No, seriously — would someone tell me please? We seem to have had an earthquake here in New York again, at about quarter to two this morning. Either that or they finally blew something else up. I can’t stand it. This is the worst possible place to be in the case of an earthquake. All these bricks. I’m reminded of what the Whittier quake did to the quote from D.E. Lawrence in Old Town Pasadena. Not only that, but the gaddam news outlets don’t get on the quake report as quickly as the good old L.A. press do.
Update as of 10/27, 1:10 pm: Mom said she heard about the quake on the radio this morning, so that confirms. Oddly, I’ve looked to the US Geological Survey’s New York seismology site, and they’re reporting that it happened at 5:42 am… Either they’re reporting from another time zone (don’t know which that would be…) or I slept through another quake, which is really alarming.
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In other disaster news, I was right about the air quality downtown. They’re finally admitting it’s not safe to breathe; the Daily News broke the story today. Mind you, the EPA’s website still says nothing about unsafe conditions. My boss finally showed indications of reconsidering her search for a new office further downtown. I’m mad that she didn’t listen to me.
Something is very, very not right about all this. Cancer, I tell you.
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Those days are over, those days of mailable art are over… I was going over Red Cross materials today and found, on page five of their brochure on anthrax (that’s a .pdf, you’ll need Acrobat to view it), an updated list of things to watch for in a suspicious package — leakage, lumpiness, lack of return address, etc. These guidelines, thanks to the Unabomber, have been around for years, posted around my dad’s office at Caltech and other targets, and I’ve always proudly pointed out that Robert and I have violated almost every recommendation known to man and still never lost one of our elaborate packages in the mail. Robert sent me a package that leaked butter, and later, one that dripped white powder… I still have no idea how they made it through, even some eleven years ago; they could well have checked them out for drug smuggling; and I would hope the Feds would feel suitably cowed when the white powder turned out to be dish detergent… but no more, no more communications creativity or virtuosity anymore, no surprises with mysteriously omitted return addresses.
this ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, this ain’t no foolin’ around.
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On a much lighter note, I had what may be the single most embarassing and revolting experience of my swing dance career tonight… I’m doing Lindy with this good-looking short Black dude; he’s spinning me a lot; and in the middle of one of these spins, the bandaid on the shuto edge of my hand LEAPS OUT and GRABS HIM and TRANSFERS ITSELF TO HIS HAND. Faux pas of the caliber of those “Ah mah gawd I was SOOOOOO embarassed!” columns they have in girly magazines. I can only be thankful the papercut underneath it was healed enough that I didn’t BLEED on him too.
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Reading a lined notebook page over the shoulder of the guy next to me on the subway home:
ALDHEMAR
ALDHEMAR
ALDHEMAR (written first in an exemplary hand, then twice in a shaky one)
Puebla, Mexico (same handwriting)
Then, in accomplished script:
How much does it cost to go there?
and
Send him back home!
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