Tonight I went to go see "P.S. I Love You" with my two sisters and a friend of ours. Needless to say, the movie had more sap than a maple tree and enough cliches to fill a full season of any self-respecting soap opera. I spent the majority of the movie making cynical comments, yawning and waiting for it to end.
The film built itself up to a penultimate scene which, judging by the sniffles and tissue blowing exhibited by my sisters, was supposed to be emotional. Personally, I did a lot of yawning and laughing. In fact, I did so much yawning and laughing that - lo and behold - I felt actual tears in my eyes.
Go figure.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
X & Y
I have noticed an interesting phenomenon while working in the Rosengarten Reserve in the basement of Van Pelt.
Males around here tend to get a lot of attention from the ladies. Not this male, of course. But I see plenty of others who are affectionately approached by one or two random girls. Yesterday, if I recall, I was sitting next to a guy who seemed to have a steady stream of female fans, many of whom would bequeath him with hugs and kisses.
Often, I see males here in that all-too-common situation where they are conversing with two females, both of whom seem to be competing for his attention. And I see this ALL THE TIME, but more here than anywhere else.
Interestingly, I do not see the reverse. While I see females fawning over males, I cannot recall seeing a male approach a female counterpart in the same way.
What is it about Van Pelt? Is this where the suave, popular guys hang out? Is it the air of sophistication and intrigue that draws women to their men with such a powerful pull? I don't know what it is, but I want to find out. In the interest of social science.
Males around here tend to get a lot of attention from the ladies. Not this male, of course. But I see plenty of others who are affectionately approached by one or two random girls. Yesterday, if I recall, I was sitting next to a guy who seemed to have a steady stream of female fans, many of whom would bequeath him with hugs and kisses.
Often, I see males here in that all-too-common situation where they are conversing with two females, both of whom seem to be competing for his attention. And I see this ALL THE TIME, but more here than anywhere else.
Interestingly, I do not see the reverse. While I see females fawning over males, I cannot recall seeing a male approach a female counterpart in the same way.
What is it about Van Pelt? Is this where the suave, popular guys hang out? Is it the air of sophistication and intrigue that draws women to their men with such a powerful pull? I don't know what it is, but I want to find out. In the interest of social science.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Hard To Explain
Nachi Flyshacker has become unstuck in time.
He is lost in a world quite unlike the world he knows. It is a world of symbols and manipulation. He follows the road signs, but they lead him to dead ends. He can see, in the distance, where it is that he wants to be but he can't get there.
The symbols are really confusing him. They blur and rearrange, winking in and out of the picture. Why can't they stand still? Can't we agree on a common language?
It's all Greek to Nachi.
Nachi thinks back to the beginning of this bogus journey. He knows that he is supposed to be going somewhere, that the sages have sent him here to learn something, but his guide is gone and he is left to face the symbols on his own.
Trials. Trials and tribulations. Nachi got through the last one, by the skin of his teeth. But the next is oscillating dangerously before him. Nachi is trapped. Like a cat in a box.
He can only hope now. He has memorized the passwords, though he is not sure when they are to be used. Nachi cannot trust his intuition, for this land is an unintuitive land. His best bet is to fake it.
Uncertainty is running high. But things are certainly as they are meant to be.
He is lost in a world quite unlike the world he knows. It is a world of symbols and manipulation. He follows the road signs, but they lead him to dead ends. He can see, in the distance, where it is that he wants to be but he can't get there.
The symbols are really confusing him. They blur and rearrange, winking in and out of the picture. Why can't they stand still? Can't we agree on a common language?
It's all Greek to Nachi.
Nachi thinks back to the beginning of this bogus journey. He knows that he is supposed to be going somewhere, that the sages have sent him here to learn something, but his guide is gone and he is left to face the symbols on his own.
Trials. Trials and tribulations. Nachi got through the last one, by the skin of his teeth. But the next is oscillating dangerously before him. Nachi is trapped. Like a cat in a box.
He can only hope now. He has memorized the passwords, though he is not sure when they are to be used. Nachi cannot trust his intuition, for this land is an unintuitive land. His best bet is to fake it.
Uncertainty is running high. But things are certainly as they are meant to be.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Fix You
So I'm riding the elevator from 10 down to 1. A man gets in around 8. As we silently creep down the floors, my eyes unfocus into infinity, and I'm zoning, zoning, zoning...
BAM!
The man behind me had kicked the metal door really hard. Angrily. We started moving again (I hadn't noticed that the elevator was stuck).
I looked at him, and he had a funny little guilty smile on his face. He knew his act had lacked Fonzie's jukebox suave. It was more like when someone is yelling and hitting their computer when they think no one is watching.
He started to explain that you have to hit the door in a certain place when it gets stuck. I could tell he was getting self-conscious about the whole thing. To take the pressure off, I walked over to the door and pointed to where he kicked it and said "So that's the sweet spot."
He laughed.
BAM!
The man behind me had kicked the metal door really hard. Angrily. We started moving again (I hadn't noticed that the elevator was stuck).
I looked at him, and he had a funny little guilty smile on his face. He knew his act had lacked Fonzie's jukebox suave. It was more like when someone is yelling and hitting their computer when they think no one is watching.
He started to explain that you have to hit the door in a certain place when it gets stuck. I could tell he was getting self-conscious about the whole thing. To take the pressure off, I walked over to the door and pointed to where he kicked it and said "So that's the sweet spot."
He laughed.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Within You Without You
About a week ago, Treiger announced: "I *need* to learn how to make Indian food."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because it's good."
And that's why he and Allon showed up at Daniel and Yoni's Pad at 6PM yesterday, armed with basmati, garbanzos, coriander, cinnamon, ginger root, green chilies and organic whole milk. They were ready for Indian magic, and all they needed was a kitchen in which to make it.
Four hours later, they were still cooking. Indian food, apparently, takes a while. Especially the cheese. See, they made cheese by curdling the milk with lemon juice. You, in your boorish ignorance, probably think that milk curdles with acid looks gross. Well, it does. It doesn't taste so bad, though, although it isn't really worth waiting 2 hours for it to harden under a weight (in our case, a genetics textbook).
Another think I learned about Indian food is that it needs salt or, if available, MSG. At least it did when I tried it. Allon and Treiger claimed that it had "enough" salt in it already, but I strongly begged to differ. The more salt the better, I always say. As for the MSG, despite a brief misunderstanding about its historical origin, I still see it as both harmless and delicious.
We had a great time eating that food. It tasted great. But I would be remiss if I neglected to mention the nauseating stomachache that beset my innards early this morning. I don't blame the Indian food, though. I blame the coffee I drank that night. I remember now, I remember now, why they call it Night Coffee.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Ice, Ice Baby
Whatever you do, don't put your cell phone in the freezer.
Here's the context for that warning: I put mine in the freezer this weekend, and it broke.
Here's the unsatisfying, apologetic explanation for this profoundly short-sighted act of folly: it was making noise and it was Shabbos, so I couldn't turn it off. Now, this has happened to me before...
*** Flyshack Flashback ***
One Shabbos, in my 209 days, my phone's alarm clock began to go off at 7 in the morning. It wasn't as bad as the time that Jonathan's computer started to blast "Savior" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers (my absolute favorite band of all time) at 6 AM one Shabbos morning in 911 (when he wasn't even there), but it was still pretty annoying. I needed to put my phone somewhere where the effect of its noise would be minimal. I chose the freezer, and it was fine afterwards.
[Note: if anyone is curious about the halachic permissibility of moving a phone on Shabbos, I refer you to Daniel J Schoenbrun, who has acted as my Moreh Hora'ah in muktza situations]
*** End of Flashback ***
So when my phone started to make noise again, I thought "Better put it in the freezer!" And I did, right between some frozen vegetables and Tabachnik soup.
Four hours later, I tried to fire up my frosty phone. The buttons felt a little weird, and it was most certainly not turning on. Not a good sign. For the next night and day I tried to charge it, to no avail. At this point, I didn't know if I had just killed the battery or if I would need a new phone.
The next day I called up Motorola tech support. I figured that a qualified engineer could easily tell me if I would need a new phone, or if it was just the battery. This, by the way, began my string of embarrassing conversations, all of which began with "So, I put my phone in the freezer..." The Motorola woman must have been pretty excited, because it was clearly her first time speaking the English language with another person. After an unpleasant 15 minute conversation, she concluded that my phone had "liquid damage", one of the 2 kinds of damage that just happened to not be covered by their warranty. I would need a new phone, she said.
I disagreed, so I took it down to the Verizon store on Market. Of course, they couldn't let me try a battery out; I had to buy it first. So I had to wait in a little underground dungeon until a guy was ready to see me. He put a battery in, and it worked. "Great! How much?" I asked. "$40" he said.
ForGET it! I bought a battery for $20 from a little ghetto store instead.
At least I didn't put it in the microwave.
Here's the context for that warning: I put mine in the freezer this weekend, and it broke.
Here's the unsatisfying, apologetic explanation for this profoundly short-sighted act of folly: it was making noise and it was Shabbos, so I couldn't turn it off. Now, this has happened to me before...
One Shabbos, in my 209 days, my phone's alarm clock began to go off at 7 in the morning. It wasn't as bad as the time that Jonathan's computer started to blast "Savior" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers (my absolute favorite band of all time) at 6 AM one Shabbos morning in 911 (when he wasn't even there), but it was still pretty annoying. I needed to put my phone somewhere where the effect of its noise would be minimal. I chose the freezer, and it was fine afterwards.
[Note: if anyone is curious about the halachic permissibility of moving a phone on Shabbos, I refer you to Daniel J Schoenbrun
So when my phone started to make noise again, I thought "Better put it in the freezer!" And I did, right between some frozen vegetables and Tabachnik soup.
Four hours later, I tried to fire up my frosty phone. The buttons felt a little weird, and it was most certainly not turning on. Not a good sign. For the next night and day I tried to charge it, to no avail. At this point, I didn't know if I had just killed the battery or if I would need a new phone.
The next day I called up Motorola tech support. I figured that a qualified engineer could easily tell me if I would need a new phone, or if it was just the battery. This, by the way, began my string of embarrassing conversations, all of which began with "So, I put my phone in the freezer..." The Motorola woman must have been pretty excited, because it was clearly her first time speaking the English language with another person. After an unpleasant 15 minute conversation, she concluded that my phone had "liquid damage", one of the 2 kinds of damage that just happened to not be covered by their warranty. I would need a new phone, she said.
I disagreed, so I took it down to the Verizon store on Market. Of course, they couldn't let me try a battery out; I had to buy it first. So I had to wait in a little underground dungeon until a guy was ready to see me. He put a battery in, and it worked. "Great! How much?" I asked. "$40" he said.
ForGET it! I bought a battery for $20 from a little ghetto store instead.
At least I didn't put it in the microwave.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Ask Me Anything
It's been a while.
To make up for my two month lull, I thought it would be prudent to vent about my current plague of writer's block. I'm supposed to be writing a paper for my Working Out writing seminar, and I just can't find the 1500 words that I need. What can I say - I've got nothing to say.
The fact of the matter is that I don't particularly CARE about the topic (aerobic exercise in senior citizens and its ability to prevent brain deterioration). And when you don't care about something, it's tough to really elaborate beyond a single paragraph.
But it's not that I can't express myself. I mean, I have this blog as evidence to the contrary. It's not that I fear the written word. Nay! The pen is my sword, it is my knightly charge with which I express and project the wondrous thoughts that brew in my most lofty of thoughts. As a human, as a being whose ability to speak and communicate is truly divine in origin, it is my pleasure - even duty - to creatively spout forth original works. See the paragraph before Yishtabach in Shabbos psukei d'zimra for details. Also the haggada.
But alas, for although my ability and deisre to write surges within me like a muscular beast, it also cries out in despair, for it has been shackled to the grindstone that is my writing seminar. Rather than be allowed to run free, to build great buildings, to do great things, it is forced to march in mindless circles, bearing the whips of petty criticism and unchangable deadlines.
So I have decided to allow my beast a brief recess on the playground of this blog, so that he may feel somewhat rejuvinated upon his return to that dreadfull grindstone.
Alas, I hear the schoolbell ringing.
To make up for my two month lull, I thought it would be prudent to vent about my current plague of writer's block. I'm supposed to be writing a paper for my Working Out writing seminar, and I just can't find the 1500 words that I need. What can I say - I've got nothing to say.
The fact of the matter is that I don't particularly CARE about the topic (aerobic exercise in senior citizens and its ability to prevent brain deterioration). And when you don't care about something, it's tough to really elaborate beyond a single paragraph.
But it's not that I can't express myself. I mean, I have this blog as evidence to the contrary. It's not that I fear the written word. Nay! The pen is my sword, it is my knightly charge with which I express and project the wondrous thoughts that brew in my most lofty of thoughts. As a human, as a being whose ability to speak and communicate is truly divine in origin, it is my pleasure - even duty - to creatively spout forth original works. See the paragraph before Yishtabach in Shabbos psukei d'zimra for details. Also the haggada.
But alas, for although my ability and deisre to write surges within me like a muscular beast, it also cries out in despair, for it has been shackled to the grindstone that is my writing seminar. Rather than be allowed to run free, to build great buildings, to do great things, it is forced to march in mindless circles, bearing the whips of petty criticism and unchangable deadlines.
So I have decided to allow my beast a brief recess on the playground of this blog, so that he may feel somewhat rejuvinated upon his return to that dreadfull grindstone.
Alas, I hear the schoolbell ringing.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Tangled Up in Blue
The Shabbos candles have long burned out, and the night hangs inside the Flyshack Palace. A small yellow light illuminates a sprawling world of blue flowers. As my eyes follow the curves and patterns, my mind is whisked into a wonderland of yesteryear, where behind every door lies a scene from my childhood, a piece of my past, a part of my self. Now, as we take this moment to remember what once was, I want to take you through some of those doors.
The flowers looked like faces. They came in threes, two on top for the eyes and one on the bottom as a small mouth. At first, the faces seemed bizarre, but as I grew to know and love them, they became like family. When I would come back to visit after a long absence, our eyes would meet in silent hello and I could almost see the mouth smile.
A stomach virus would bring me to the bathroom for nearly 24 hours straight. Those were painful ordeals, but I had a friend to help me through it. Their presence was reassuring - it represented the ability to persevere through hardships and come out on the other side standing strong.
I see myself as a toddler learning to brush my teeth. All around me are my blue friends, standing by to witness the occasion. Years later they are still there when I get braces and have to learn how to brush my teeth once again. They watch as I bring in a whole army of new friends - the shaver, the toenail clipper, the hair brush... they never protest about the new things in my life, because they know that they have a special place.
Now, they are gone. Two decades reduced to nothing in a matter of hours. The empty spaces on the wall cry out to me in a forlorn wail of loneliness. The new faces are not the same. And I - I am forced to close my eyes and escape into memory - the only place where I can find those peaceful pastures of blue.
The flowers looked like faces. They came in threes, two on top for the eyes and one on the bottom as a small mouth. At first, the faces seemed bizarre, but as I grew to know and love them, they became like family. When I would come back to visit after a long absence, our eyes would meet in silent hello and I could almost see the mouth smile.
A stomach virus would bring me to the bathroom for nearly 24 hours straight. Those were painful ordeals, but I had a friend to help me through it. Their presence was reassuring - it represented the ability to persevere through hardships and come out on the other side standing strong.
I see myself as a toddler learning to brush my teeth. All around me are my blue friends, standing by to witness the occasion. Years later they are still there when I get braces and have to learn how to brush my teeth once again. They watch as I bring in a whole army of new friends - the shaver, the toenail clipper, the hair brush... they never protest about the new things in my life, because they know that they have a special place.
Now, they are gone. Two decades reduced to nothing in a matter of hours. The empty spaces on the wall cry out to me in a forlorn wail of loneliness. The new faces are not the same. And I - I am forced to close my eyes and escape into memory - the only place where I can find those peaceful pastures of blue.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Burn, Baby, Burn
It's been one of those days.
It was the first day of the dreaded, notorious Organic Chemistry Lab. The place where you need to know the difference between a Buchner and Hirsch funnel. The place where you spend hours watching tiny crystals through a foggy lens, waiting pathetically for a sign of melting. The place where a flask never boils when you want it to and almost certainly boils when you don't.
Needless to say, I was a trifle nervous as I walked into the lab at 1 PM this afternoon and thoroughly exhausted when I tumbled out at 5. The vast majority of the 4 hours in between had been spent in one of two states: 1) Waiting forEVER for something stupid to happen 2) Flailing frantically as 7 important things simultaneous happened beyond my control
I returned to my room, intent on depositing my person on the couch and unplugging my brain for a little while. I noticed that it smelled good as I walked in. At first, I thought that it was due to my improved placement of my Yankee Candle electric air freshner, which has been filling the common room with a pleasant aroma of vanilla since I bough it 3 days ago [Note: my roommates claim that the vanilla device delivers something more like a choking odor rather than a pleasant aroma. However, they have failed to consider the fact that they are completely wrong.]
It was, however, something else that was delivering the smell which I fancied. Inside my oven lay two trays of baking hors d'oeuvre... which I shall henceforth christen aw dervs since this is America and language can change if we all try hard enough. Anyway, I remembered that the guys running the Kedma launch party had asked to borrow our oven to heat up their aw dervs and we said "ok".
At this point I found the couch that I had been craving and turned on some tunes and proceeded to recharge my batteries. A few minutes later, in walked Sarah Breger to check on the aw dervs. I stumbled over as she opened up the oven. "They aren't done?" she asked inredously. "They've been in for over an hour, and they're supposed to cook in 20 minutes!"
I looked at her and grinned, as if to say "You're looking at a guy who's been in orgo lab all day. I know ALL ABOUT how much you're supposed to heat stuff. It takes forever!" And with that thought in my mind I cranked the oven all the way up. Sarah smiled and left. I felt vindicated. Sure, I may have failed today in orgo lab because I could boil my benzoic acid sample fast enough, but at least I won't have that problem with the oven and the aw dervs. I may be a lousy chemist, but I am a divine chef. I sat down at my computer and lost myself in facebook for about 15 minutes.
That's about when the smoke alarm went off.
I jumped up and bolted into the common room. The aw dervs were definitely not doing well, and the smoke was cascading down the front of the oven door like a Waterfall from Hell. With the kind of energy only supplied by rare bursts of adrenaline, I had the windows open in seconds flat, fanned the smoke detector and sat down next to the oven with a small electric fan pointed directly at it.
The top tray is pretty burnt. I hope the Kedma staff doesn't flay me alive. I ruined their aw dervs and now no one is going to read about Israel, or the Jewish people, or baseball or childhood or whatever the heck Kedma is all about. I turned the heat down to make sure I don't burn the lower tray. I hope they finish baking before the launch in 13 minutes...
At the rate I'm going, don't count on it.
It was the first day of the dreaded, notorious Organic Chemistry Lab. The place where you need to know the difference between a Buchner and Hirsch funnel. The place where you spend hours watching tiny crystals through a foggy lens, waiting pathetically for a sign of melting. The place where a flask never boils when you want it to and almost certainly boils when you don't.
Needless to say, I was a trifle nervous as I walked into the lab at 1 PM this afternoon and thoroughly exhausted when I tumbled out at 5. The vast majority of the 4 hours in between had been spent in one of two states: 1) Waiting forEVER for something stupid to happen 2) Flailing frantically as 7 important things simultaneous happened beyond my control
I returned to my room, intent on depositing my person on the couch and unplugging my brain for a little while. I noticed that it smelled good as I walked in. At first, I thought that it was due to my improved placement of my Yankee Candle electric air freshner, which has been filling the common room with a pleasant aroma of vanilla since I bough it 3 days ago [Note: my roommates claim that the vanilla device delivers something more like a choking odor rather than a pleasant aroma. However, they have failed to consider the fact that they are completely wrong.]
It was, however, something else that was delivering the smell which I fancied. Inside my oven lay two trays of baking hors d'oeuvre... which I shall henceforth christen aw dervs since this is America and language can change if we all try hard enough. Anyway, I remembered that the guys running the Kedma launch party had asked to borrow our oven to heat up their aw dervs and we said "ok".
At this point I found the couch that I had been craving and turned on some tunes and proceeded to recharge my batteries. A few minutes later, in walked Sarah Breger to check on the aw dervs. I stumbled over as she opened up the oven. "They aren't done?" she asked inredously. "They've been in for over an hour, and they're supposed to cook in 20 minutes!"
I looked at her and grinned, as if to say "You're looking at a guy who's been in orgo lab all day. I know ALL ABOUT how much you're supposed to heat stuff. It takes forever!" And with that thought in my mind I cranked the oven all the way up. Sarah smiled and left. I felt vindicated. Sure, I may have failed today in orgo lab because I could boil my benzoic acid sample fast enough, but at least I won't have that problem with the oven and the aw dervs. I may be a lousy chemist, but I am a divine chef. I sat down at my computer and lost myself in facebook for about 15 minutes.
That's about when the smoke alarm went off.
I jumped up and bolted into the common room. The aw dervs were definitely not doing well, and the smoke was cascading down the front of the oven door like a Waterfall from Hell. With the kind of energy only supplied by rare bursts of adrenaline, I had the windows open in seconds flat, fanned the smoke detector and sat down next to the oven with a small electric fan pointed directly at it.
The top tray is pretty burnt. I hope the Kedma staff doesn't flay me alive. I ruined their aw dervs and now no one is going to read about Israel, or the Jewish people, or baseball or childhood or whatever the heck Kedma is all about. I turned the heat down to make sure I don't burn the lower tray. I hope they finish baking before the launch in 13 minutes...
At the rate I'm going, don't count on it.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Won't Get Fooled Again
Lesson of the Day
Do not ever do either of the following:
There is only one cure I know of when it comes to feeling queasy. I must simply walk around outside until the queasiness passes. This particular occasion gave me the chance to take a spontaneous tour of campus (does this place EVER get old?!), as well as a chance to say hi to one Shalom Goldberg. I also got to relax on a bench down by the river, where the quiet sounds of the water lapped against me like... water.
Then, on the way home, I decided to throw in the towel and buy some Pepto Bismol. Time to shower.
Do not ever do either of the following:
- Drink coffee which has been sitting out in the coffee pot for over 24 hours
- Taste a meat-containing dish which your friend has just described as "rancid"
There is only one cure I know of when it comes to feeling queasy. I must simply walk around outside until the queasiness passes. This particular occasion gave me the chance to take a spontaneous tour of campus (does this place EVER get old?!), as well as a chance to say hi to one Shalom Goldberg. I also got to relax on a bench down by the river, where the quiet sounds of the water lapped against me like... water.
Then, on the way home, I decided to throw in the towel and buy some Pepto Bismol. Time to shower.
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Lovely Rita
I'm feeling really angry at the police right now. See, me and the police usually get along pretty well, but when it comes to parking meters there's always this friction between us. I always get to my meter one second too late. Once the guy was there writing my ticket as I approached the vehicle. I tried to persuade him to let it go, but he didn't speak English very well. He indicated that he couldn't take the ticket back, even if he wanted to, because it was entered into the system or something.
It happened again today, this time in Queens. I'm parked on a small side street off of Main. I wasn't really worried about a ticket because hey, this wasn't exactly Midtown. There were plenty of spaces available, and it was the middle of the afternoon. Nope. There was the ticket smirking at me from my windshield, 3 minutes after the meter had expired.
Where are these guys hiding? Is it just by chance, or is there some kind of system? If the former, perhaps I should read moreh nevuchim or accept the fact that I have bad Karma. If the latter, then those dudes should be finding better ways to spend our tax dollars than fining good guys like me for taking up space on a lightly populated road for 3 extra minutes.
I understand the theory behind the quick-response. If you develop a reputation for not responding quickly, then it becomes more tempting to leave you car in the spot past the time, and then it becomes much harder to find spots in the first place. That's just bad for everybody.
But on the other hand, we do have cases where there's a well-balanced medium between the letter of the law and the more realistic practice thereof. Think about speeding tickets. If speeding tickets worked like parking meters, we'd all be paying fines every time we went 2 miles over. But the system still works, because it's based on multiple factors - how busy is the highway, what time of day/night is it, etc. The point is, you are in control. You are given a certain amount of leeway beyond the printed speed limit, and at the end of the day the law keeps you from driving recklessly without inconveniencing you.
Why can't parking meters be like that too? If someone leaves a meter empty for an hour, that person is clearly irresponsible. But if I'm sitting in a restaurant finishing up lunch with my friends, and I know my meter is running out soon, why should I have to run back and fill the meter any more than I should have to drive 5o mph when everyone else is going 65?
True, there has to be a standard. Also, cops don't necessarily know how long a meter's been on empty. But if they do, I think they should use their discretion and cut us some slack.
It happened again today, this time in Queens. I'm parked on a small side street off of Main. I wasn't really worried about a ticket because hey, this wasn't exactly Midtown. There were plenty of spaces available, and it was the middle of the afternoon. Nope. There was the ticket smirking at me from my windshield, 3 minutes after the meter had expired.
Where are these guys hiding? Is it just by chance, or is there some kind of system? If the former, perhaps I should read moreh nevuchim or accept the fact that I have bad Karma. If the latter, then those dudes should be finding better ways to spend our tax dollars than fining good guys like me for taking up space on a lightly populated road for 3 extra minutes.
I understand the theory behind the quick-response. If you develop a reputation for not responding quickly, then it becomes more tempting to leave you car in the spot past the time, and then it becomes much harder to find spots in the first place. That's just bad for everybody.
But on the other hand, we do have cases where there's a well-balanced medium between the letter of the law and the more realistic practice thereof. Think about speeding tickets. If speeding tickets worked like parking meters, we'd all be paying fines every time we went 2 miles over. But the system still works, because it's based on multiple factors - how busy is the highway, what time of day/night is it, etc. The point is, you are in control. You are given a certain amount of leeway beyond the printed speed limit, and at the end of the day the law keeps you from driving recklessly without inconveniencing you.
Why can't parking meters be like that too? If someone leaves a meter empty for an hour, that person is clearly irresponsible. But if I'm sitting in a restaurant finishing up lunch with my friends, and I know my meter is running out soon, why should I have to run back and fill the meter any more than I should have to drive 5o mph when everyone else is going 65?
True, there has to be a standard. Also, cops don't necessarily know how long a meter's been on empty. But if they do, I think they should use their discretion and cut us some slack.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
