Of Road Rage and Car Names

Recently, I read an article about road rage and car personalization. It basically said that people who give their cars names, a gender, or personalized plates are more likely to have road rage. Why? Because they obviously care very much about their car. Enough to treat it like a person! So if you almost hit this car or damage it in any way, the owner will probably want to kick your ass.

Seems logical enough. I mean, I hadn't thought about personalized plates being about the car instead of the vain philistine driving it. When I see a plate that says "CHPSTER" or "BIGMAN" or "STUDLY," my first assumption is that the driver is a self-absorbed moron with money to burn, out of whack priorities, or a very tiny penis. I don't usually jump to the "well, he's referring to the car" conclusion. Why? Cause it's stupid -- but it makes sense. If you have a personalized plate, you care too much about your car or your way of life. If someone almost side-swipes you, they must be threatening your car or who you are. The side-swipe is a show of disrespect! How dare they not respect the anesthesiologist in the bright red Hummer!

I'm not sure if that's true about assigning a gender and a name to your car. People do that for their first car, out of excitement and sheer happiness. People do it for their dream car, the one they always wanted and saved up for. People do it when their car serves a specific purpose, like when it carries all your friends to the coffee shop, or holds all of the band's instruments and amps. Naming your car doesn't mean you actually treat it like a person. It doesn't even mean that you love it too much. It's a sign of the times -- your times -- and a marker for where you are in your life. It's a way to make a memory, to add a little more nostalgia to your fond rememberences of years gone by.

Naming your car isn't like naming other inanimate objects. When people name their TVs and La-z-boys, that's all about status and reveling in your own decadence (and possibly about your manhood). While you might build a "relationship" with them, TVs and easy chairs aren't active -- they don't really participate in your life, and they don't help you get things done. Naming power tools is different, but somewhat the same. While a power drill does help you accomplish a task, unless you're in construction or doing some serious remodeling, it's not necessarily a constant. Most people aren't going to have a relationship with their power drill -- at least the kind that you would if you used it every day, like your TV.

Cars are much different. Most people use their cars every day. It's a vital part of their routine; it gets you from place to place like nothing else would. It brings you to work to make money, to the grocery store to buy food, and home again to your family to rest and recharge. It brings you to holidays, hospitals, sporting events, school concerts, and a million other places that hold a special spot in your life. You coax your car up hills, through traffic, and in snow. You cringe when it hits pot holes, get annoyed at it when it won't find the right radio station, worry about it in the cold, and yell at it when it won't start. You know when there's something wrong with your car, when it doesn't feel right. While you might not think of your car as an actual person, it's a big part of your life, and part of your family. You have a relationship with your car.

A short time ago, I decided that my gold PT Cruiser had the spirit of a young man living in the early 40s. I named him Chester. Despite that determination, he may yet be a woman. A woman dressing as a man? Risky behavior indeed, especially in the 40s. But Chester is special. Special enough, I think, to call him/her Chester/Charlene. Him/her was in an accident recently, and got pretty banged up. I miss Chester. Or Charlene. It really depends on what the car is doing, as well as where/when it's doing it. I think during and after the crash, he was Chester. Resolutely puttering along, refusing to let some misalignment and crushed metal get in the way of getting me to where I wanted to go. Even if it was to Little Caesers in Loves Park, Illinois, just to satisfy my craving for Crazy Bread.

Get well soon, Chester/Charlene. I'm waiting for you!