ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-22-18)
I got a phone call from George Latimer last week, he is the Westchester County Executive. I wasn't home so he left a lengthy, rambling message, and man, he sounded pissed! Apparently he was angry about all the blackouts, and he must have been right in the middle of making toast or something when his power went out. He was rattling on about how all the top brass at the utility company should step down, which is why you should always have your office in the basement. The next message on my machine was from the lady at NYSEG. "Did Latimer just call? If he calls again, tell him we're working on it as fast as we can."
My first thought was somebody should get on this RIGHT AWAY. Not the power situation, but the fact that we only have ONE executive. This is a big county, and we should have two or three executives, and maybe a more specific job description. "Executive" sounds more like a pay grade than a job title.
Our lights went out the day before we were supposed to leave for our little getaway trip to the Dominican Republic. I was praying that our generator would start, we hadn't used it in a while. I recall my neighbor Paul telling me that I should pour some kind of additive into the gas so it wouldn't go bad, but was it every year or every ten years? I was going to split the difference and add something in five years when I could be sure that I wouldn't remember.
Was it too late to add it now? I looked around the garage for something to add to the gas, but all I found was a gallon container of a fluid that looked like an avocado margarita. I didn't want to waste that on the gas, so I just started the generator and hoped for the best.
I felt a little guilty for those who don't have a generator. My friend Margaret texted us and said, "I guess getting a price on a generator is not exactly the same as getting a generator...." These are the unfortunate people, the ones who say, "We are doing GREAT! It's forcing us to enjoy some family time TOGETHER!" It's family time where everyone gathers together in the living room near the fireplace, sullen and silently seething that they can't log on to their computers. What if Katy Perry and Marilyn Manson showed up to the iheartradio awards wearing the same gaudy yet understated Valentino gown? How in the name of all that is holy are we going to know who wore it better? What if something very deeply private and personal happens to Kim Kardashian that she doesn't want to share with anyone, and because we have no power, she is unable to share it with everyone?
Uh-oh, just as I was going to write something about Trump my light bulb started to dim. That means, among other things, that the generator is running out of gas. I'm a little embarrassed to say this, but I don't know how to operate the gas can. It used to be that you would unscrew the top of the can, and inside would be a spout that you would transfer to the outside and re-screw the cap, and you could get on with spilling gas all over the place. But it's not that simple anymore, due to all the innovations in the gas can industry. Now there is all this bizarre infrastructure built into the inside of the spout to prevent you from mistakenly getting the gas from the can, where it is safe, to the generator, where who knows what could happen? Somewhere buried in the text on the side of the can, written in 6-point type, are instructions on how to break into the gas can and extract the gas.
Instead, I take a 1/2-inch spade bit and drill a hole into the spout with my power drill, after first throwing it across the garage. I re-screw it onto the can, and fill up the generator. Gas spills all over the place from my new modified gas can spout, and it seems like things are back to normal; I shouldn't have gotten so angry at an innocent gas can.
Feeling better, I left a phone message for Latimer to get a grip on himself and try to calm down. Maybe do some breathing exercises. My Mom used to tell me to count to ten before doing anything rash, and because of that simple rule my skin has stayed relatively clear. It's something I've always lived by. Sometimes my wife asks me, "Why do you always count to three before you do something rash?"
I got a phone call from George Latimer last week, he is the Westchester County Executive. I wasn't home so he left a lengthy, rambling message, and man, he sounded pissed! Apparently he was angry about all the blackouts, and he must have been right in the middle of making toast or something when his power went out. He was rattling on about how all the top brass at the utility company should step down, which is why you should always have your office in the basement. The next message on my machine was from the lady at NYSEG. "Did Latimer just call? If he calls again, tell him we're working on it as fast as we can."
My first thought was somebody should get on this RIGHT AWAY. Not the power situation, but the fact that we only have ONE executive. This is a big county, and we should have two or three executives, and maybe a more specific job description. "Executive" sounds more like a pay grade than a job title.
Our lights went out the day before we were supposed to leave for our little getaway trip to the Dominican Republic. I was praying that our generator would start, we hadn't used it in a while. I recall my neighbor Paul telling me that I should pour some kind of additive into the gas so it wouldn't go bad, but was it every year or every ten years? I was going to split the difference and add something in five years when I could be sure that I wouldn't remember.
Was it too late to add it now? I looked around the garage for something to add to the gas, but all I found was a gallon container of a fluid that looked like an avocado margarita. I didn't want to waste that on the gas, so I just started the generator and hoped for the best.
I felt a little guilty for those who don't have a generator. My friend Margaret texted us and said, "I guess getting a price on a generator is not exactly the same as getting a generator...." These are the unfortunate people, the ones who say, "We are doing GREAT! It's forcing us to enjoy some family time TOGETHER!" It's family time where everyone gathers together in the living room near the fireplace, sullen and silently seething that they can't log on to their computers. What if Katy Perry and Marilyn Manson showed up to the iheartradio awards wearing the same gaudy yet understated Valentino gown? How in the name of all that is holy are we going to know who wore it better? What if something very deeply private and personal happens to Kim Kardashian that she doesn't want to share with anyone, and because we have no power, she is unable to share it with everyone?
Uh-oh, just as I was going to write something about Trump my light bulb started to dim. That means, among other things, that the generator is running out of gas. I'm a little embarrassed to say this, but I don't know how to operate the gas can. It used to be that you would unscrew the top of the can, and inside would be a spout that you would transfer to the outside and re-screw the cap, and you could get on with spilling gas all over the place. But it's not that simple anymore, due to all the innovations in the gas can industry. Now there is all this bizarre infrastructure built into the inside of the spout to prevent you from mistakenly getting the gas from the can, where it is safe, to the generator, where who knows what could happen? Somewhere buried in the text on the side of the can, written in 6-point type, are instructions on how to break into the gas can and extract the gas.
Instead, I take a 1/2-inch spade bit and drill a hole into the spout with my power drill, after first throwing it across the garage. I re-screw it onto the can, and fill up the generator. Gas spills all over the place from my new modified gas can spout, and it seems like things are back to normal; I shouldn't have gotten so angry at an innocent gas can.
Feeling better, I left a phone message for Latimer to get a grip on himself and try to calm down. Maybe do some breathing exercises. My Mom used to tell me to count to ten before doing anything rash, and because of that simple rule my skin has stayed relatively clear. It's something I've always lived by. Sometimes my wife asks me, "Why do you always count to three before you do something rash?"
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