When you feel so mad you could bite?
I still miss Fred Rogers, and I find myself singing his songs and heeding his advice more often than you'd think.
That said, I was pretty much in a biting rage yesterday. I was on my beautiful Schwinn cruiser, stopped at a red light at an intersection, when I heard honking behind me. I turned back to face the grill of an enormous green Ram van filled with sniggering college kids. They kept honking and gesturing, so keen were they to make that right on red [forget what could possibly be so urgent when you're 20 on a Saturday afternoon], until I finally crossed against the light, visions of Maximum Overdrive dancing in my head. It was a clear case of group think mixed in that potent cocktail of boy at wheel eager to impress the girls he's with as well as assure fellow boys that he's cool. Alone, none of them would pull such shit; together, it's inevitable. Grrrr.
Most days, I love living in America's college town, where the ready availability of amenities I cherish--art houses, indie music outlets, smart people, bookstores a-go-go, ethnic restaurants, live music, cultcha-writ-large--far outweighs the psychic damage of being a thirtysomething female in the land of assless teen nymphets. Other days, I'm ready to sign the executive order authorizing the deportation of America's youth back to the suburbs from whence they came. Seriously, we do the nation a service by enduring its young at their most obnoxious. These kids in the van were turning my gorgeous fall afternoon into one of those other days.
So I followed them. Or, more accurately, I used deductive logic to double back to their likely destination and attempted to use group shame to elict an apology. I was surprisingly civil-tongued for one who's been chastized on two continents for swearing like a longshoreman. The driver grudging said sorry, but he kept insisting I admit it was kinda funny. Yeah, death by a hormone on legs piloting a vehicle he doesn't know how to drive. Hi-larious.
Then he said, "Why don't you ride on the sidewalk," and I lost my cool a little. I may not live in Davis, CA, but cycling laws in Massachusetts are pretty clear about the illegality of riding on sidewalks. There are even obnoxious little drawings of a bike with a circle slash at every curb cut. I know the law, but more often than not, no one seems to have tipped off our out-of-state student pals--you know, the ones who cram four cars per apartment and take up all the parking.
Your curmudgeonly pal the cinetrix will not apologize for being a "Boston driver" even on her bicycle. In fact, I have a theory. Native drivers are nervy and always on the offensive, but they're skillful. However, because so many out-of-state students extend their undergraduate idylls by lingering for first jobs and graduate degrees, they throw the delicate driving ecosystem out of whack by lacking the innate confidence to drive defensively, thus fucking it up for us natives through their hesitancy and unpredictability.
Wow, but it's breezy up here on this soap box. But before I leap down, let me tie this back in to the cinematic for you. You should know that when I was just a wee cinetrix, three of my family's favorite flicks were The Blues Brothers ["New Oldsmobiles are in early this year."], Better Off Dead [my otherwise respectable father is given to announcing apropos of nothing: "I want my two dollars!"], and Pee-wee's Big Adventure ["What's wrong with this picture? It's me--without my bike!"]. My brother watched "CHiPs," Breaking Away, and BMX Bandits over and over. All of which should explain a lot about my approach to the road.
Francis: Remember the first time I saw your bike? You came riding past my house and I came running out to tell you how much I liked it even way back then?
Pee-wee: I love that story. [Jumps on bike and pedals away]
