Kids these days, with their canes and their swearing, gahblessem.

She sounds delightful!

Hugh, I've thought it before but perhaps not said it: you're a class act, mister.

YES! I have a plan in life to be one of those little old ladies who does just whatever in the heck she feels like - run over people's feet with the wheelchair, smack them with my cane, say whatever is on my mind... Now, I can add mass transit faggotry to my arsenal!

(just hope that all on the receiving end are as gracious as you....)

Perhaps she'd had a minor stroke which affected her ability to be socially appropriate...old people can certainly be full of surprises.

≡ Click to see image ≡

You're lucky; it's always awkward being attacked by the elderly. A friend on mine who was in his sixties was telling me about how this frail little lady who lives near me assaulted him on a bus. She just decided he had done something wrong, like block her path, and rained her tiny fists on his back. It didn't do any damage, her occasional zimmer frame would weigh more if it had the same cotton candy hair do, but there's not much anyone can do when it's happening.

Another "little old lady" who isn't really that old (booze? meth? the 70s?) wears tube tops whole lower rack level, same with spaghetti string tops. It's always a might disturbing.
i bet she's in her fifties but part of her is always going to be in the 70s.

I just figured she was having a bad morning, or maybe she was a dick or a bigot or she's from some community where calling someone a faggot gets a wack response, or maybe she resented the hell out of the fact that someone who looks like me/talks like me/smells like me was being courteous to her.

Once I realized that it was my politeness that pissed her off, I laid it on kinda thick, so these accusations of graciousness must be tempered by the knowledge that I knew how mad I was making her.

Trip out with me for a moment, if you will: It kinda reminded me of Obama being called a muslim in some wack attempt to discredit him. His reaction, along the lines of "No, I'm not, definitely not a muslim, but I'm proud of my heritage," is bullshit. He should say, "'Muslim' is not an insult; if you think it is, you're a far worse part of the problem than any muslim is." Maybe he's said as much by now.

In any case, I knew I was being an asshole by being polite. Perhaps if I'd sworn back at her, she would have thanked me and pinched my cheek.

Marcel Duchamp was known for not taking things personal. A friend would miss a coffee date, and he'd be at the gallery the next day chatting with him like it never happened. It's the ultimate in unwavering coolness that says "I'm okay, I'll let this be about you." I try to think of his example when turd bits like this get flung at my day. Him and you, Hugh.

i hear emotions becomes more overwhelming the older you get, especially negative ones. But when nothing is wrong, the calm can be as pervasive.

Thank god you didn't hug her. She might have combusted.

There's something reassuring when you know whatever it is, it's got nothing to do with you.

I remember being forced to pull my car to the curb and verbally attacked by this elderly man because I passed a stopped school bus. Which I would have deserved if the bus had simply been stopped with its stop signs showing -- but it was PARKED. In the school playground.

Now, I can add mass transit faggotry to my arsenal!

Another "little old lady" who isn't really that old (booze? meth? the 70s?) wears tube tops whole lower rack level

God, I love this place.

Write some incomprehensible letters to the editor. You'll feel better.

A friend would miss a coffee date, and he'd be at the gallery the next day chatting with him like it never happened.

A few months ago I was talking to my brother about his kids, and he told me about how impressing right and wrong on my older nephew worked -- if the kid does something wrong, my brother tells him immediately, no sugar coat; the boy may fuss a little, but once it's over, it is over; there's no, "Remember when you blah blah blah..." -- it's how my dad dealt with us. Things aren't merely water under the bridge. Things are noted, learned, and that's it. The lesson stays and the specifics disappear altogether.

Otherwise you're just setting up guilt and resentment, which nobody has the right to impose on anyone else, including or especially their children. Of course, my mom wasn't very good at this, and since she has a mind like a steel trap and a library cataloger's knack for record-keeping, I have an outsized sense of my own guilt to go along with my easy forgive-and-forget attitude regarding others' trespasses.

Things play out like this around me:

Friend: "Yo, Hugh, sorry I talked shit to you yesterday, I was stressed out blah blah blah...."

HJ: "I don't even remember, so it's definitely okay; we're all just trying, nobody's perfect. Wanna go get ice cream?"

It's a lie, actually. We are all just trying, but the big secret? Everybody's perfect. Pied beauty, eh?

Three thoughts. . .first of all I realize that I don't know your sexual preferences, or if you "present" as someone who bigots would call a faggot. From flickr pictures, you don't really come off very swishy. Of course that does not matter, really.

The second thought is just a mental pat on the back for not letter her ruin your perfectly good morning.

Third thought: They have your meds perfectly dialed in. :-)

Once I realized that it was my politeness that pissed her off, I laid it on kinda thick, so these accusations of graciousness must be tempered by the knowledge that I knew how mad I was making her.

Well, exactly.

A lifetime in retail taught me that retaining one's cordiality in the face of hostility is the most infuriating act possible.

My father had to stop giving me driving lessons when I was a teen: on the long, winding, one-lane (no-shoulder) back roads where we would practice, impatient tourists lost on their way to the beach would honk furiously at me for driving the speed limit. I would beam brightly at them and wave like the Queen going by in a parade, spurring the already furious drivers to scream like howling apes.

My father laughed so hard at my beatific pageant of smiles and nods that the family feared for his health.

That's the trick: kill 'em with kindness. And failing that—a truncheon of some kind.

Good one Hugh! I find my voice gets posher when I'm being super-polite to someone rude - I only get all RP when I'm pissed off.

There's an old lady (white) who walks up and down the high street near my office, yelling "cunt!" and "fuckwit!" at everyone who walks past. Sometimes she works up a long sentence and gets louder as she goes. She got on the bus recently and told the driver (a black guy) to "crawl back into your FUCKING HOLE YOU CUNT! I can't believe they let you COME TO WORK YOU STINKING NIGGER CUNT!" and he smiled and said "And best wishes to you too, ma'am! My hope is for you and your family to have a lovely evening" and the whole bus clapped and cheered, then she got off. It was brilliant. Still, I hope the driver reported her.

first of all I realize that I don't know your sexual preferences

Neither do I. But no, most people react to me as if I was a straight cop.

your perfectly good morning

Actually, she made my morning better. Unflappable is the new choleric.

They have your meds perfectly dialed in.

Here's the big secret behind that: I don't take meds (smoke pot sometimes), and I've only been to a shrink once, back when I was a distracted kid; I found her questions intrusive and her conclusions demeaning. What I do have is a job that I really like, which gives me enough space to do the things I need to do to keep sane.

For example, I play guitar for two or three hours a day, four or five days a week. Not only does it allow me to channel the sour tar out of my heart, but I think the tapping of the fingerboard gives my fingertips a massage that cools off my overheated brain.

When I first came to New York, I wrote a draft of a play about the young Gandhi in South Africa. Getting inside Gandhi was great for me; being able to write convincing dialog from his point of view takes me into his point of view, and for going around NYC, that's a great place to be.

I lost Gandhi for a long time -- the entire time I worked in banking, which made me hate myself -- and only found him recently when I found a new job and things started looking up.

I have to tell myself to stop all the time: stop thinking this or that, stop beating yourself up, stop assuming you know where so-and-so's coming from. It's the only way to move on.

There's a history of bad mental illness in my family, and I think I might have gotten lucky. The addiction part is there, but I have enough of a healthy fear of myself to keep that in check most of the time. But the clinical depression and the schizophrenia seems to have passed me by, or I'd probably know about it by now.

My mom takes about forty pills a day, for this and that, and she's happy. She's alive, and a big part of that's the meds they have her on. She's better than alive; she's my mom.

I don't have insurance, so if I do go crazy, look for me on the street. I couldn't afford meds even if I was prescribed them, and the likelihood of me seeing a mental health specialist any time soon is pretty slim, since I'd have to pay for it out of my own pocket.

A lifetime in retail taught me that retaining one's cordiality in the face of hostility is the most infuriating act possible.

Yup; retail is baptism in fire. Sometimes, though, you give sugar and get honey in return. That's when you know the world's an okay place.

A few months ago a woman was hollering at her crying kid in the park near my apartment, and I was down there eating breakfast and reading the funny pages. I looked over, and she glared at me; "What are you staring at?"

I said, "Your daughter is beautiful."

She immediately changed her tune, pulled her little girl up on her lap, and said, "Did you hear that, honey? That man said you're beautiful," and she wiped the girls cheeks off, and they both softened and the little girl put her arms around mom's neck and shyly pressed her face against mom's collarbone. "Thank you," said mom.

"It's true," I said. "I should thank you."

Can't change the world if you don't try.

Sometimes, though, you give sugar and get honey in return.

Isn't that the perfect, beautiful truth? Sometimes, people working through the old familiar pattern of hostility and defensiveness will be stopped short by simple kindness, and it allows them to reframe the encounter.

And on the occasions when they greet kindness or civility with nastiness, keeping my temper and being gracious allows me to maintain my own self-respect: I can cope with other people's nastiness, but not with my own.

(Standing behind the service counter dealing with the most alarmingly angry or unreasonable of customers, I often cooled my hot head by reminding myself: after I resolve this problem, I might never see this vicious person again, and I certainly won't see him for a week or so. He, poor devil, has to live inside himself. How awful that must be.)

Particularly, though, I'm in love with this perfect response:

"That doesn't really hurt my feelings, ma'am."

The absolute and simple truth: this thing you say, madam, isn't the insult you seem to think.

Perhaps she'd had a minor stroke which affected her ability to be socially appropriate...

Yeah, she probably had some kind of dementia or something, especially since she remained so angry and verbally abusive.

You deserve a cookie, Hugh. A big snickerdoodle cookie, cause they're my favorite.

on the long, winding, one-lane (no-shoulder) back roads where we would practice, impatient tourists lost on their way to the beach would honk furiously at me for driving the speed limit. I would beam brightly at them and wave like the Queen going by in a parade, spurring the already furious drivers to scream like howling apes.

I'm trying this new "driving the speed limit" thing, along with a "smoothly accelerate and decelerate" in an effort to save a couple bucks a week on gas. It's working beautifully, and as a side benefit people get so angry at me for driving the speed limit in the right-hand lane! I get unreasonable amounts of pleasure from that fact.