Thursday, August 28, 2003
Oil
LOOKING AHEAD by Wally Dobelis date?
A bold message from Dr Paranoia: "Oil is the lifebloood of the world. All political and military actions of the industrialized nations are related to oil. A chief national interest of a government is to assure steady and dependable supply of oil. The Left has learned to link greed of oil companies to wars. That is a socialist overrsimplification - substitute the self-interest of nations. This explains the enthusiasm of Tony Blair, much derided as a Bush lackey. He, a Laborite as much as a British patriot, may well be at the root of the Iraq war."
Dr. P. explains that, looking for inside information, he had gone back to the midtown bar frequented by the Texan who knows. He was there, drinking Maker’s Mark burbon, with a friend, male. No introductions, although the friend was identified as a golfer from Bethesda. Upon the doctor’s question about oil, the Texaan gave exploded with the above, "lifeblood of the world" and Blair blurb, followed by a history construct. His story:
The Britons have been much in the Middle East because their empire, the world’s manufacturer of finished goods, supplied raw materials for the industrial machine of Manchester and Liverpool, but had to depend on fuel on the hard-mined coal fields of Cardiff. Oil of the Ottoman Empire was a much more desirable combustible, and WWI was their vehicle of entry. The Turks, who foolishly sided with the Kaiser, suffered a breakup after their Versailles, the Treaty of Sevres (1918) . The part that had been ancient Persia turned into a virtual British protectorate, with Anglo-Iranian Oil company conceded as a gift to the conquerors by the Qajar Dynasty. The country became Iran in 1935, under Reza Pahlavi Shah, but the National Front under Prime Minister Mohammed Mossadegh took control in 1951, drove out the Shah and nationalized the company. The British tried to a return the Shah, but no dice - until they involved the US . One theory states that President Eisenhower was persuaded that Iran would turn Communist, and had the CIA foster a revolution. Kemir Roosevelt, TR’s grandson, was the agent, Moslem extremists and paid-off strong-arm rowdies such as sports clubs (wrestlers!) occupied the streets and forced the moderate Moassadegh out, returning the reluctant Pahlavi to the throne in 1953. But his arrogant police, the Savak, got too blood-thirdty. The authoritarian secularist rulers suppressed the orthodox religionists, Ayatollah Khomeini emigrated to France and fostered a revolution. Religious unrest forced Pahlevi out in 1978, the religionist militia overwhelmed the Shah’s modernists, Khomeini took over, and a militant group seized the US Embassy and helt the employees as hostages, until January 1981, Pres Regan’s inauguration. The 1980 oil war between Iran and Iraq, with Saddam Hussein quietly supported by the US, lasted eight years but failed to dislodge the Shiite radicals, and the British never got to regain their steady oil source.
That was a blow, because another oil source had dried up on them. The Iraq Petroleum Company, fostered by the British through their 1916 mandate over the Middle East, when they carefully manicured the various kingdoms, with Hashemite King Faisal ruling Iraq and its oil, was nationalized in 1973 by Saddam Hussein’s predecessors who overthrew the Hashemites. IPC had been owned by British Petroleum, Shell and the French Total/Fina/Elf predecesor, a quarter each, plus Mobil and Standard Oil. Although they signed the agreement, after much protest, and received compensation, the past owners would like to have their rights reconsidered, when Saddam is gone. US and Britain concur. Restoring to a friendly regime would give the allied group a leg up. This kind of speculation makes the motivation of Tony Blair more understandable, not to speak of the US.
You must understand the French position, interjected the Texan’s companion. The French, excluing themselves from the alliance, nevertheless would like to be part of the oil dividend, as would the Russians, whom Saddam Hussein had promised a share in Kirkuk.The potential of a cut in the oil distribution can bring them back, into joint action with the Alliance. This potential of sharing oil may explain why Powell is so boldly asking other nations to contribute to the peacekeeping and the restoration of Iraq .
Dr. P wanted to explore the reason for President Bush boldly admitting that alQaeda had no role in the 9/11 attack, when 70 percent of Americans believe that they did. At this point the Texan decided to leave, His final words, almost a whisper, hard to understand, were: "try spin doctoring, man. You will see, the red states will believe what they want anyway, and Bush now can claim to be right in attacking Iraq, for reasons that he can justify."
When the bourbon drinkers were gone, Dr. P asked the bartender about the newcomer. "Oh, him, that’s Tom Breedman, has a orse farm, in Maryland. Plays a lot of golf with Arabs, knows the Middle East, and then some."
A bold message from Dr Paranoia: "Oil is the lifebloood of the world. All political and military actions of the industrialized nations are related to oil. A chief national interest of a government is to assure steady and dependable supply of oil. The Left has learned to link greed of oil companies to wars. That is a socialist overrsimplification - substitute the self-interest of nations. This explains the enthusiasm of Tony Blair, much derided as a Bush lackey. He, a Laborite as much as a British patriot, may well be at the root of the Iraq war."
Dr. P. explains that, looking for inside information, he had gone back to the midtown bar frequented by the Texan who knows. He was there, drinking Maker’s Mark burbon, with a friend, male. No introductions, although the friend was identified as a golfer from Bethesda. Upon the doctor’s question about oil, the Texaan gave exploded with the above, "lifeblood of the world" and Blair blurb, followed by a history construct. His story:
The Britons have been much in the Middle East because their empire, the world’s manufacturer of finished goods, supplied raw materials for the industrial machine of Manchester and Liverpool, but had to depend on fuel on the hard-mined coal fields of Cardiff. Oil of the Ottoman Empire was a much more desirable combustible, and WWI was their vehicle of entry. The Turks, who foolishly sided with the Kaiser, suffered a breakup after their Versailles, the Treaty of Sevres (1918) . The part that had been ancient Persia turned into a virtual British protectorate, with Anglo-Iranian Oil company conceded as a gift to the conquerors by the Qajar Dynasty. The country became Iran in 1935, under Reza Pahlavi Shah, but the National Front under Prime Minister Mohammed Mossadegh took control in 1951, drove out the Shah and nationalized the company. The British tried to a return the Shah, but no dice - until they involved the US . One theory states that President Eisenhower was persuaded that Iran would turn Communist, and had the CIA foster a revolution. Kemir Roosevelt, TR’s grandson, was the agent, Moslem extremists and paid-off strong-arm rowdies such as sports clubs (wrestlers!) occupied the streets and forced the moderate Moassadegh out, returning the reluctant Pahlavi to the throne in 1953. But his arrogant police, the Savak, got too blood-thirdty. The authoritarian secularist rulers suppressed the orthodox religionists, Ayatollah Khomeini emigrated to France and fostered a revolution. Religious unrest forced Pahlevi out in 1978, the religionist militia overwhelmed the Shah’s modernists, Khomeini took over, and a militant group seized the US Embassy and helt the employees as hostages, until January 1981, Pres Regan’s inauguration. The 1980 oil war between Iran and Iraq, with Saddam Hussein quietly supported by the US, lasted eight years but failed to dislodge the Shiite radicals, and the British never got to regain their steady oil source.
That was a blow, because another oil source had dried up on them. The Iraq Petroleum Company, fostered by the British through their 1916 mandate over the Middle East, when they carefully manicured the various kingdoms, with Hashemite King Faisal ruling Iraq and its oil, was nationalized in 1973 by Saddam Hussein’s predecessors who overthrew the Hashemites. IPC had been owned by British Petroleum, Shell and the French Total/Fina/Elf predecesor, a quarter each, plus Mobil and Standard Oil. Although they signed the agreement, after much protest, and received compensation, the past owners would like to have their rights reconsidered, when Saddam is gone. US and Britain concur. Restoring to a friendly regime would give the allied group a leg up. This kind of speculation makes the motivation of Tony Blair more understandable, not to speak of the US.
You must understand the French position, interjected the Texan’s companion. The French, excluing themselves from the alliance, nevertheless would like to be part of the oil dividend, as would the Russians, whom Saddam Hussein had promised a share in Kirkuk.The potential of a cut in the oil distribution can bring them back, into joint action with the Alliance. This potential of sharing oil may explain why Powell is so boldly asking other nations to contribute to the peacekeeping and the restoration of Iraq .
Dr. P wanted to explore the reason for President Bush boldly admitting that alQaeda had no role in the 9/11 attack, when 70 percent of Americans believe that they did. At this point the Texan decided to leave, His final words, almost a whisper, hard to understand, were: "try spin doctoring, man. You will see, the red states will believe what they want anyway, and Bush now can claim to be right in attacking Iraq, for reasons that he can justify."
When the bourbon drinkers were gone, Dr. P asked the bartender about the newcomer. "Oh, him, that’s Tom Breedman, has a orse farm, in Maryland. Plays a lot of golf with Arabs, knows the Middle East, and then some."
Downtown workers tell their blackout stories
LOOKING AHEAD by Wally Dobelis
People of the T&V Country had mostly uneventful trips home after the 4:11 PM blackout on August 14, 2003. Our drama was waiting, through the sweltering day, for the return of the lights 29 hours later, at 9:03 PM on Friday, the last to come back in the entire city. Our plight was made easier by the blackout heroes, a lot of people who worked around the clock, directed traffic with flashlights at night and in the blazing daytime sun, looked after emergencies, helped carry packages and people up the stairs and aided both the infirm and the well.
Suburbanites and people of the boroughs had much harder times getting home.
Ozeddin R, a porter, was stuck in an office building’s sealed freight elevator until 5 PM, when the air became scarce. No one had been able to respond to his requests for help on his cell phone. How he got his fingers between the two door panes he still does not know, but after a few gulps of air through the crack he was able to rip enough of an opening to get through, and back to work, for the next 24 hours. A flashlights helped, and a lot of prayers. By Friday PM the homebound buses were practically empty, and he returned to Coney Island in record time.
Omayra A., a tall willowy brunette, had on her usual high-heel slip-ons when disaster struck. She was trying to walk from the Battery downtown to her mother’s home in the Bronx, and her feet started blistering around 10th St. Luckily a cab took her home, for $25. Three Brooklyn ladies had to pay a home-bound extortionist taximan $60 apiece to be dropped near his home, from where they somehow made it to their respective destinations. The opportunist cabbie kept his actual address a secret.
Dennis L., an accountant who works on an early schedule, made it to the LIRR terminal at Hunters Point and got a seat. Then the blackout struck, and he waited for three hours before the railroad made buses available for his trip to Massapequa. He got home at 1 AM, but had no complaints, this had been a rare opportunity to read the NYTimes, cover to cover.
Ed C. had a more dramatic tale. His 3:45 PM from the LIRR Terminal made it a mile past Jamaica Station before the electricity ran out. Having been told to stay inside (“The juice may come back and kill you”), even after the carriage became stiflingly hot and the side doors had to be opened, the passengers suffered for three hours, then stumbled across five sets of tracks before reaching a highway and walking back to Jamaica. There he and other West Long Islanders looked at lots of East Side LI buses passing them until some kind soul explained that the buses to Hicksville were at a depot a mile or two away. Another trek and they found the depot; at Hicksville he found his Huntington bus and headed home, seven hours late.
Maria O., mother of three, walked from downtown, along 1st Avenue, to across the Willis Ave Bridge, in five and a half hours, to sleep over at her mother’s house. The kids were ok, as the babysitter’s mother lived next door to hers, and was able to call the helper and work out the sleepover.
Sandy H., a Connecticut suburbanite, made it to his oldest daughter’s tiny apartment on 23rd St. So did her brother and sister, and between lack of space and the siblings’ quibbling Sandy hardly got to sleep. The street might have worked better.
The street worked better for Joseph C., a corporate secretary, who took the ferry to Hoboken and had made his bed in the lobby of the Hyatt hotel, when a neighbor’s wife arrived and scooped up both her husband and our hero. He was home by 3 AM.
Arnold B. waited three hours in line at Pier 11 for a ferry that took him to Brooklyn’s Bush Army Terminal, at 59th and 1st Ave. The ferry boats were acting crazy, one returned halfway out, to pick up a Waterways manager, another waited an hour for a key passenger, What saved him was the arrival of a Staten Island ferry, sent to help out. Walking across the bridge would have been faster. After the ocean voyage, he hitched a ride at the Belt Parkway entrance. A young couple took him right home, near Coney Island.Total time five hours.
Tony D. came to Pier 11 for his Hoboken ferry, to find out that the electric railroad for New City, in Rockland County, had no juice. He turned around and went right back to the office, to sleep overnight on his boss’ couch.
George W., a porter stayed overnight at his job, miserable in his sweaty clothes. But at least it was a chance to earn some overtime.
Jose R., a building mechanic, did a 44-hour shift, two regular turns before the 29-hour blackout. He was comforting and escorting elders up the stairs and managing the lobby staff, including Iman D., a doorman who put in a 16-hour shift. Other staff people and tenant volunteers helped.
Athletic Mia C., who usually exercises in a Wall Street gym after work, this time raced across Brooklyn Bridge, got to her new home way ahead of hubby, painted the bedroom in the fading sunlight while waiting for him, and, after his arrival, went out to have a romantic Italian dinner by candlelight. Salad and wine, a happy ending, as were most endings on that historic night.
People of the T&V Country had mostly uneventful trips home after the 4:11 PM blackout on August 14, 2003. Our drama was waiting, through the sweltering day, for the return of the lights 29 hours later, at 9:03 PM on Friday, the last to come back in the entire city. Our plight was made easier by the blackout heroes, a lot of people who worked around the clock, directed traffic with flashlights at night and in the blazing daytime sun, looked after emergencies, helped carry packages and people up the stairs and aided both the infirm and the well.
Suburbanites and people of the boroughs had much harder times getting home.
Ozeddin R, a porter, was stuck in an office building’s sealed freight elevator until 5 PM, when the air became scarce. No one had been able to respond to his requests for help on his cell phone. How he got his fingers between the two door panes he still does not know, but after a few gulps of air through the crack he was able to rip enough of an opening to get through, and back to work, for the next 24 hours. A flashlights helped, and a lot of prayers. By Friday PM the homebound buses were practically empty, and he returned to Coney Island in record time.
Omayra A., a tall willowy brunette, had on her usual high-heel slip-ons when disaster struck. She was trying to walk from the Battery downtown to her mother’s home in the Bronx, and her feet started blistering around 10th St. Luckily a cab took her home, for $25. Three Brooklyn ladies had to pay a home-bound extortionist taximan $60 apiece to be dropped near his home, from where they somehow made it to their respective destinations. The opportunist cabbie kept his actual address a secret.
Dennis L., an accountant who works on an early schedule, made it to the LIRR terminal at Hunters Point and got a seat. Then the blackout struck, and he waited for three hours before the railroad made buses available for his trip to Massapequa. He got home at 1 AM, but had no complaints, this had been a rare opportunity to read the NYTimes, cover to cover.
Ed C. had a more dramatic tale. His 3:45 PM from the LIRR Terminal made it a mile past Jamaica Station before the electricity ran out. Having been told to stay inside (“The juice may come back and kill you”), even after the carriage became stiflingly hot and the side doors had to be opened, the passengers suffered for three hours, then stumbled across five sets of tracks before reaching a highway and walking back to Jamaica. There he and other West Long Islanders looked at lots of East Side LI buses passing them until some kind soul explained that the buses to Hicksville were at a depot a mile or two away. Another trek and they found the depot; at Hicksville he found his Huntington bus and headed home, seven hours late.
Maria O., mother of three, walked from downtown, along 1st Avenue, to across the Willis Ave Bridge, in five and a half hours, to sleep over at her mother’s house. The kids were ok, as the babysitter’s mother lived next door to hers, and was able to call the helper and work out the sleepover.
Sandy H., a Connecticut suburbanite, made it to his oldest daughter’s tiny apartment on 23rd St. So did her brother and sister, and between lack of space and the siblings’ quibbling Sandy hardly got to sleep. The street might have worked better.
The street worked better for Joseph C., a corporate secretary, who took the ferry to Hoboken and had made his bed in the lobby of the Hyatt hotel, when a neighbor’s wife arrived and scooped up both her husband and our hero. He was home by 3 AM.
Arnold B. waited three hours in line at Pier 11 for a ferry that took him to Brooklyn’s Bush Army Terminal, at 59th and 1st Ave. The ferry boats were acting crazy, one returned halfway out, to pick up a Waterways manager, another waited an hour for a key passenger, What saved him was the arrival of a Staten Island ferry, sent to help out. Walking across the bridge would have been faster. After the ocean voyage, he hitched a ride at the Belt Parkway entrance. A young couple took him right home, near Coney Island.Total time five hours.
Tony D. came to Pier 11 for his Hoboken ferry, to find out that the electric railroad for New City, in Rockland County, had no juice. He turned around and went right back to the office, to sleep overnight on his boss’ couch.
George W., a porter stayed overnight at his job, miserable in his sweaty clothes. But at least it was a chance to earn some overtime.
Jose R., a building mechanic, did a 44-hour shift, two regular turns before the 29-hour blackout. He was comforting and escorting elders up the stairs and managing the lobby staff, including Iman D., a doorman who put in a 16-hour shift. Other staff people and tenant volunteers helped.
Athletic Mia C., who usually exercises in a Wall Street gym after work, this time raced across Brooklyn Bridge, got to her new home way ahead of hubby, painted the bedroom in the fading sunlight while waiting for him, and, after his arrival, went out to have a romantic Italian dinner by candlelight. Salad and wine, a happy ending, as were most endings on that historic night.
Downtown Workers Tell Their Blackout Stories - 8/28/03
LOOKING AHEAD by Wally Dobelis
People of the T&V Country had mostly uneventful trips home after the 4:11 PM blackout on August 14, 2003. Our drama was waiting, through the sweltering day, for the return of the lights 29 hours later, at 9:03 PM on Friday, the last section in the city to come back to normal existence. Our plight was made easier by the blackout heroes, a lot of people who worked around the clock, directed traffic with flashlights at night and in the blazing daytime sun, looked after emergencies, helped carry packages and people up the stairs and aided both the infirm and the well.
Suburbanites and people of the boroughs had much harder times getting home.
Ozeddin R, a porter, was stuck in an office building’s sealed freight elevator until 5 PM, when the air became scarce. No one had been able to respond to his requests for help on his cell phone. How he got his fingers between the two door panes he still does not know, but after a few gulps of air through the crack he was able to rip enough of an opening to get through, and back to work, for the next 24 hours. A flashlights helped, and a lot of prayers. By Friday PM the homebound buses were practically empty, and he returned to Coney Island in record time.
Omayra A., a tall willowy brunette, had on her usual high-heel slip-ons when disaster struck. She was trying to walk from the Battery downtown to her mother’s home in the Bronx, and her feet started blistering around 10th St. Luckily a cab took her home, for $25. Three Brooklyn ladies had to pay a home-bound extortionist taximan $60 apiece to be dropped near his home, from where they somehow made it to their respective destinations. The opportunist cabbie kept his actual address a secret.
Dennis L., an accountant who works on an early schedule, made it to the LIRR terminal at Hunters Point and got a seat. Then the blackout struck, and he waited for three hours before the railroad made buses available for his trip to Massapequa. He got home at 1 AM, but had no complaints, this had been a rare opportunity to read the NYTimes, cover to cover.
Ed C. had a more dramatic tale. His 3:45 PM from the LIRR Terminal made it a mile past Jamaica Station before the electricity ran out. Having been told to stay inside (“The juice may come back and kill you”), even after the carriage became stiflingly hot and the side doors had to be opened, the passengers suffered for three hours, then stumbled across five sets of tracks before reaching a highway and walking back to Jamaica. There he and other West Long Islanders looked at lots of East Side LI buses passing them until some kind soul explained that the buses to Hicksville were at a depot a mile or two away. Another trek and they found the depot; at Hicksville he found his Huntington bus and headed home, seven hours late.
Maria O., mother of three, walked from downtown, along 1st Avenue, to across the Willis Ave Bridge, in five and a half hours, to sleep over at her mother’s house. The kids were ok, as the babysitter’s mother lived next door to hers, and was able to call the helper and work out the sleepover.
Sandy H., a Connecticut suburbanite, made it to his oldest daughter’s tiny apartment on 23rd St. So did her brother and sister, and between lack of space and the siblings’ quibbling Sandy hardly got to sleep. The street might have worked better.
The street worked better for Joseph C., a corporate secretary, who took the ferry to Hoboken and had made his bed in the lobby of the Hyatt hotel, when a neighbor’s wife arrived and scooped up both her husband and our hero. He was home by 3 AM.
Arnold B. waited three hours in line at Pier 11 for a ferry that took him to Brooklyn’s Bush Army Terminal, at 59th and 1st Ave. The ferry boats were acting crazy, one returned halfway out, to pick up a Waterways manager, another waited an hour for a key passenger, What saved him was the arrival of a Staten Island ferry, sent to help out. Walking across the bridge would have been faster. After the ocean voyage, he hitched a ride at the Belt Parkway entrance. A young couple took him right home, near Coney Island.Total time five hours.
Tony D. came to Pier 11 for his Hoboken ferry, to find out that the electric railroad for New City, in Rockland County, had no juice. He turned around and went right back to the office, to sleep overnight on his boss’ couch.
George W., a porter stayed overnight at his job, miserable in his sweaty clothes. But at least it was a chance to earn some overtime.
Jose R., a building mechanic, did a 44-hour shift, two regular turns before the 29-hour blackout. He was comforting and escorting elders up the stairs and managing the lobby staff, including Iman D., a doorman who put in a 16-hour shift. Other staff people and tenant volunteers helped.
Athletic Mia C., who usually exercises in a Wall Street gym after work, this time raced across Brooklyn Bridge, got to her new home way ahead of hubby, painted the bedroom in the fading sunlight while waiting for him, and, after his arrival, went out to have a romantic Italian dinner by candlelight. Salad and wine, a happy ending, as were most endings on that long-to-be-remembered night.
More stories of John O'N., Douglas P., Jackie K., Neil G., Ed K., and Joe C. also Ron T. and Dr. P. next time, when I have space
People of the T&V Country had mostly uneventful trips home after the 4:11 PM blackout on August 14, 2003. Our drama was waiting, through the sweltering day, for the return of the lights 29 hours later, at 9:03 PM on Friday, the last section in the city to come back to normal existence. Our plight was made easier by the blackout heroes, a lot of people who worked around the clock, directed traffic with flashlights at night and in the blazing daytime sun, looked after emergencies, helped carry packages and people up the stairs and aided both the infirm and the well.
Suburbanites and people of the boroughs had much harder times getting home.
Ozeddin R, a porter, was stuck in an office building’s sealed freight elevator until 5 PM, when the air became scarce. No one had been able to respond to his requests for help on his cell phone. How he got his fingers between the two door panes he still does not know, but after a few gulps of air through the crack he was able to rip enough of an opening to get through, and back to work, for the next 24 hours. A flashlights helped, and a lot of prayers. By Friday PM the homebound buses were practically empty, and he returned to Coney Island in record time.
Omayra A., a tall willowy brunette, had on her usual high-heel slip-ons when disaster struck. She was trying to walk from the Battery downtown to her mother’s home in the Bronx, and her feet started blistering around 10th St. Luckily a cab took her home, for $25. Three Brooklyn ladies had to pay a home-bound extortionist taximan $60 apiece to be dropped near his home, from where they somehow made it to their respective destinations. The opportunist cabbie kept his actual address a secret.
Dennis L., an accountant who works on an early schedule, made it to the LIRR terminal at Hunters Point and got a seat. Then the blackout struck, and he waited for three hours before the railroad made buses available for his trip to Massapequa. He got home at 1 AM, but had no complaints, this had been a rare opportunity to read the NYTimes, cover to cover.
Ed C. had a more dramatic tale. His 3:45 PM from the LIRR Terminal made it a mile past Jamaica Station before the electricity ran out. Having been told to stay inside (“The juice may come back and kill you”), even after the carriage became stiflingly hot and the side doors had to be opened, the passengers suffered for three hours, then stumbled across five sets of tracks before reaching a highway and walking back to Jamaica. There he and other West Long Islanders looked at lots of East Side LI buses passing them until some kind soul explained that the buses to Hicksville were at a depot a mile or two away. Another trek and they found the depot; at Hicksville he found his Huntington bus and headed home, seven hours late.
Maria O., mother of three, walked from downtown, along 1st Avenue, to across the Willis Ave Bridge, in five and a half hours, to sleep over at her mother’s house. The kids were ok, as the babysitter’s mother lived next door to hers, and was able to call the helper and work out the sleepover.
Sandy H., a Connecticut suburbanite, made it to his oldest daughter’s tiny apartment on 23rd St. So did her brother and sister, and between lack of space and the siblings’ quibbling Sandy hardly got to sleep. The street might have worked better.
The street worked better for Joseph C., a corporate secretary, who took the ferry to Hoboken and had made his bed in the lobby of the Hyatt hotel, when a neighbor’s wife arrived and scooped up both her husband and our hero. He was home by 3 AM.
Arnold B. waited three hours in line at Pier 11 for a ferry that took him to Brooklyn’s Bush Army Terminal, at 59th and 1st Ave. The ferry boats were acting crazy, one returned halfway out, to pick up a Waterways manager, another waited an hour for a key passenger, What saved him was the arrival of a Staten Island ferry, sent to help out. Walking across the bridge would have been faster. After the ocean voyage, he hitched a ride at the Belt Parkway entrance. A young couple took him right home, near Coney Island.Total time five hours.
Tony D. came to Pier 11 for his Hoboken ferry, to find out that the electric railroad for New City, in Rockland County, had no juice. He turned around and went right back to the office, to sleep overnight on his boss’ couch.
George W., a porter stayed overnight at his job, miserable in his sweaty clothes. But at least it was a chance to earn some overtime.
Jose R., a building mechanic, did a 44-hour shift, two regular turns before the 29-hour blackout. He was comforting and escorting elders up the stairs and managing the lobby staff, including Iman D., a doorman who put in a 16-hour shift. Other staff people and tenant volunteers helped.
Athletic Mia C., who usually exercises in a Wall Street gym after work, this time raced across Brooklyn Bridge, got to her new home way ahead of hubby, painted the bedroom in the fading sunlight while waiting for him, and, after his arrival, went out to have a romantic Italian dinner by candlelight. Salad and wine, a happy ending, as were most endings on that long-to-be-remembered night.
More stories of John O'N., Douglas P., Jackie K., Neil G., Ed K., and Joe C. also Ron T. and Dr. P. next time, when I have space
Thursday, August 21, 2003
Escape from New York - a blackout story
LOOKING AHEAD by Wally Dobelis
Ciau, Bruno:
Thursday’s blackout that you heard about at breakfast time in Melbourne occurred here at 4:11 PM. I was concluding a discussion with a company lawyer when he announced: “My lights just went.” “So did mine…let’s hope it is not what we fear, “ I affirmed, and we parted abruptly.
My office mates were already out of their cubicles, looking for a battery-driven radio. One was found, and the best reception turned out to be at the east windows of our 21st Floor , overlooking NY harbor and Pier 11, since 9/11 a busy ferry terminal. People were pouring out of the buildings on Water Street, and the New Jerseyites could be seen racing to the ferry line
As the puzzled radio people slowly determined that this was an eight state brownout (ha!), involving 50 million people, my colleagues quickly called home and departed. I had chosen to stay until the crowds thinned, just until before the dark, and look for a #1 bus at its origin, the Battery. That was on the offchance that electricity would be restored, sparing me a 24-floor climb at home. The radio people sounded upbeat, and Mayor Bloomberg offered hopeful thoughts about our ability to cope. Indeed, at seven PM one elevator in the building was restored and I rode down in comfort.
The street scene was less hopeful.. The Battery was mobbed, but someone opened the back door of a bus, and I squeezed in, happy to find a standing spot, but feeling guilty for not paying the fare (actually, the MTA supplied the service free). The vehicle took off promptly, passing the resigned people waiting at the next two stops, only to be held forever, or so it seemed, at South Street Seaport, moving two inches at a time. It was getting dark, but the streets were full of wandering people, ghosts or suddenly surfacing silhouettes backlit by car beams. A few lonely cops directed traffic, making the journey faster, but the dark was spooky. We seemed to be moving through strange territories. People kept rechecking their cell phones, to feel safer. Exchanging confidences was natural. Our lead communicator was a woman who sat forward, peering intently through the dark, occasionally shouting out a street name while we conjectured about our location.
When we reached Astor Place, I started inching forward, offering apologies. Upon exiting, Union Square looked strange, sort of like the broken city landscape in the post-apocalyptic disaster movies of the 1980s. Some people had a fire going on the sidewalk, one could envision a small animal being roasted. A shabby peddler offered cigarettes from a suitcase, in broken cartons, any brand for five dollars. Only upon reaching the orderly, emergency-lit W hotel, and seeing the diners at Olives feasting by candlelight, I began feeling at home.
At the corner of East 17th Street and Irving one saw chatting groups on the left, around a bare-chested figure lit by a motorcycle beam, pouring drinks. It was Tony Macagnone, owner of Sal Anthony’s. He waved, and offered white wine or ice water, which he had been pouring since 4:30, treating neighbors. That we are a neighborhood was evident at every doorstoop. People gathered and offered remarks, sidewalk squatters apologized for being in the way.
At 3rd Avenue there was another crowd waving tall beerbottles, at Tivaru.. As I stopped to explore, the immense bouncer offered to treat me, and fetched a Bud. I thanked and suggested the mention of his largesse in print, which he waved off, in horror. But the beer was a welcome treat for the impending climb of the 24 floors to our aerie, in the company of a tiny candle, supplied by the building’s staff – the emergency lights in the stairwells had faded out.
Next morning the building’s hallways and stairwells were in total darkness, not a sound emerging. People were listening to their emergency radios and waiting for the electricity to return. The Mayor no longer sounded as hopeful, the 90 degree heat was becoming obsessive and we decided to escape, cats and all, to the North. Albany area had had electricity since before the nightfall.
Walking to the garage on Avenue C, one got to observe how people coped. The water supply in the building towers exhausted, many had to fetch drinking water from the fire hydrants, opened to a trickle. The supermarket in Stuy Town had a line of shoppers outside; only four shoppers were allowed in at a time, to shop by flashlight. Any markets that were open had to accept cash, calculated the old-fashioned way. At pay phones queued people whose cell phones had died. Most small shops were closed, except for the three 99-cent stores, offering flashlight batteries, sodas and water on card tables in front of their doors, at regular prices, to their honor. I took along two bottles of elegant Dasani water, two for $1. Having arrived at the garage, I realized that the attendants laboring in the dark deserved them more than I did. That seemed like a good idea, and I u-turned, on empty 14th Street, to fetch a bagful more, some of which went to the perspiring cops, directing traffic while standing in the middle of crossings on First and Third Avenues, and the rest to my building’s lobby, where the janitorial people had been on duty since the previous day, helping both the able-bodied and infirm. That made us feel better about escaping hot New York while everyone else was sweltering. Although, one must say, that was a risky task, and I loudly cheered the first traffic light of the route, at Bruckner Expressway and Bronx River Parkway.
Bruno B. is the author’s schoolmate, a retired executive who lives in Victoria, Australia.
Ciau, Bruno:
Thursday’s blackout that you heard about at breakfast time in Melbourne occurred here at 4:11 PM. I was concluding a discussion with a company lawyer when he announced: “My lights just went.” “So did mine…let’s hope it is not what we fear, “ I affirmed, and we parted abruptly.
My office mates were already out of their cubicles, looking for a battery-driven radio. One was found, and the best reception turned out to be at the east windows of our 21st Floor , overlooking NY harbor and Pier 11, since 9/11 a busy ferry terminal. People were pouring out of the buildings on Water Street, and the New Jerseyites could be seen racing to the ferry line
As the puzzled radio people slowly determined that this was an eight state brownout (ha!), involving 50 million people, my colleagues quickly called home and departed. I had chosen to stay until the crowds thinned, just until before the dark, and look for a #1 bus at its origin, the Battery. That was on the offchance that electricity would be restored, sparing me a 24-floor climb at home. The radio people sounded upbeat, and Mayor Bloomberg offered hopeful thoughts about our ability to cope. Indeed, at seven PM one elevator in the building was restored and I rode down in comfort.
The street scene was less hopeful.. The Battery was mobbed, but someone opened the back door of a bus, and I squeezed in, happy to find a standing spot, but feeling guilty for not paying the fare (actually, the MTA supplied the service free). The vehicle took off promptly, passing the resigned people waiting at the next two stops, only to be held forever, or so it seemed, at South Street Seaport, moving two inches at a time. It was getting dark, but the streets were full of wandering people, ghosts or suddenly surfacing silhouettes backlit by car beams. A few lonely cops directed traffic, making the journey faster, but the dark was spooky. We seemed to be moving through strange territories. People kept rechecking their cell phones, to feel safer. Exchanging confidences was natural. Our lead communicator was a woman who sat forward, peering intently through the dark, occasionally shouting out a street name while we conjectured about our location.
When we reached Astor Place, I started inching forward, offering apologies. Upon exiting, Union Square looked strange, sort of like the broken city landscape in the post-apocalyptic disaster movies of the 1980s. Some people had a fire going on the sidewalk, one could envision a small animal being roasted. A shabby peddler offered cigarettes from a suitcase, in broken cartons, any brand for five dollars. Only upon reaching the orderly, emergency-lit W hotel, and seeing the diners at Olives feasting by candlelight, I began feeling at home.
At the corner of East 17th Street and Irving one saw chatting groups on the left, around a bare-chested figure lit by a motorcycle beam, pouring drinks. It was Tony Macagnone, owner of Sal Anthony’s. He waved, and offered white wine or ice water, which he had been pouring since 4:30, treating neighbors. That we are a neighborhood was evident at every doorstoop. People gathered and offered remarks, sidewalk squatters apologized for being in the way.
At 3rd Avenue there was another crowd waving tall beerbottles, at Tivaru.. As I stopped to explore, the immense bouncer offered to treat me, and fetched a Bud. I thanked and suggested the mention of his largesse in print, which he waved off, in horror. But the beer was a welcome treat for the impending climb of the 24 floors to our aerie, in the company of a tiny candle, supplied by the building’s staff – the emergency lights in the stairwells had faded out.
Next morning the building’s hallways and stairwells were in total darkness, not a sound emerging. People were listening to their emergency radios and waiting for the electricity to return. The Mayor no longer sounded as hopeful, the 90 degree heat was becoming obsessive and we decided to escape, cats and all, to the North. Albany area had had electricity since before the nightfall.
Walking to the garage on Avenue C, one got to observe how people coped. The water supply in the building towers exhausted, many had to fetch drinking water from the fire hydrants, opened to a trickle. The supermarket in Stuy Town had a line of shoppers outside; only four shoppers were allowed in at a time, to shop by flashlight. Any markets that were open had to accept cash, calculated the old-fashioned way. At pay phones queued people whose cell phones had died. Most small shops were closed, except for the three 99-cent stores, offering flashlight batteries, sodas and water on card tables in front of their doors, at regular prices, to their honor. I took along two bottles of elegant Dasani water, two for $1. Having arrived at the garage, I realized that the attendants laboring in the dark deserved them more than I did. That seemed like a good idea, and I u-turned, on empty 14th Street, to fetch a bagful more, some of which went to the perspiring cops, directing traffic while standing in the middle of crossings on First and Third Avenues, and the rest to my building’s lobby, where the janitorial people had been on duty since the previous day, helping both the able-bodied and infirm. That made us feel better about escaping hot New York while everyone else was sweltering. Although, one must say, that was a risky task, and I loudly cheered the first traffic light of the route, at Bruckner Expressway and Bronx River Parkway.
Bruno B. is the author’s schoolmate, a retired executive who lives in Victoria, Australia.
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Report from the frontlines, Downtown New York
LOOKING AHEAD by Wally Dobelis
New York is a city under siege .This may not be evident to the placid throngs on Union Square, taking in a noontime concert or shopping for an upbeat dinner in the Restaurant Capital of our world.. Just take the express IRT three stops downtown, to Wall Street, and the atmosphere changes. The fever thermometer, to me, is the guardpost at the crossing of Exchange Place and Broad Street, the southern corner of the New York Stock Exchange. This wide street, once the scene of weekly street festivities celebrating the IPO or an anniversary of a some major industrial or financial giant, has been blocked with barricades since 9/11/2001. Except for the huge Christmas tree every season, the square between Wall and Exchange remains empty the year around, except for some blue-jacketed badge-laden Stock Exchange employees out for a smoke .As to the guardpost. Today, after the President's speech, in addition to the usual shirtsleeved uniformed police officers, there was a black dressed squat left-handed helmeted figure, Kevlar jacket easily discernible, leaning against the railing, eyes fixed on the pedestrian traffic, middle finger on the trigger of the submachine gun slung around his neck, index finger extended, "ready to rock," as the suave manager of the new office ofMcRoberts Protective Agency on Stone Street put it. The last time I saw guards in such state of readiness was at the entrance of the airport of Lodz, Israel, in the period after Rabin's assassination. Actually, four of these NYPD Emergency Service Unit gun-toting guards have been a presence at the NYSE for the past seven months. You can see them in more relaxed atmosphere, at noontime , at the north end, helmets off but eyes on the thick crowds of tourists milling around or sitting on the steps of the Federal Memorial, having a sandwich under the benevolent gaze of the giant statue of George Washington.
Some of the new anti-terror precautions are less noticeable. At the top of Exchange Place, corner Broadway, the neat polished stone flower pots, full of blooming plants, have multiplied, almost blocking the roadway, athwart which, as usually, is a panel truck. There is parked vehicle also at the bottom, near William Street, in a yellow box painted on the asphalt, so that the authorized delivery vans, for whose arrivals and departures the truck gets moved, can plan their curbside spots. Also, the Downtown Alliance, the BID of Lower NY, has strengthened its street force in red doormen uniforms with a black-shirted dog patrol, sniffing through the lobbies of member buildings on a daily basis.
But the spirits of New Yorkers are irrepressible. On Stone Street, the narrow cobblestoneservice road that bends between Hanover Place and Water Street, every morning at 10 AM sees the unfolding of collapsible picnic tables and café sets, with market umbrellas, and squads of young Wall Street boys and girls, both shirtsleeved and suits, descend to lunch at noon, and to drink beer from pitchers and long-necked bottles in the after-work hours, the latter purchased by the bucketful at Ulysses, the new favorite pub. It stretches, with its neighbor The Financier, from Mill Lane to nearly the northern corner, for the past 32 years ruled by Harry's on Hanover, the famed basement bar in the 153-year old India Club building. In the evening Harry's is totally blocked in by black cars waiting for home-bound drinkers, reeling up the steps, ready to collapse on the leather seats, money's no object. At the south end of Stone Street, towards Coenties Slip, neighboring Cassis, Gerardus and Waterstone Grill lock arms to fill the roadway. Most of the restaurants, in addition to decent lunches offer raw bar and pub food to frame up the stomach for the beer crowds.Taking advantage of the traffic stoppages due to the precautions, the city has Judlaw Construction rip up Williams Street for a two-year project ,replacing old communication and electric cables. Their hordes of yellow-and-red waisted workers move fast, opening closing the trenches practically overnight. On Thursdays you see a stout cigar-chomping straw boss handing out pay envelopes to the worker ants, who come up from the holes, one by one. Just like the old days.
Washington Irving High School Watch. In these days of budget shortages, why does one see 30-copy tied-up stacks of New York Times dumped outside the school? During vacations we ordinary people prudently suspend our newspaper subscriptions. Is the taxpayer money less valuable? Which reminds me of the 50-odd computer CRT monitors the school dumped early in the year. We ordinary people use the same monitors year after year, although upgrading the computers to, say, migrate from Windows 95 to 2000. Why can’t a public-money-using institution do the same? .
New York is a city under siege .This may not be evident to the placid throngs on Union Square, taking in a noontime concert or shopping for an upbeat dinner in the Restaurant Capital of our world.. Just take the express IRT three stops downtown, to Wall Street, and the atmosphere changes. The fever thermometer, to me, is the guardpost at the crossing of Exchange Place and Broad Street, the southern corner of the New York Stock Exchange. This wide street, once the scene of weekly street festivities celebrating the IPO or an anniversary of a some major industrial or financial giant, has been blocked with barricades since 9/11/2001. Except for the huge Christmas tree every season, the square between Wall and Exchange remains empty the year around, except for some blue-jacketed badge-laden Stock Exchange employees out for a smoke .As to the guardpost. Today, after the President's speech, in addition to the usual shirtsleeved uniformed police officers, there was a black dressed squat left-handed helmeted figure, Kevlar jacket easily discernible, leaning against the railing, eyes fixed on the pedestrian traffic, middle finger on the trigger of the submachine gun slung around his neck, index finger extended, "ready to rock," as the suave manager of the new office ofMcRoberts Protective Agency on Stone Street put it. The last time I saw guards in such state of readiness was at the entrance of the airport of Lodz, Israel, in the period after Rabin's assassination. Actually, four of these NYPD Emergency Service Unit gun-toting guards have been a presence at the NYSE for the past seven months. You can see them in more relaxed atmosphere, at noontime , at the north end, helmets off but eyes on the thick crowds of tourists milling around or sitting on the steps of the Federal Memorial, having a sandwich under the benevolent gaze of the giant statue of George Washington.
Some of the new anti-terror precautions are less noticeable. At the top of Exchange Place, corner Broadway, the neat polished stone flower pots, full of blooming plants, have multiplied, almost blocking the roadway, athwart which, as usually, is a panel truck. There is parked vehicle also at the bottom, near William Street, in a yellow box painted on the asphalt, so that the authorized delivery vans, for whose arrivals and departures the truck gets moved, can plan their curbside spots. Also, the Downtown Alliance, the BID of Lower NY, has strengthened its street force in red doormen uniforms with a black-shirted dog patrol, sniffing through the lobbies of member buildings on a daily basis.
But the spirits of New Yorkers are irrepressible. On Stone Street, the narrow cobblestoneservice road that bends between Hanover Place and Water Street, every morning at 10 AM sees the unfolding of collapsible picnic tables and café sets, with market umbrellas, and squads of young Wall Street boys and girls, both shirtsleeved and suits, descend to lunch at noon, and to drink beer from pitchers and long-necked bottles in the after-work hours, the latter purchased by the bucketful at Ulysses, the new favorite pub. It stretches, with its neighbor The Financier, from Mill Lane to nearly the northern corner, for the past 32 years ruled by Harry's on Hanover, the famed basement bar in the 153-year old India Club building. In the evening Harry's is totally blocked in by black cars waiting for home-bound drinkers, reeling up the steps, ready to collapse on the leather seats, money's no object. At the south end of Stone Street, towards Coenties Slip, neighboring Cassis, Gerardus and Waterstone Grill lock arms to fill the roadway. Most of the restaurants, in addition to decent lunches offer raw bar and pub food to frame up the stomach for the beer crowds.Taking advantage of the traffic stoppages due to the precautions, the city has Judlaw Construction rip up Williams Street for a two-year project ,replacing old communication and electric cables. Their hordes of yellow-and-red waisted workers move fast, opening closing the trenches practically overnight. On Thursdays you see a stout cigar-chomping straw boss handing out pay envelopes to the worker ants, who come up from the holes, one by one. Just like the old days.
Washington Irving High School Watch. In these days of budget shortages, why does one see 30-copy tied-up stacks of New York Times dumped outside the school? During vacations we ordinary people prudently suspend our newspaper subscriptions. Is the taxpayer money less valuable? Which reminds me of the 50-odd computer CRT monitors the school dumped early in the year. We ordinary people use the same monitors year after year, although upgrading the computers to, say, migrate from Windows 95 to 2000. Why can’t a public-money-using institution do the same? .
