It’s January, which means I’m another year older. If you’re keeping score, I’m 34. That’s nine years older than anyone in Hollywood, but still five months younger than my sister’s cat who I believe is part sea turtle. I’m feeling good.
I can already tell it’s going to be an exciting year of change. Three days ago, my new roommate Andy and I signed a lease on an apartment in Astoria/Queens. I’m going to miss living in Manhattan, but not necessarily my current apartment, primarily because it’s on the corner of the Midtown Tunnel and Puerto Rican Pride parade route #9.
. Not only is it a bit of an eyesore, but there’s a periodic clanking that I endure several times a day. There’s no rhythm to it. Just random metal banging: “<b>CLANK! Clink-ting-ting-CLANG!</b>” and so on. The first week I lived here, I could have sworn that there was a long, lost sailor in a sunken submarine below the building trying to communicate a beyond-the-grave SOS to me. When I learned it was the pipe’s normal sound, I was forced to cancel the report I sent to Arthur Kent at <i>History’s Mysteries</i>.</p>
<p><img decoding=)
Categories: Columns