The blog’s title is a takeoff from Deep Purple’s motorhead ode to horsepower and penis extenders, Highway Star. Songs about teenagers and their cars were commonplace since Rock and Roll began its corruption of America’s youth and the deterioration of the moral fiber of society. The fifties not only brought us Rock and Roll, but a post-war prosperity this country had never seen before. There was a greater likelihood for a household to own two cars rather than two televisions. Getting a driver’s license was a rite of passage on par with someone’s first communion, and being baht or bar mitzvahed. Being licensed to drive told the world “I have finally arrived! My transition into adulthood has begun.” Independence took on a whole new meaning. For those who were fortunate enough to own their own cars, rather than be relegated to driving the parent’s sedan or wagon; the empowerment was even greater. All that has changed.
A recent Federal Highway Association report revealed that teenagers who are eligible to obtain their driver’s licenses are abstaining. The numbers showed that only thirty percent of all teenagers today who are eligible apply do so. This number is down from forty-four percent in 2005. This thirty percent number is down forty-five percent from twenty years ago. Manuel Gallegus, a reporter for the CBS national news cited several reasons for this phenomenon, none of which held any water with me. Call me a cynic (even if you do, I can’t hear you) but I see them through my red, green, and amber glasses, as copouts.
Topping Mr. Gallegas’ list of stop signs is the economy. He said that the family cost of a car, insurance, and gas for the teenager is prohibitive in the current economic environment. Mr. Gallegus was careful to use the term “family costs” instead of “costs for parents,” though that’s exactly what was being implied. He’s not stupid, just prudent. He can’t really say many kids today are spoiled rotten, and the idea that they would be required to purchase, insure, and put gas in their own vehicle is beyond the realm of comprehension for these poster children for entitlement.
Mr. Gallegus reinforces this stunted teen mentality when he adds that getting a driver’s license is “complicated.” I assume he is not implying that today’s generation of teens are mental defectives unable to grasp the printed word. Yet, Gallegus goes into what a chore it can be for a sixteen (or seventeen) year old to learn all the laws in the driver’s manual. Is he kidding? No wonder President Obama is disheartened by the rising dropout rate of high schoolers. How can teens be expected to retain what is in textbooks when they can’t fathom a driver’s manual?
Gallegus adds that some teens just don’t want the responsibility that comes with driving. What a fucking shock that is! Many don’t hold themselves responsible for much of anything. Accountability is a word alien to the teenage vocabulary. Some think they should be canonized for fulfilling the required amount of community service hours needed for graduation.
Gallegus concludes with some teens are just too lazy to get a driver’s license. He doesn’t say that in so many words, but he does say the need for a driver’s license has been greatly diminished due to today’s advanced technology.
Skype, online chatting, and texting provide enough social interaction for today’s teen that they no longer have to drive anywhere to be with friends. One girl said “You don’t have to be in front of someone to have an actual conversation or have fun.” No wonder no one talks to their neighbors. No wonder so many people come off as transparent phonies. No wonder many teens today lack appropriate interpersonal skills. No wonder we have a teenage obesity problem. However, with fewer teens on the road, there are less teen auto fatalities. So there is an upside to a lack of physical human contact.
Gallegus did point out that there was a drawback to this dearth of younger drivers. Parents would have to chauffeur around their kids longer. I guess you can consider this would qualify as “quality time” spent with your kids. I can see it now, load them into the minivan, and let them put in a DVD, or put in the earbuds to their Ipods, so to remain as emotionally distant as possible, while these helicopter parents cater to their kid’s transportation whims; a heartwarming scene of Rockwellian proportions.
This is not the point in the story where I go into what it was like for my generation, then again, why not?
I can recall petty jealousies over who of my circle of friends would be getting their driver’s licenses before me during our junior year of high school. Since my birthday was the last day of May, that would constitute everyone. Steve Gabriele was first; his birthday was in November. K.C. Cary was second, he got his in January. Tom Rowlands got his license in March. To perpetuate my misery, I checked the World Almanac for each state’s age minimum for driving. I fought my own inner civil war with those states where the driving age was less than New Jersey’s seventeen. I secretly wished my parents would become farmers, so like Alan Hallman and the Thomas twins; I could flaunt the law, and get my farmer’s license at fifteen. Yet, while I impatiently waited for my time, no one was tired of coming to pick me up. Unlike our parents, who thought they’d drive off the earth if they were to drop us off across town a mere three miles away. The freedom of driving myself severed the chains of guilt my parents laid on me for inconveniencing them to shuttle me to play at a friend’s house when I was younger.
Most of us worked at odd jobs so we’d have enough money to buy cars when the time came. Steve had a ’59 Volkswagen convertible. I recall cutting school, and piling seven non-licensed cohorts into the cramped interior quarters –top down of course- and heading off to Seaside Heights one glorious early May day.
K.C. had a ’64 Impala. That car took six of us the winter of our junior year to the state wrestling championships held at Jadwin Gym in Princeton. Ray, Wayne, Steve, K.C. and I watched Tom beat the reigning state wrestling champion in overtime, in the meets most exciting match. As a footnote; I saw amputee Tom Seitz wrestle, perhaps unknowingly providing motivation that somehow was stored away, waiting for the time it would be needed.
Tom had a Dodge ’68 Dodge Charger with a 440 Magnum motor and a Slapstick transmission. Though we no longer lived in the same neighborhood, he would often pick me up to attend whoever’s perennial Saturday night blowout. There were other cars for some of us before graduation; BMW’s weren’t going to head the gift list.
Getting a license was so important, I considered Steve to be a genius when, in order to avoid the lengthy waiting period the Morristown DMV scheduled; Steve had the foresight to go to the Wayne DMV where the wait from permit to license was in most cases, less than two weeks. I owe him a great debt for sharing this secret with me.
Our licenses got us out. Rarely did it ever matter where, as long as we got out together. Even if it was to pool our financial resources for a couple of gallons of gas, just so we could ride around and listen to the latest from Billy Joel, David Bowie, Pink Floyd, or the Allman Brothers. We could do it together as friends without our parents telling us to turn it down, or having them schlep anyone home. A license meant sovereignty in a world controlled by adults, of which we would soon become part. But for that small window of time, before we all went our separate ways, a license allowed us to find out about some things for ourselves without restrictions and undue influence. Our parents for the most part, trusted us to do so, in our own cars, paid for and insured with the money earned from jobs at gas stations, diners, and supermarkets. You can’t get all that out of sitting alone in a room talking to a computer while waiting for Mom or Dad to provide.
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