PapaThank: You 2 Old 2 Drive, Old Dude!

With the exception of wine and my lovely, supportive, dear wife, most things get worse as they get older.  It's called ageing.  It's called life.  It's called "get over it and accept the nasty, nasty fate that awaits us all."  This is especially true of driving.  After a certain point, you just suck at it.  I'm not there, but the guy who almost hit me this morning is.  In fact, I think he's past it.  So to you, Mr. Gold Prius on 29th St., I say:

"Stop driving.  Please.  You're an old guy, and you don't have it like ya used to.  I'm sure that as a young man, all the ladies from the block thought you were a terrific dancer, and maybe on the weekends, you won a couple races at the track, back when they let amateurs come take a crack.  But now, you're just old.  Old, white headed, and barely able to see over the steering wheel.  THAT'S A PROBLEM.  It's also a problem that you have never heard of a bike lane.  I'm sure you thought it was something they built for you, being a proud member of "The Greatest Generation."   It ain't.  It's for me.  A young, vigorous, speed demon.  It's all for me, dude.  Me and my kind.  We may not be the "greatest," but were younger, and can probably take you in a fist fight."  

"I'm not down on you for being old.  My birthday is tomorrow, and I know what that means. And one day, my kids will tell me to get the hell of the street.  But for now, it's you for whom the bell tolls, and the bell is saying, 'Please stop driving, old dude.  Buying a Prius is a responsible choice, but not if you use it to crush innocent people.'"  

Take a cab.  You've earned it.  

America's National CRAPtime

If you follow baseball, then you've heard about the trouble the sport has attracting African American youth.  It's not that they aren't playing sports.  It's just that baseball isn't at the top of their list like it once was.  I can tell you that this is true.

On Sunday, I was out on the bike.  An old grey Firestone (the tire folks) I call the "Grouse Goose." Don't ask.   So I'm on the bike and the day is just lovely.  I'm tooling along, looking like Clark Gable in shorts.  I head around Astoria Park, which butts up against the East River. The views are stunning and dramatic, and it being September 11th, I feel like this city really is invincible. If I was supposed to be afraid of terrorists, I wasn't right then.  If you head south past the park, you'll come to a giant hill.  At the top of the hill is a sign:  "Waterfront Pathway." Lovely, right? So I cautiously proceed down a steep hill (Firestone good at tires, not at brakes). As I do, I can't help but think, "Hey, this neighborhood isn't as nice as I'd imagine, being waterfront property and all."  But it's day light, and today we're all Americans, so I travel on.

Certainly it's true that "Waterfront Pathway" does refer to a serene promenade that runs beside the East River, offering unique views of Roosevelt Island.  What is not inferred in "Waterfront Pathway" is that you're now in the middle of a GIANT HOUSING PROJECT.  Your bicycle promenade is their sidewalk.   Strangely, for a former victim of violent crime while passing through similar neighborhoods, I was feeling fine.  You see, the day was THAT LOVELY.  A kind sun. Mild temps. Patriotism.  Then, up ahead, I see them.

About one hundred yards in front, a gang of boys gather.  Not a gang as in "Holy %$&?, the Latin Kings!", but in the "Hey, that's a large group of young men."  I can see them, but I'm not worried because they look to be playing football.  My anxiety rises, however, when I notice they are running to sit on the park bench that rests beside the path.  "This ain't good," I think. As I get closer, they begin sitting very nicely.  Quiet.  Backs straight. Hands...out of sight. Never trust a kid sitting still.  When I am about ten yards away, they begin counting. One...two...three!  I pass them, and as I do hear the splat of water balloons on concrete.

First thought: "Whew.  I'm dry."  Second thought: "Pedal faster, Lance ArmWrong!"  Third thought:  "Wow.  Those kids would make terrible pitchers.  I was molasses, and they still couldn't hit me from five feet away.  I bet these kids never play baseball."