Who put the lights out?

Hey everyone! Hope you’re enjoying my birthday week as much as I am. Don’t worry if you haven’t gotten me a present yet, there’s still plenty of time. Size seven shoe (or a Prada 6), size 29 waist, size small shirt, or extra small if you can find it. (Obviously my attempt to bulk up hasn’t been too successful.)

There isn’t much new to report this week, except that something really great happened at work. Sadly I can’t tell you about it because it’s confidential and my coworkers, like you, check my blog every five minutes to see if I’ve written another brilliant entry. But it was really excellent. If you want to know, email me.

Today’s entry won’t be new information to a lot of you, but I hope you’ll continue to read on just the same, if for nothing else then to hear my unique take on an absolutely absurd situation. And trust me when I say, it wouldn’t happen in Chelsea.

On July 11th, New York City issued a “heat wave” warning. For your reference, a heat wave is defined by New York as two or more consecutive days with temperatures of 95 degrees or higher. Or as we called it in Florida, a weekend. Quite honestly, the media makes a much bigger deal of the weather here than is ever required. Six inches of snow and there are five reporters “on the scene” showing you the exact moment when the flakes start coming down.

But of all the climates that run their course through this city, heat waves instill absolute panic. The news stations run up-to-the minute “heat index” reports, which use questionable science to determine the “feels like” temperature. As the heat index climbs, so does the hysteria. Don’t leave the house unless you absolutely have to. Avoid strenuous activities. Hydrate the pets. The one reminder they always fail to issue, however, is the most important; put on your freakin deodorant. Trust me, many many people need that urgent reminder, summer or not.

So as the dire predictions came pouring in (Heat Index of 115), residents of New York responded in the only way they could; they cranked up the air conditioners. Because the city is full of old, crappy buildings, very few people are blessed with central heat or air, meaning most apartments are cooled with window air conditioners which, as you know, are energy cows. No one thought to mention on their emergency reports that it may not be a good idea for everyone in the city to put their air conditioner on high.

Late on July 11th, Con Edison, the “power supplier” for the city, noticed that there was a severe power issue looming in the horizon. The subways, the air conditioners, the lights in Times Square and the fans pumping fresh air through the tunnels were all placing an extraordinary amount of stress on the system, and they had a choice. They could begin reducing voltage across the city, which basically means you get your lights and maybe your air conditioner, or they could completely black out one large neighborhood and divert their power to the rest of the city. Con Edison chose the latter and the lights in Northwest Queens, the place I so begrudgingly call home, went out. Conveniently, they chose not to inform the public of their grand scheme.

I woke up at 4am on the morning of July 12th covered in sweat. “Well, this sucks,” I thought, but I was confident that it was temporary. When the sun rose 3 hours later, and I still had no power, I was frustrated, but understanding. After all, I surely wasn’t the only one suffering. I ripped off my underwear (calm yourselves cheeky monkeys) and plodded into the bathroom to take a nice, refreshing cool shower. I open the curtain, turn the knob and… nothing. “Self,” I thought, “this is not good.” I turn the other knob, because, you know, it might work. And as expected, nothing. Choose the swear word… I probably said it. I stormed into my room and called my super, who informed me that in a completely non-heat related incident, the water main outside our building burst and that the repair people were on the way. So now I had no ac, I was a sweaty mess and I couldn’t shower.

Off to work I went, and trust me I was happy to do so. At least it was air conditioned. I’m sure I was pretty gamy by the time I arrived, and I certainly wasn’t in a good mood, but I settled in and tried to find out what was going on with the power. Con Ed was saying that perhaps 2,000 people were without power. I was a little suspicious about this estimate, because there are probably 2,000 people on my block alone, but I figured they knew what they were talking about. They were also saying that they were confident they would be able to restore power soon. I worked through the day, anxious to go home, shower and bask in my air conditioned glory.

What I saw when I got off the subway that evening scared the living shit out of me. The main street by my house, 30th Avenue, looked like a scene from a Tom Cruise action movie. Smoke was pouring out of manholes. Power lines were melting. People were dazed, walking around shirtless and sweaty. Children were sitting on curbs, desperate for shade and women were uselessly fanning themselves. Traffic lights were out and none of the drivers seemed to know how to deal with a four-way stop. There wasn’t a single police officer to be found. I walked down the street, accepting the harsh reality that I too would have no power. As I passed the grocery store that was shuttered, I heard to the right of me a loud “pffffhhhht” and then a “PHALOOM” just as a manhole cover ten feet away from me flew into the air, slammed into a car and smashed its window. Black, bilious smoke spewed forth from the hole in the ground, and people scattered. I crossed to the other side of the street and walked as fast as I could the rest of the way home. I should also mention that there wasn’t a single Con Ed crew around.

Outside my apartment, however, was a crew of guys working on the broken water main. This proved to be challenging, because the water main was under the sidewalk. They had to jackhammer the sidewalk away, dig a few feet and then fix whatever the problem was. I was going to offer the guys some cold water when I remembered that I had no water to give them, and the stuff in my fridge probably wasn’t very cold anymore. When I walked upstairs, I had a harrowing realization; I had left my windows open so that the apartment would be a little more hospitable when I got home. I’m on the second floor, over looking the sidewalk that was being jack hammered. I walked in my door, and knew right away that I was absolutely screwed. Everything in my living room was covered in a thin veneer of sidewalk dust. Most of my sensitive equipment (which is not a euphemism) is in a cabinet so it was ok, but my books, my furniture, my floor and my walls were completely coated. I walked into the kitchen and turned the faucet, just to see. Nope, no water.

So I had gone from feeling like I was living in a third world country to actually doing so. I walked into my bedroom, threw my stuff on my bed and thought about my options. I clearly couldn’t stay here, but I wasn’t sure where to go. I tried to call the only person I could think of, my ex, but guess what; my cell phone couldn’t get a signal. I packed a bag, and showed up at my old apartment hat in hand and smelling very ripe. He was of course incredibly gracious, and offered me a place to stay. Which wasn’t awkward at all.

On Day 3 of the blackout, Con Edison revised its earlier estimate of 2,000 people without power. What they actually meant to say, they announced, was that 2,000 customers were without power, and a customer was defined as a building. The average building in Astoria holds between 50 and 100 people, so NOW the rest of the city started to take notice; there were possibly 200,000 people without power, if not more. After work on the third day, I went back to my apartment to pick up some more clothes, and to throw away whatever food was in my refrigerator. Many of my fellow Astorians (or suckers as I choose to call them) were way ahead of me on this and had tossed their food into the trash. The only problem was that as the trash pickups take place at night, the city put a stop to them because the streets were not lit and it was therefore not safe.

So now there were piles of three day old putrid, rotting food on the streets. By the time I got to my apartment I was pretty horrified, but nothing could prepare me for the stench that smacked me in the face when I opened my fridge. I had a lot of frozen meat (thanks George Foreman!), some milk and eggs and of course tons of diet coke. Obviously the d.c. was fine, but the rest of it was toast. Like a first try at oral sex, I plugged my nose and dove in. I threw the rotted food away, packed a bag and got the hell out of there.

On Day 6, Con Ed once again revised its estimates and said that there were approximately 10,000 customers without power. You can do the math. What was supposedly an “isolated problem” was quite obviously a much larger, systemic issue. Amazingly, Con Ed told people to remain calm and to be patient. I was lucky; I had a place to stay. Many of the lower income, larger families in this neighborhood were absolutely stuck. The only form of help anyone was receiving was a red cross truck down the street. One truck, filled with a small supply of canned goods and other non-perishables. I say it again because it bears repeating; one truck.

On Day 7, Con Ed announced that they had determined the cause of the blackout. When they chose my neighborhood to “temporarily blackout” they had conveniently chosen the one neighborhood in the city that hadn’t been the lucky beneficiary of any of the funds earmarked for infrastructure improvement. What that meant was that the feeder cables that supply power to this area were over 30 years old. When Con Ed tried to restore the power to our neighborhood after the “temporary blackout”, the incredible voltage coming forth all at once fried the feeder cables, block by block until Con Ed realized what was happening and shut the power back down. Needless to say, this would NOT have happened in Chelsea.

In the middle of all this insanity, the politicians were behaving like absolute children. The ones who represented this neighborhood were screaming their heads off, and the ones who represent other neighborhoods turned a blind eye. Mayor Bloomberg pulled a W and gave Con Ed high marks, even as the civilization crumbled around him due to their actions. Even the most naive, trusting person could see that this was clearly a classist, racist action by Con Ed, yet no one seemed to care. They didn’t choose the rich white neighborhood to steal power from; they chose the poor hispanic neighborhood, and then lied about the consequences.

The blackout lasted for 10 days in some parts, because they had to go manhole to manhole and replace every inch of cable. It’s kind of amazing it only took 10 days. What’s more amazing is that Con Ed issued a credit to every customer for their troubles. $3.

I think that pretty much sums it up, don’t you? Next week, the big itch. Until then, happy birthday to me!