Raising a New Yorker

The other day, The Offspring saw The Dog sniffing at one of his toys. He walked over and said firmly, "No, Jojo. Don't even think about it." Did he get that from us? Or did he pick it up at school?

I was reminded of this this morning after I dropped The Offspring and The Carpool Kid off at school, and was then crossing Houston Street to get to work. I had George Winston in the CD player and I was trying really hard to stay calm. (Not easy, between the maniacs, the idiots, the truckers, the taxi drivers, the pedestrians, and the cyclists all weaving in and out of narrow lanes under construction.)

I didn't get exercised at the little black Honda driving between lanes and knocking over pylons. But then I reached the point where Houston Street veers off to the left, and Bedford Street goes to the right.

The livery cab to my right decided at the last minute to take Houston instead of Bedford, and cut me off. During the interminable wait for the light to change, a big silver SUV came along and cut in front of me from the left. And when the traffic finally started to move, the car behind the livery cab also tried to cut in front of me.

From inside my car, I'm screaming and gesticulating. "No! Don't even think about it! No way!" There may have been one or two unprintables in there, too. The nice woman behind the wheel is looking at me, clearly thinking: You better go back and find your mind, because obviously you lost it somewhere back there.

Right. You have a point. Back to George.