Leaky Faucets

We were at this party yesterday at the house of another couple in Jackson Heights.  The woman is part of Aya’s mommy group, and all of the guests had young children or were expecting.  With the exception of Joanne and William, I hadn’t met any of them before.  I wasn’t necessarily concerned with making a good impression on any of them, but at the very least, I didn’t want to pee on myself while I was there. 

Well, unfortunately, I did.  It was an accident, of course.  I was peeing standing up as most guys do, and I looked down and saw the lower left side of my shorts was wet.  It was one of those multi-directional sprays where the urine goes straight but simultaneously off in another direction.  I panicked a bit.  I didn’t want them to think I peed in my pants so I looked for a blow dryer.  It was a small bathroom with no cabinets or drawers other than a medicine cabinet, so there wasn’t one.  I certainly didn’t want to use their hand towel to wipe my piss, so I tried to pat it dry with toilet paper, and waited about five minutes to come out.  It was still wet when I emerged from the bathroom so I sat on the floor trying not to face anyone.  I attempted to cross my right leg over my left to conceal the wet spot, but that didn’t work either. 

By the time I stood up again-20 minutes or so later-it was finally dry.  No one said anything, and if they had I could have said it was water or a spilled beverage, or I could’ve blamed it on Ana.  Still, I hope no one noticed.  Even though I may not see many of these people again, I don’t want to be referred to as the guy who wet his pants.

I thought that Ana looked a little like her Uncle Paul when she was born. Now, she seems to be exhibiting some of his personality traits too. We were having dinner at Spicy & Tasty, a Sichuan restaurant in Flushing the other night. When she saw her mommy’s Tsingtao beer a few feet in front of her, she lunged at it. It was probably, the shiny green bottle that attracted her, but you never know…

I’m a relatively strong typist (45-50 WPM), but whenever I type a word with a lot of “I’s”, I inevitably flub it and add extra “I’s” or not enough.

New York City can easily put one in an apocalyptic frame of mind. Take yesterday’s morning commute, for example. I’m sure all of you have already heard about how a rain storm shut down the subway system. Well, most of us still had to go to work, and we had to find alternative means to get there. I took the 7 train–the only train running out of the Roosevelt Ave. station-to Flushing, which mean I had to go north instead of south toward Jamaica. Then I had to catch the Q17 bus, which didn’t seem too bad at first. Then, when we got to Hillside Avenue, about 50 people got on the bus, making it standing room only. I was fortunate to have a seat. At that point, traffic slowed immensely. I wanted to get off and walk despite the heat, but it was difficult because of the crowded aisle, and the driver was only making limited stops anyway. I finally got off at 169^th Street, earlier than I would have, because I couldn’t take the crawling traffic anymore. The heat and humidity outside were brutal, but at least I was almost at work. The subway and circuitous bus ride took about two and a half hours-two hours longer than my normal commute.

Of course, this is not the first time the subway has shut down due to rain. Whenever there’s a strong and sustained storm, the tracks get flooded, and sometimes there is just too much water. (Even this morning, there was still some flooding in Queens.) It was either ‘99 or 2000-I was working at McCann-Erickson at the time-when this happened. I don’t think the entire system shut down, but it was really bad in Manhattan. I had to get from the Upper West Side, where I had come from a dentist appointment, to Midtown East. I ended up walking because the busses were jammed and cabs were impossible. By that time it had stopped raining so it wasn’t too bad. But it took a few hours and I was in no mood to work when I got to the office.

Besides the rain, this city has been shut down by a blackout, a transit strike, and of course September 11. For me, anytime the subway isn’t running, and the whole city seems like it’s vulnerable, it just feels like end times. Come to think of it, isn’t there a passage in Revelations about a nightmarish urban commute?

You know I love the radio show “This American Life.”  I’ve told you as much before.  But, as much as I look forward to listening to the podcast of the show every week, I’m a bit troubled by a recent trend in the story lines.  It seems like at least every other week-and I don’t think this is an exaggeration-at least one of the stories is about the war in Iraq or Afghanistan or the so-called “war on terror.”  It’s not that I willfully ignore these issues or consider them unimportant.  In fact, I probably obsess over these issues more than any others during my daily scouring of the news.

I don’t, however, look to “This American Life” for these kind of stories.  I enjoy the show for its personal stories of every day people-memoirs for the radio.  Some are comedic and some are sad and sometimes depressing.  But, even then, they are a form of escapism for me.  When the show covers the war, that escapism disintegrates and I’m forced to face this issue again and again. 

Of course, I don’t skip these segments.  I listen intently like I do all the others.  And, in fact, many of the war stories are quite riveting and even enlightening.  Even though I imagine the creators of the show to have a liberal bent (despite it being rather apolitical on the surface), the war features are quite even-handed.  Many of them are about soldiers who are over there or were at one time.  They are mostly portrayed in a sympathetic light.  Some-the more interesting ones-feature Iraqis or Afghanis giving first-hand accounts of their now troubled existences.  These can be quite touching.  The show about Guantanamo was incredible and featured several government employees exposing the camp for what it is.  A sham.  They describe in great detail how most of the prisoners there are not terrorists.  Yet, they are still there. 

Despite my misgivings about T.A.L. covering the war, I’m grateful for their coverage because I learn different things than I do from reading the news.  I guess you can call it a more personalized side of war.  I just wish it wasn’t so often.  I need a break from this fucking war.

You know when you’re walking down the street and you see a woman with a very nice behind, and then as you pass you do a subtle turnaround to see if the face lives up to the back end’s hype? Well, I find myself doing this more and more lately. Only I’m not looking at women. I’m looking at cars. This usually occurs when I’m running along 34th Avenue in Jackson Heights.

Since we’ll need a car when we move, I started to become aware of them again.

One day I discovered the most beautifully designed line of cars: Subaru. In particular, I love the Outback. This is the car I want. Family-friendly, yet stylish. And most importantly, not a minivan or a gas-guzzling SUV.

Freaky and often violent things sometimes happen in this freaky neighborhood that sometimes conjures images of Transylvania with its fierce howling winter winds.  There was the time when gunshots were fired midday on Jamaica Avenue right at the intersection where our building sits.  And, of course, Jam Master Jay was executed down the street from here.  This morning, there were horns honking and sirens wailing as usual.  I usually try to ignore it though it makes concentrating on work difficult.  But, this time it went on long enough that I went to the other end of the office to see what was happening.  Charise and Pat were perched at the window on the west side of the building overlooking Jamaica Avenue.  Black smoke was hovering over the street and a single black car was in flames.  I contemplated whether an explosion of this vehicle could possibly send debris up to the sixth floor.  But, before we could find out, New York’s Bravest, as the NYFD firefighters are often called, came to the scene and quickly doused the flames ending the drama without apparent injury.  The driver of the car was nowhere to be seen but I assume he or she escaped.  This could have been a major disaster as the street is very commercial and always crowded with shoppers and pedestrians.  Stupidly, many of them were standing on the sidewalk while the flames were still roaring.