Friday
14Oct2005
Rain, Rain, Go Away
I trudge through torrential rain from the News Station Where I Work to the Lincoln Center subway stop this morning after yet another writing all nighter. It's a good thing I showed up at work today. Who else could have written the story about King Midas the sea turtle, finally returning to his New Orleans home post Katrina, with the same mesmerism? Or the New Jersey millionaire who just splashed 20 million for a trip to space. These are important stories that someone must tell! New Yorkers need to know that a buzzard was on the loose in a Miami news studio, so it's lucky for X NEWS that I'm on the job. No one writes that oh-so-clever anchor banter with more flair than I. Or the teases.. "If you can't take the heat, get outta the kitchen.. Coming up on X NEWS, the domestic diva tosses in the towel.. find out what's cookin with Martha Stewart when we come back!". Isn't that clever? Toss in a few gang bangs, hit & runs, and the usual 'body found' and that's my night kids!
After this futile exercise of my brain... no I meant fruitful exercise! I swear! Just got the letters mixed up. Really. Not really. I'm tired of the news. Most folks in the news business are over achieving braggadocios who love to tell you what they do for a living. I wish the fucking Food Network would answer my calls. Isn't that sooo the place for me? TV and food. Genius! The over-achieving, sharp suited exec who came up with this concept should be publicly lauded. Just kidding, I haven't called the Food Network. But I should dammit! Unless they stick me with Rachael Ray and then I'd have to resign on general principle. No one is that chirpy all the time. Give me that silver haired vixen Paula Dean and her high fat, home made stews, casseroles, pies and all manner of ooey gooey goodness any day. Paula's peppy, but in the right way. I'm certain she curses like a sailor the minute the cameras are off.
As I was saying, trudging to the subway.. Rain pelts me from all angles. Waterworld. Wet hair, soggy shoes, sponges for socks. Umbrellas charge me. Owners unaware they are coming this close to impaling an eyeball, scraping a cheek. Herding onto the subway. Cattle call. The rustle of newspapers, squelch of wet shoes on tiled floor, winter coats awakened from hibernation, sniffling and coughing onto hands that grab for the nearest pole at the slightest bump.
I rest the back of my head against the wall of the wet train and scrutinize the early risers, packed sardine like around me.
"Next stop, 42nd street Times Square. Stand clear of the closing doors please."
I see The Sleepers. The Groggies. The Readers. The Stare into Spacers. The Homeless. The Ipodders. I am a charter member of The Groggies. Eyelids drooping, snapping open each time the train screeches to a clamorous stop.
Is it worth it? We're all zombies. Staggering to and from work. Tired, circles under our eyes, smiles scarce. What is my point? I work, to pay the bills. Something needs to happen. I want something to happen. I will make something happen.
After this futile exercise of my brain... no I meant fruitful exercise! I swear! Just got the letters mixed up. Really. Not really. I'm tired of the news. Most folks in the news business are over achieving braggadocios who love to tell you what they do for a living. I wish the fucking Food Network would answer my calls. Isn't that sooo the place for me? TV and food. Genius! The over-achieving, sharp suited exec who came up with this concept should be publicly lauded. Just kidding, I haven't called the Food Network. But I should dammit! Unless they stick me with Rachael Ray and then I'd have to resign on general principle. No one is that chirpy all the time. Give me that silver haired vixen Paula Dean and her high fat, home made stews, casseroles, pies and all manner of ooey gooey goodness any day. Paula's peppy, but in the right way. I'm certain she curses like a sailor the minute the cameras are off.
As I was saying, trudging to the subway.. Rain pelts me from all angles. Waterworld. Wet hair, soggy shoes, sponges for socks. Umbrellas charge me. Owners unaware they are coming this close to impaling an eyeball, scraping a cheek. Herding onto the subway. Cattle call. The rustle of newspapers, squelch of wet shoes on tiled floor, winter coats awakened from hibernation, sniffling and coughing onto hands that grab for the nearest pole at the slightest bump.
I rest the back of my head against the wall of the wet train and scrutinize the early risers, packed sardine like around me.
"Next stop, 42nd street Times Square. Stand clear of the closing doors please."
I see The Sleepers. The Groggies. The Readers. The Stare into Spacers. The Homeless. The Ipodders. I am a charter member of The Groggies. Eyelids drooping, snapping open each time the train screeches to a clamorous stop.
Is it worth it? We're all zombies. Staggering to and from work. Tired, circles under our eyes, smiles scarce. What is my point? I work, to pay the bills. Something needs to happen. I want something to happen. I will make something happen.
Oct 14, 2005
Reader Comments (5)
Btw - love your pics. Esp. the London photos!