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Okay, maybe I’m glad I’m not living in NYC right now

Because yikes.

It’s the Northeast.  There are blizzards, yearly.  There are procedures in place to minimize disruptions in service and to facilitate clearing the streets once the snow starts falling.  But those procedures don’t really help if they’re not invoked.  Also not helpful?  Having the guy who fucked up Indianapolis’ infrastructure through privatization and governing by prosperity gospel — who also never spent much time in NYC and didn’t know much about it although he’s made reducing the size of the Sanitation Department (which handles snow removal) his special project — be the one in charge of putting the relevant procedures into action.  Who then proceeded to fuck off to DC, from which he tweeted his own “Heckuva job, Brownie” statement.

There are a lot of people around who are dismissing New Yorkers’ complaints about the handling of the storm as mere whining, or calling NYers wusses because wherever they’re from deals with snow better, or claiming that this was a “storm of the century” and therefore a slow response was to be expected.

Bullshit.

I spent twelve winters in NYC, with bad snowstorms nearly every year.  There were at least three comparable storms that I experienced (for details on comparable storms and city response, see here).  And I can’t say that I ever saw one where the major streets weren’t plowed by the end of the snowfall, even if tertiary streets had to wait a while.  During the February 2010 storm, for example, I lived on a tertiary street off what was probably a secondary if not primary street, Columbia Street.  Columbia was plowed by the time the snow stopped falling; my street was plowed within a day.  This time, I’m hearing about PRIMARY streets in Manhattan not being plowed until two or three days after the storm.  I’ve got friends who are freezing because the oil trucks can’t get through to their buildings, five days after the snow started.

Someone fucked up, big time.  And it’s probably Goldsmith, and Bloomberg for hiring him.

And it’s not like people are just whining.  This is a service New Yorkers pay for, willingly and gladly.  The complaints are about the fuckups, not the snow.   Bloomberg bullied and bought his way into a third term — overriding the will of the people who put term limits in place — on the promise of being the most competent person and necessary to NYC’s well-being.  Just 10 months ago, his administration competently handled a storm of similar size and severity.  So why the fuckup now?  They know how to do this.  It’s not like the South, where you get stuff like this when it snows:

Whoops!

This is a snowplow in a ditch in Virginia Beach.  They got 13 inches.  They don’t expect much in the way of snow removal, because they don’t plan for it since it rarely snows like that.  My nephews don’t even have boots.  And clearly their snowplow drivers aren’t very experienced.  In NYC, you pay for snow removal, and when you don’t get what you pay for, you get pissed.  It’s not whining to be pissed when the people you pay to do a job don’t do it, and for no good reason.

I can’t say I’m sorry I’m not in NYC right now (though, honestly, I’d probably still be in Virginia Beach anyway since all the NYC airports were closed).  The worst we’re getting where I am is some rain, and localized flooding since no one can seem to figure out that you put the drain in the lowest spot.

Travels with Junebug and Zuzu

I’m a little more than a third of the way done with my cross-country trip.  I’m driving a 14-foot U-Haul; I was originally going to get the smaller truck since I’d gotten rid of so much furniture, but I took a look at my boxes, then at the five-foot-wide, not-very-high truck, and decided against taking my chances.

The move-out had some issues.  First, I showed up at the U-Haul facility shortly after 8 am.  Movers were coming at 9:30 to load me up, so I should have had plenty of time.  There was nobody there, however.  Except a guy who was also trying to rent a truck.  Several calls to Regional later, I had a new truck at a nearby facility where the staffers actually showed up to work on time, and was late to meet my movers.

Make that “mover.” Only Hector had shown up on time; the other mover (whom I started calling Skippy because he was so white-college-boy, and never told me his name) was over two hours late.  But Hector got started right away, moving boxes and one-person items down the stairs.  He told me he got paid from the time he showed up, but I wouldn’t start getting charged until the whole crew checked in.  Plus, Hector got Skippy’s pay as well for that two hours.  So it all worked out well for both me and Hector, at least in terms of money.  In terms of time, U-Haul and Skippy put me behind schedule.

To get out of Brooklyn, I had to take the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel to the West Side Highway and then the Holland Tunnel to the Garden State Parkway (Rte. 78).  On the map, and on all my directions, it sure as hell looked like you could get in the left lane at the Holland Tunnel and then take an immediate left to access 78.  Except for the part where you first have to, if you are driving a commercial vehicle such as a 14-foot moving van, go the long way around to the special checkpoint entrance to the Brooklyn-Battery and show your rental agreement and license (after messing up and having to have the Port Authority cop who just sent you around and is surprised to see you in the same place he just sent you away from move the traffic cones and stop traffic to let you into the right lane) and then, at the Holland Tunnel, get out of the van and open up the back for the cop, who is not very happy to be there, and is certainly not happy your dog is barking at him.  Oh, and except for the part where they’ve closed that left-hand turn and now, even though you’re in the extreme left lane, in order to get 78, you have to be five lanes over to the right really fast.  In a 14-foot truck which you’ve been driving for less than an hour.  In heavy, heavy traffic.

So I got lost for a while in Jersey City.  In parts of Jersey City I don’t know at all.  In parts of Jersey City with hills and narrow streets and no signs telling you which direction 78 might be in.  I drove over the curb in a few spots, even, since I had no sense of where the end of the truck was.  I finally stopped for gas and asked for directions (but the guy was no help), and then got the maps feature on my iPhone to cooperate.  I found 78, then found my way to Pennsylvania.  I’d hoped to get to Pittsburgh before I stopped for the night, because I had to be in Lafayette, IN the next day, but I’d gotten such a late start that I got no further than Carlisle, PA before I had to call it a night because I just couldn’t see.

The next day was a long drive followed by meeting Lauren and an unfortunate incident with Junebug and a waitress who had picked up the bag of food she’d just brought out and set down to make sure we had our whole order.  No skin was broken.

Junebug has not been an easy traveling companion.  Tolltakers are out to get her.  So are the Port Authority cops and the poor waitress.  I’ve gotten her a harness which can be strapped down by the seatbelt.  I thought this might be a good way to keep her restrained when I got out of the truck, but the first time I left her belted in while I pumped gas, she chewed partway through the seatbelt.  She’s also put a small hole in the vinyl seat, though that could have been me, too.  Good thing I took out the super-duper damage policy.  After the first day, when she was terribly, terribly anxious about driving, I have given her tranquilizers, which make her a little dopey and slit-eyed like a stoner After the drugs, she’s been pretty content to spend most of the ride with her head in my lap, though she has chosen some inconvenient moments to start nudging her head under my elbow to get me to pet her.  Like construction zones.

Zuzu’s been tranquilized the whole way.  And while she had a few scary moments the first day — it is NEVER a good thing when a cat pants open-mouthed — that could have been due to having a high anxiety level from the whole move experience.  Also, it was hot.  But she’s been better since then; she’ll have a few minutes of meowing and trying to climb out of the crate about an hour after we get underway, but she settles right down and naps.

I’ve gotten much more comfortable with the truck as well, which I find kind of amusing since I haven’t owned a car in 17 years, and I don’t really drive at all.  I’ve figured out the mirrors, which make lane changes much easier, and I rather like being up high.  Tractor-trailers bother me less when I’m looking over at the cab doors rather than at the tires as they go by.  They do cause me some problems when they come alongside me, since their air currents push my back end.  The truck’s a little light since I don’t have all that much stuff back there, so it does some fishtailing.  But it’s not awful.  And I’ve even gotten fairly comfortable with it at gas stations and on local roads — as long as I don’t have to back up or do much in the way of lane changing.  And somehow, it’s not wearing on me to drive eight hours a day, as long as I break it up.

Also?  The iTrip is the best thing ever.

I’ve got four more full days on the road, and four more nights in hotels, before I reach my final destination.  Right now I’m in Iowa at a hotel which provides free wi-fi.   I’ve downloaded the first three seasons of Mad Men and plan on watching a couple episodes before I crash.

Sugarplum, 1997(?) - 2010

Rest in peace, my sweet

Dearest Junebug,

You stink.

Love, Mom.

I was not expecting the odor

I just got back, as I said in the last post, from Montreal. The primary reason I went there was to get Lasik (Canada has more advanced technology than the US, and even when the FDA approves certain equipment, such as the particular laser I was treated with, the earlier approval means that Canadian eye surgeons have more experience with the equipment than their American counterparts. Plus, it’s cheaper. And it’s Montreal). I was tired of being extremely nearsighted, and what with the onset of reading glasses* and all, it was looking like I’d be in very expensive and unworkable progressive lenses before too long. Why not get the nearsightedness fixed, and then worry about the aging-related reading glasses as a single prescription?

So I biffed off up North, where the many public wi-fi networks refused to speak to my netbook. And after a few days of sightseeing and wonderful meals and lovely chocolat chaud, I went to the clinic for my surgery. The pre-op and post-op is being done locally, but I went to Montreal for the actual surgery.

I knew there would be Clockwork Orange eyelid clamps. I probably should have guessed that, yes, everyone makes the same Clockwork Orange joke when the clamps are put in. I knew there would be some “pressure,” though I hadn’t really been clear on what it was for (apparently, to make you go temporarily blind so you don’t see the blade that’s cutting the flap in your cornea) or how much it would hurt when my orbital bone was pushed on.

I did not, however, know that there was going to be an odor — specifically, the odor of burning hair. It was apparently just the laser burning some carbon in the air, not my eyeball getting vaporized. But disconcerting, nonetheless.

It was over in minutes. The first half-hour afterwards was just fine, if things were blurry and I had the world’s goofiest-looking eye shields on my face. Then the anaesthetic wore off, and the burning and itching and feeling of sand-in-the-eyes started. That lasted four hours or so, during which time I was instructed to rest but not sleep — as if I could fall asleep with my eyes burning like that — and to blink at least every five minutes to keep things lubricated. I got very familiar with the limitations of my hotel room, which featured not a separate bathroom, but a sink, shower stall and toilet closet right in the room. As a concept, not terribly objectionable — until you realize that the legroom in the toilet nook leaves a little something to be desired, and it’s not possible to both take the wide stance necessary to position yourself correctly AND pull your pants down. Others before me had similar issues, or at least that’s how I interpret the fact that the seat was forever popping out of place.

After four hours or so, things started feeling much better, but I had to leave the shields on nonetheless until the following morning. Whereupon I removed them and went back to the clinic for my first-day checkup. My vision was 20/15, which is right about where it should be, since they overcorrect due to the fact that as the eyes heal, they naturally settle out a little, so I should end up with 20/20. I had a little inflammation in one eye, so they had me use the antibiotic drops more frequently for the first two days; I also have dryness, which is normal, so I have drops for that as well.

I’m quite pleased.  Things are kind of foggy, I’ll need to use reading glasses for a few weeks until the overcorrection settles out, I have haloes at night, and my eyes are dry, but that’s all normal and should go away within a few days or weeks.   But for the first time since fourth grade, I can fucking SEE without glasses or contacts.  Yay!

____

* About those expensive progressive lenses that optometrist tried to push on me:  turns out I NEVER ACTUALLY NEEDED THEM AT ALL.  The doctor who did my pre-op for surgery figured that my contacts were overcorrecting my vision, which made reading a little difficult.  So he put me into weaker contacts, and that solved the reading problem while still enabling me to see distances.  Boy, am I glad I pushed back on those instead of spending almost $500 to solve a problem I didn’t even have.

Good to know

I’m a gorgon, apparently.

Hi there!

I see there are a bunch of new people here.  Welcome!

Just to let you know, all commenters have to be approved the first time, and I can’t do that from work.  So your first comment might be stuck in the mod queue until tonight.  Sorry about that, but once you’re approved, you should be able to post without a problem unless you trip the spam filter.

It’s a stew! It’s a pasta sauce!

Threw this one together after a trip to the farmer’s market Saturday. Too early for field tomatoes (they only had hothouse), but not too late for wild asparagus, some of which looked more like chives than asparagus. I made this up as a pasta sauce, but it would have really worked well as a stew. But I’m the kind of person who eats bowls of pasta sauce.

  • Olive oil (I probably used about 1/4 cup)
  • Garlic, several cloves, diced finely or smashed
  • Harissa, several squirts (just, um, don’t do what I did and squirt it all over your pants)
  • Juice of one lemon
  • [Some white wine or broth would be nice, but I didn’t have any]
  • Fresh tomatoes, chopped (I used four because that’s what I had)
  • A can or two of chickpeas, drained
  • Bunch asparagus, trimmed and cut into 1/2-inch pieces
  • Fresh black pepper
  • Salt, to taste

Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed large saucepan. Throw in the garlic and sauté for a couple of minutes, being careful not to burn it.  Add the harissa and cook, stirring constantly.  Add the lemon juice and broth/white wine, if using.  Add the fresh tomatoes, chickpeas and asparagus. Simmer until the tomatoes break down and the asparagus is tender, about five minutes depending on how thick the asparagus is.  Serve either as a stew or as a pasta sauce.

Holy crap.

Just watched the Kentucky Derby.

Big Brown won, with great life story of the trainer (whose girlfriend was murdered in the next room from their daughter, who was with him at the Derby) and the jockey (seems he’s got a hearing-impaired son).

Really a great pull-away win.

But.

Eight Belles, the first filly in the race in 9 years, who took second place by more than the same margin that Big Brown beat her, broke down after the race and was euthanized because she broke both front ankles.

I was at Belmont Park for the Belmont Stakes in 1999, when Charismatic was supposed to take the Triple Crown, but he broke down at the end. It was a gorgeous fucking day in Queens, perfect temperature, no discernable humidity. My friends Rosalyn and Kevin were in town from Chicago; Roz was on business and Kevin was along for the ride (though he was from Kearney, where the pork store on The Sopranos is (sometime, remind me to tell you about my (very) peripheral involvement in the North Jersey and Connecticut mobs) and had moved to Chicago to get away from the mob thing).

Kevin lent me $50 to bet, because I had been misled by the Visa Triple Crown ads that they’d accept my debit card there.  I bet on Charismatic and a couple of other horses; Kevin wound up betting on the eventual winner, Lemon Drop Kid, because of a throwaway comment I made about him while I was looking at the race guide, that he was out of Seattle Slew.

In the end, Lemon Drop Kid won, Charismatic broke down at the finish, and Kevin won about $4000 on his bet based on my throwaway comment about Lemon Drop Kid’s parentage.  He also sprung for dinner that night.

The creepiest bit is that I’m fairly certain that the breeders will work hard to extract usable eggs from the corpse of Eight Belles.

You know…

I’m really beginning to hate the liberal blogosphere.