UNDER COVID, PT. 15: CLEANER AIR AND HUNGRIER RATS

Only Jerry (aka Curly) is properly dressed for
the occasion.

Another stroll to the Conservatory Gardens yesterday showed that easily 90% of the people we saw had their faces covered. And If Gov. Cuomo has his way, that number should jump to 100%; as of midnight, all New Yorkers are to cover up when approaching anyone within six feet. 

Doormen, mailmen, cops, nannies, kids, delivery guys, business people, cashiers -- everyone, it seems, but addicts and the homeless (the two who require masks more than anyone else) are now extras in the blockbuster series, The City Without a Face, now in its third exciting week. Or is it fourth? Who knows! Time has lost its meaning. 

How quickly our perception of what's normal and what isn't changes when we least expect it. The early-birds who masked up a month ago were the strange-looking ones. Now... well, did you ever expect there to be a time when it was people whose faces you could see that were suspicious looking? What are you trying to do, kill me? Officer, arrest that man! But try doing it without coming within six feet of him.

You gotta admit, civilization is much more colorful.

Ironic, then, that we New Yorkers can't fully enjoy the (relatively) clean air that's accompanied the lockdown. Images provided by NASA shows a dramatic drop in smog along the Northeast coast. (I was going to say "I-95 corridor" but that seems to be a trademark by local meteorologists.)

It isn't all Eden, of course. While some areas appear to have dropped to zero smog level, New York City isn't yet giving the Poconos a run for its money. Perhaps if Cuomo's prediction of another 12 to 18 months of life as we know currently know it is correct, and our air becomes cleaner, Manhattan will be the new Jim Thorpe (the town, not the runner). 

We should've seen this coming a long time ago.

Another interesting development has to do with our legendary vermin population. The few restaurants still open for outgoing meals don't provide delivery service to rats; thus, the amount of scraps available have quickly dwindled. 

Therefore, in what amounts to their own wet market, a war of the fittest is currently underway in the local rodent world, with the winners resorting to cannibalism in order to survive. 

Disgusting? Perhaps. But it's nice to see that they're giving the Health Department a hand in wiping themselves out.

"Fuck you and your Land's End catalogue,
Mr. & Mrs. Upper East Sider!"

Something not as useful is how little mail we've received the last two weeks. Not necessarily because we're expecting anything important (other than our state tax refund). It's just that I'm a little tired of returning from our mailbox empty-handed, and having to wash my hands for 20 seconds for nothing.  

Today we learned that mail service throughout the city has been disrupted by mailmen calling in sick with COVID-19. (Yes, I know they're called "mail carriers" now, but allow me one word from my youth.) One Upper East Side building in particular hasn't received any mail for a week. A resident there told the Post that her state refund check was sent two weeks ago but hadn't arrived, "so God knows where that is." Probably somewhere with ours.

Meanwhile, I continue to enjoy checking out reporters' homes as they report the news. As mentioned in one of my earlier COVID piece, initially almost everyone wanted to show off how many books they owned. Over time, others were fine with sitting in front of an photo of Manhattan or their station logo. But there now seems to be a trend of presenting a certain image of themselves.

"Wanna hear some Radiohead? They've got so much more warmth on
vinyl. Get it -- weather, warmth?!"

Not content with merely forecasting the weather, NY1's Erick Adame brandishes his hipster credentials by making sure his turntable gets as much camera time as he does. We get it, Erick, vinyl has presence that digital lacks. Just let me know if it's going to rain today. By the way, that looks exactly like the turntable I owned in the 1980s, so I'm not impressed.

"Oh! Is that where I keep my SIX Emmys? I wondered what happened
to them!"

Over at WCBS, Marcia Kramer wants to remind you that she's no slouch when it comes to journalism. She just happens to sit near a display case where six, count 'em, SIX Emmy awards proudly stand. At least I have the humility to keep my three Promax awards atop the kitchen cupboard, where you have to crane your neck to admire them. Which I've been doing a lot of lately.


And as for my wife... she's been using her weekends cleaning out the bedroom. Just this afternoon, she found the summer hats that she looked for in vain last year. "They were in the hatbox" she explained in such a tone as if blaming the hatbox for doing its job. Next weekend, I look forward to her shocked reaction when she looks in the pencil holder. Now pardon me while I return to my Promax Awards. Did I tell you I won THREE of them?

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