I’m sick of tripping over relaxing people.
Everywhere I go, I see people flopping around in unseemly positions, acting as if nothing matters.On Father’s Day at a park, someone came up with the idea of kids flying kites with their dad. I appreciate the concept, but some of those fathers were so inept I cringed at the thought of them trying to build a porch deck. But I’m not jumping on them – at least they were out there participating. It’s the dozens of sun worshippers spotting the landscape, barely blinking as an entire community of kites floundered aimlessly, hardly denting the sky. Couldn’t some of them have jumped up and assisted in some way? How many engineers live in Hoboken? Couldn’t a few of them bond and create aerodynamic solutions?
Same with coffee shops. You’d think with all that caffeine and chocolate, whipped cream and blackberry pie, some energy would emerge. Instead, people just lounge around looking relaxed. I don’t want to hear about alleviating stress. Nothing about letting go, loosening it up, walking away from it, chillin’. This country did not become what it is on the backs of people sitting comfortably with their legs crossed, quietly chatting about non-stressful subjects while spooning fat-free yogurt.
It’s an epidemic. Get off the train at 72nd Street, enter Central Park, walk down to Strawberry Fields and sure enough, dozens of folks are just sitting there all day. Some strum a guitar badly, singing Beatles tunes, letting their whole Sunday slide away. Staring at each other, waiting for who knows what. A few hundred meters ahead, you hit the roller blade oval with its pounding beat, flashy moves, edgy fashion, characters upon characters. These people are breaking waves, pushing their personal envelope, flash dancing through the numbing calm into the realm of intensity only as doers can understand. Or is it "we" doers?
The other day I went to the offices of the Hudson Reporter to drop off an important request for Eugene Mulero. Because of construction, I used the side door, and walked past a bunch of cubicles containing stationary writers, none of whom seemed agonized or on the verge of a breakdown. Most stared at the screens mesmerized, perhaps silently chanting mantra. (Editor’s note: You actually walked past the graphics staff.) Their body language screamed "relaxed." The receptionist told me that my editor was out, unquestionably relaxing somewhere.
At The Art House in Jersey City, I spot none other than Hudson Reporter senior staff writer Al Sullivan sitting way in the back holding his guitar, waiting to perform, looking like he had not a care in the world. Did this man ever hear the words "flop sweat"? Corruption pervades local politics and he’s casually strumming away like we’re all in some musical comedy. BAH!
The worst disappointment, the most alarming development in this relaxation plague, was the reading of Hudson Reporter editor Caren Lissner at Symposia bookstore on Willow Avenue in Hoboken. I went specifically to witness the author break down. I wanted sweat rolling down into unseemly crevices; paleness beyond pale across the face, I wanted the author to grip her book so tightly her knuckles would explode. I wanted her pancreas to burst, sending shock waves through the sickeningly relaxed audience. I wanted throats to constrict so only hoarse grunts bounced off each other as people fled out to the street, rampaging through the park as the author, bile spurting from every orifice, staggered out screaming "10 percent off if you buy two!"
You say, "Relax, Joe." How can I relax when every time I open this paper, I read another letter from Current contributor Amanda Koch, which has absolutely no point except to discuss Amanda Koch. Now I’M discussing Amanda Koch, damn it. Why must you TORTURE me like this? Where are my damn kites? – Joe Del Priore (The author is a frequent Current contributor.)