Born and raised north of the Mason-Dixon, I was brought up to believe in a few certain basic “truths”. Like that the tooth fairy would always leave money under my pillow, or that the Red Sox were forever-cursed by the sale of Babe Ruth in exchange for a crappy Broadway play, or that a yellow traffic signal meant “proceed with caution”. One by one, all of these wonderful fables have come crashing down upon me. First the tooth fairy refused my request for more than a quarter, then the Red Sox crushed the Cardinals in four games, and finally this morning I was nearly T-boned by a jacked-up Ford F-150 at the intersection of Hill St. and DeKalb Ave under a flashing yellow light.

How I long for the time when I could revel in my hatred of the Sox and believe that a flashing yellow meant “proceed with caution”. However, I will never experience these feelings again, because its no longer the 2004 post-season and because I live in Atlanta, Georgia.

In Atlanta, a flashing yellow to some means “do the courteous thing and stop for the poor souls stuck at the flashing red”, while to others it means “slip into the slipstream of the car in front of you and blow through the intersection”. While option 2 is certainly less safe, I would argue that its the well-mannered drivers in option 1 that really put paint jobs at risk.

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