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MIRTH
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THE
NOT-SO LATEST
August
19, 1999 It's
amazing what you can accomplish
if you don't know you can't do
it. Amongst
certain scientists, this
is referred to as the
Wile
E.
Coyote
Theory. "Coyote A" is
perfectly able to walk
off of "Cliff B" and
continue in a straight
"line" through the air
until "he" realizes that
what he is doing is
theoretically,
theologically and
morally
impossible. (There
is a corollary involving
anvils, but since those
are hard to come by
these days, it's hardly
worth
noting.) Conversely,
if you are told you can't do
something, the universe, being a
vengeful wench with entirely too
much time on her hands, will go
to extreme lengths to ensure that
you won't be able to. So next
time you're wishing you could fly
away from your miserable doo-doo
head boss and go-nowhere job,
curse your parents and your sixth
grade science teacher for
implanting that whole physics
idea in your head in the first
place. (This is why home-schooled
kids are so weird.) What
I'm getting at in an admittedly
roundabout and long-winded way,
folks, is my trip to New York was
the kind that turn perfectly sane
people into axe-wielding horror
movie rejects. Or
Scientologists. Fortunately,
I was a loon before I
started, so I somehow
managed to escape the
experience with nothing
a few years of expensive
therapy couldn't blame
on my mother.
The
fault in my logic
stemmed from the
overwhelming success of
my experience in Los
Angeles. If I could take
on LA for three months
and be none the worse
for wear, surely I could
handle three days in New
York. (Let's all say it
together: "No, you
can't, and stop calling
me Shirley.") Those of
you that have been to
both cities know how
faulty that logic can
be, and those of you
that haven't will just
have to trust me. Or get
out more
often. A
friend of mine tried to warn me,
but I ignored her warnings
because I'm still trying to get
over a childhood inferiority
complex that stems from ten years
of bad haircuts. (Did I mentioned
I had my first session?) "That
town will eat you alive," Alicia
said. "You can't go!" At
least, that's what I think she
said. I was singing at the top of
my lungs with my fingers in my
ears. Not
that I had much choice. An
interview for a job beckoned, the
likes of which I haven't seen
since, well, ever. The only other
job interview I've had prior was
in a Podunk town where my
responsibility would have been
(seriously) putting 800 numbers
on infomercials. With my low
tolerance for monotony, I know
that eventually I would have
started spelling out things like
1-800-KILL-WHITEY before the
first week was done. So
I went. And the town not only ate
me alive, but digested me and
must have passed me through its
colon, as I woke up naked and
dazed in New Jersey wearing a wet
suit and sporting a tattoo that
says "Bernie Wuz
Here." And,
before you ask, no, my
interviewer's name was NOT
Bernie. Actually, the interview
was completely free of sexual
propositions (from either party).
However, I'm getting ahead of
myself. Making it to the
interview proved to be far more
damaging than any barrage of
vague "So what can you do for our
company?"-like queries could ever
do. First
of all, New Yorkers are
completely unable to
give directions that
don't presume extensive
knowledge of the city.
And to make matters
worse, all the roads and
highways are each given
several names. One road
I mistakenly ended up on
was called I-95, G47
(Bingo!) and the Triboro
James T. Hoffa Memorial
Off-Ramp, all of which
was written on a road
sign the size of a
matchbox in what looked
like permanent
marker. Some
people can find there way through
the woods blindfolded. I am not
one of those people. I could get
lost in my shower. So it's no
surprise that I ended up more
than two hours off course before
I decided to turn back and head
back where I started. On
the plus side, I got to see lots
of the city. Now,
whenever I mention LA to anyone,
the immediate reply is the
inevitable, "Who the hell are
you?" But once we get past that
initial awkwardness, the first
word about LA is always about the
traffic, and when you mention New
York, people seem to think of
Sinatra or Times Square, which
led me to believe that LA must
have the worst traffic. Again, I
was seriously misinformed. In Los
Angeles, there is always one guy
who has to go 30 miles over the
speed limit, and he always seems
to be directly behind
you. Apparently,
all those people are from New
York. They all drive like that,
even the little old ladies with
their left-turn signals
perpetually on. It is physically
impossible to drive fast enough
for a New Yorker. So
maybe I'm just not cut
out for New York life. I
am probably overthinking
this horribly, but I
loved living in Los
Angeles, a city known
for its superficiality
and earthquakes, while
New York, a city known
for its culture and
depth, just makes me
wish I was wearing
Depends. What does that
say about my
personality? Probably
just that I watch too
many
cartoons. Patrick
Keller is offering a reward for
information leading to the
apprehension of "Bernie." This
article is 1999 Patrick Keller,
Gern Blansten Productions. You
may redistribute this piece,
provided the text is unaltered
and it contains this notice. As
always, if you know someone sick
and twisted who might like this
stuff, let me know. Blah blah
blah e-mail me at
blansten@iname.com
blah blah blah
Also
featured in the not-so
latest: All
contents of this web site -- even the
periods -- are TM & © Patrick
Keller, Gern Blansten Productions, so
don't try to steal 'em. Any unlawful
distribution, copying or non-educational
use is highly frowned upon, and will be
prosecuted when I get enough money to hire
a lawyer. Violators will be spanked.
Shoplifters will be persecuted.
Prosecutors will be violated. |
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