FRIDAY, JUNE 4, 2004

It’s a beautiful day in New York City; a perfect opportunity to casually stroll down the streets, wading through the relatively clear, crisp air and those fucking idiots not paying attention to where they’re going.

Retort fantasy t-shirt by Dan Avery.

Pigeons dance before me, their winged movements introducing my every step down the romantically ubiquitous Park Avenue. The concrete jungle’s cold, artificial obstructions partially eclipse the spirit-lifting waterfalls of sunshine as their man-made shade cools my heels. At every corner, pedestrians instinctively spring between the paths of moving vehicles in a naturally balanced action that so beautifully reveals their basic survival skills.

The human flow empties into the riverbanks to my left as new bodies cut in from my right. I let the chaos swirl into a blur until it spits out obstructions into my path. As expected, Dockers-and-polo-clad Joe Anyschmuck swings into view out of the human traffic pop-up book, raising his hand in farewell salute to Mr. Suit in a customary exchange. Assuming that anyone or anything behind him will meekly steer around his field of inconsideration, he takes no caution in stepping back, even as his left heel meets my left foot.

“EXCUSE ME,” I say as harshly as possible – out of irritation, not an attempt at being polite - causing him to turn his head and nearly lose his balance. This sunlight-blocking douche-bag represents every repulsive, aging frat-boy lured into a degree of social discipline by the promise of cases of Bud Light and “Girls Gone Wild” videos. His oafish lack of awareness clashes directly with my crotchety, uptight reaction like an ugly tug of war between oil and water.

The dumb animal responds with a sort of grunt and steps around me the best he can, leaving me shaking my head and rolling my eyes. Manhattan streets are packed with bodies, unlike the wide-open spaces or cornfields you imagine you’re walking through, asshole.
- posted by Hal Miller @ 9:59 AM |