It Isn't Safe To Walk The Streets Anymore

I was driving downtown last week............somewhere, I'm not sure where because I was really drunk at the time. No, I'm not proud of myself. Things have been tough lately and I have to admit it: I was drunker than a housepainter on a rainy day.

Being cautious due to my condition, I approached one of those new crosswalk zones. You know, more than just a few faded lines painted on the pavement. They have the mini speedbumps to wake you up if you happen to be snoozin' on your downtown commute. Then, in a defiant little island of asphalt, between the lanes, they have these narrow little signs letting you know what it's all about. "State Law. Drivers Must Yield to Pedestrians in Crosswalk."

Well, a lady was tottering on the curb at one of these things, peering at me as if she could discern my mood. "Is he going to run me down like a dog in the street or does he see me here and acknowledge my existence as a fellow human being?" So, naturally, I slowed my vehicle and gave her a nod to indicate the fact that I was aware of the space she was inhabiting on our shared planet. I fully intended to let her cross without fear of meeting my bumper.

I don't know; maybe there's something about my face. People who don't know me imagine they see a hint of mischievousness, the sinister side, the guy who does a little counterfeiting just to make ends meet. Maybe this woman was the suspicious type, having lost everything in her miserable little life to the Enron scandal. Or perhaps she could tell I was --faced. Whatever it was, she recoiled from the street like it was made of lava.

Well, I must admit that I was hurt by this display of mistrust and I couldn't resist the urge to take it up a notch. That's right. I came to a complete stop, at least five feet away from that crosswalk. Then I gestured in my most solicitous manner that she should proceed safely across.

I was in no hurry. If the city went to the expense of establishing those sanctuaries in an effort to make walking more attractive to the all too valuable sidewalk strolling, coffee drinking, window shopping, bar hopping, way-cooler-than-me pedestrians, who was I not to honor their request to give way?

I was defiant all right, but not as much as she was scared. She took a few steps back, then turned and started walking away in the direction from which she had just come. I couldn't believe it. She was actually looking over her shoulder at me as her pace quickened.

Temporarily stunned, I realized it was time for a lesson in manners. I popped the gearshift into neutral then ran the revs up to about seven grand. When I felt that the moment was right, I jammed it down into Drive and commenced to hold on for dear life. The first victim was the four-foot sign with the international symbol of the pedestrian. It actually got caught in my bumper as I swung around to take out the rest of them.

My pedestrian friend ran screaming up the street. I guess she figured I might be contemplating a little sidewalk bumper pool.

It all happened so fast that I still don't have a clue as to how the cops nabbed me. Must have been one of those bike-cops. I never heard any siren and even though it's hazy, I remember that the ride to the station was not at all comfortable.

I just hope I didn't do more damage than normal. Later that evening, as I was waiting to get booked, I happened to see that lady's picture in the paper. She was one of those corporate relocation specialists on assignment for Toyota.

At this point, the city fathers all agree, it would be best for me to stay out of downtown for a while. In case you fail to get a sense of the contrition dripping off my fingers as I type this post, this thing is my lawyer's idea for a little pre-emptive community service, but the joke is on him. Everyone knows that nobody reads this blog.

The Tingle Means It's Working

My personal circadian rhythm has not quite adjusted to Daylight Savings. This morning I spent nearly two hours in the shower trapped in an endless cycle of lather, rinse, repeat. Too sleepy to remember if I had already washed my hair, I only stopped when the shampoo bottle was empty. What started as a mild tingling sensation after the first lather eventually turned into a searing chemical burn.

It was a good thing that I ran out of shampoo. As it is, my scalp retains only a tenuous grasp on any semblance of a hairdo. My hair follicles barely survived this napalm treatment.

At 44 years-old and first thing in the morning, my shampoo is the only thing about me that can be described as Pert. Like a lunch lady's arm flab, everything else just hangs loosely from my skeleton.

Only a strong dose of caffeine gives me enough muscle tone to even make it to the car. Operating with an impairment level equal to six mixed drinks, it's a wonder that I ever make it to my office.

As always, I must admit that my sleep-deprived condition is mostly my fault. I have absolutely no business watching Latvian Roller Derby at 1:00 am on ESPN-Eastern Bloc.