It wasn’t too long ago when I complained about no summer. Well, we’re having it now and my head feels as if it might explode.
The 70 % temperature beckons me to bask in the balmy breeze, yet here I sit, 5 Tylenols later with ice on my head.
Spores, I’m told are the culprit. I don’t even know what they are, the little fuckers, but apparently they’re creating havoc for many.
Sabrina, the girl at the coffee shop said, “Be happa it’s not no hurricane comin this way.”
Oh yes, Gonzalo, Irene’s successor is gathering speed in the Caribbean. Who at the weather center came up with that name? Was he drunk, or just hung over?
It suggests quesadillas instead of strong winds.
At least we were able to say, goodnight Irene, that had a hopeful spin. Gonzalo doesn’t come with the same pith, just a name that makes me want to watch an Almodovar film, like Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.
Will nature throw us another curve and turn her ire this way? I always imagine her not taking her meds.
I remember the last time.
Manhattan panicked as if it were the Cuban Missile Crisis. You couldn’t get beans or even a Hershey Bar off the store shelves. Young boys were selling flashlight batteries for 20 bucks a pop. I gave mine to an old man I knew who was falling apart at D’Agostinos. Uncharacteristically, I was calm next to him and did what every New Yorker should have done…went out for an overpriced lunch.
Unlike other parts of New York, Manhattan with the exception of a few lights and a good 1000 trees, made it through unscathed.
I just noticed my West Wing T-shirt is wet. Wouldn’t you know, my icepack sprung a leak.
Will you excuse me while I toss it out the window?
Maybe it’ll hit a few spores on the way down.