The Trip To Crazy
My son and I left early, drove to New Haven, past Yale to the State Street Station where we boarded and rode the Express train into the city. We were going to refill our brains.
We loaded up some neurons in Manhattan at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We downloaded everything from the orange, leafy streets between Grand Central to 85th on both sides of Central Park. We descended into the clear hole of the Apple Store and recharged there. We ate in the Met’s basement cafeteria and examined every piece of art we could find. We stared at Van Gogh’s famous face, the pinched eyes, the aching smirk, the daubed rictus of a man who never sold a painting in his life, cut off his ear for a prostitute and killed himself, broke. A hundred years later, his paintings fetch millions. Twisted.
We donated to the cause of Thai food and strolled the ocean of chairs in Bryant Park (the most beautiful park in New York City, in my humble opinion). Best restrooms in Manhattan.
While walking nearly 100 blocks, we petted dozens of tethered dogs roaming the Upper Eastside and Upper Westside. We sniffed the cornucopic variety of aromas wafting the streets, from burned pretzel salt to coffee and raw garbage, from hot dogs and mystery-meat-on-a-stick to bread baking, human body odor, and perfume. Car exhaust mixed with humid subway steam and oily underground machinations rose to form a smell of frenetic chaos underfoot.
We examined the dioramas at the Museum of Natural History. In case you haven’t noticed, there are lots of deer-ish animals in this world, or used to be. It must take an army of taxidermists to keep the critters so brightly alert. We ogled bones from every earthly beast unlucky enough to get caught and skinned for our educational entertainment.
At airports and museums and movies we saw people wait in long lines to get tickets from a harried human when a quick swipe at an empty kiosk would have gained them instant entry, no waiting. Yet once people got into their automobiles, they showed no propensity for waiting at all. That’s ironic juxtapositionism.
Many people use car horns more than turn signals. On the streets and roads, after several obnoxious personal horn incidents, I developed a new wrinkle to the traffic dance, which could go from 80 to gridlock in five seconds.
When a horn was blown at me and I was not in a position to accommodate the blaring request, I just slipped the car into park, got out and walked back to the blower. Needless to say, this was unexpected. A cold, hard stare into their eyes glazed the moment. This almost always produced a defensive response from those who had chosen to blow. It helps to be in a rental car with out of state plates.
Crazy is like currency on the streets. No one wants to deal with crazy – anywhere. Twitch an eyebrow methodically. Crack your neck and jerk your eyes around like flies are bothering you. Look at the horn-blowing driver like you just finished personally butchering 600 head of cattle and you’re loosening up for number 601. Smile like you want to lick the hood of their vehicle and taste where they’ve been.
After a few steps and stares and slow, methodical rubbing of the fronts of horn-blower’s vehicles, I’d rub my hands together and talk deep and low in a guttural whisper (like Clint Eastwood), leaning into the face on the other side of the glass. I made sure nothing translatable came out of my mouth. The things people concoct in their own heads at moments like this scare them worse than anything you can specifically say. Looking like an escaped convict doesn’t hurt either. If you are a former convict, even better.
It worked three times for me in four days. Once the horn-blower went limp and acted like nothing had happened, ignoring me, looking the other way. The second time, the woman jerked her car in reverse and zoomed down a side street. The third time, a guy in a Wall Street suit just sat, wide-eyed and pale, looking at me like I was Charon come to take him across the River Styx. I grinned and waved my hand behind me like a tail. He smiled and started yelling apologies.
When an impatiently reckless, horn-blowing driver believes you will exit your vehicle and engage them with uncomfortably calm verbiage, they will stay away from you impressively. Which, of course, is the intent. Flipping people off is passé. Yelling is old school. Cursing is bad form. People expect those things. Improving your crazy skills, however, just may do the trick.
LEGAL: Do not try Crazy yourself. Crazy should be used only by trained, qualified drivers in relatively safe areas or by people who are, indeed, crazy. Consult your local traffic laws for rules about Crazy. Do not stop on a freeway or interstate to practice Crazy. Avoid airport TSA screening areas when applying Crazy. Do not use Crazy in certain urban areas after dark. Do not attempt Crazy when drinking alcohol, using drugs or after eating chili. Crazy and Dairy Queens don’t mix. Remember, you may not be the only person attempting Crazy in the vicinity. Crazy is not available to everyone. It’s like being a musician or an actor or artist; it is a talent and a skill. Look in the mirror, then look at a painting of Van Gogh. If you see no difference, there’s your answer.