Friday, February 8, 2013
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Metropolitan Diary: FEMA to the Rescue
Author: William Wang
Dear Diary:
The Federal Emergency Management Agency is always criticized for its slow response to emergencies, but I had a different experience.
It happened last November, three weeks after Hurricane Sandy wrecked New York City. I had parked my car on the Lower East Side on a dead-end street. Two days later, I remembered I had to move it somewhere else or risk getting a ticket. It was very dark, windy and cold when I went to look for the car around 8 p.m. But when I found it, the battery was dead. Either my daughter or I had left the dome light on.
Nobody was around and the neighborhood was not very safe. I walked to the entrance of the street, hoping I could stop someone and ask for a jump-start. Usually, $20 can get a taxi driver to do the job; but on this cold and windy evening, I stood there for 20 minutes without any luck.
Suddenly, I saw two ladies turn into the street. Though they didn’t look like drivers, I mustered up my courage and said, “Excuse me!” but no answer. Apparently, they didn’t want to stop for a stranger around here. Then farther away I saw two men walking over.
I ran up and asked, “Did you park your car here?” One of the men looked at me suspiciously. “Yes?”
I asked very excitedly; “Can you please give me a jump?”
Silence…. I quickly added, “I will pay you!”
Luckily the same man asked, “Do you have a cable?”
“Yes! Yes!” I answered quickly. So I fetched my cable and they moved their Jeep over next to my car. It took quite a while to move close enough to connect our batteries. As it turned out, the two ladies and these two gentlemen were together, so they all had to wait patiently in cold wind for my battery to come to life.
When my car started, I was so happy, I took out $20 and said, “Please get some hot coffee for everyone.” To my surprise, the man said, “No, it’s O.K.” I didn’t know what to say, so I just thanked them again.
As we said our goodbyes, the second gentleman, a small man who hadn’t said anything the whole time, quietly turned to me and said, “We are from FEMA. We have a temporary station just two blocks away. Come to see us if you need help.”
Dear Diary:
The Federal Emergency Management Agency is always criticized for its slow response to emergencies, but I had a different experience.
It happened last November, three weeks after Hurricane Sandy wrecked New York City. I had parked my car on the Lower East Side on a dead-end street. Two days later, I remembered I had to move it somewhere else or risk getting a ticket. It was very dark, windy and cold when I went to look for the car around 8 p.m. But when I found it, the battery was dead. Either my daughter or I had left the dome light on.
Nobody was around and the neighborhood was not very safe. I walked to the entrance of the street, hoping I could stop someone and ask for a jump-start. Usually, $20 can get a taxi driver to do the job; but on this cold and windy evening, I stood there for 20 minutes without any luck.
Suddenly, I saw two ladies turn into the street. Though they didn’t look like drivers, I mustered up my courage and said, “Excuse me!” but no answer. Apparently, they didn’t want to stop for a stranger around here. Then farther away I saw two men walking over.
I ran up and asked, “Did you park your car here?” One of the men looked at me suspiciously. “Yes?”
I asked very excitedly; “Can you please give me a jump?”
Silence…. I quickly added, “I will pay you!”
Luckily the same man asked, “Do you have a cable?”
“Yes! Yes!” I answered quickly. So I fetched my cable and they moved their Jeep over next to my car. It took quite a while to move close enough to connect our batteries. As it turned out, the two ladies and these two gentlemen were together, so they all had to wait patiently in cold wind for my battery to come to life.
When my car started, I was so happy, I took out $20 and said, “Please get some hot coffee for everyone.” To my surprise, the man said, “No, it’s O.K.” I didn’t know what to say, so I just thanked them again.
As we said our goodbyes, the second gentleman, a small man who hadn’t said anything the whole time, quietly turned to me and said, “We are from FEMA. We have a temporary station just two blocks away. Come to see us if you need help.”
Monday, February 4, 2013
Listening to The Cars, With Boys
My College boyfriend has been referred to as "the dreaded ex", with decreasing vehemence, since we broke up many, many (many) years ago. It has gotten to the point where some of my friends don't actually remember what his name is. This is the way I like it.
The fact is that he wasn't a very nice person. Ultimately, everything I know about how to set appropriate boundaries to have a balanced, meaningful relationship, I learned from the car crash that was the two years I dated the DE.
One of the longest standing aftereffects of that relationship was musical. For years afterwards, I couldn't listen to any music that reminded me of him. The Ramones became tainted. Even a whisper of Concrete Blonde gave me hives (in case you haven't figure it out by now, he was significantly older than I was). The band that I most closely associated with him, and thereby loathed with particular ferocity, was The Cars.
He had introduced me to Rik Ocasek's unique vocals and poppy/rock sensibility. I was hooked. When we started dating I used to listen to their greatest hits compilation on repeat, during long hours of driving aimlessly up and down the streets of London, Ontario. Even before I finally ended the relationship, I began to react negatively to "just what I needed" jabbing the radio button with particular force whenever the song intruded. I stopped including Cars tracks on any of the mix tapes I made for my classmates and/or friends at schools both near and far. Those mix tapes, in general, became much more maudlin as the end drew near. A good friend of mine still has a tape I sent to her in March of the year that he and I broke up (it happened in April). She had included a subtitle in the liner notes - music to slit your wrists by.
In the years since, I have never had the same kind of musical connection associated with any of my other breakups. This must be partially due to the "first cut is the deepest" adage, but could also have to o with how music is now purchased and consumed. The days of listening to a single CD on repeat, for weeks at a time, are definitely over. Or at least, those days are over for me.
Slowly, over time, I would hear a song by the cars and not react, or only realize close to the songs conclusion that it was playing at all. Progress.
Here in Chicago, as I was driving into the office this morning, "you might think" came on. I pumped up the volume and sang along at the top of my lungs. Time heals all wounds, even if they're musical.
"You might think I'm crazy, to hang around with you."
The fact is that he wasn't a very nice person. Ultimately, everything I know about how to set appropriate boundaries to have a balanced, meaningful relationship, I learned from the car crash that was the two years I dated the DE.
One of the longest standing aftereffects of that relationship was musical. For years afterwards, I couldn't listen to any music that reminded me of him. The Ramones became tainted. Even a whisper of Concrete Blonde gave me hives (in case you haven't figure it out by now, he was significantly older than I was). The band that I most closely associated with him, and thereby loathed with particular ferocity, was The Cars.
He had introduced me to Rik Ocasek's unique vocals and poppy/rock sensibility. I was hooked. When we started dating I used to listen to their greatest hits compilation on repeat, during long hours of driving aimlessly up and down the streets of London, Ontario. Even before I finally ended the relationship, I began to react negatively to "just what I needed" jabbing the radio button with particular force whenever the song intruded. I stopped including Cars tracks on any of the mix tapes I made for my classmates and/or friends at schools both near and far. Those mix tapes, in general, became much more maudlin as the end drew near. A good friend of mine still has a tape I sent to her in March of the year that he and I broke up (it happened in April). She had included a subtitle in the liner notes - music to slit your wrists by.
In the years since, I have never had the same kind of musical connection associated with any of my other breakups. This must be partially due to the "first cut is the deepest" adage, but could also have to o with how music is now purchased and consumed. The days of listening to a single CD on repeat, for weeks at a time, are definitely over. Or at least, those days are over for me.
Slowly, over time, I would hear a song by the cars and not react, or only realize close to the songs conclusion that it was playing at all. Progress.
Here in Chicago, as I was driving into the office this morning, "you might think" came on. I pumped up the volume and sang along at the top of my lungs. Time heals all wounds, even if they're musical.
"You might think I'm crazy, to hang around with you."
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