You don't have to be a city dweller to experience one of the lowest forms of human life: the Cranker. The Cranker is that specific species of miscreant who desperately needs to share his musical tastes with everyone within a half-mile radius, thanks to the awesome 1.21-gigawatt mega-woofers that make his axles sag with anguish. The kind of idiot who turns onto your street just as your toddler has finally passed out after three hours of molar-induced insomnia.
You also don't have to be a city dweller to know that fathers of young children don't get much of a chance to listen to their music -- the music they love, that they grew up on -- at full volume. Without the discomfort of headphones, which either dig into your ears or squish your head. These fathers basically have two venues: alone in the house (which occurs about as often as the Olympics); and alone in the car.
You see where this is going.
I was dropping off our umpteenth rental car the other night when I realized I had a little extra gas to burn and a little time for a joyride. And damned if the radio station started playing a block of serious kick-ass '70s rock, and damned if my thumb didn't wander on over to the "VOL UP" button (a miraculously standard feature on most steering wheels), and damned if I didn't lower the windows a bit to celebrate the end of a four-day monsoon. And damned if I didn't become that for which I have less regard than a dog turd on toast.
I admit this was something of a revelatory experience. Sure, the Cranker with the 1.21-gigawatts deserves to be pelted with rancid cantaloupes. But there is a separate underclass of Cranker who deserves a bit more tolerance. That poor soul might just be some new dad who conned his way out of the house and is remembering what it was like to be as young as his kids are about to be.