Come On Irene

Well, that was a bust. All week long, all I heard on the news, all everyone was talking about was this massive hurricane that was going to lay waste to New York City. And at the end of the day, to quote the great and mighty Yogurt, Irene was bupkis.

I was actually talked into going "hurricane shopping" yesterday. My roommate and I walked around to three different drug stores and two grocery stores, looking for flashlights, candles, bottled water and non-perishable food stuffs. Most items were sold out. The lines at the stores were ungodly, filled with other gullible Manhattan yokels who were duped into thinking they wouldn't otherwise survive the impending doom that was going to turn their urban existences upside-down.

Back in our apartment, we hunkered down, preparing for doomsday. Around midnight last night, the rain really started coming down and the wind picked up. But according to the weather reports, the brunt of the storm wasn't going to come for another few hours, with today being nothing short of armageddon. I was so excited for my first hurricane, I couldn't even sleep, so I took a Xanax and finally drifted off around 2AM.

I awoke at 11AM, sprung out of bed like it was Christmas morning (assuming I was a person who didn't hate Christmas, but celebrated it), and ran to the window. What did I see? People strolling down the streets. Leaves rustling in a mild breeze. In short, no sign that anything had happened at all.

My roommate told me I had missed it, that at around 9AM it was pretty windy, but that Irene had moved on. "What?!" I said? "I slept through a hurricane?" Let me tell you something. If you can sleep through a hurricane, it's not really a hurricane. It's just a stupid storm, and by the looks of the perfectly clean streets below, a mild one at best. It's like the third strongest storm I've witnessed this summer. No fallen trees, no patio furniture smashed through anybody's window, not even a goddamn clogged drain in the street gutters.

An earthquake and a hurricane in the same week, and I miss them both. I'll tell you what, for all the bravado, machismo, and self-felating pride New Yorkers have in their toughness and heroism, they really are a bunch of pussies when it comes to natural disasters.

Hell's Bells

Seeing as how I haven't had much to complain about lately, I was delighted when my friend Emily sent me this very special Guest Kvetch. Enjoy.

I am guessing that the last time you enjoyed a cold glass of milk with your Oreos or needed some milk to mix in with your Mac and Cheese mix, you did something along the lines of: opened your refrigerator, grabbed the plastic vessel in which your milk was purchased and poured out the required amount.  It probably took less than 20 seconds.  I am quite sure you did not strap on your boots, walk to the barn where Bessie, the family’s Heifer is kept, to squeeze the milk from her udders with your very hands into a silver pail, which you then carried back into your kitchen with a fireplace as a stove to pour a glass, or pewter mug, of milk.

 I use this as an example to show that as a result of many technological advances, we are no longer operating under the confines of life in Puritan Massachusetts in the 18^th century; we are living in urban New York City in the 21^st century…just in case you were unaware or are forgetful.  So why, pray tell, is it that every morning, weekday and weekends, I wake to the sound of church bells?

 I have a number of grievances related to this issue of church bell use in the 21^st century.   First, but by no means most importantly, every human I know, including a 4 year old, owns or has access to a cell phone at all times.  A feature on all cell phones is a clock.  It is nearly impossible to not have access to some mechanism that will tell you the time in a matter of a glance.  We are past the point where we need to wait for a bell to strike to remind us how much time is passing by. 

Second…even if it were helpful to have a non-secular reminder of another hour passing by, the church bell system is exceedingly inefficient in that you need to COUNT the number of times the bell rings in order to determine the time.  Come 12:00, it will take over 30 seconds just to determine the time by listening to the number of ding-dongs, and that is assuming you haven’t missed a dong or lost count because of a distracting fire truck passing by and you are busy looking at the firemen… Wait, was that 11 rings or 12?

Third, every night, excluding weekends, I set an alarm for the time that I need to wake up in the morning.  I do not ask my neighbor to set his alarm in order that I can wake up, nor do I make unnecessary noises in the morning so that others must wake up at the same time as I do.  This is common courtesy.  Sleep is valuable, and it is downright rude to infringe on someone’s hard earned sleep time.  The church outside my building has offensively assumed the right to wake everyone in the neighborhood by 8 AM every day, including Saturdays and Sundays.    

The bottom line is, some antiquated things are still lovely and relevant, such as using leeches to help blood flow during surgery or reading books as opposed to a Kindle.  The church bell no longer falls in the category of lovely and relevant.  This Sunday please join me at the offending church on 47^th street, we will walk in during their precious mass and loudly announce the time just to be sure that everyone knows exactly when it is 10:47, 10:48 and 10:49.

Cheese!

There are a lot of people in New York. It seems like every street has thousands of people, all rushing around, trying to get to wherever they're going.

There are also a lot of tourists in New York. Tourists like to take pictures. Hey, no problem there. I'm a tourist too sometimes, and when I am, I like to capture those memories on my camera as well.

But for some reason, here in NY, there is an incessant need for people to take pictures in the most routine places - say, on a busy sidewalk in front of a nondescript building. The problem with this is that when you stop to take a picture of your stupid looking wife from ten feet away, you hold up the whole goddamn flow of foot traffic.

Some people walk right through your dumb picture, which they have every right to do. But that only keeps you trying to get your idiotic picture taken longer. I, on the other hand, always stop and wait for you to complete your mentally retarded picture, because I am a courteous and chivalrous gentleman. But do I get a thank you? Well, sometimes I do, actually.

But that's not the point. If you want to take pictures of New York, go to picture-taking places. Go to the Statue of Liberty, or Central Park, or the Appollo Theater. Don't stand on Lexington Ave outside a busy subway station and pose for five minutes like you've never seen a fucking newstand before.