as I woke up on Saturday morning to leave, I felt that distinct feeling I was getting a cold. Now on Day 2, I feel it even more. My nose is running, my throat hurts a bit when I swallow, and I’m always thirsty. However, my spirits were increased last night in Atlantic City when I finished $90 up at the casino after being down $45.

Enough of that, though. This journal is supposed to be about thought, not my life. Well, the experiences of my life usually dictate what I write here, so I reckon that’s not completely true. Anyway, this thought is about the highway. The problem I have is that people, for reasons I can’t understand, feel they have to “teach” people lessons for poor driving conduct. For example, a guy nearly cuts off Tom. So Tom decides to match this guy’s speed so he can’t pass him. Why? To “teach” him a lesson.

Where does this come from? I believe it has to do with the fact that a car is like an Internet forum.

First of all, like the Internet, we’re all mostly anonymous. Sure, we have license plates. But on the Internet we have IP addresses. And like IP addresses, it’s not trivial to find out who is behind that magic number. However, unlike the Internet, someone doesn’t have to trace your license plate to kick the shit out of you. They only have to follow you until you stop (and people have done this) and beat the fuck out of you with a tire iron. And this has happened. Especially in the United States.

Second of all, people don’t think it’s dangerous. Sure, it feels like you’re in control of your car at 120 km/h, but things can go really wrong really quickly and the next thing you know you’re a quadriplegic. Seriously.

So is it really worth that lesson you taught them? Having a twofold risk on your life because some guy cut you off? You think he’s going to say “Heavens! What a mistake I’ve made cutting you off! Thank you for flashing your high beams, honking your horn and boxing me behind a car to teach me my much deserved lesson.”

And that’s all I have to say about that.

My next observation comes from the casino. Wow, I mean the only casino I’ve been to previous to last night was Ganonoque, by Kingston. First of all, soon as you get into the thing it’s just ridiculously tacky. It’s an overload of lights and noises, shitty carpet, mirrors and imitation architecture. You look one way and see sad looking people hunched over slot machines, manacled to their seats by plastic cord of their VIP cards. You look another way and see an old geezer security guard, or an older woman with impossibly large breasts and too much makeup on. A thuggish guy walks by with his sad looking girlfriend. Her face has no expression, she appears to almost be an automaton.

What happened to these people? How did they get here? Why are they still here? I can’t answer any of these questions. I’m confident my childhood was nothing like theirs, and I can only imagine what I would be like if my parents had not been so supportive and nurturing.

I guess this train of thought naturally comes to the eternal question of nature and nurture. How much of who I am is intrinsic to me, and how much of it is given from my environment? I suppose the question is rhetorical. There is no answer, but it is interesting to consider the possibilities.

That about wraps it up for now.