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Bizarro Garbage
As per usual, we’re not exactly reaping the joys of fall yet, five days into September. And I’m really getting tired of the sweaty wakeup, the desert-based dreams, the sweating while dressing, and the throngs of other sweaty people rushing everywhere. (Rushing is really only appropriately done with a breeze.)
Also, we just bought Eric some very cute manly suede boots that I’d like to see him wear. So let’s go, sixty-degree-weather… You. Can. Do. It!
Anyway, with the hot weather, we’re still enjoying the hot stink. Garbage bags piled to second floor heights on a daily basis leave me wondering where all that shit goes.
(Actually, no. I know firsthand where it goes and what it does to where it goes, since I was once a teenager living on Staten Island. Where do teenagers go? The mall. Where is the Staten Island Mall? Adjacent to the former dump for all the refuse-filled five boroughs. The rule was hold your nose when you hit Richmond Hill Road.)
Putting aside where the garbage ultimately ends up, though, when it’s here, overflowing on the sidewalks and into the streets, there’s no ignoring it. Which is why I think the new art project/ product by artist, Adrian (mono-named, ala Prince or, as I’m sure he’d prefer, Christo), strikes me as redundant and misguided.
The artist, who, to give you a sense of the man, signs his website correspondence,
One Love
Adrian
wanted to make New York’s garbage stand out. The idea was to employ bright pink polka-dotted bags for the task, supposedly to emphasize our over-consumptive habits and remind us to consume less.
But they’re also “art”. And they’re also scented. Like peppermint and bubble gum. And supposedly, they naturally repel vermin with said smell (which I don’t buy; rats will eat the fucking leather off your shoe, so how exactly is peppermint going to turn them off?). But still, all three of these are benefits.
If he does succeed in calling more attention to the garbage, he’s merely succeeded in making it more attractive – and less of a problem. His inadvertent message? Humankind, feel free to consume more, because Adrian’s got you covered on the garbage front.
More info, and a condescending video or two, here.
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Car[e]-Free Streets
Summer Streets is Bloomberg’s plan to make us all gooshy in love with him, and forget how overcrowded and broken our beautiful city is. And although I was skeptical at first, it mostly worked.
(I heart you, Mike!)
It was surreal to wake up on a Saturday morning without the honking of horns, the roaring of engines, and the ker-chinking of heavily laden chasses. Taken with the fact that construction at the park halts on the weekend, you might think I’m going to say I spent the morning in bed.
But I wanted to see an I Am Legend-like New York.
Which I could have, if it weren’t for all those other people who also wanted to see it.
(Those don’t look like mannequins.)
Eric and I left the house at 8:30 and found a brisk morning for August, bright and sunny, perfect for this car-free experiment. It was as if Bloomberg talked the heat and humidity into quitting along with the traffic. Talk about friends in high places.
At first, it was lovely out there.
We strolled up Park Avenue with similarly minded pedestrians: eager to enjoy, but also to keep to ourselves and keep the flow going.
Cyclists came out, runners came out, strollers came out; even road-skiers and a single Segway-er came out.
(That’s him over there on the left.)
It was fascinating to watch foot traffic that wasn’t confined to the sidewalks.
When humans have enough space, we let common sense rule. Walkers stayed to the left and right, allowing runners and cyclists the middle space for speed. A natural hierarchy took effect. And when people needed to change lanes, just as they’d learned in driver’s ed, they looked over their shoulders before moving.
The sidewalk highway is bad in New York because it’s so crowded that the rules go out the window. People weave across lanes in a way that would get you a DUI arrest in a car. Too rarely do people peek over their shoulder to make sure they’re not cutting somebody off.
And then there are tourists: stopped traffic, confused reverses, and sudden turns, which, to be honest, accounts for much of why the sidewalks can be such nightmares in the first place.
Meanwhile, just below Park Avenue on 42nd street, it was business as usual:
As lovely as the car-free street experiment was, by 11:00 the crowds were too annoying to stand, reminding us of the cold, hard fact: we’re over capacity. Even something as nice as having the entire two-way avenue to ourselves turned mob-like when everybody remembered to show up. Eventually it felt more like a road race than an afternoon walk.
Still, I’d never before had the chance to look any higher than the yellow warning signs inside the Grand Central tunnels. And it’s actually beautiful in there, or, it would be, if cars didn’t plow through it every day.
Go see for yourself. The experiment continues for the next two weeks: Saturdays, August 16 and 23, 7:00 am – 1:00 pm.
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Resisting Arrest
Six police vehicles, including the “under-cover” cab detectives.
A drug bust right outside my window. According to Eric, “this shit just got real”.
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Observations
My morning started on a high note, when I noticed an older gentleman across the way glancing furtively around the train. He proceeded to pull a large ziploc full of greens from his well-stuffed messenger bag. And I couldn’t pull my eyes away from him as he began to shake some of the crispy, broken leaves out onto a small white paper. His hair was disheveled, his clothes all black, and his eyes droopy, but until I saw it happen, I never would have pegged him for a 9:08 a.m. stoner. Especially not a 9:08 a.m. public stoner. All rolled and ready, he exited at 49th Street.
Then, after my appointment with the doctor, whose office is all the way up at 90th, I made a stop at my old Duane Reade (for a Soyjoy, which can’t really be called food) and then headed back to the train, where I got lucky. One was rolling up just as I pushed through the turnstile. Just like glamour parking, I thought. But when I chose a car that looked mostly empty, what I found instead was a bunch of short people (children, but worse: day camp children) filling the seats with their bodies and the air with their noise. I was surrounded, in a sea of high-pitched squealers, and hopped off at the next stop to a less air-conditioned, but quieter car.
And it was there where I overheard an extremely loquacious person talking about “kids today” and “school” and “going to the movies too much”. It took me a minute to identify the familiarity of the voice, but here it is: what Bill Cosby would sound like if he impersonated himself. But when I looked up, I found the voice coming from a curious source: a woman… who, unfortunately for her, kind of looked like Bill, too.
Now who’s up for Jello?
