January 30, 2009: So the book I’m reading now, below, is all about the flu epidemic in America circa WW1. Folks started having symptoms one day and likely wound up dead the next. Skin turned blue, suffocating coughs, extreme fevers. Muerte from the inside out. I tend to do a majority of my reading on the subway, to/from work, to/from gym, etc. Can I just mention how disconcerting it is to be reading about a highly contagious, mortal disease while trapped in a moving, largely air-tight box alongside dozens of coughing, sneezing, hacking, wintry ill New Yorkers? Being a strap-hanger has never been so much like, say, Russian Roulette.
pedi-casualty January 13, 2009
January 13, 2009: Made it all the way to work today with my outfit intact. After about an hour in the office, I roll back on the heels of my boots (which is really where it all went wrong) while chatting with my coworker, aaaannndd snap. Spikey heel broken. Mentos commercial? I don my tennis shoes (with my short black skirt and black tights. hot) for the short walk to find some emergency replacement wear. Thankfully I work in what is also known as “the KMart building” at Astor Place. And what a glorious selection of high-fashion shoes they sell, let me tell you. And bless their hearts, they even had a self-serve scissor station for those that need to de-tag, wear and go. Perhaps I wasn’t the first patron in need of an outfit do-over.
i see dead trees January 8, 2009
January 7, 2009: The post-holiday time period is always sort of a let down. The unplugging of all that Christmas bling, secular Top 40 back on the radio, the smell of peppermint, sugar plums, children’s dreams, diffused. Eggnog, unspiked. What a sad, sad time indeed. Again with my NYC oddities, but this is when the carcasses start to show up curbside. In my twisted mind I imagine hip 20/30-somethings scandalously dragging naked trees down flights of walk-ups, dripping evidence (I mean needles) on every stair. On the street below, alpine rigor mortis awaits. Seriously folks, walking down any ol’ cross street in NYC is like walking through a yuletide morgue. Bodies, everywhere.