Slow. The. %$#@. Down
By Matt Gordon The other day I was driving my family home. It was ordinary: kids were yelling and fighting and crying, while I drove on in some Walter Mitty state—ta-packeta-pocketa-pocketa . . . I was broken from my reverie and back to the clamor of the car, and the world, by a man walking his dog on the sidewalk. He mouthed words at me—at us—and the sheer size and…