Don't You Dare Cross(walk) Me!

Thursday, May 19, 2016 | 0 Comment(s)

It's still free to park in Easthampton, MA. I see this as a temporary perk that will be short lived as our tucked away hamlet fills itself with more and more quality establishments.

For a itinerant worker such as myself, it isn't the buck I save on parking meters that gets me so excited. It is the relief I feel not having to worry about if I'm going to get a ticket. Personally, I've found that the majority of the times I do receive tickets, I'd put in enough money for the maximum time allowed. I'm not sure if the meter maids get sick of staring at my car during their rounds, or if their route randomly passes my vehicle after 3 hours and 2 minutes -- and by not sure, I mean of fucking course they are -- but either way, I get got. And in truth, the constant fear of a parking violation is much worse than the $10-15 fine. Most of the time.

Today I went to the local coffee shop to work. Parking was free. Not only was it free, but there were a plethora of spots available. A literal plethora. I chose a spot directly across from my shop of choice, two spots back from the crosswalk. I got out and reflexively walked behind my car to the curb side where a meter will greet me in 5 years. But not today. I opened the passenger door to retrieve my computer and consciously decided to use the crosswalk instead of just darting across the two lane road. The street wasn't particularly busy, but with parked cars on both sides, it can feel congested and filled with blind spots for both pedestrians and motorists.

A beige station wagon was already speeding toward the crosswalk, and just looking at the guy's face, I instinctively knew he wasn't going to stop. He could. He had enough time and space. But his face -- the mustache, the shitty knock-off sunglasses -- told me that not only was he cruising through those white lines, he but simultaneously telling himself that he didn't have enough time to stop even if he wanted to. He had the space. He didn't want to.

from collegehumor.com

I Solved Parenting. You're Welcome Parents!

Friday, May 13, 2016 | 0 Comment(s)

I always get a mini-rush before writing a piece on parenting just imagining of all the people with children who will read it and think, "This shithead doesn't even have kids, how can he pretend to know anything about parenting?" No punchline here, I just enjoy the rush.

Before I get to the heat of the meat and talk about parenting, I first want to talk a bit about marketing. I saw this image on Facebook today.

I'm sure there is a Snopes.com article about how this is not a real poster, not a real train, and not a real person, but, the points still remains.

This poster succinctly draws attention to the relationship between how bad you feel about yourself, and the money you are told to spend to correct those "problems." Of course, often it is the same companies publishing articles about thigh gaps, extra long lashes, push-up bras, and powder supplements that are stacking your money as you attempt to measure up. This profit cycle, for the most part, goes interrupted . . . until parenthood.

The Yin and Yang on State St.

Monday, May 9, 2016 | 0 Comment(s)

The good.

As a sit in my idling car outside a small grocery store, a mom walks her crying toddler up to the entrance. The daughter, held tightly by her left hand, is old enough to walk and old enough to throw a temper tantrum. She is doing both with abandon.

A second mother, also accompanying her small child then exit the grocery. It's clear that these relatively new mothers know each other. They begin a conversation miles above the still-crying girl and the young boy who exchange glances a foot or two above the pavement. Without prompt, the boy drops his mother's hand and takes two wobbly but direct steps toward the girl. He wraps his arms around her for no other reason than because she is crying.

Pictured: A reasonable facsimile of the event that transpired

Flexing My Way to Athletic Prowess

Thursday, March 17, 2016 | 0 Comment(s)

Only once, in an educational career that has spanned three decades, has my physical fitness ever been formally measured. And, because the Devil, capital D, run's all middle schools, that time was during my 7th grade gym class. Smack in the middle of my pubescent transformation, the Board of Education had me go through a series of physical challenges a la Double Dare.

For one class period all the guys lined up next to the pull-up bar and took turns seeing which of us spaghetti-armed 80 pound towels could haul our newly smelly bodies up and over the literal and metaphoric bar. I still remember that I almost did one. That was how horrific this experience was -- the accomplishment of barely failing to meet the lowest possible standard was memorable. "Almost" would be the title of my one-man play, which focuses solely on middle school gym class. The predicted run time is 3 hours. Inevitably, the pull-up exercise would devolve into watching the severely overweight students get put through this same farce. The difference now, of course was that we, their peers, had just fully embarrassed ourselves, and we took that aggression out on the most vulnerable as we mocked from the sideline. Brutal.

I'm rooting for you Tiger.

This week of scoliosis tests and measuring arm strength always culminated in a mile run around the unofficial track that was our soccer field. While our school system lacked the funds for a pool, insecurities ran at "swimming without a shirt on" levels during the weighing and measuring period that was our middle school Combine.

Blog

Don't You Dare Cross(walk) Me!

I Solved Parenting. You're Welcome Parents!

The Yin and Yang on State St.

Flexing My Way to Athletic Prowess