I am waiting at the Newport Av. crosswalk, the one between Newport Market and Chow. This is to say I am waiting because no one is stopping.
Awhile ago, in High school, I had a friend who went to an alternative school, Brown - the school for "bad kids," but not really. The school for students that couldn't put up with the (watch my Holden Caulfield language) goddamn phonies of mainstream Redmond High School.
There was a woman, he told me, a motivational speaker, that came to the school and demonstrated an experiment by dressing grungy and approaching a nearby crosswalk of a fairly busy two way road.
She waited. And waited. Cars kept driving by. Returning to the students she changed her style and dressed in professional attire; black skirt, dress shoes, possibly a power jacket equipped with shoulder pads. Standing at the crosswalk once again time the cars came to a halt.
A truck full of fraternity "brahs" just passed by gawking at me. An SUV follows them, a woman with sunglasses, a set jaw and a McCain/Palin sticker cemented on her bumper. Four subarus at least choose to ignore me, but who's counting?
Is it my hair? Does it not have enough body? Are my bangs to stringy? My eyebrows untamed? Can the people in the cars actually see the zits on my forehead?
In the restaurant I work a very intelligent server told me a sociology experiment she did as an assignment in college while she worked a waitress job.
She told me how for a sucession of 4 weeks she changed her style. One week she was blonde with lots of make-up, the next she had brown hair, the next black hair. The final week she was black hair with brooding dark make-up. Keeping track of her tips throughout the experiment as she worked she watched her tips shrink "drastically." "I never altered my service or personality but by the end of the month I was shocked."
Still at the crosswalk I feel I can no longer blame lava rocks for the reason no one is stopping. Who knew crossing a street could be so personal? Is it my stone-wash jeans? My paint splattered red hoodie you people don't like? Am I not wearing enough make-up? Do I not look happy?
And then it happens. A woman across the street in North Face winter work-out gear (the official uniform of Bend, Oregon I believe) steps up the crosswalk with a baby stroller. A BABY STROLLER.
No surprise, cars grind to a halt, the sound of grating of lava rock is heard beneath their tires I'm surprised smoke doesn't appear.
Passing eachother we smile at one another. *sigh*
Awhile ago, in High school, I had a friend who went to an alternative school, Brown - the school for "bad kids," but not really. The school for students that couldn't put up with the (watch my Holden Caulfield language) goddamn phonies of mainstream Redmond High School.
There was a woman, he told me, a motivational speaker, that came to the school and demonstrated an experiment by dressing grungy and approaching a nearby crosswalk of a fairly busy two way road.
She waited. And waited. Cars kept driving by. Returning to the students she changed her style and dressed in professional attire; black skirt, dress shoes, possibly a power jacket equipped with shoulder pads. Standing at the crosswalk once again time the cars came to a halt.
A truck full of fraternity "brahs" just passed by gawking at me. An SUV follows them, a woman with sunglasses, a set jaw and a McCain/Palin sticker cemented on her bumper. Four subarus at least choose to ignore me, but who's counting?
Is it my hair? Does it not have enough body? Are my bangs to stringy? My eyebrows untamed? Can the people in the cars actually see the zits on my forehead?
In the restaurant I work a very intelligent server told me a sociology experiment she did as an assignment in college while she worked a waitress job.
She told me how for a sucession of 4 weeks she changed her style. One week she was blonde with lots of make-up, the next she had brown hair, the next black hair. The final week she was black hair with brooding dark make-up. Keeping track of her tips throughout the experiment as she worked she watched her tips shrink "drastically." "I never altered my service or personality but by the end of the month I was shocked."
Still at the crosswalk I feel I can no longer blame lava rocks for the reason no one is stopping. Who knew crossing a street could be so personal? Is it my stone-wash jeans? My paint splattered red hoodie you people don't like? Am I not wearing enough make-up? Do I not look happy?
And then it happens. A woman across the street in North Face winter work-out gear (the official uniform of Bend, Oregon I believe) steps up the crosswalk with a baby stroller. A BABY STROLLER.
No surprise, cars grind to a halt, the sound of grating of lava rock is heard beneath their tires I'm surprised smoke doesn't appear.
Passing eachother we smile at one another. *sigh*
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