STAFF PICK: Though the future of this urban gladiatorial death match as a spectator sport for late-night cable TV is uncertain, the bellicose urgency witnessed here from 4 to 6 p.m. is due to the convergent triple-jeopardy circumstances of time and place. First, the perennial rush-hour gridlock of the Grant/Campbell intersection. Three or four red lights in an A.C.-deficient bakemobile will bring the bile to a steady, rolling boil. Toss in the daily suicide lane shenanigans to red-line the vexation quotient. Then, there's the postage stamp of a parking lot for two very popular businesses. Like some traffic circle hell of Dantean proportions, drivers honk, curse, play chicken, and power to the front of the pack. The junkyard aria of squealing rubber, the rending of metal, the crunch of brake light lenses and the shriek of bumper on door panel -- these are the sounds of the drive-time apocalypse. Fifteen cars wait in near combustible apoplexy as the battleship-long '68 Grand Torino attempts to maneuver into a moped-sized space. Tempers ignite, threats and recriminations are hurled, aneurysms pop, insurance information is exchanged. Could there be a better ad for SunTran?
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