2017: Not the Greatest of Ease

It’s amusing how life often reminds me — call it happenstance, serendipity or chance — there is a bigger picture to life than is probably known. It’s already a known fact everything is connected. The bigger picture is that we are in some form all part of a Charlie Kaufman or an episode of Scrubs. The one when that central character is trying to decipher between his “inner J.D.” and reality.

Wait. That’s every episode.

Oh, the grandeur of morning winter commutes. Actually, the 2016-2017 winter has been another season for poor driving, and everyone else’s inability to do so justifies my driving like an overly cautious John C. McGinley having an identity crisis.

As a habit, I tend to turn the volume down or turn the radio off when trying to concentrate mode. That morning wasn’t one of those instances. While coasting through the fresh Syracuse slush, the traffic light asked me to stop at the corner of West Genesee and Franklin.

Andrew Bird was finishing up his chorus with the reminder Dora Munch is coming to town.

As chorus transitioned into the instrumental (cue the banjo) solo, a man in what looked like Carhartt apparel appeared to be shimmying on the corner. His feet were slipping, his legs moved as swinging Twizzler candies. He often braced himself and prevented his falling with one or both hands. If this was a line dancing event, there’d be a group of people standing off to the side, and they’d be clapping in time to the beat and feeling awkward about the performance.

Most of the time physical comedy done right is when it happens naturally. Hit that record button, Grandma! Something good may happen to Pa.”

We watch television shows showing homemade videos of people getting injured in dramatic ways: The kicks to the crotch. Cats pushing over children. People falling on and breaking tables. The whole gamut never gets old. We have a that voyeuristic desire to watch cinematic nonsense.

However, no one the majority of mankind does not sit around and wait for someone to err. And in the reality of everything, injury isn’t funny. We don’t wish injury upon anyone, and we hope people don’t wish anything ill to happen us. Yet we crack up when it happens on a screen — we turn our heads, bite our lips with nervousness and peek through the cracks of fingers blinding eyes. We all have the capacity to acknowledge our sick senses of humor.

Those in-the-moment situations are unpleasant. They happen quickly, yet the feeling of nausea midst falling is intense. At my height and stature, I’m sure I look goofy as hell taking a spill or having my feet swept up from beneath me.

While kneeling to the broiler the other night, my forehead connected with handle of the cast iron skillet. And pies to the face are always knee slapping funny despite the naysayers.

But Monday was pretty messy.

The guy’s accidental slipping around turned into on-purpose running along the sidewalk and often venturing into the street. The blur of too entertaining to be serious was a facade. The fog encompassing the reality dissipated. The radio seemed to turn itself down.

Whether his mind was taking a deep soak in a solution of bath salts or there was something else encourage hallucinogenic visions is not up to me to decide. Nor will I judge, but I will feel bad for the fellow.

Welcome to 2017 with an awkward start. Although it’s a new year, the world isn’t much different. Change is always inevitable, but it happens slowly. And if current events are letting the world know what we’re in for, well, we should proceed with caution.

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