Get the Hell Out of My Way!

Well, I hate to be the one to say this, but New Yorkers can't walk worth a damn. And I'm not just ranting and raving. I have a little evidence to support my claim. You see, there's an unspoken rule about navigating our urban roadways. It's goes something like this: Drive on the right. Pass on the left. Sound familiar? That's because you learned it a long time ago in Driver's Ed.

In New York, and Astoria specifically, this rule does not apply. In fact, I don't think there are any rules. It reminds me of what driving must have been like in 1910—a time when there were no road signs, no traffic lights, and no yellow lines on the road. Complete and utter chaos.

I've tried to understand why this is, but so far the only conclusions I can come to are:

1) Queens is considered one of most diverse areas in the United States, with no less than 138 languages being spoken throughout the borough. That's a lot of different driving cultures in one place, all operating independently of one another.

2) Most people in Queens don't own a car. They travel by subway or bus, which means they hardly ever drive. And since they hardly ever drive, they have no understanding of the even the most basic traffic laws.

3) People are just retarded.

As the years go by, I'm starting to latch onto number three. But that doesn't really help anyone. So, after careful observation, I've put together a list of five of the most common offenders. Not only will it make spotting and avoiding their erratic driving habits easier, it's a cathartic experience that allows me vent my frustrations without having to beat the shit out of many otherwise innocent New Yorkers.

The Sidewinders

The shortest distance between A and B is a straight line. Has been for thousands of years. Now if only someone would tell these assholes. They move down the sidewalk like slithering snakes, outwitting your every attempt to pass them by. You go left, they go left. You go right, they go right. Then left again. Getting around these living obstacles requires speed, dexterity, and an acute awareness of your surroundings. Think Richard Gere in First Knight, timing his mad dash through the gauntlet to snag a kiss from that bitch Lady Guinevere. It's not easy, but it can be done.

The Wall Huggers

You can see them coming a mile way, fighting their way through oncoming traffic. With one side of their body pressed up against the wall, they inch their way through the crowd by riding the shoulder. It's a bold move, but a dangerous one. One theory is that many Wall Huggers are from Europe, where driving on the opposite side of the road is normal. I don't know if I buy that. And even if I did, I suggest you get back in the left lane. Unless, of course, you get a kick out of head-on collisions.

[i.e. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crash_(1996_film)]

The Blind Sides

No one rounds a corner better. Actually, it's more of a 90-degree turn—right into your face. It kind of reminds me of the light cycle sequence in Tron, only it's no longer 1982 and no one's wearing glow-in-the-dark pajamas. Still, if I could take these fuckers into The Maze and put them out of their misery, I would. As for avoiding them, my only advice is to give them a wide berth.

The Window Shoppers

Now technically, this next group isn't native to just New York. However, with so many storefronts and sales to distract the eye, it's not surprising to find a huge population here. They're the ones who stop dead in their tracks, right in the middle of the traffic. Meanwhile, the rest of us are dodging and darting to avoid an inevitable eighteen-person pileup. Only after the wreckage has cleared do we notice the cause of the accident—Foot Locker is having a 20 percent off sale on tube socks. Great.

The Reservoir Dogs

Standing five, six, or seven abreast, these groups of cinematic wannabes stretch themselves out across the sidewalk, making it virtually impossible for anyone else to get buy. The effect is only compounded by stay-at-home moms pushing an army of strollers. Hey, I'm a Tarantino fan as much as the next guy, but unless you're dressed to the nines and rocking out to the George Baker Selection, get the hell out of my way.

Happy driving everyone.

Sprinkles and the Very Bad Storm

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there lived a rather cheap umbrella named Sprinkles. Anytime it rained, Sprinkles did his best to keep the people dry. And the people were alway thankful, because even a cheap umbrella is better than no umbrella at all. Especially when it's raining cats and dogs. This made Sprinkles very happy.

Then one day, a terrible storm rolled into the land. Thunder roared in the darkness. Lightning raced across the sky like long, pointed fingers. Rain came down in sheets three-feet thick. The people were scared. No one could go outside in a storm like this! But that didn't stop Sprinkles. He gathered everyone underneath his tiny canopy, stepped onto the street, and braved the elements.

"Is that all you've got?" boasted Sprinkles, taunting the storm.

But as the wind picked up, his frail metal frame started to buckle. The people held tight to his rickety push-button handle, shielding themselves from the rain's piercing drops.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to let you down." assured Sprinkles, turning to those underneath him.

But Sprinkles was a cocky, stupid umbrella who was anything but prepared for a Category 2 hurricane. And so when an errant gust of wind blew in from the north, tearing the vinyl from his soft aluminum bones, he was turned completely inside out.

"Fuck, my spine!" yelled Sprinkles.

The people tried to help him, but the storm was just too strong. And with Sprinkles unable to protect them, the people were getting wetter by the second. And very, very angry.

"You betrayed us!" cursed the people. "You said you would keep us dry, but you didn't. We trusted you!"

"I...I thought I was stronger." whispered Sprinkles, rolling over on his side, near dead.

"Made in Taiwan. I knew it!" shouted the people, vengeance very much on their mind.

So, rather than dick around any longer with a shitty-ass umbrella, the people threw Sprinkle's lifeless body into a nearby trash can and headed back home in the pouring rain, playfully jumping in and and out of puddles as they skipped down the street.

The End.

One Last Cappuccino Blast

Dear Mr. Robbins,

It pains me to write this, but I feel that I am no longer in love with you. Time and again, I've gone back on my word—and my better judgement—to enjoy your coffee-flavored concoctions, hoping to rekindle the spark that once made our relationship special. But the truth is, I think it's time we went our separate ways.

I don't mean to be callous, it's just that I feel we've outgrown each other. The things I used to find so charming about you—the whipped cream, the cinnamon on top, the shot of caffeine-infused adrenaline—are now the very things I despise. Just thinking about them makes my gut wrench.

I don't mean to say that I haven't enjoyed our times together. There were some truly magical moments. Remember Steinway? Still, I can't lie to myself anymore. Despite your good intentions, you always leave me feeling a little nauseous. It's not so much you as it is the lactose. And I know that's not your fault, but let's be honest, it's part of who you are. Without the milk, you're little more than a small collection of dessert toppings and a stack of waffle cones. Hardly the ingredients you need for a healthy relationship. Especially with someone who has digestive problems like I do.

I hope you can forgive me, but it's really for the best.

Sincerely,

Christopher

P.S. Please don't try to contact me by sending me coupons for ice creams cakes. As enticing as they are to redeem, my decision is final. Besides, I have recently been spending lot of time with fruit, and will be unable to accept any formal invitations from the dairy group for some time.

The Perfect Fit

In the 1993 film Being Human, Robin Williams plays four different roles—each one from a different period in history—representing four different incarnations of a single living soul. The movie isn't that great, and to be honest, I don't really remember what the point of it all was. The one thing I do remember was the main character's seemingly endless search for pair of shoes that actually fit. It never happened.

I, for one, think I'm damned to suffer the same fate. Every time I set my sights on picking up a new pair of shoes, whether it's a pair of sneakers, boots, dress shoes or sandals, I'm seemingly plagued at every turn by complete and utter failure. It never fails. Sometimes I'll find a pair I like, but they won't have my size—either because I share the same shoe size (how's that for alliteration?) with millions of other people or I'm not cut out to play college basketball and this is someone's way of letting me know. Other times I'll find a pair of shoes I like ("Yes, they have a size 10!") but realize only seconds later that a 10 isn't really a 10. In this case, a 10 is a 9 1/2. Which means I'm going to need a 10 1/2, which of course is nowhere to be found. And let's not forget the ugly pair of faux snakeskin loafers sitting next to them available in every size from 7 to 13 in 1/16 inch increments. FUCK! Safe to say, it can get pretty frustrating.

Of course, some of these problems could be avoided if I was really into shoe shopping in the first place. However, I tend to arrive after all the people with size 10 feet have ransacked the place, leaving me with little to do but try on the stylish demo models. I also have a feeling that my oddly-shaped feet play an important role in this dilemma. Unlike most people, my feet aren't exactly the same size. One is slightly larger than the other, which makes we question that whole thing about God and symmetry. Someone fucked up. Yeah, I'm talking to you up there.

Perhaps if cobbling were still a lucrative trade, things would be different. I'd have a pair of shoes that fit me and only me. Of course, I'd also be living in the 18th century, have a name like Addison Irving Cooper, and suffer from numerous venereal diseases. Damn it, it's always something...

The Breakfast of Champions

Breakfast might be the most important meal of the day, but damn if I don't look forward to that mid-morning snack. Thank god for vending machines.

In 1888, long before the mysterious filling for Twinkies was brought to earth via a rouge meteor, the Thomas Adams Gum Company introduced the very first vending machines. These diabetes distribution systems were installed on the elevated subway platforms in New York City and sold Tutti-Frutti gum. It wasn't too long after Tutti-Frutti caught on, that New Yorkers everywhere could be found peeling it off the bottom of their shoes while shouting lengthy strings of obscenities.

Luckily, with advancements in technology, we've moved far beyond offering gum. Now you can buy just about anything from these metal monoliths, just so long as it 1) offers absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever and 2) is goddamn delicious. Other than that, the door is wide open, so long as you first move that little flap out of the way.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a dollar bill with E1 written all over it (That's short for Peanut M&M's).

A Small Victory

Even as I bask in the thrill of last night's victory, I know the blinking cursor is calling in reinforcements. He'll likely attack when I'm most vulnerable—those hazy hours between 10 and 11 AM—and decimate my confidence and self-esteem before I have any chance to retaliate. But what he doesn't know is that I have a secret weapon, that one thing that even the most defeated writer has at his disposal: the ability to spew forth heaping piles of bullshit.

First discovered thousands of years ago, bullshit is the go-to weapon of choice when dispatching the blank page. No matter what the odds, you can always count on bullshit to clear a path to victory. In the eternal struggle of man vs. words, it is the great equalizer, filling up empty spaces so quickly that you wonder why you didn't think about harnessing its power sooner. But, as Peter Parker's uncle once told him, "With great power comes great responsibility." Which just means that you can't bullshit forever. At some point you have to write something of value, but in a pinch (or when you're writing just to get in the habit of writing), it can be the greatest ally you have.

Hey, what do you know? That's two fucking posts in two days. You can taunt me all you want, but I'm still gonna keep swinging.

God, I Hate Writing

In my continuing efforts to remain creatively viable, I've decided to start blogging again. It's not that I think anyone is actually paying attention, or would even care if they were. It's more about the fact that I'm in the midst of a creative dry spell and need to do something, anything, to get out of it.

So, what to blog about? Who the fuck knows. I've spent so much time over analyzing this very topic, I thought it might be a good idea to write about it. But the truth is, writing can be such a frustrating experience for me that I'm surprised I got this far. I don't know why, but there's something about seeing that blinking cursor that pisses me off. I don't know why, but it's been going on for years. We just don't get along that well. And I don't see us reconciling anytime soon. Which makes me think we ought to call it quits. I'd rather we went our separate ways than spend the rest of our lives making each other miserable.

The moral of the story? Relationships are complicated and sometimes you have to know when to walk away. It doesn't mean I'm done with writing, it just means that my relationship with it isn't working anymore. Good riddance. I should have kicked its ass out a long time ago...