A convenience store in my neighborhood sells "flags of all nations." And they have chosen to decorate their storefront with vertically displayed 3x5 ft. flags. They run the length of the facade, and flap like a free form awning. It is, at the very least, an attention-getter. A few months ago, the Israeli flag was torn down. I assumed this was the act of a vandal, and not a political statement by the owners, who are Arab American.
Today, I was gratified to see the flag had been replaced. I find this significant. I think peace has been achieved. In Central Texas, anyway.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
WHY DON'T WE DO IT IN THE ROAD?
You’re standing near the corner of 45th and Avenue C, or the intersection of your choice. You would like to cross. There is no light or stop sign, and the cars just keep on coming. On your side of the street, they stream in from the west, passing what may very well be an equal number of westbound vehicles. 45th Street isn’t particularly wide at this point, and this is a lot of traffic for a Sunday morning. A cynic might suggest this is because we are a gaggle of lazy crapholders who can’t schlep our burgeoning assets more than a couple of blocks without the assistance of an internal combustion engine and a tankful of Amoco Premier. Others might even suggest that, behind the wheel, we are selfish and impatient and downright evil -- oblivious to the welfare of fellow travelers. Especially those on foot.
But, I would never say this. I’m not that cynical. I’m a regular Pollyanna. For example, I honestly believe that most people are basically good. And by “most” I mean at least 51%, and by “basically” I mean... they wouldn’t shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die.
At least one more reason would be required.
I also believe that, on a good day, at least of some of the good people you meet might even be smart. This is a bonus I always appreciate. But, like the cynics mentioned in the first paragraph, I am acutely aware of the dangerous liaison that exists between good, smart people and three to four thousand pounds cold, dumb steel.
Most drivers I have observed assume instantaneous proprietorship of the road. They own the thoroughfare, and everyone else is simply in the way. And for these drivers, such vehicular interlopers are deserving targets of scorn and derision – and the occasional projectile. Even the hapless citizen whose only crime is obeying the speed limit is cursed and threatened by the combined wrath of the four-wheeled beast and the anointed soul controlling its destiny.
I am not assuming the role of judge. It’s true -- I haven’t owned or driven a car since the mid 90s, but that doesn’t render me superior. A claim of that magnitude would suggest I achieved this status as the result of a plan, or in the pursuit of an ideological goal. Not the case. I simply quit driving for a short period of time and found the experience so liberating I lost all interest in regaining the status of unhappy motorist. I wake up happy every day, giddy with the knowledge that I will never purchase auto insurance or steel-belted radials again. Ever. The fact that I’m not supporting the Saudi Royal Family or the vast, international oil industry as aggressively as most – well, that’s just another one of those bonuses.
This is not a recommendation. Most people are not cut out for a car-less existence (although the island of Manhattan seems to be teeming with them). But, I am. Even living in Austin – a town with substandard public transportation – I can make it work. It just takes a little planning and a lot of patience. I must also fight the urge to ask friends for a ride. I accept any and all offers, but almost never make the request. The reason for this should be obvious. A literal translation of “can I get a ride?” is “I really, really need a car.”
And, I really, really don’t.
But, getting back to the corner of 45th and Avenue C, it has become obvious that crossing the road will require a bit of stealth and timing. And, you can do it. You have done it before. You simply gauge the progress of oncoming traffic, first on the opposite side of the road, and then on yours. Next, you calculate the velocity of the brisk walk or sprint required to transport you safely to the other side – just after one car passes from the east and a second passes from the west. The window is narrow. Two more cars are coming. Fast. You must hit the center of the street, pause for the westbound car without being hit by the next eastbound car, and complete your journey before the second westbound car arrives in your airspace. Concentration is critical and execution must be precise. You must weave a single vertical thread while avoiding all others.
The eastbound car zips by. Your foot hits the street and propels you forward. As you approach the single yellow line, you slow your trajectory slightly, just enough to allow the westbound car to pass.
AND THE CAR SLOWS DOWN, transforming your calculations into a panic of misfiring synapses and deadly hesitation. You now resemble a deranged traffic cop, waving the car forward while shaking your head and shouting incoherent syllables. You actually step back. You look behind you, and consider the option of simply throwing yourself back to your side of the street, as you would in the dream you are beginning to hope this is.
The driver begins his own series of gestures. He shrugs. He shows you his palms. His head bobs slightly. A frown appears and sags like the silent wail of an unpainted mime. He is aghast. He doesn’t understand. HE WAS TRYING TO HELP, but all he accomplished was chaos and confusion.
This all takes about one second. Finally, ignoring your instincts, you lurch sheepishly in front of the decelerating car, even though this action would have killed you in the perfectly congealed plan you have just abandoned – the plan rendered moot by a good Samaritan guilty of tragically misplaced courtesy.
You fly over the curb to the sidewalk, still shaking your head and clutching at the morning air. After a half-block or so, you stop muttering. In a few minutes it’s all over, and you are once again composed. No one would ever mistake you for the impaired marionette who just crossed the road.
You really want to be able to count on evil bastards, hell-bent on maximum velocity and oblivious to anything else, when you’re trying to cross a busy intersection. You need that predictability, because on these mean streets, courtesy can kill you.
But, I would never say this. I’m not that cynical. I’m a regular Pollyanna. For example, I honestly believe that most people are basically good. And by “most” I mean at least 51%, and by “basically” I mean... they wouldn’t shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die.
At least one more reason would be required.
I also believe that, on a good day, at least of some of the good people you meet might even be smart. This is a bonus I always appreciate. But, like the cynics mentioned in the first paragraph, I am acutely aware of the dangerous liaison that exists between good, smart people and three to four thousand pounds cold, dumb steel.
Most drivers I have observed assume instantaneous proprietorship of the road. They own the thoroughfare, and everyone else is simply in the way. And for these drivers, such vehicular interlopers are deserving targets of scorn and derision – and the occasional projectile. Even the hapless citizen whose only crime is obeying the speed limit is cursed and threatened by the combined wrath of the four-wheeled beast and the anointed soul controlling its destiny.
I am not assuming the role of judge. It’s true -- I haven’t owned or driven a car since the mid 90s, but that doesn’t render me superior. A claim of that magnitude would suggest I achieved this status as the result of a plan, or in the pursuit of an ideological goal. Not the case. I simply quit driving for a short period of time and found the experience so liberating I lost all interest in regaining the status of unhappy motorist. I wake up happy every day, giddy with the knowledge that I will never purchase auto insurance or steel-belted radials again. Ever. The fact that I’m not supporting the Saudi Royal Family or the vast, international oil industry as aggressively as most – well, that’s just another one of those bonuses.
This is not a recommendation. Most people are not cut out for a car-less existence (although the island of Manhattan seems to be teeming with them). But, I am. Even living in Austin – a town with substandard public transportation – I can make it work. It just takes a little planning and a lot of patience. I must also fight the urge to ask friends for a ride. I accept any and all offers, but almost never make the request. The reason for this should be obvious. A literal translation of “can I get a ride?” is “I really, really need a car.”
And, I really, really don’t.
But, getting back to the corner of 45th and Avenue C, it has become obvious that crossing the road will require a bit of stealth and timing. And, you can do it. You have done it before. You simply gauge the progress of oncoming traffic, first on the opposite side of the road, and then on yours. Next, you calculate the velocity of the brisk walk or sprint required to transport you safely to the other side – just after one car passes from the east and a second passes from the west. The window is narrow. Two more cars are coming. Fast. You must hit the center of the street, pause for the westbound car without being hit by the next eastbound car, and complete your journey before the second westbound car arrives in your airspace. Concentration is critical and execution must be precise. You must weave a single vertical thread while avoiding all others.
The eastbound car zips by. Your foot hits the street and propels you forward. As you approach the single yellow line, you slow your trajectory slightly, just enough to allow the westbound car to pass.
AND THE CAR SLOWS DOWN, transforming your calculations into a panic of misfiring synapses and deadly hesitation. You now resemble a deranged traffic cop, waving the car forward while shaking your head and shouting incoherent syllables. You actually step back. You look behind you, and consider the option of simply throwing yourself back to your side of the street, as you would in the dream you are beginning to hope this is.
The driver begins his own series of gestures. He shrugs. He shows you his palms. His head bobs slightly. A frown appears and sags like the silent wail of an unpainted mime. He is aghast. He doesn’t understand. HE WAS TRYING TO HELP, but all he accomplished was chaos and confusion.
This all takes about one second. Finally, ignoring your instincts, you lurch sheepishly in front of the decelerating car, even though this action would have killed you in the perfectly congealed plan you have just abandoned – the plan rendered moot by a good Samaritan guilty of tragically misplaced courtesy.
You fly over the curb to the sidewalk, still shaking your head and clutching at the morning air. After a half-block or so, you stop muttering. In a few minutes it’s all over, and you are once again composed. No one would ever mistake you for the impaired marionette who just crossed the road.
You really want to be able to count on evil bastards, hell-bent on maximum velocity and oblivious to anything else, when you’re trying to cross a busy intersection. You need that predictability, because on these mean streets, courtesy can kill you.
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