If you want to be bummed out, you’ll keep reading this column.
If you don’t want to end up mumbling to yourself you’ll stop reading. Now. You guys who want a chuckle, see you next week.
By then, my happy, peppy and bursting with good cheer self will return (I think).
This week, I’m writing this column in a worn out bathrobe. I’m unshaven and walking around in tissue boxes for shoes.
I’m typing this in the alley next to the Lawrence Hotel on 116th Street surrounded by two hundred pigeons.
I’m eating a piece of beef jerky some guy pushing a shopping cart full of cans gave me.
Twenty minutes ago I walked past Pickles and Pies and some guy with a wool hat and two teeth told me to get a job. Things are that grim.
I catch schizophrenia like a cold. It comes and it goes. This time, I’ve got to quarantine myself because I’m not sure if my brand of doom and gloom is contagious.
I usually cure myself of the blues by walking on the beach. Oh, but there is none.
You know what drove me to this week’s ledge? I’ve actually spent time figuring out FEMA’s ABFE stuff (as in advisory base flood elevations) and the coming hammer of flood insurance rates.
In short, each and every homeowner will have to figure out how high above sea level their first floor is. (Forget basements and putting utilities in basements).
And then there will be the choice of raising your house or paying flood insurance that will just make you look to relocate.
And imagine if the government says we’ll pay for all your houses to be raised.
Ok—get used to cranes and heavy machinery on block after block for what, three years?
If they raise houses like they fix roads around here it could take a decade.
Hold on, I’ve got to let some more dark thoughts pass.... The Wave (me) will spell out the particulars in coming weeks. Which is why I am in a funk now.
I’ve been trying to be a Rockaway cheerleader but when a FEMA guy comes in to The Wave and says “the news is bad.”
I wish it was different.” Well, that kind of stuff tends to deflate the pom-poms.
If you stayed with me this far, thanks – misery loves company. Here’s your ratty bathrobe. Happy hour at the Park Inn.