They Move in Mysterious Ways

Ow. My blog hurts. It ate too much.

Good evening and honey nut cheerios. I have this problem where sometimes I say the things I'm looking at. Brick loves lamp.

I know that I promised the exciting sequel to last night's bitchgasm about how my family is driving me insane. However, that will not be occuring tonight, and the reason is threefold:

a) Our hotel upgraded us to a 2 room suite. Now that I have my own room I dont want to kill them or myself nearly as much.

2) I'm bored of that rant, and I'm pretty sure you dont care.

c) As far as I know, Christina Coviello and Jeremy Clayton are the only people that actually read this. Hi guys. Tell your friends.

In lieu of discussing how I have somehow become the fifth wheel in my own family, how we now walk like the number 5 on a die (that would be the singular of dice, you retard) and I am the awkward crappy dot in the middle, I would instead like to discuss an important subject close to my icy black heart: street crossing.

To some of you, crossing the street may not be a big deal. But you're wrong. One hundred percent straight-up wrong. And stupid too. Crossing the street is both an ancient art form and an exact and calculating science, and after years of intense study I am finally prepared to publish my findings on this subject. I hope you find it both informative and stimulating. Previous sentence blatantly stolen from waynes world.

Now then. There are several types of people in the world; fortunately, they can be easily categorized by their street crossing patterns. However, there is more than one type of street, which complicates things significantly.

Busy city streets see an assload *[note: approximate measurement] of pedestrian traffic each day, all in addition to the thousands of cars, buses, ice cream trucks, and bike-cart guys that these roadways were paved to mmm ice cream so deliciousss. Sometimes, these pedestrians find themselves on the side of the street opposite their intended destination, needing to "get to the other side." In these times of trial, they turn for guidance to the age-old motto WWtCD? or "What Would the Chicken Do?" in full, and the answer- almost exclusively- is cross the road. In order to mediate the resulting intersection of human and vehicular traffic, these busy streets feature traffic lights, which regulate the right of way between the two parties.

At these "traffic lights" you will find three kinds of people: There are those that wait religiously for the walk signal; those that wait until they see an opening and cross regardless of signal, and those who charge fearlessly into oncoming traffic.

These last people are, of course, assholes. Known scientifically as the Pedestrius Douchebaggius, they're the ones you really want to hit with your car because by the time they waddle their inconsiderate asses out of your way, the light will have turned and you can no longer legally go. However, that does provide you with the opportunity to get out of your stopped car, run them down, and beat them with a tire iron (or snowbrush if you're from new england.)

On the opposite end of the spectrum from these dbags are the Pedestrius Pussius, who wait with devout fervor for the signal, as if at the 'walk' light jesus will personally appear, hold their hand, and escort them safely across the street. Apparently they use the buddy system. No offense people, but unless you're trying to cross the Red Sea, I think you'll be okay on your own.

Which leads us to the other kind of street- the kind without traffic lights (I'm not really sure how it led us here, but it is an excellent transitional phrase, so we'll just pretend.) Here, you witness a species closely related to the Pussius: Without the guidance of the almighty signal, this primitive people wait hopelessly on one side until the road is completely devoid of traffic, which usually happens around 3am- horribly inconvenient when they want to go out to brunch. Almost exclusively old and slow, this species is known as the Pedestrius Saggius and can be identified by their distinctive jowl and underarm flaps. You've seen them, theyre the ones that stand perfectly motionless on the opposite side of the street while you cross toward them; but they dont cross, oh no. They watch in awe as you heroically dodge traffic, diving and rolling and running back to save a puppy and then finally landing on the other side in a blaze of glory. Or so it seems to them anyway, as the stand cowering on that same corner. The Douchebaggius can also be spotted crossing signal-free streets, but it doesnt make much of a fucking difference since they just barrel out into the street regardless.

However, above and beyond these common species, these typical garden-variety pedestrians, there is a rare and eccentric breed, a breed that- hold up. my underwear is on inside out. Now that is just fucking ridiculous. I sell underwear for a living, you'd think I would know which side goes out. Guess not. Oh well, now i can flip them inside out and wear them again tomorrow! just kidding...? Moving on. This other elusive group is a sub-species of the Pedestrius Moderati, a capable and semi-competent set possessing skills such as depth perception, time-space awareness, and reflexes sharper than a pear that allow them to LOOK into the street, GAUGE whether or not they can cross without getting hit, and DO so succesfully, light or no light. While natural selection has weeded out many of the douchebags (who get hit by cars) and the old people (who die of natural causes while waiting for the street to clear), the Moderati has excelled at street-crossing to become the significant majority.

And yet, within this generally rational populus, there is an errant faction known as the Pedestrius Spasticus, or more commonly: "Runners." No, not sweatband-and-reflecting-vest-type runners, although they're fucking annoying too. The runners I speak of are those normally functional people who pause to look before they cross the street, see the cars, and yet somehow fail to allow enough time to safely proceed across the street. This malfunction then results in a spastic dash across the last 50-100 feet of roadway, arms flailing, heart pounding, eyes wide with terror. If you're lucky, you may even here the call of the Spasticus: a brief, guttural "OHshit!" as they kick into high gear two-thirds of the way out.

What I find so especially interesting about the Spasticus is not the inability to judge the speed of oncoming traffic, but the unflappable belief that said traffic will ACTUALLY HIT THEM. I won't lie to you, I don't cross perfectly everytime, although I am damn good at it. Naturally, I always make it across the first lane no problem. If you can't do that much, do yourself a favor: go home, crawl under your couch, and stay there forever. But on the rare occasion that the second lane cuts it too close, I either stop and wait for the car to pass, or proceed at my usual leisurely pace across the street. I dont run. I dont hurry. MollMoll hurries for no man. Because once you're in the process of crossing the road, the second lane of cars have already seen you and would probably prefer to avoid killing you if possible (Its messy and inconvenient for everyone involved).

The BEST part- GOD I love this- is Runners at a walk signal. I mean, god for-freaking-bid any walk signal ever last until you get to the other side of the street, right? But most of us understand that if you are in mid-cross and the little white man on the light goes away, we can safely continue across at our regular clip. Runners, however, fear the passing of this peaceful symbol, as it gives way to the BIG SCARY RED HAND OF DEATH- at which point they take off like there's a tiny man in a colorful jacket riding them to victory. What they don’t seem to realize is that the cars are already stopped. They’re sitting at a red light. They’re waiting. There’s a pretty good chance they’ve noticed you. Calm the fuck down, you're not going to die.

So concludes my study of the Pedestrius in its many forms as it executes the great art of street crossing. For anyone who cares, my sketchbook just bit me again, I swear to god its trying to kill me. If I don’t blog again, it succeeded. Or I’m too lazy.

In any case, I’m off to go right-side out my undies.