ironic or apropos?

sesquipedalian [adj]: (of words) long; having many syllables.

Somnolence in the City

I love my balcony.

In an apartment that can best be described as spatially spartan, my balcony is a saving grace: a gateway to the fresh air and a sliver of sky. I take deep breaths there. It’s a great place to just sit, and since I have very relaxing lounge chairs—they lean back so that it’s almost like you’re in the cockpit of a spaceship—it is also a good place to nap.

Generally, my naps have taken place on lazy Saturdays or Sundays, when a book just can’t keep my eyelids aloft. It’s generally a brief one too, since there are built-in alarms outside. Birds, planes overhead, the occasional honking horn.

The other night, however, I had come home from happy hour. As is the custom, the ‘hour’ stretched into several, over which time I had a few drinks. When I came home, I went out on the balcony to just look up at the glare-muzzled stars above.

Instead, I fell asleep.

About 50 windows have a clear view of my balcony. There are spread symmetrically, like white-paned dominoes, over the back of an apartment building that faces the back of mine. There’s no reason to believe that anyone be looking down at me from these glassy perches. But if they did, they would see a sprawled body in his Friday clothes, mouth open in a muted snore, bared before the world in alfresco slumber until about 6:30am.

But hey, if they want to watch, let them watch. I’ll take regular outdoor naps, and spend nights under the stars if that’s what the people want. It’ll be the latest reality TV extravaganza—and we’ll call it “Somnolence in the City.” Can’t be any worse than all the other reality shows, and I’d get paid to sleep. Win-win.

The Black Sea Boozehounds

We all have our talents. Some people’s talents place them far above any others in their chosen field of endeavor. Picasso. Newton. Shakespeare. Philbin.

But what if you didn’t know your talent, or didn’t know the extent of it? You knew you were good… but because you rarely saw a need to compete, you didn’t know how good you were.

What if you were the best ever and you never even knew it? And what if being that good saved your life?

I just read an article about a man in Bulgaria who was "knocked off his feet" by a car three years ago. When doctors examined him, they were not surprised to learn that he was drunk. They were surprised to learn how drunk he was.

His blood-alcohol level was 0.914.

The legal limit for driving in most cases is .08. According to one source a “level of 0.30 is classified as stupor, 0.4 is comatose and 0.5 is considered fatal.”

In other words, this man was twice as drunk as a dead guy. And I would like to point out that he was “knocked off his feet.” Which means that he was on his feet when he was hit, and it took an automobile to knock him down. His blood could be considered an incendiary, and yet he was standing up.

This man was clearly superhuman (and by the way, 67 years old). And he is not alone. One of his countrymen registered a 0.835 a year later. I'm guessing his breath could sterilize medical instruments at that point, or could blind a puppy. Oh, and he was driving at the time. Stellar.

It’s like they are breeding an alcohol-resistant super race in the former Easter Bloc. The Black Sea Boozehounds, they might be called, were they a minor-league baseball team.

In any event, I have a new perspective on Bulgaria—a mix of respect and fear. In fact, I may honor them by coining a new term. The next time I have an awful hangover, I might just tell people I’m “nursing a Bulgarian.”

On second thought, that might sound a bit weird.


Side note: I noticed in one of the articles, they talked of a "Latvian champion." That seems to suggest a competition (and an absurd Eurasian dominance of it.) Underground drinking championships. Like "Bloodsport" for booze. Hmm.

hot garbage, summer in the city

There are a few things you can count on in NYC. Like garbage and urine.

I don’t mean to suggest that New York is alone in this. In certain parts of Asia I visited it seemed that garbage pyramids were a legitimate form of architecture. And in Amsterdam in saw etched Roman columns with a Latin inscription translating to: "Humans do not pee in the streets."

But of all the cities in the US I’ve lived in, I’ve never noticed it as much as I do here. Piles of garbage bags, glossy and bulging with refuse, lay outside of many establishments for pick-up. The curb serves as a mini-dump until the trash man comes to take it all away. And, as garbage often does, it smells. Actively.

Urine is noticeable in two places—sidewalks and subway stations. The sidewalks feature the tinklings of the city’s enormous dog population—tiny rivulets of Rover’s leg-lifter. The streams run downhill toward the curb, with little tributaries shooting off as it makes its way to the street. And of course the subway has its occasional P Trains, though you won’t find them on an MTA map. You don’t even see them that often, but you know they are there. It’s the smell, you see.

Which is why I am bringing this up now, as opposed to some other time of the year. It is summer. Things get hot in the summer. Heat amplifies odor.

The summer heat makes these smells powerful—spinach-to-Popeye strong. Their stench does not gently waft in these lazy summer months—it attacks, rends, suffocates. In the right concentrations, it affects brain function—removing all other thoughts from your head except “How can I get up these subway stairs without breathing?” In another instance, you might be walking down the street to get some food. You pass a stack of plastic bags, and before you know it the pungent clouds of Eau de Rotten Cabbage have stolen your appetite.

It is just another part of the city’s sensory scope, and I accept it. But when the mild chill of Fall comes, I will appreciate the nasal vacation.

Tough Plant Love

I’m concerned about my plants.

They are on my balcony, so all four of them get plenty of sun and water. Maybe they get too much, I don’t know. I gave them new terracotta pots, nutrient-rich soil mixture, everything a happy plant could want.

But they still don’t look good at all. In fact, despite my best efforts, my balcony looks like the botanical equivalent of a methadone clinic. I am not going to put a picture up because I don’t want to be judged.

In any event, I’m not giving up. I think I’m going to try to start talking to them next. Or berating them, because I am starting to take this personally. I wonder what my neighbors would think if they saw me calling my hibiscus a weak, self-indulgent prima donna.