So a scant 5 days after the hurricane, New Yorkers are going feral. Multiple generations most certainly were not prepared for an interruption in the supply of gubmint cheese. The entitlement crowd, all 47% of them, are entirely unwilling to walk a couple of miles to load up on groceries for a day or two, and seem to prefer stealing, dumpster diving and giving seriously (un)classy fodder for the entertainment pleasure of the millions of Americans who, right now, are so very grateful to not be in New York.
If I seem somewhat callous, call it a response in having grown up on the fringe of a coastal flood zone and being somewhat insistent on a degree of self-reliance. I wish I could say that the majority of the victim society is made up of elderly and infirm residents who need legitimate help, but there seems to be no shortage of able-bodied people seemingly more than healthy enough to get their stirrup-panted fat ass in front of a microphone, but unable to to stomach the idea of walking to the top of a hill 3 miles away to load up on canned goods at one of the many working bodegas and small shops that, amazingly, my coworkers have had no trouble at all in finding, despite being based in the hardest-hit portions of Red Hook.
My dad used to say that poor planning on my part shouldn't constitute a crisis on his. While I could always rely on him to save the day, I dreaded asking him to. I wish I saw more of that, but I'm assuming that there's help out there. The narrative on TV currently focuses on how unlikely New Yorkers are to survive without attaching an umbilical cord to us all from Uncle Sugar to our growling stomachs.
A hole lot of eatin' goin' on . . .
42 minutes ago