Post 9/11 NYC Virgin

The bank is still in a twist, so I continue the whirl-wind tour of the air terminals of the major metropolitan areas of the United States. Last week, a long-held dream was finally realized, bitter sweet as it was. Small town, small-minded Texas boy finally makes it to (but not in, sadly) the Big Apple. Talk about a dry hump...

For some reason, it seems that I only travel to the East Coast during times of severe weather (DC flight and drive to Baltimore two weeks ago was on the leading edge of Hurricane Katrina). After a two hour delay in Pittsburgh (I guess it was two hours, the missing links hired by American Airlines for baggage handling broke my bag, my camera, and if I still wore a watch, pretty sure that would have been busted to hell as well), our US Airways regional air hump started jinking and rolling as though pitched in an enraged beehive dogfight. While the aerial high-jinks were entertaining, I put down the latest "Gee-why-didn't-I-think-of-that" book long enough to throw a falsely bored look out the window.

An airborne hell scowled at me from outside the Embraer jet hurtling my fat Irish ass towards LaGuardia. Hurricane Ophelia was still lifting her skirts at the coast line of North Carolina, but a whiff of her juices had already covered NYC. As we spiraled into the lower portions of the approach pattern, the clouds covered the entire city, and were backlit by the orange sodium street lamps, neon lights, and the 24 hour ephemeral glow which emanates from the world's favorite city.

Apparently, we missed LaGuardia, and were currently on approach through the Gates of Hell. Not even Momma Nature herself could generate the otherworldly display created by the roiling storm clouds and the carnival style backlighting, which threatened to reach out and grab our little aircraft, sucking us into some backwater of Hell. (Travel tip: Do not read anything by Dean Koontz during inclement weather. Or when on the road. Or when tired, frustrated, emotionally vulnerable or morally bankrupt.)

The stormclouds seemed to be peaking at about 15,000 feet, too low for hail or tornado, but just low enough to throw all forms of nastiness at small, low-flying aircraft attempting to land in a congested pattern, on approach over a large body of water, at night, at the countries' busiest airport.

That was of no concern to me. US Airways, still under the protection of a bona fide U.S. Bankruptcy Court, would see me safely to the ground, busted up baggage and all. Bankruptcy suspends most other laws, including the laws of physics. (Note: Effective October 17, 2005, the automatic stay provided under sec 362 of the US Bankruptcy Code will no longer suspend the second law of thermodynamics without notice and hearing).

What did concern me was that there were any number of other regional puddle jumpers flying around in the sulfur fueled fog, also looking for the airport. Somehow, the FAA mandated 1,0o0 foot, 3-mile required separation between commercial aircraft isn't any greater distance than the the distance between me and the scarlet-mary, wheezing mope sitting in the seat beside me who spent the entire flight sucking his brain matter back in through his left nostril. I hope he died in his motel room, alone, and very slowly.

But there is no time to visualize the numerous manifestations of of hoped for death for my cabin mate. I was too busy running through the dusty files in my mind trying to remember the last breathless 20/20 broadcast discussing mid-air collision, the technologically challenged air-traffic control infrastructure, and the level of mental illness, retardation and substance abuse of career air traffic controllers.

On the initial descent into Satan's early morning mist, I caught a little kid two planes over from our wingtip alternately sticking his tongue out at me, then picking his nose and wiping the dividends all over the window. I flipped the future Senator the bird, and closed my window. The little heathen could pick on someone else, maybe a passenger in the 737 flying so close to us that I could smell the vodka on the First Officer's breath.

I cried like a baby, when, in formation tighter than the Thunderbirds, the four commercial flights in our impromptu squadron landed in unison, wingtip to wingtip, on a southbound approach. It was also this very moment I realized that the northernmost point of the southbound approach was mostly a piece of corrugated tin hung out over the Atlantic, supported by the frame of an old card table from the set of "Welcome Back, Kotter". Although the landing gear of the plane next to me blocked my view, it looked like the same technology the cajuns used to build their levees.

Too many planes, too little airspace. Too many people being moved around to too many places. Functionally, there is no difference between TSA security checkpoints, and the Ft Worth Stockyards, except that the stockyards usually smell a little better. That the governmental powers-that-be, and their partners running the commercial airborne cattle cars, are trying to do too much with too little would also come to summarize my all to brief and, likely, all too unfair snap judgment of NYC.

During the ride into Manhattan (all the jokes about NYC cab drivers are true, by the way), one gets the feeling that the story of modern day NYC really is one of excessive good intentions and overreaching of goals, weighed down by the lack of resource, space, or cohesive thought. The bridges from Queens into Manhattan haven't seen fresh paint since the Kennedy administration, the steel and cable supports look to date about Civil War-era. The oldest buildings on the edge of Manhattan, many clearly marked for eventual destruction to cap generations of desecration, were probably well-aged by the time Vito Corleonne was setting up his olive oil import business. Parks and play areas are squeezed in between buildings and parking lots, surrounded by black, ornate iron fences. On the fence rests a simple sign that reads "Play Area". There were also signs that had nothing more than a Maple Leaf on them, so I wasn't sure if these areas were marked as "Safe Havens" for wayward cannucks.

Churches, schools, and apartments all looked as though they were bulging, seams ready to happily unravel and fail, spewing forth all manner of humanity and aggregate personal belongings. One can feel the psychic friction created from so many people trying so hard to squeeze so much utility out of the land and the resources available.

The World Summit was in town, and what little broken, pigeon English I could understand from the cabbies made it apparent that traffic was even worse than usual. I am still not certain how that is possible. The widest streets appeared to have room for parking against each curb, and two lanes designated for moving traffic. Incredibly, this somehow meant that six informal, meandering lanes of traffic became possible. Even when faced with a red light or a blocked intersection, the traffic whipped and throbbed, like a snake having a seizure. Like watching an interstate getting stuffed into a sausage casing.

Perhaps the infinite well of enthusiasm that once seemed to define American culture is what inevitably led to this Dr. Who Police Box feeling of compression, and the ever-present feeling of unrequited human want. For a fleeting second, I wondered what all the occupants of the vehicles sporting "Consular" or "Diplomat" plates really thought about this city, its people, and the nation that invariably follows its lead. Do they too believe that we have taken on too much, tried to serve too large a Sunday dinner to the masses? Is this why we justify a million people living in a soggy lakebed a/k/a New Orleans, and collectively gnash our teeth when the cavalry cannot rush in immediately and restore power so that they can use the HDTV's they boosted from Circuit City during the flooding?

I soon dropped that line of thought, and was satisfied with just being pissed off that the diplomats had their own barely used lane of traffic, through which they could freely drive their black Lincoln Towncars. God forbid that they be late for their chance to get a televised audience so they can rant and rave about the evil, lazy Americans at a time when Canadians are openly threatened and people look likes sausages stuffed into Vito's colon, or, well something like that.

This is not my final take on NYC, and barely passes as a beginning thought. However, it raises the troubling query of, whether or not the overly-ambitious existence of NYC, both decadent in desire but anorexic in remaining capacity is the chief culprit for the scene played out in suburban America each night as mom and dad arrive home from work later and later, leaving children unattended and unappreciated in the never-ending quest of attempting too much with too little to work with.

I can see why it would be easy to fall in love with NYC, for now I remain uncommitted. Until all the layers can sifted and understood, raise a cold one to the hopes that, until we have time to figure it all out, NYC does not leave us all Formerly Living.