Hurricane Patricia received an unsatisfactory performance review and was downgraded to a tropical storm. Good news for Mexico. Same-sex marriage is mostly legal in Mexico, though, so I'm waiting to hear Mike Huckabee explain why the country wasn't wiped off the face of the Earth like it should have been. Maybe not being America automatically condemns Mexico to hellfire regardless of its misguided tolerance for sodomites.
*************
FBI Director James Comey attributes a creeping rise in violent crime to the so-called "Ferguson Effect"--a reluctance by police officers to use aggressive and occasionally violent or lethal pre-emptive tactics against would-be perpetrators, lest they be held to account in the court of public opinion ('cause God knows they're unlikely to be held to account in any other court). It makes a certain statistical sense: Because police now must exercise excessive caution not to harass and occasionally kill people for no particular reason, it just stands to reason that some of those people who would have been arrested--or killed--now go off and commit violent crimes. I mean, why wouldn't they? For me, every day I'm not stopped and frisked, is an opportunity to break the law. I'm not a violent person by nature, so I generally confine myself to petty larceny and occasional wire fraud, but that's just me. Like Sir William Blackstone said, Better ten innocent men get tazed than one guilty man go free.
Showing posts with label Hurricanes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hurricanes. Show all posts
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Friday, November 2, 2012
Yeah, I Know: Too Soon
In a bit of storm-induced clarity, officials have cancelled the. . .let's say 986th. . . running of the New York City Marathon, which was to have occured this Sunday. No doubt Mayor Bloomberg and advisers envisioned the Verrazano Bridge starting line--thousands of carbo-loaded ectomorphs fleeing the Sandy-devastated Isle of Staten, escorted by police cars and camera trucks--and considered the optics less than, well, optimal.
Honestly, I'm disappointed. Not only could the race have infused much-needed cash into the city's economy, but the timing would have been perfect! Think about it. With clocks set back an hour early Sunday morning, the runners would be well-rested. And consider the TV ratings!
I know, I know: Nobody watches the New York City Marathon--or any marathon, for that matter, unless it has something like "Twilight Zone" in front of it. (You know I'm right.) But this year? With runners navigating flooded streets, downed powerlines, and decimated neighborhoods filled with angry New Yorkers? We're not talking about a bunch of people on a two-plus hour jog. We're talking a potential grand guignol worthy of Stephen King! We're talking Olympics meets X-Games meets "The Walking Dead"!
And you want hometown drama? This could be the year that an American reclaims the marathon title! Sure, East Africans have mastered the art of long-distance running. But throw in an obstacle course of waterlogged tree carcasses cannibalistic East Villagers, and a 70% chance of crocodiles, and I would say the playing field has been leveled.
Mayor Bloomberg, there's still time. I hope you will reconsider.
Honestly, I'm disappointed. Not only could the race have infused much-needed cash into the city's economy, but the timing would have been perfect! Think about it. With clocks set back an hour early Sunday morning, the runners would be well-rested. And consider the TV ratings!
I know, I know: Nobody watches the New York City Marathon--or any marathon, for that matter, unless it has something like "Twilight Zone" in front of it. (You know I'm right.) But this year? With runners navigating flooded streets, downed powerlines, and decimated neighborhoods filled with angry New Yorkers? We're not talking about a bunch of people on a two-plus hour jog. We're talking a potential grand guignol worthy of Stephen King! We're talking Olympics meets X-Games meets "The Walking Dead"!
And you want hometown drama? This could be the year that an American reclaims the marathon title! Sure, East Africans have mastered the art of long-distance running. But throw in an obstacle course of waterlogged tree carcasses cannibalistic East Villagers, and a 70% chance of crocodiles, and I would say the playing field has been leveled.
Mayor Bloomberg, there's still time. I hope you will reconsider.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Overblown
Tonight, we send our sincere wishes to our East Coast followers that Hurricane Irene turns out to be less like Katrina and more like Floyd.
(DIGRESSION: We also extend this hope for the sake of all those "Irenes" out there. The name "Katrina" still hasn't recovered. You never hear about parents naming girls "Katrina" any more. Nor boys "9/11." EOD)
Back in 1999, Hurricane Floyd walloped the Carolinas and churned its way north, prompting the kind of apocalyptic predictions we now hear coming out of New York as it braces for Irene. At the time, the Solipsist worked at LaGuardia Community College, which, along with other schools, closed in advance of the storm. The college, though, was designated a Red Cross shelter, and Your-Not-So-Humble-Correspondent was a certified Red Cross shelter operator (this being back in the days when we cared about our fellow man). So we were there bright and early (well, overcast and early) to prepare for the influx of rain-drenched refugees.
For an aspiring megalomaniac, Red Cross shelter operator is actually a pretty good entry-level position. While the college was largely deserted, what skeleton-crew staff remained had to answer to YNSHC and his boss, Steve, who were, by virtue of their training, completely in charge. The security guards reported to us; the college president reported to us; the NYPD officer assigned to the college reported to us! It was martial law, Baby! It was Stalinist Russia! And we were Stalin!
We set up our shelter in the college's gymnasium. The Red Cross delivered dozens of cots and promised prompt deliveries of food. We were in for the long haul. We received our first guests, a young couple from Egypt, shortly before the rain was expected to start. This was their first autumn in New York, and the desert-folk were understandably wary. Next came a middle-aged homeless man. We went into shelter-operator overdrive. We had out clients sign in, showed them to their cots, and assured them that food was on its way. As the rain began to fall in earnest, the shelter staff--the Solipsist, our boss, the policeman, and a handful of other volunteers--took a deep breath, collected ourselves, and looked grimly through the shelter doors, bracing ourselves for the crowds to come. . . .
Waiting. . . .
Waiting. . . .
Waiting. . . .
"Uh, Steve? It's been an hour. Can we unbrace ourselves?"
"Give it a few more minutes."
Waiting. . .
Waiting. . .
"Hey, Steve, when's the food going to get here?"
"That's a good question. Hey! We didn't say 'Unbrace'!"
"Sorry!"
After another hour or so, we began to worry about the food situation. We had been told that a truckload of sandwiches was making its way Queensward. We let out a small cheer when we saw a truck pull up outside, only to experience a letdown when we discovered that all it contained was more cots. Contrary to what you may have heard, there is nothing even mildly erotic about a college gymnasium filled with some 75 cots.
As for the food situation, at our training, the Red Cross had told us that, in the event of an extended delay, the shelter manager could use his own discretion to try to wrangle up supplies from local businesses. With our clients getting hungry, Steve took the initiative to contact a McDonald's a few blocks from the college. He played the "Red Cross shelter operator" card. Told the manager how the Red Cross would be truly appreciative. The results were more impressive than you might imagine: The McDonald's manager let him talk for a good five minutes before saying, "No."
By this time, the rain had pretty much subsided. The Egyptians decided to take their leave of our shelter, thus reducing our population by two-thirds. The only person left was the homeless man. We wanted to close the shelter but couldn't do that as long as there were still people sheltering there. Steve didn't want to just kick the homeless man out onto the less-hurricane-filled-but-still-dangerous streets, so he asked our Red Cross superiors if they could help us locate a homeless shelter to relocate the man to. But they were too busy overseeing the non-delivery of food to shelters like ours. The policeman offered to get the man to a homeless shelter--but he couldn't leave until the Red Cross declared the shelter closed. Which couldn't happen as long as this homeless man was still there.
Come to think of it, maybe this was when we stopped caring about our fellow man.
In the end, the events of the day were thoroughly--and thankfully--uneventful. And while we suffered through the purgatory of boredom that dreary September day, we realize that things could have been ever-so-much worse. We hope that Irene proves similarly disappointing.
(DIGRESSION: We also extend this hope for the sake of all those "Irenes" out there. The name "Katrina" still hasn't recovered. You never hear about parents naming girls "Katrina" any more. Nor boys "9/11." EOD)
Back in 1999, Hurricane Floyd walloped the Carolinas and churned its way north, prompting the kind of apocalyptic predictions we now hear coming out of New York as it braces for Irene. At the time, the Solipsist worked at LaGuardia Community College, which, along with other schools, closed in advance of the storm. The college, though, was designated a Red Cross shelter, and Your-Not-So-Humble-Correspondent was a certified Red Cross shelter operator (this being back in the days when we cared about our fellow man). So we were there bright and early (well, overcast and early) to prepare for the influx of rain-drenched refugees.
For an aspiring megalomaniac, Red Cross shelter operator is actually a pretty good entry-level position. While the college was largely deserted, what skeleton-crew staff remained had to answer to YNSHC and his boss, Steve, who were, by virtue of their training, completely in charge. The security guards reported to us; the college president reported to us; the NYPD officer assigned to the college reported to us! It was martial law, Baby! It was Stalinist Russia! And we were Stalin!
We set up our shelter in the college's gymnasium. The Red Cross delivered dozens of cots and promised prompt deliveries of food. We were in for the long haul. We received our first guests, a young couple from Egypt, shortly before the rain was expected to start. This was their first autumn in New York, and the desert-folk were understandably wary. Next came a middle-aged homeless man. We went into shelter-operator overdrive. We had out clients sign in, showed them to their cots, and assured them that food was on its way. As the rain began to fall in earnest, the shelter staff--the Solipsist, our boss, the policeman, and a handful of other volunteers--took a deep breath, collected ourselves, and looked grimly through the shelter doors, bracing ourselves for the crowds to come. . . .
Waiting. . . .
Waiting. . . .
Waiting. . . .
"Uh, Steve? It's been an hour. Can we unbrace ourselves?"
"Give it a few more minutes."
Waiting. . .
Waiting. . .
"Hey, Steve, when's the food going to get here?"
"That's a good question. Hey! We didn't say 'Unbrace'!"
"Sorry!"
After another hour or so, we began to worry about the food situation. We had been told that a truckload of sandwiches was making its way Queensward. We let out a small cheer when we saw a truck pull up outside, only to experience a letdown when we discovered that all it contained was more cots. Contrary to what you may have heard, there is nothing even mildly erotic about a college gymnasium filled with some 75 cots.
As for the food situation, at our training, the Red Cross had told us that, in the event of an extended delay, the shelter manager could use his own discretion to try to wrangle up supplies from local businesses. With our clients getting hungry, Steve took the initiative to contact a McDonald's a few blocks from the college. He played the "Red Cross shelter operator" card. Told the manager how the Red Cross would be truly appreciative. The results were more impressive than you might imagine: The McDonald's manager let him talk for a good five minutes before saying, "No."
By this time, the rain had pretty much subsided. The Egyptians decided to take their leave of our shelter, thus reducing our population by two-thirds. The only person left was the homeless man. We wanted to close the shelter but couldn't do that as long as there were still people sheltering there. Steve didn't want to just kick the homeless man out onto the less-hurricane-filled-but-still-dangerous streets, so he asked our Red Cross superiors if they could help us locate a homeless shelter to relocate the man to. But they were too busy overseeing the non-delivery of food to shelters like ours. The policeman offered to get the man to a homeless shelter--but he couldn't leave until the Red Cross declared the shelter closed. Which couldn't happen as long as this homeless man was still there.
Come to think of it, maybe this was when we stopped caring about our fellow man.
In the end, the events of the day were thoroughly--and thankfully--uneventful. And while we suffered through the purgatory of boredom that dreary September day, we realize that things could have been ever-so-much worse. We hope that Irene proves similarly disappointing.
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