This Just Happened

I've never claimed to be the smartest man on the planet, nor would others make such a claim on my behalf.

But I do feel like I've got a good handle on reason and logic, and I try to make sure I'm aware of people, places and things around me at all times.

And if someone else's complete lack of awareness has a direct impact on my well-being, then I try to have a conversation and I'm usually not confrontational about it.

So here I was, pulling into my apartment complex driveway, a left turn through busy oncoming traffic at rush hour on a Friday, paying exclusive attention to each of the three lanes I was hoping to turn in front of to get into my complex, as a driver in each stopped and waved me on. Those were some friendly motorists alright.

What I was paying slightly less attention to, however, was that the car that had pulled in ahead of me had stopped immediately upon coming off the busy avenue, leaving me enough room to just about get my hood ornament into the driveway. The rest of my car was left hanging out into traffic, and when the woman finally pulled ahead and stopped a second time, leaving me barely enough room to go around her and not hit the traffic island separating the single eastbound and westbound lanes coming into and out of my complex, I raised my hand as people often do when they simultaneously express curiosity and annoyance.

The woman got out of her car and before I could even pull around or roll down the window to ask what was up, the hate just started flowing from her mouth. I heard F-bombs. I was called many names. I was called a cracker-ass.

It amazes me that people so often skip diplomacy and resort to immediate confrontation. Her tone was such that it seemed I was being unreasonable for not wanting the ass end of my car to get torn off by the moving traffic behind me, for wanting to continue driving toward home, for not wanting to be stopped behind a car inexplicably now parked in the only lane that could deliver me toward my desired direction.

When I finally did have room to pull up to her, down came my window and I looked at her and asked, more out of curiosity than out of an attempt to be abusive or sarcastic, "Are you really screaming at me?" Because it's a Friday and I'm feeling a little nutty, I asked it a second time.

In all seriousness, I have no idea what prompts people to knee-jerk their way toward the angry defensive and immediately react to strangers with only piss and hate. And I'm very grateful for that.

Who Said Airports Can't Be Fun?

I think I'm a pretty nice guy and I try to keep my grudge-holding to a minimum. But almost all cases where I find myself amid even the mildest of confrontations are results of someone else's actions precipitating my reactions. I'm rarely the instigator.

But I'm certainly far from perfect, and friends who've been on the receiving end of my self-righteousness would not contest this fact.

Still it was great fun getting in the face of a fellow traveler at LaGuardia Airport Monday afternoon.

Too many times I find myself thinking quietly in my head what I'd like to say or do, only to revert back to my polite Midwest manner and not take any action at all.

Today was a different story, however.

I watched a young, well-dressed Middle Eastern man with his Louis Vuitton carry-on bag and matching horn-rimmed glasses look right at a young mother with bags in both hands and a baby on her lap. She was in the aisle seat of my row near the back of the plane, but not making much effort to stand up. That's when Mr. Anxious, seated behind us, took a step forward and was standing even with our aisle. Once our group started moving, he walked ahead of us and that really bugged me.

I don't care that he didn't offer to help that slow mom, but I interpreted his blow-by to mean he felt he and his spot in the cab line that awaited were far too important for him to be bothered by unspoken rules of airplane etiquette. He was actually the middle violator of a total of three people who ignored the standard procedure. One was a woman, and as I've learned the painful way through living in New York for five years, females are officially allowed to do whatever they want. The first was an American male about my size. He set the trend and two others copied him because our weak culture is full of finger-pointing followers.

As I hustled into the terminal, striding far more briskly than I normally do, I walked past the woman and the American male, who by now was on his cell phone. So Mr. Anxious was my target.

As he turned left outside the airport, I was right on his heels walking toward the back of the taxi line. He claimed his spot in a line that was hardly single-file; I then slid between him and the gal in front of him. Here's what happened next:

Him: "Excuse me, sir?"

Me: (Nothing)

Him: "Sir?"

Me: "Yeah?"

Him: "Did you just step in front of me?"

Me: "Oh, did you step in front of me getting off the plane 10 minutes ago?"

Him: "No, I didn't."

Me: "I think you did. It's like church, dude. You let the people in front of you get out first."

He said something quiet and pouty, then accepted his spot behind me before muttering not quite entirely under his breath: "Insane."

Did this guy commit the crime of the century? Obviously not. In NBA parlance, he committed a ticky-tack foul, if even that. I certainly could have let it slide and I'll admit I've kept silent after witnessing far more offensive acts. But what I viewed to be his violation quickly became secondary. I was more interested in testing myself to see if I was actually going to make good on the tough talk going on in my brain during that long walk through the corridors at LaGuardia.

The original plan was to take the bus to the train to avoid the $35 cab ride, but it ended up all being worth it.

This Just Happened And I Am Pissed

An unusually quiet evening on my block in the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn turned upside down when I heard the terrifying screams of the girl who lives one floor above me shortly after midnight.

I hate to say it, but the first seemed like nothing more than one of those neighborhood sounds that blend in with the kids and cats and car alarms on a nightly basis. The tenants who were in for the night probably just chalked it up, as I did, to living in Brooklyn.

But there have been three previous attacks on my small block in the last year, and by the time I'd thought of that a moment later, take a wild guess what happened.

Sure enough, that second scream sent me flying down my nearly 20-yard hallway into the kitchen. I grabbed the biggest knife I could find, then ran shirtless and shoeless back to my front door and down the steps. By the time I got out in front of the building, though, the damage was done. My neighbor emerged from the side of the building with blood all over her face. She said the guy went "that way."

I'd never met the neighbor before, but this wasn't the night for introductions. I've also never been at a woman's side 60 seconds after her life was changed forever, so the right words — often easy for me — betrayed my intentions. I just wanted my neighbor to be OK, but I know it will be a little while before that happens again.

Once she took a seat on the step and waited for the cops to arrive — a gal said through a second-floor window that she'd already called 911 — a few more neighbors streamed outside to find out what happened. I liked that most of them stayed out there with our new survivor-friend for the hour or so it took before she gave in to the officers' urges that she get in the ambulance and hustle to the hospital.

I honestly have no idea what I would have done with that gigantic knife had I come face-to-face with the scumbag who got away with my neigbor's wallet. It's been more than 20 years since my last fist-fight, and that wasn't exactly a display in skilled combat.

But now that 90 minutes have passed and I'm back in the safety of my quiet apartment, wondering what I would have done is irrelevant. I've got a neighbor to pray for.

This Just Happened

Not that my Fort Greene neighborhood that I've called home for 13 months is Brooklyn's answer to Gross Pointe, but I figured if I was going to encounter any unsavories on my journey home Monday night, it would have been closer to Bedford-Stuyvesant.

Because the MTA is the most disorganized government-run agency in America, I never know if I should hop on an A train (typically express) after the evening commute because sometimes -- not never, but not always -- it makes local stops in place of the normally local C train on the same blue line. C trains run far less frequently than the A, so I hopped on the latter when it pulled up moments after I strolled into the High Street/Brooklyn Bridge station.

What's odd is that the A train's first three express stops in Brooklyn are the same three local stops the C makes, and because you can never hear the conductor's announcements, you really never know that you've stepped onto the wrong train until you see the Lafayette signs flying by.

So the A train finally stopped three stations after Lafayette, and I figured I'd allow myself an interesting 30-minute, after-dark walk home from the Nostrand Avenue stop in Bed-Stuy.

But it wasn't until after I'd walked a mile and gotten just a couple blocks from my home that I was asked by the most cracked-out-looking excuse for a grown man if I wanted to buy a pet taxi for $5.

This Just Happened

A general newsroom phone was ringing, so I picked up with a general greeting: "Hello, (my TV station)."

Caller: "Is this MSNBC?"

Me: "No."

Caller: "OK, I want you to get a message to Keith Olbermann."

Me: "Did you not hear me when I said 'No'?"

Caller: "Tell him to make a special comment about Rush Limbaugh on his show tonight. Limbaugh needs to quit saying nasty things about Obama."

Me: "Did you want to ask me who I worked for?"

Caller: "No, just make sure Olbermann says it on tonight's show. Do you need my name?"

Me: "Do you need to know who I work for? When I told you I didn't work for MSNBC, how do you know I don't work for Tasty Joe's Pizza?"

Caller: "Are you on the same floor as Olbermann?"

Me: "Yes, I will get the message to him right away."

Caller: "Thank you."

Uncomfortable Moment At Work

It's not uncommon for me to cause uncomfortable moments because I often steer conversations in inappropriate directions, but this one bordered on extremely awkward.

There's a lovely young black gal who just started working on my floor. I'm the first one in every morning and sometimes she's the second one. So we'll sometimes talk for a few minutes, and just a moment ago she told me she saw Eli Manning at Macy's the other day. She closed the story by saying she didn't think he's attractive, so I asked her what kind of dudes she does favor.

Me: "Oh, so you like black men, huh?"
Girl: "No, I said Brad Pitt," she replied with her strong-ish Haitian accent.

I really don't know how I got "black men" from "Brad Pitt." Perhaps because I'm a moron.

I guess it wasn't that uncomfortable, but not entirely a laugh-out-loud moment either. I'm going back to work now.

This Just Happened

Here's how I got a dirty look from an overly serious co-worker just a few minutes ago:

She said to another co-worker: "... and I just don't trust the trainees to get it all done by Monday."

Me, walking by and having nothing to do with the conversation: "You don't trust the trannies?"

Try the veal buffet. I'm here through Sunday.