One. I'm driving by RISD (where I usually keep my eyes forward and drive as fast as I can - too many ghosts) and I notice this girl. She looks exactly like a friend of my wife. I mean, it's the same face. They say that everyone has a twin somewhere in the world. They also used to say I look exactly like Luke Perry (or was it the other guy?), so really, how much credit do you want to give them? I say not much. Anyway, this girl looks exactly like my wife's friend. Same height, same mannerisms, same face. A little younger maybe, but the features are identical. An unknown sister? A clone? The secret goth-punk twin of a friend of my wife - 'cause the only difference is this girl has a five inch high, jet-black mohawk. Which is why I noticed her in the first place.

Two. A minivan, a rotting, rust infested refugee from the late eighties, faux wood paneling peeling off, belching black smoke, is making a feeble, lurching attempt at passing me. I could easily blow past this scrap pile with the slightest pressure on the gas pedal, but the usually dormant good samaritan takes control of my lead foot. As the van pulls in front of me, the driver suddenly breaks hard forcing me to slam on my breaks and turn slightly to the left to avoid driving straight into the back seat, which surely would have happened since there was clearly not enough solid metal to prevent my car from smashing right through the back door and literally into the back seat, like something out of one of those Cannonball Run movies. Only this guy in front of me ain't no Dom Delouise. And I ain't no Eugene Levy, you dig? I cough on a cloud of smoke as the van takes off down an exit ramp.