Sunday, January 02, 2011
A few weeks ago I was on the street corner, loaded down by Trader Joe's bags (such shopping trips are probably hampering my ability to ever have children one day but...a girl needs her half-priced Gouda) feverishly waiting for the walking man to light up so I could cross to the subway stop and get on the hipster train home. Impatience got the better of me and I decided to f!@k the man, the walking man, and bait death by sprinting to the other side of 3rd Avenue. But as I made for my wholly unnecessary getaway I was almost side swiped by a car. (There's a lesson in here somewhere, make peace with waiting especially if you've done heavy grocery shopping). As I spun back to the sidewalk I wound up by a like-minded gentleman who was cursing the drivers: another fellow warrior in the unspoken war between pedestrians and drivers that plays itself out every day in every big City everywhere. We got to talking, in that small talk kind of way one does with a total stranger after a near death experience and it turns out that he was a psychic. Suddenly, like Dustin Hoffman's character in 'Rain Man' "1214, 1214 Matchsticks" he began autistic-like asking me questions one of which was "Do you write?", "Do you write?" to which I mumbled "sometimes" (by which I mean I update my status on Facebook regularly and then he spat out that "I should write" because he was picking up a psychic read from me that I could be very successful at it). I am not so sure that's true and I was raised to believe psychics are hokum peddlers so I will keep my dreams of being signed to Random House at bay but...it seemed like a good enough reason as any to put words to screen once more and open my slambook to the occasionally curious passerby(s). Plus, it's a new year and I made it to the other side.