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anti-press ezine 2003 08 09
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< ANTI-PRESS EZINE #40 >
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"We're Positive About The Negative"
This E-dition filed 8/8/03.
(C) Copyright 2003 Anti-Press
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* Fast Track To Hell *
By Stan Spire
Cause and effect.
Effect: APE is published sporadically.
Cause: Plattsburgh, NY is trying to maim -- even kill -- me.
If you find my writing stiff, it's because I'm recovering from another lame
assassination attempt perpetrated by The City That Don't Werk. I'm not in a
good mood -- but why should I be after spending over three hours in the
emergency room late last night, waiting for someone to check for
broken/fractured bones and then patch me up?
Usually Plattsburgh kills someone a little bit at a time with its
soul-sucking stupidity and sameness. You go through the motions every day,
tolerate another round of dim-wittedness, try to maintain your sanity,
holding on until the opportunity for escape, true and eternal escape, comes
your way.
But Plattsburgh also offers its own form of escape: sudden death. Go out
for a ride on your bicycle, enjoying the cool night air -- Bang! -- you're
sliding sideways into a driveway, gravel gashing your leg. Surprise! The
city has marked a particular section of main street as "Shared Roadway," a
bright yellow sign displaying a silhouetted bicycle icon. Of course, this
to alert motorized vehicles to bikes traveling along the same stretch.
There's one thing missing from that sign: painted in front of the bike icon
should be a crevice in the pavement, a
black-hard-to-see-until-you're-on-top-of-it fugging pothole that also shares
the street. From my post-crash inspection, it appeared the pothole that hit
my bike had been there for some time, growing in size. The rest of the
street, smooth as silk, except for this deep crack. Surprise.
That's how the city tries to get you, through the neglect of its rulers and
maintainers.
"Hey, Lum, that crack gettin' bigger on main street, you know that shared
roadaway spot for the bi-sickles."
"Shit, Abner, we can tar it up next week, make one of dem workfare guys do
our job for us."
About two months ago, along the same stretch of "shared roadway," the city
sent one of its semi-mentally-operative operatives, a private citizen with
his brains in his privates, to roadkill yours truly. A nice sunny
afternoon, perfect visibility. A car in the opposite lane swings in front
of me, not yielding the right of way. I slammed on my brakes, the front
bike tire missing the passenger door by a foot. I shouted at the driver but
he didn't care. Scrotum Brains just drove into the parking lot of the fast
food joint as if I was invisible. And why should he care? He was safely
ensconced in his big new car. To him a bicyclist is only a two-wheeled
nigger.
And let's not forget about wintertime in Plattsburgh, how it offers more
opportunities to maim or kill. A sloping sidewalk, dimly lit, icy. I fall
face forward, almost smashing my eyeglasses. Gee, the city forgot to sand
this intersection unlike the other ones. More neglect. Oops.
But Plattsburgh boasts of pedestrian safety, of bicyclist friendliness.
This summer it has been tooting its horn after laying down new crosswalk or
bike path stripes. Maybe it should spend less time painting the streets and
more time paving them. If The City That Don't Work likes playing around
with paint, maybe it could get creative and outline all the cracks,
potholes, and other road hazards, making them less invisible. Like go nuts
with the Day-Glo yellow.
Hollow horn-tooting is the Plattsburgh way. Its only hospital boasts of a
Fast Track service with the emergency room. I go to the ER to take care of
my pothole-induced injuries; I only need ten minutes with a doctor and I'll
be on my way (albeit cursing and limping). After taking a cab to get there,
I find out that the Fast Track has closed for the evening, a few minutes
before my arrival. The service accepts only so many customers per shift and
then it shuts down early. But I'm told not to worry; even though I'm being
dumped into the regular ER pool, the doctor will see me "shortly."
Of course, on this particular night in the ER, not only is the Fast Track
closed, seven ambulances decide to show up, delivering their wounded. OK,
those patients have higher priority; can't begrudge anyone that, especially
if the new arrivals have been thrown through a car windshield or had an arm
almost severed or gawdknowswhat. I have to wait, killing time by watching a
contusion near my knee swell up.
The promise of "shortly" is short-lived.
And that's how it is living here in The Burgh. A tantalizing promise, so
close that you can touch it -- Bang! -- it evaporates when you hit a
pothole.
Come to Plattsburgh. Enjoy the hazards. Remember: you're on your own.
* Floating In A Limbo Lifeboat *
By Stan Spire
I'm closer to salvation.
At least I'm closer in space; time is another story. I'm sitting on a bed
in one of the ER units, pressing a washcloth-wrapped ice-filled plastic bag
on my leg to control the swelling.
I notice the guy in the bed next to me. He sits there, an ice compress
covering his hand.
Two strangers stuck in a lifeboat on a calm, gray sea. Waiting for help,
watching the horizon.
My options: I can sit here and fume, thinking how I would like repay the
city via an ezine rant for neglecting a bike-flinging pothole, or I can
strike up a conversation with the other woundee.
After inquiring about his hand, I find out that he's a truck driver who has
never been to this neck of the woods. Like most people he didn't realize
that New York State was so big, especially the upstate region with its
rolling expanses of mountains and trees. He asks about the area, what kind
of wildlife is around. I end up telling him about Big Richard, the lonely
moose that wandered into NENYland years ago, looking for romance. Big Dick
-- I mean Richard -- couldn't leave the dairy cows alone.
Talking about stuff, trying to forget about the long wait, the discomfort,
the pain. Even though I'm feeling really cynical about the world in
general, I keep telling stories about the area, keeping my negative thoughts
re: NENYland in check.
The truck driver is worried about his rig, where he parked it. The back of
his hand is swollen into a tight lump; that paw is out of action. This is
his first visit to this town and the last thing he needs, besides a
drawn-out wait in the ER, is his rig being towed away.
Since both of my hands still work, I ask an attendant for a phonebook and
call the local police from a nearby wall phone, handing the receiver over to
the trucker when someone comes on the line. He talks to the cops, telling
them that he's stuck in the ER for a while. They're OK with where his truck
is parked for now.
With that worry put aside, the trucker tells me about his life on the road,
what his home state is like. Time does pass and eventually a doctor shows
up, sees me, checks me over, patches me up.
I leave, finally pulled out of the lifeboat. The doctor then talks to the
trucker, looking at his hand. A skin balloon about to pop. No driving with
that appendage for a while. I wonder what the X-rays will show.
I limp home. Along the way I pause and rest for a moment. I notice the
pre-dawn sky is empty except for a reddish morning star.
A solitary light.
* Welcome To Semi-Illiterate Hevven *
In a dubious cost-saving move the Peeburgh Paper did away with its
proofreader. And it really shows.
Try this headline: "NASA POURS OVER EVIDENCE." And what, pray tell, did
they pour over it -- holy water? One editor had to apologize to the readers
for that 60-point goof. But you don't have to pore through the Paper to
find mistakes; a quick skim will do. The errors just leap out at you.
For example, in the directions for submitting a photo for publication:
"Photos should be in good focus and of a good quality." That sentence not
in good focus and shows not of a good grammar. (When did George W. Bush
start writing for the local fishwrap?)
Or back on page one, an article speaks about revitalizing downtown "...by
making people feel safer and cleaner..." OK, you can make people feel
safer, put more cops on foot patrol, but how do you make them feel cleaner?
Have people walk up to them and say: "Hey, you look great, you're
well-focused and of a good hygiene. Here's a free bar of soap."
But then again, why should the Paper strive for perfection? It's not as if
a vast number of locals can appreciate proper grammar. Just check out a few
of the handmade signs we've noted over the years:
Downtown store: BALLOONS ECT.
Supermarket: PERSONAL CHECKS NOT EXCEPTED AT THIS STORE
Sewing machine shop: FABIC SALE
City tourism booth, downtown: INFORMOTION BOOTH
Closed pizza shop: DON'T DISPAIR -- OUR OTHER STORE IS STILL OPEN.
Sign on home, one arrow pointing right, the other left:
FRONT PORTCH SIDE PORTCH
Apartment house laundry room: NOTICE DO NOT DRY CANDY IN DRIER'S. IT
MAKES "MESS". PLEASE CLEAN VENT'S AFTER USEING.
And let's not forget what the city cop cars used to say years ago: CITY OF
PLATTSBUGH.
So why bother to produce a professionally written paper when most of your
readers don't know better or don't care?
As for us here in the Precision Reality Center, we're understaffed and not
supported by a major newspaper chain. So when it comes to mistakes, cut us
some slack. We don't claim to be perfectionistic writers; instead, we're
only perfect pains in the ass.
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NOTICE: Unless indicated otherwise, all articles by Anti-Press. Articles
submitted by others do not necessarily express or reflect the opinions or
beliefs of Anti-Press.
WHERE WE'RE AT: Anti-Press Ezine radiates from our Precision Reality Center.
We're presently entrapped in the alleged city of Plattsburgh, northeastern
New York State (NENYland), USA. ("Mild reactions: tired, fussy, less
appetite, vomiting... Moderate To Severe Reactions: non-stop crying (3
hours or more)... Severe Reactions: Severe brain reaction (long seizure,
coma or lowered consciousness)- Experts disagree on... lasting brain
damage." Hmmmm, is this a advisory sheet for a tetanus shot or
Plattsburgh?)
EMAIL: Antipress1@aol.com
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