Go Bags came around after 9/11. As part of the on-boarding process when you get a corporate job, after you get your building ID, sign a bunch of forms and are shown where the restroom and coffee break rooms are, you are given a Go Bag to keep at your desk. They’re survival kits to have on hand in case—oh, I don’t know—in case a Boeing 767 slams into your building a dozen floors below you and you’re trapped.
It’s a bright red (the better to spot you in the rubble with, my dear) nylon backpack with the company logo on it. (Blurred here to hide the address of where Guap and I work. We two handsome devils don’t need stalkers. We have busy jobs. And wives.)
Inside, you’ll find everything you need to improve the odds of your survival (assuming the whole deal hasn’t collapsed onto yo ass).
A. Fitted 3-D respirator
B. Glow Sticks
C. Thermal Blanket
D. Two packets of drinking water
E. Toilet tissue (Ick. But necessary, I suppose.)
F. Two vacuum-packed energy bars
G. Benzalkonium Chloride Towelette (in case you have a boo-boo)
H. Whistle (or, as my [female] colleague put it, a “rape whistle.” Wha?
Thankfully, I’ve never had to employ any of this stuff. The energy bars are a few years old and I’ve never been THAT hungry. I got a Go Bag at my last job and I took the glow sticks home and gave them to my daughters to play with. They’re so fun! I wish I’d had glow sticks when I was going through my narcotic phase.
This is indirectly related to the subject matter at hand. Did you guys see this in the paper?
“Taliban assailants apparently thought they were attacking an unprotected day care center. But they mistakenly burst into the compound next door, where an American government contractor’s employees were heavily armed and ready. All five Taliban attackers were killed, including one who committed suicide.”
What cowards. Their mission was to shoot children. A death sentence is exactly what they deserved. That part of the world has always been so broken. What causes such long-term societal stagnation? They’re afraid of technology. Afraid of women. Afraid of sex. Afraid of artistic expression. An awful, awful place. Who are we (the West) to think we could change it?
Last weekend there was a Veggie Pride Parade in the Village. It started down on Gansevoort Street and wound its way north to Union Square.
A VEGGIE PRIDE PARADE.
Typically, I don’t bemoan dirty old New York. For the most part, I prefer its present incarnation. But this place used to be so bad ass. It was Travis Bickle and Julian’s pool hall on 14th Street. When the subway would pass over a dead piece of track, all the lights would flicker and go out. You never knew what would be standing in front of you when they came back on. I spent countless delightful hours watching from a safe distance as three-card monte grifters hustled tourists in Times Square. Now this place is all hedge fund douche bags and veggie pride parades.
It’s over, Johnny. It’s over.
The Empire State Building from Bryant Park. 8:45 p.m., April 2, 2014. Right after I saw this guy at the New York Public Library give a talk about magic: