I frequently drive up and down Central Avenue from Dunkirk to Fredonia and back. It is during those drives that I make these observations. And it’s this cultural experience that provides the impetus for the kinds of social reform I propose here.

I am plotting a peaceful protest in Dunkirk. I’m looking for a hundred volunteers to participate in a tailgate/slow-drive, traveling up and down Central Avenue while never stopping for those stupid red lights at Willowbrook and Lucas. The cops wouldn’t have enough jail cells for all of us, and even if you get arrested, the time in jail would be less than the infinite hours you have spent waiting for the light to change when nobody’s on the cross street. (It is only my conscience in the presence of the pure white Jesus statue in Willowbrook cemetery that has prevented me from behaving badly while waiting there.)

(Note: if you have a new car, your engine goes dead when you stop, which is annoying. It makes me wonder if there is a way of disabling any of these ridiculous automatic features. Do I not have the right to turn on the radio myself when I want to hear music instead of being blasted as soon as I touch the ignition? Am I not allowed to perform a little fun, spontaneous swerving down the road without igniting angry accusatory robotic beeps signaling my drunkenness? Or, in the case of a little fender bender, can I not get away with a repair bill of less than six thousand dollars, after which the electric/computer system never again works properly, and the check engine light burns even in my dreams?)

I recently witnessed a small herd of high school runners making strides by the fairgrounds. I’m not sure what school they hailed from, but judging from the pedestrian attire, they weren’t a well organized unit.

What was remarkable was that one of the runners (the last one) stumbled along while thumbing at his cell phone. I wonder if he was asking Siri how to get ahead in a race?

This prompted me to consider proposing some new laws regarding various misuses of cell phones in public. For the aforementioned straggler, a simple adjustment: he must run two miles a day for one week with his hands tied behind his back and no headphones while reciting, in cadence, “device not part of body” over and over again.

As a dog lover, I object to those who yak away on phones the whole time they are walking their emotionally neglected best friend. I saw a woman recently on the Avenue who never lost a syllable even as she stooped to swiftly gather up a poop. While I admire her dexterity, I am of the opinion that she should focus more on exercising her legs and her dog and less on her jaw. Her penalty would be relatively lenient, something like a month of mandatory Zen meditation sessions during which perfect silence is required.

The more obnoxious yakkers, however, are those who speak very loudly into their phones, forcing us to hear one half of a conversation. It’s like they either are oblivious to the fact that they are in public space, or they see us as a kind of audience who is being entertained by the sound of their monologue, like Shakespeare but without context. The penalty for their behavior is for them to provide responses to a thousand different prompts, perhaps starting with something like “why are people required to wear clothes in public?” or “The opposite of acute is __________.”

Perhaps the worst display of cellphone abuse happens in public restrooms. I’m talking about those who chat away while conducting personal and/or official business on the latrine. Despite the background chorus of flushing and streaming and plopping, along with their own occasional subdued grunt/moan, they carry on as if they are in a virtual yet very visceral meeting place. For these offenders, I say lock ’em up where they sit for a fortnight (whatever that is).

As my essay comes to an end, I bring you to the north end of Central Avenue, across from where our resident urban camper adorns his home bench with his cloaks of many colors. There at the entrance to the pier is a contrast in styles. To the east is a modern mini strip mall built for hobbits. On a summer evening, if a sudden storm came upon us, we would be jammed together like monkeys in a barrel, playing Twister with strangers who have been on boats without showers for weeks. Opposite the Shire is a structure too big, too old, too much of something-needs-to-change-here.

Writer/musician Pete Howard lives in Dunkirk. Send comments to odyssmusic20@gmail.com