ON LIFE AND DEATH AND THE HEAVEN THAT IS COLISEUM BOOKS
They were dancing in the streets when the power came back on.

Literally. Grown women and men, at the stroke of noon when the power went back on in our neighborhood, instantly started dancing. A roar could be heard from Times Square, a block and a half away. And a group of people started singing and dancing outside my window, three floors down.

The lights are on
The lights are on
The lights are on, woo!
The lights are on

On a sunny hot August day, at the stroke of noon, it would be hard to even tell, and yet that familiar hum just started back up again, and you could hear it after having it not be there all night, and it wasn't long before the smells of the city started taking over where for a while there began to be a hint of salt water in the air, and the clear slightly greasy grassy smell that is just different enough from the normal New York air cocktail that people could tell. You could actually see people sniffing the air.

My story was pretty lame, actually. I was at work when the lights went out, I stayed there for a while while I answered a few emails from people who were wondering what was going on, and I wandered home across 42nd Street, taking a few pictures.

One thing I thought was cool: Not every place was dark. Some buildings had their own emergency power source for what I'm sure were valid reasons. But the only place along 42nd that was fully lit (and in the twilight it stood out against the ever darkening landscape like a klieg light) was, of all things, Coliseum Books. The place was well-lit, fully air conditioned, and jammed with people who were just sitting around, waiting patiently for the bathroom, reading random novels, listening to the news broadcast on the intercom, and sharing the mutual camraderie of a large yet livable disaster. It gave me a warm feeling that just wouldn't have been there if, say, it had been Starbucks with power instead.

So by the time I got to Times Square, there was a bit of a party among the people who were there. It really was like 9/11 (minus the whole being-attacked bit, which was a huge difference), and everyone had a bit of a laugh about it. People were handing out water, cops were on every street corner, I saw nothing but people being nice to other people. That weirded me out more than anything else, actually.

I got home, made myself a sandwich out of perishables, and went to sleep about 4 hours earlier than normal. The only sounds coming from outside were the occasional siren and laughing bunch of kids. It was like spending the night in a much smaller town.

I woke up this morning about 4:30, just before dawn, and I figured I'd go out and take some shots of the sunrise. The streets were full of sleeping people and police vans, but everything was quiet. Obviously, nothing major had happened overnight. Not that anyone expected it, aside from the top police brass and other professionally paranoid people. 1977 sounded like hell compared to this, even though this time it's lasted about as long (in some places, like most of Brooklyn, they're still out. My heart goes out to them.)

So when they turned the power on at the stroke of noon (almost exactly), everyone danced and sang in the streets, and I decided to try and go to work. This was silly. Not even my boss was there, and my boss I'm sure tried to sleep there last night. The power on the East side was still out, but it went on a little after two, at which point I was mostly out the door anyways. I hung out with a friend in Bryant Park for a while, where we watched the men watch the topless sunbathers while trying to look like they weren't looking. Some things are universal and defy even acts of darkness.

I've heard no news about the details of the blackout, and I've only started talking to people outside the city about what's happened. It'll matter at some point. But right now I'm feeling pretty good about how everyone I've seen dealt with it.

I'll post a proper gallery of all the shots I took (I wasted a lot of digital bandwidth) later tonight, as soon as I can suss them out.

5:23 PM |  link

PICS

Here's a couple of shots of the gathering cubicle crowd outside my office:

looking up 3rd Avenue from 42nd Street
the crowds and cabs clashing even more than normal
It'll take a superhuman effort to get anywhere
bicycles and trucks seem to be the best forms of transport

A photo session in the back of a pickup truck
interrupted by the truck stuck in a wave of pedestrians
two other women looking to hitch a ride uptown
and off they go to wherever

For the first hour, there was a lot of sirens and alarms, and no small amount of shouting, with the occasional megaphone. Now, it's quiet. Cop cars are on all the corners with their lights on, but aside from them, the streets are full of people all staring at each other, blocking pretty much all traffic, wondering what the hell to do now. Those who can go home are on their way there, as I will be soon. But everyone has questions.

Once again: I'm fine. I'm going home, where you might not hear from me again until the power comes back on. The battery on this laptop is half-bled, and I wanna save something for later.

Everyone in the office is talking about the great blackout of 1977. They make it sound romantic, and then they catch themselves. I'm not looking forward to that kind of story, though we've all lived through 9-11, and this feels more like some Emergency Broadcast System version of that.

Stay cool. I'll talk when I can.

6:23 PM |  link

BLACKOUT

The power went off a little over an hour ago here in Midtown, and there's a bit of chaos. We're hearing that it's out everywhere within about a thousand miles of here, which means if you're reading this, then there's no power where you are neither.

I'm going to upload a few pictures, and then maybe save the battery for a while. I'm not leaving the office just yet; the phone lines are working here, and everyone's kind of joking about it anyways.

5:31 PM |  link

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS ROCKS

My pal Brittney wrote an excellent story about The Southern Girls' Rock and Roll Camp.

May she write a hundred more coverstories, and may each of these kids start a dozen bands. Seriously, this is the kind of operation that warms my heart. Anarchy symbols on fresh faces, widespread and automatic mistrust of authority figures, perfecting the elusive art of writing about what you love and hate, combined with applicable technical lessons and a little cross-band networking thrown in, in an environment that is constructive and you-can-do-it... man, nothing but good can come of a camp like this.

And Brittney, you rock more and more worlds all the time. Fucking A.

Pottymouthingly Yours,
T.

6:08 PM |  link

MORE FROM THE SOCIETY PAGES
I swear, officer, I didn't mean to go without coffee today, it just kind of happened. I got into work (after doing pretty well at trivia last night, thanks mostly to the geography expert and the 80's music dude each homering late in the game. I felt like Hannibal Smith pushing BA Baracus and Face to the limit to achieve the objective of winning enough prize money to pay a bar tab we flat out could not afford ourselves, and those of you who have done this know how completely it redefines "Living On The Proverbial Fuckin' Edge, Holmes," and after that, wandering (with Valerie, who didn't play on our team but made us look rather more photogenic) across town to the JAS mart to shoot some more pics of bodacious and arcane candies (check 'em out at Vidiot's mobophotoblog) before we all scurried off to the four corners of the city from whence we came) and it's been one stupid little thing after another the rest of the day. Aw, thass right, Maizie, I gotta right to sing the blues.

So given all that (it's just gonna be a month of late nights, I commend myself unto thee, O gods of insomnia, at least I'm having a good time, and hey, last night was relatively chill and dignified, especially compared to the wanton superexcellent vague craziness of Monday's karaoke), it's a wonder I'm still awake this deep into a decaf day. Well, I would be a puddly mass of goo, shifting listlessly about in my seat like Jabba the Hutt after a deep-tissue massage, if it weren't for the timely purchase last night of a pack of Black Black, this Hi-Technical Excellent Taste and Flavor Gum with the rich tastes of caffeine and menthol. The flavors come at you in waves, first the gummy taste you expect from the Wrigley's-shaped piece, followed by the heavy caffeine kick and then the menthol afterburn. It tastes like a minty Chernobyl, with a cool finish.

I'm so getting more of this stuff.

(For completists, here's vidiot's take on last night, and jonmc's too.)

2:14 PM |  link

MOVIE REVIEW

A warning from Kimya:

if you are going to see freaky friday tonight be sure to bring your jamie lee curtis grinch face itis immunity spray.

6:47 PM |  link

WHY MY HANDS ARE BLACKENED STUMPS THIS MORNING
Well, the bike made it home from drunken karaoke last night, and this morning shit blew up.

42nd Street may be fabled in song and story. It may be one of the most famous avenues on the planet. But it's about as smooth as Rod Stewart's face. The manhole covers are often up to a foot beneath street level. All the rain of the past eight months has opened up potholes you could bathe in. And they're working on underground things all the time, and they have these huge 2-inch-thick metal sheets they put over the street that you can drive over and are supposed to protect whatever's going on under them but only serve to take out my tires and make it impossible to maneuver.

And did I mention that pedestrians in this town wander around in the middle of the street like autistic four year olds?

So this bus moved sideways across two lanes (this happens, no biggie, they're big & slow & easy to stay out from under) and edged me into one of the abovementioned potholes. I did get the driver to apologize, seeing as he was just lost and not really in control of his vehicle. But the impact knocked my chain off in such a way that I'm going to have to take the pedals off to get it out. The damn thing is really wedged into the housing of the gears. I have no idea how it could get that screwed up. It's kind of a miracle, but not in the Miracle On Ice* kind of way. Kind of the opposite, actually. The Anti-Miracle On Hot Pavement.

So now my hands are covered with bike grease, and I'm cranky and I wanna go home and have a handmaiden wipe my brow and feed me grapes. I will, however, settle for trivia at the Baggot Inn tonight. I invite you to share the sublime joy of figuring out whether or not President Polk kept a ferret, or what grist actually is or which came first, the Bronze Age, the Iron Age or the Stone Age. Or whatever.

(I'm hosting this evening myself (with Caren, of course) one week from tonight. Mark your calendars.)

Point? Silly rabbit, I have no point. I'm a little hung over, I had a ball last night, I've barely slept at all and my hands are filthy. Elvis in Graceland, but I love this town.

I'm off to find me some industrial cleaners. The dainty hand soap in the kitchen just ain't cutting through like I like it to.

* Speaking of which, too bad about Herb Brooks, not because he died young or anything -- he was almost 70, and had lived one hell of a good and eventful life -- but that a part of his legacy looks like it's going to be hijacked by the Buckle Up America people, and his death is going to become some kind of example. That's not what the guy should be remembered for. A real good coach? A genuinely great motivator of people? A pretty astute hockey mind? Sure. But he's not Gary Busey drunk off his ass and helmetless doing 180 on a motorbike; and it sucks that in death he's becoming a poster child for vehicle safety.

11:08 AM |  link

SNUFF PHOTOGRAPHY FOR KIDS!

This day has not been so hot so far, and not that I'm like a big metaphor-drawer or nothing, but I did find the gallery of disemboweled plush toys, and looking at it now, I feel a little better for my lot in life.

It just tears at my little heart to see such inhumanity done to inhuman things. (And seeing all these gaping wounds just oozing styrofoam and stuffing all over, I wonder if I'm feeling vulnerable enough to rent Crash this week.)

12:06 PM |  link