WRITING CULTURE 2012: Film, Food & Beyond

When most people think of hurricane Sandy, they may picture destroyed homes, flooded streets and a pitch black downtown Manhattan.
These are the same things I pictured in my head as I sat on Long Island, trapped by a sense of danger and glee that I was free from school. Of course there were thoughts of those that were suffering in my head, but such things were overcome by the delicacies of sleeping in, reading for hours on end, and eating massive amounts of junk food and candy.
While I may not have been overly affected by the immediate effects of the storm, it was the aftermath that sent my social life into a downward spiral of trendiness.
Once the sun was back and the leaves in the yard were raked up, I decided that it was time to go back to Manhattan to get back to some kind of work. It was a noble gesture, but ultimately one that cost me my freedom from ridicule and jest.
As I was packing up my car to make the trek, my mom alluded to a strange notion that there was going to be a shortage of gas.

This was just the beginning of the line. This monstrosity extended about 13 blocks and took about four hours to complete my tour of duty.

Having faith in our war effort to procure gas, and being a huge supporter of blowing up mother nature for more oil, I scoffed at my mother, and proceeded to haul ass at 90 miles per hour towards my doom.
I arrived in Brooklyn only to find that just about all of the gas stations had lines extending several blocks long, as if it was a wait for a new ride at Disney that took your wallet for a spin.
At first i was OK, I conserved my gas by skating a bit, but ultimately, trips to far out lands such as Bay Ridge and Staten Island left my gas gauge begging for a precious refill.
By the time I actually came around to compromising with myself to get some amber gold it was like half the world’s supply of oil had been used up.
I ended up having to wait on line for several hours in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, only to get myself just below half a tank of gas due to limitations on fuel.

Despite my sub-standard amounts of fuel, I trekked back to Long Island to get some free food and other supplies from my folks. Their situation was no better than mine, with folks waiting eight hours plus for gas deliveries that sometimes never came.
After a day and a half of hanging with the folks, I decided that I must return to the concrete jungle to again resume my work, but now my gas tank was a breath about a third full and my car burns gas like a wildfire.
But I did not come back to this city unprepared.
I knew that the trains, in particular the L and G trains, were going to be a shitshow.
To combat this terror, I was forced to hang up my skateboard and trade in my four wheels for two. My dad walked me to the shed, unlocked the doors, and showed me to my new bike.

This bike will kick your ass.

The beast is called a RoadMaster. It is an 18-speed death dealing, mountain eating and hipster crushing machine.
The tires are covered with treads that should belong on a Humvee, and the shocks on the front remind me of a dirt bike.
I am now three days deep into my biking excursion and I personally find it to be an enthralling and cathartic experience, but those who call themselves my compatriots have different opinions upon the matter.
My newly found love causes them to retch and belch up names terms such as “bike douche” and apparently I have been inducted into some bike nerd army.
Apparently all I needed was a means to get into the city during inclement times to be enlisted into this lifestyle.
I think back to a few weeks ago when all I had to do to leave my apartment and go to school was just plug in my headphones, crack the newspaper, and tunnel underground to the giant silver worms.
Now I must mount upon my mechanical steed, exert energy, and know that a Nor’Easter is right around the damned corner.
Look forward to my next piece about how I have to take the fucking bus due to 50 mile per hours gusts that would blow me off the Williamsburg bridge.