Sharing the road with a punk

OK, I do have something to say this evening. An event in my everyday--I had pulled up to a stop sign in my marginally buecolic (spell?) small town in Ohio. Sun was shining, breeze was reshreshing through the open minivan/stationwagon/suv vehicle (I drive a Chrystler Pacifica--what the heck is that?) Anyway, beside me in my reverie I am forced to share the road with a punk with all windows lowered and a sad excuse for music blaring from his bad speaker system. I mean BLARING. I had had a little disturbance earlier with some work frustration, and I was in no mood for listening to someone else's lack of taste. So, uncharacteristic of my "live and let live" policy, I hollered at the guy--HEY--I said as loud as my mommy voice could holler--and it can travel, believe me. He didn't flinch. So I waved my arms and hollered again--HEY. I believed I was speaking for everyone else at the red light. Still, no flinching. Light turned green, traffic flowed accordingly, and the punk was out of reach. That was the end of that. No satisfaction for the frustrated Pacifica-driving, harried woman who prefers Haydn's horn concertos to what's-his-name-with-no-sense-of beauty-or-quality-of-life.

Live and let live, I say, unless I'm accausted by senseless banging sounds.

Warning to any who might read my meandering writings--I have trouble spelling on the spot.

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