I'm Sensing a Theme Here

After the episode with the combustible seltzer bottle on Monday, I've noticed little recurrences of liquid gushing forth. Sometimes small instances and sometimes large, but clearly a theme is emerging. This is going to be a watery week, in some respect or another.

A few examples:

-As I exited the subway yesterday after the book signing, I crossed Broadway on my way down to Riverside Drive. Just as I crossed the street a gaggle of kids opened the hydrant on the corner and the pressure of the release forced out a great wave of water. It blew in a poetic arc across the entire width of the street, running in hurried streams down toward the direction of the Hudson River. The water washed over my feet and sort of fucked up my nice Ann Taylor sandals, but I couldn't be angry. It actually felt sweetly refreshing and the abandon of the kids throwing themselves in the frothy stream was sublime and sweet.

-The neighbor in the apartment upstairs has a careless habit of putting his bathwater on and then falling asleep. He must have narcolepsy because last Saturday, he did it yet again. This is the fourth time this has happened in the last two years. Hollaback Girl had gone to use the bathroom and suddenly returned looking slightly ashen. "Um," she started, "You better come here." As we got to the bathroom, we could see water raining down in gulps and trickles, from multiple orifices where the ceiling was weakening, creating growing puddles of gathering water on the bathroom and hallway floors. Dashing upstairs, we alerted the half conscious neighbor with strong language. When the deluge had ceased, we mopped up. This morning I gazed with horror at the state of my bathroom ceiling: cracked like the scar of a post-op heart surgery patient with one gaping wound where the ceiling was peeling back. The edges appeared as if a zipper lined its edges...and the fly was clearly open. Note to self: Buy landlord a fifth of Cuervo to get this job fixed sooner than later.

-When I left the garage this morning for my commute to work, it was raining lightly. You know that precious little swiping of rain that attempts to assault your windshield and that you wipe away with a ferocious batting of your wipers? I liken that rain to models playing kickball. However once I headed into the Bronx, the waifs had been replaced by the heavily tattooed brothers with a short fuse. The rain was coming down in wide swaths of water. The highest dial on my wipers could barely clear the windshield. Lightening erupted overhead. The sky blackened. Water gathered on the highway in floating sheets. SUVs were shifting erratically all over the road. I put the radio on to focus--the news station reports tornado warnings on Long Island. Holy Shit. I switch to a 70s satellite station and what are they playing? A song I haven't heard in decades--Eric Carmen's "Never Gonna Fall in Love Again." That song was the repetitive theme for my first horrendous teen breakup. The very memory unaccountably sets me off in a batch of unexplainable tears while I am trying to drive in this torrent of gnashing rain. Oh Christ. That is pathetic.

-The exclamation point to this rather long sentence was another kind of gushing here: a transformer under the streets in Manhattan sparked a steam pipe explosion which blew a huge hole in Midtown, ripping up a huge section of West 41st and Lexington Avenues. When Manhattan farts, it farts big. Alas, I believe injuries were involved which is horrific and tragic.
Picture from The New York Post
When I got home, I put the television on. The live reporting of this event on all channels showed towering, spewing plumes of steam and eruptions of mud and dirt flying high into the air--an urban Pompeii. The firemen tried to clear the areas and the television reporters were pushed away from the scene, yet what did I see? In the foreground of the picture I spy a local guy--a real Vinnie--mugging for the camera. He's flashing his hand gesture for his peeps. God bless this fakakta town.