Baby It's Cold Outside1
The weather in Connecticut today was splendid. The sun shone and the
temperature reached up, up, up — to 51 degrees fahrenheit today, not unlike like
a child standing atop a chair, tip-toed and fingers pointing skyward (reaching
for something or other that was, by its elevated placement, verboten to
touch). Some rejoiced, "Yes, indeed our young-one
has made it!" Others, the hand-wringers on television who'd rather
err on the side of caution, were heard to comment ever-so-quickly that the
weather in New York City had made it to 50; but we were five degrees behind; a
measly 45. They'd told us yesterday that today it'd be an abominable, cloudy 38.
Why the heck can't they say, "Gee, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was wrong.
I'm sorry to all of you people who came out bundled up for frigid
weather and are now being laughed at by those who decided to walk outside before
dressing, and not take my word for it."
The moron I watched on the local CBS affiliate re-assured us that
we'd enjoy but a moment of this balmy environment before, at rush-hour, the
temperature would again plummet to unendurable lows. "Watch out for black ice on
bridges, which freeze before the highway does!1" he cautioned. Would that my
job would allow me to constantly underestimate a number upon which my
job relies; only to be constantly forgiven when my error results in
someone stopping me on the street to say "Hey, great weather today, isn't it?"
It's great for a weather reporter's job when mother nature exceeds their gloomy
forecasts. It's also good for the folks who take care of coat-check booths. I
gave the young man at the restaurant where I took lunch today $1 to take my
overcoat and another dollar to redeem it (as if the cheap duster I wore was
worth nearly as much as the cashmere overcoats from tailors in London that lined the coat-check racks.
The time a weather reporter's job makes me want to shoot him or her is when
they predict a torrential ice storm for a major holiday (in this case, New
Year's eve) and start the phone ringing with cancellations the morning of the
prediction. Today, the weather for New Year's Eve was guesstimated at "cool and
clear," but sadly, some of the people who cancelled (stupid idiots) are so
self-conscious that they didn't have the nerve to call back and say "we'll make
it." No, instead they're gonna gamble on another place, merely to save face, and
won't be part of the magnificent party we have planned. But hey, that's the way things are when you're in a weather business. (I just wish they'd give restaurateurs, club owners, and music venues a break just once in a while, they have very little to lose and a bad forecast when indeed nothing comes of it has cost people their jobs and lots and lots of money.
I was still hot in a sun-bathed restaurant 22 floors up in an office
building with too much heat. It didn't occur to me to also remove my tweed sport
jacket; I guess because none of the other gentlemen in this restaurant had
removed their jackets; indeed, several had made the lunchtime faux-pas of
dining with their middle button closed. This made me extremely jealous because
at this point in time I don't own a suit-coat nor sport-coat that doesn't appear
a bit strained when I button it. I suffered the warmth by imbibing in far too
many (3) highballs before lunch and opting for white wine (a boring Chardonnay)
rather than red with my repast. The guy with whom I was having lunch was picking
up the tab; so as long as he kept his jacket on, so would I. Overwhelmed by the
heat, I recommended that I buy coffee and dessert at a favorite joint of ours
near to his office. He agreed. Our overcoats were both open as we walked up
State Street. Nearly simultaneously, we said "Goodness it was hot in there!"
We enjoyed a sunny but much cooler walk to our dessert destination. The
restaurant either had problems with their heat or was being a bit too drastic
with the energy savings. We kept sport coats on, and ordered coffee with
cordials and the house specialty - warmed chocolate cake with hot chocolate
sauce (we split it; I'm not that much a pig). Two and a half cups of
coffee, two Grappas and two Drambuies later, we left. Suffice it to say
on an airborne infrared sensor we'd have stuck out like Maraschino cherries in a dry
martini.
My lunch partner (also my broker) is a good, old-fashioned guy, and very,
very bright. He likes places like The Polytech, as it's affectionately called
(Hartford's full of private clubs). I don't. The primary reason I don't is
because I can't afford the four-figure annual dues, nor most of their offerings
(at cocktail hour, however, they have wonderful free hors d'oeuvres for members
and their guests). I also would not care for a membership at this particular
club because aside from their cigar room there's no smoking. Would that I paid
the same price at the Hartford Club, I'd be able to light the two most sublimely
delicious cigarettes of the day; the one before afternoon cocktails; and the one
after coffee, after dinner.
How ironic that the room I was dining in (Hartford's venerable Polytechnic
Club) was like a steam bath (after all, wouldn't you expect a club named
"Polytechnic" to have at least board members who'd see to it that the thermostat
is properly regulated? All I could think of were the people in the offices
below, who must, according to Murphy's Law, be blue with cold. I was once one of
those people, at work on the 15th floor of a 55-story building in Manhattan
which never did get the heating and cooling right. At that building, we'd
go downstairs to buy a cup of coffee in the building's atrium and linger there
to warm up; only to have to cling to our cardboard cups of thermal redemption
upon returning to work. Then microwave half-coffee/half-water just to warm up
enough to type and do paperwork.
The Global-Warming Vigil
It's days like this that get the Global Warming people very excited. In
fact, several of them, I hear, had an outdoor cocktail party nearby including hors
d'oeuvres (all properly melted in the broiler). In addition, they'd come up with
a lovely gilt-framed portrait of Al Gore which they left inside the house
(Heaven forbid the ultraviolet radiation due to the paper-thin ozone layer
deteriorate the colors of the likeness). Only the Good Lord and those in
attendance know whether or not offerings of food or money were left on the
"Altar of the Melting Ice-Caps."
It's always enchanted me, the thought of the
water level around Manhattan Island rising a foot or so. Then, not only would
The Water Club still be afloat, but one would need a dinghy, water-taxi or
other charming conveyance to reach its doors. Beside, the body parts which all
too frequently can be seen by walkers along the parks on the Hudson River in
lower Manhattan would probably wash up on the rocks, instead of battering the
crumbling breakwaters, and then washing out into the view of passing
pedestrians, as they do now. I can tell you from experience, there's nothing
like a floating arm, leg, or torso to cast a pall on an otherwise romantic
evening of dinner, dessert and after-dinner strolling in New York's Greenwich Village.
These keepers of the environment had apparently forgotten that a mere week ago ended the coldest continuous (2.5 weeks) snap of weather in the
Hartford, Connecticut area since 1933. Okay, perhaps there is indeed global
warming; but it ain't where I was this year, because I hadn't enjoyed a good old-fashioned 6" snowstorm before
Christmas since I was young enough to shovel snow with vigor, and in no need
of the expenditure of calories achieved by doing so. Well, I say, let's rev up
the old gas-guzzlers and clean our filthy technology with chlorofluorocarbons
from a spray can! I was nearly tempted to point old spray cans of whatever I
could find at the sky so that the rays shining through would melt the remainder
of the ice in my parking lot.
But Really, Folks...
The truth be told, I'm absolutely thrilled by the giant-steps being made by
industry with regard to air pollution. More and more buildings that are erected
are "smart" buildings; which squeeze every calorie out of a gallon of oil, cubic
foot of gas, or kilowatt-hour of electricity. Corporate giant United
Technologies' newest model of Otis elevator actually
returns energy to the building. UT's Carrier air conditioning division has made
strides in efficiency which are almost up to par with the technology that
Japanese companies like Sanyo have come up with in environmentally-friendly,
energy-efficient heating and cooling. (I installed Sanyo's state of the art
efficient air conditioning in my restaurant four years ago and it's already paid
for itself in energy savings.)
I divested myself of my gas-guzzling SUV. (Alright, alright; most of you know
it was at my wife's advice but now you all know; she wouldn't let me keep it,
'cause "we're poor.")
The icing on the cake was when recently we were having trouble with the huge
water heater at the restaurant. My wife smelled gas; I wasn't there, so I placed
an emergency call. Not only did they confirm that the water heater was leaking
gas, but (probably because it was the day before Christmas eve and they really didn't want to
be there) they decided (over my wife's verbal vitriol aimed at them because they
couldn't fix the water heater) "tagged" my furnace and locked off the gas valve to that
it could no longer be (legally) turned on. (I could kick myself in the ass
'cause I'd hazard a guess that $200 in cash and a couple of cocktails would've
convinced the gas company representative not to behave as he did.) The new
furnace is going to cost as much as we got for my used SUV, in the long run. But
hopefully, because we opted for an energy-efficient model, we'll recoup the
costs quickly enough. The restaurant, despite electric heaters placed all over,
has not been at a temperature of over 57 degrees since. Customers have sat down
and then arisen, moments later, to leave, some silent; some complaining that the
place is a "refrigerator." The workmen have
promised me that the installation of the new one will be complete before our New
Year's Eve party.
Karma sure came around and bit my wife in the ass and she's admitted it.
Would it not have been for the Depression-era mentality to
which she subscribes (the one which impelled me to get rid of my SUV, which was
bought and paid for, and a great deal), the bad luck of needing the furnace
replacement wouldn't have happened.
The gas company, meantime, is going to have to deal with reparations for a
whole mess of damages (ripping out electrical wires — against code because
they're supposed to find a circuit breaker; misreading of CO meter — our plumber
conceded that there was a dangerous amount of rust inside the furnace, but why
not just write that down instead of fabricating a CO reading and making me and
my customers cold for a week?)
I wish you all a very happy, healthy New Year celebration. I get to celebrate
two; the first day of the Gregorian Calendar, and Chinese New Year's as well,
in February. What the hell, why don't we all celebrate the incoming year
of the Boar (or pig, whichever you prefer). I'm sure that Buddha will forgive
you heathens for double-dipping.
- "Baby It's Cold Outside" is a delightful, non-religious jazz song which
is much more about Winter and snuggling than about the holidays. Music and
lyrics by the great Frank Loesser. Dinah Shore and Frank Clarke hit the
charts in 1949 with it for weeks, peaking at #4 on the
Billboard Charts.
- The traffic in downtown Hartford, Connecticut has been absolutely out of
control for years now. Who the hell are they talking to when they caution that
one should drive slower, lest one encounter the dreaded, invisible "Black ice"
and spin to one's death off of a highway overcross. Driving slow in our neck of
the woods means keeping one's speed to ten miles per hour over the posted limit,
no matter what the road conditions. Oh, I figured it out. They must've been
addressing the 75-year old driver on Route 9 south who was driving 45 in a 65
mile per hour zone. She was rammed by a tow-truck, equipped with a snowplow,
with vehicle in tow. The driver continued on his way and wasn't found. The driver
who was hit could only tell law enforcement "a big truck honked his horn at me,
and then he hit me, on purpose, and once I was in a ditch he continued on his
merry way. The driver couldn't provide a description of either the truck or
vehicle in tow, nor did any other drivers come forth; probably because they were
delighted that the offending slow-poke had been gotten rid of. This story of a
poor woman whose life could've been cut short by a reckless hellion brings me no
joy, it merely underscores the fact that some people are far better off taking
local roads to their destination.