Let Us Merge

I got an email from someone in Minnesota the other day about driving in the Twin Cities. He sent an article on road construction and the art of merging from two lanes to one.  I laughed out loud, remembering the scourge of the Minnesota driver.  “Remember the zipper merge,” the article states.  “Use both lanes until it’s time to merge.”  This means nothing to a Minnesotan. We have our own system – The Minnesota Merge. Use both lanes until its time to merge means MERGE NOW!! Slam on your brakes, wait for a space, and sidle over into the other lane.

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Starting at birth, the article goes on, Minnesotans are conditioned to be passive aggressive. Indeed, the zipper merge hasn’t caught on because it appears as if Driver A, by merging, is breaking some unwritten societal rule, and Driver B, who should allow the merge, displays his disapproval of this by not letting Driver A into the lane. It’s all completely understandable to people who grew up in this state.

Visitors to Minneapolis quickly find out that people drive kind of crazy. Another of many unstated rules:  “If 30 mph is safe, then 25 is safer!”  You creep down the street behind someone like this, and as you approach the intersection, the signal turns yellow and that horse and buggy that was going 25 suddenly floors it and zips through the light. And there you are. There isn’t the degree of honking that there is here in New York, but I don’t think that would make a difference. Minnesota drivers don’t think they’re doing anything wrong.

I’ve driven a bit in New York. Frankly, I like the aggressive stance most people here take. Maybe I’m a New York driver at heart. Driving in downtown Minneapolis traffic, I was aware of the large gap people leave between cars. “Mind the gap, people!!” I’d scold (in the safety of my own car). “Let’s go here!” The gap here in New York can be, oh, 6 inches. Not particularly safe, I agree, but we have to get someplace and of course, didn’t allow ourselves enough time to do it.  I am a fan of cars, but I do love the fact that here in New York, lots of people don’t even own one, or for that matter, know how to drive. I can’t picture myself never driving again. I still have my little car, parked in Minneapolis, and when I go back I love the solitude of driving. My coffee, a snack, and my music, which keeps me sane and helps me cope with even the dumbest drivers.  By the way, have you ever noticed when you’re going the speed limit it’s a good thing, but when the car in front of you pokes along at the posted speed, he’s an idiot? No, I haven’t either. It’s all good…

Clowns Among Us

 

The news is making me crazy lately. Apparently it’s affecting other people too, because lately I see a lot of women dressed as clowns. At least I think they’re clowns, I can’t be sure. They seem self assured and they don’t have clown hair, but there’s something about them…it’s a fashion thing.

I remember in the 60’s, our bell bottom pants were so long they’d get caught underneath our platform shoes, causing some nasty headers (not that I would know.) The new clown lady bell bottoms are very, very – extremely – wide, and they’re short. It’s rude to stare, which is why I always wear sunglasses on the train. I saw one of the clowns yesterday. She was standing, as the train was crowded, which gave me a perfect vantage point. Even the most delicate and beautiful ankle appears scrawny and pale in these short, billowy trousers. And insult to injury, they’re always paired with ankle boots or even dress pumps. If these pants could talk they’d scream, “This is just wrong!” Do I sound old and crotchety?

There are so many, um..unusual ways of dressing here in New York. That’s a great thing about this city. Seventh Avenue (Fashion Ave) is right here. I see hundreds of people every day, and I do appreciate self expression through personal attire, tho I mumble snarky stuff (to myself) like, ‘geez, what the hell is that?!’ which old people have been saying forever. I bet Aristotle muttered about kids and the provocative drape of their garments. Every year, new, totally unaffordable and unwearable fashions are paraded out and we (and by we I mean women) toss last year’s Salmon Bisque Pink for this year’s Kelp Green because someone on 7th Avenue said so. And being the age I am, I’ve seen a lot of fashion comings and goings: shoulder pads, leg warmers, fanny packs, Qiana. They all come back again. (Tho I’m skeptical about a return of Qiana.)

No one would mistake me for a fashion icon. I wear stuff I had in high school – and I’m old. I was afraid of the New York fashion scene when I arrived here a couple years ago. I thought the whole city would be totally tricked out, but that’s not the case. You can find everything here, but you don’t have to dress up and most people don’t. As long as it’s black, you’ll fit in. Due to my fortunate love of black and the fact that everything in my closet is black, I’m a real New Yorker.

I’d suggest this mumbling is probably because I don’t dress fun anymore and I really wish I could. I think when you’re over a certain age, you just look kind of nuts when you wear kooky clothes. Trends wax and wane, I will continue to stare and mumble, wearing my skinny black jeans when those in the know advise me to wear clown pants.Clown train B&W

Day of the Long-Dead

Visiting the Natural History Museum with a friend last week, I had to wonder: Is it me or are we all captivated, but slightly creeped out, by elaborate dioramas of long-dead, endangered, animals, posed in an imagined setting? I remember wondering as a kid, “How did they die? Was it painful? Were they caught unaware? Did their eyes meet those of their killers?” All these animals had lives, families and daily routines. Maybe the zebra was hanging around enjoying some arid grassland with his friends, and.. BAM!! His life was over, just like that.

I have a mix of appreciation and innate sadness walking among the formerly alive. The many habitat dioramas, with beautifully painted backgrounds, plant life and extraneous birds and bugs are credited to Carl Akeley, a 19th and early 20th century taxidermist/expeditionist, who came to work at the museum in 1909. Ironically, he created the displays to promote the conservation of those species that he’d killed and placed into the dioramas. My friend liked to visit the large elephant display whenever she came to the Museum, so we headed to the Akeley Hall of African Mammals. The elephants are posed, according to Wikipedia, in a “characteristic ‘alarmed’ formation.” Maybe some vile expeditionist was in sight. Two of the elephants were donated by Akeley’s fellow hunter, Teddy Roosevelt, one a baby calf shot by his son.

The Museum is a massive, rambling and meandering space, a beautiful and eclectic mixture of architectural styles. It is definitely a place most New Yorkers have been to, at least once. My friend and I spent the afternoon wandering, but eventually feeling a little sad, and satiated with elephants and bison, we longed to see something that was still alive and get out into the New York sunshine. Sadly, I do like the beauty of the displays, but find it hard to think about the misery it took for them to get here. Like they say about sausage…if you like eating it, don’t visit a sausage factory.

We headed out onto Columbus Avenue, into the warm sun, and bustling crowd of living creatures.

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New York Nice

I have a friend who, while not all that nice, is really a good writer. Everything he writes makes me laugh out loud. Extremely insightful and, frankly, he and I complain, I mean write, about many of the same things. Reading his blog is like reading my own ideas. But getting an email announcement about his latest post sets me off. What the!? I haven’t started a new one yet and he’s got two more out there. I hate that. And they’re always wonderful, of course. I may have to block his emails from now on so I don’t feel so bad about slacking off. It’s hard to come up with ideas sometimes. Many posts just present themselves (I wish they’d also write themselves). But if I haven’t seen anything worth writing about — vomit on a subway platform or SUV stroller wars on a Brooklyn Heights sidewalk — then I anguish. I have anxiety. Because my aim here is to please my devoted readers.

You’ve heard of Minnesota Nice. It’s kind of true, though sometimes it’s just passive-aggressive posing as nice. We aim to please, sometimes at the expense of our own pleasure. Lately I’ve been thinking that I shouldn’t worry so much about being nice — I mean, if someone isn’t happy with me, that’s their problem, right? This morning I butted in a line. Yes, really. I was late and couldn’t wait for the exceedingly large gentleman in front of me to move along. I did make eye contact as I shoved him out of my way. With big Keane eyes and upturned eyebrows, I begged forgiveness, “I’m sorry..!” I mouthed, with all my teeth showing, and I moved along quickly. Hostile yet smiling broadly, scurrying away like the infamous Pizza Rat, avoiding confrontation. I thought about it the rest of the day. I felt bad. I wasn’t nice.

When I was a little girl, my father left. I never knew why, it wasn’t talked about, though in my young mind, it was likely because I wasn’t a nice enough daughter. I did see him several weeks after he left one day when I was outside playing in my front yard. His car drove slowly by, with the window rolled down, and he looked at me. Didn’t wave or stop. I stood there, watching the car as it drove away. You’d cry if you saw it in a movie. Years after as an adult, I made contact and met him at his house. I met his new wife and we all drove down to West Des Moines to visit my step brother, Gene, who I had never heard of and never saw again. I remember he was very nice and I wondered why he lived in West Des Moines.

Of course we’re all formed by good and bad events in our childhood. Maybe I try really hard so people won’t leave me. I’ll continue dispensing tales of my nice and not-so-nice accounts of the city. But I can’t stress about it. I’m going to spend less energy seeking to please strangers (except you, my faithful blog followers.) This is New York…there’s no pleasing it. It doesn’t care about me anyway. This city can make me feel bad, but I know, even if I’m not so nice, it will never leave me.