Rain, Rain, Go Eff Yourself

Upon exiting Penn Station this morning, the first of a considerable stretch of freelancing, I discovered that my umbrella had pretty much decided to give up the ghost. So, considering the fact that the sky was dumping 50-gallon drums of rain on me from every angle, I decided to make a desperate little purchase from one of the many helpful umbrella salesmen that sprout like mushrooms when skies turn gray. And considering how big the rain was, I decided to go for one of the bigger umbrellas. He kind of had me over a barrel, and I paid ten bucks for it. But it was a big umbrella, the kind you can comfortably fit a second person underneath if need be.

I walked to my place of temporary business, stopping on the way to get my customary egg whites/hot sauce/whole wheat toast sandwich that for some reason I've taken to calling "the Steve McQueen" in my head. When I got to the little deli, I noticed one of the guys up on a ladder trying to keep the place from flooding. One of the big ceiling tiles was gone, and water was pouring out of the hole. This guy, meanwhile, was trying to attach a hefty bag to the ceiling with some red Christmas ribbon. You go to war with the army you have, I guess.

McQueen in hand, I wished them good luck and went to work.

Later on, I brought my umbrella outside for a walk to lunch to celebrate our friend Mike actually leaving the magazine voluntarily. (I know!) Not five seconds out the door, a gust of wind turns my brand new umbrella inside out, rendering it useless as anything but a warning to other umbrella shoppers. I stuff the warning in a trashcan, and it stretches out its cone of useless nylon ominously at passersby. By the time we get back from lunch, the umbrella is gone -- probably flipped back around and sold to another rube.

Rob