A Cold Day in Sunny Puerto Rico

It may be a slight fever brought on by an emerging cold—I have a sore throat and congestion as well—or it may be that it’s real. Which is to say that everything feels a bit surreal, today.

Consider it—we shut down the largest metropolitan area in New England yesterday. We poured nine thousand cops into Watertown, Massachusetts. The schools closed, businesses closed, the transit system closed, two sports events and the Boston symphony concert were cancelled.

All of this for a 19-year old kid?

Right—it might be the years of Wal-Mart bleeding through, but my first thought was how much was this gonna cost? Second was—get ready. Do you really think that it’s going to be long before the next nineteen-year old kid swipes his mother’s pressure cooker? I mean, who wouldn’t want, in their teens, to be sufficiently the source of attention that Obama cancels his day and holes up in the situation room with his cabinet?

Oh, and guess who found the guy? A guy just outside the search area who finally could leave his house and saw blood on his boat. So he peered in, and there was Dzhokhar. Right—so did Dzhokhar shoot? At the police, yes; at the neighbor, no.

Nor did the two brothers harm the owner of the Mercedes SUV which they had carjacked. And really, it may be time to grow up, sigh heavily, and learn to do what the British did for all those years when the IRA was bombing the city.

Scoop up the bodies, cart away the debris, wash down the sidewalk—as quickly as you can.

Oh, and then there’s the other tragedy that got completely displaced by our fascination with a 19-year kid. Susan said it best:

Poor Texas, its explosion entirely (well, mostly) eclipsed by the apocalyptic search for two young adults in Boston. But then the bad guys in Texas are much less dangerous: a corporation, lobbyists, regulators, the state government. And there were fewer deaths and injuries -- oh, wait . . .

Love that mordant tone! And it appears Susan is bang on—I read an op-ed piece in the New York Times about Texas’s famous antagonism to regulation. In fact, the attorney general for the state described his day as something like this (of course I can’t find the article now): I wake up in the morning, drive to the office, spend all day suing Obama, and then come home again.

Oh.

Then there’s the story about the Suicide Prevention in Gun Shops program. Well, that was clearly up an alley I had to sojourn, so I checked it out. And half of the gun shops are now distributing suicide prevention materials. That makes sense, in a sense, since guns are the most common form of suicide—accounting for more deaths than all other methods.

Well, well—an interesting notion. And are we going to put smoking cessation materials in tobacco shops, and diabetes prevention material in candy shops?

Oh, and speaking about guns, what about the woman who sat down in a hotel lobby next to the Twin Towers Museum, and felt something hard beneath her? It was Monday, just as the bombs were going off in Boston, and thus she was doubly alarmed to find that the hard object under her tush was a gun. Sensibly, she gave it to the front desk, which sensibly locked it up and notified the cops. Since the emergency response team happened to be meeting at the time, the news went straight to the top.

Well, they were in a bit of a swivet, as someone might say—was there a relationship between the bombs in Boston and the gun in the lobby of a hotel next to the World Trade Center?

Nope—it turned out that one of the guests had gone to see the museum, seen the metal detector, asked if he could enter with his weapon, was told absolutely not, and then return to the hotel, where he put the gun, not sensibly…

Do I have to tell you?

Perhaps this cold has warped whatever shreds I have for the talent of critical thinking, because the only thing that made sense, today, was the daffodils that are blooming absolutely everywhere in New York City.

They first showed up in the spring of 2002, after having been planted by volunteers in the fall of 2001, which had one particularly lousy day for the city of New York. So the Dutch got it into their heads to give a little gift to the city of New York, and they sent over a gazillion daffodil bulbs.

I love, I just love, stuff like this. It’s on a par with dear Queen Victoria sending over 15,000 books (number invented, but it was a lot) to Chicago after the great fire, to replace those lost from the library. Which of course Chicago had never had—so they had to run out and build one, quick.  

Those broad-shouldered boys thought big, and they produced a masterpiece. Even has a Tiffany dome—take a look.

OK—I’m at three pages, 871 words, and one great photo.

Now can I go to bed?

Update from Boston

I might just as well be honest—I have wasted an hour and a half looking at police, ATF agents, FBI agents, drug agents with dogs, and other assorted law enforcement personnel, all of whom…are looking at a grey house at the corner of….

…oh wait, the media has been asked not to reveal precise locations.

So, if Dzhokhar A. Tsarnaev, one of the two brothers suspected in the bombing at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, is reading this…HAH! You won’t get it from me!

I tell myself, ‘hey, if nobody is working in Boston, why should you? Who needs to read Iguanas every day?’ And at any moment, the cops could move in, there could be a gun fight, and maybe even an explosion, since authorities—I know this fact because I’ve heard it thirty times—at a Boston-area hospital have reported that Dzhokhar's brother, who is now dead, came in with gunshot wounds AND shrapnel. This means that he had an IED—please notice how casually I’m using the term—strapped on him. (For those who don’t know, I can now smugly tell you that it’s an “improvised explosive device.” (¿Bíjte?)

There is a nineteen-year old kid (the media reports him as armed and extremely dangerous—“we know,” said one broadcaster darkly, “just what he is capable of…”) who last night robbed a convenience store, shot dead an MIT policeman, wounded critically an MBTA agent, and hijacked a black Mercedes Benz. As well, he kidnapped the owner of the vehicle before releasing him unharmed half an hour later.

And now, the entire Boston metropolitan area is under lockdown. Stay in your homes, we are warned. Do not open your door to anyone but a duly identified policeman.

Well, let me take a break here to show you this photo:

Readers—attention! The individual on the right with his arm place over the torso of the other individual and in front of the glasses containing an orange fluid that might be orange juice is the highly dangerous suspect, Dzhokhar. If you see this individual you should NOT try to apprehend him, but rather seek shelter immediately and then proceed to notify your local law enforcement agencies by calling this number: 1-800-494-TIPS.

OK—so I’ve done my duty here both to my readers and to society at large. I can also inform you—since I went to the bathroom and then just thought I’d update myself on this emerging situation—that the president was briefed overnight on the developments and has activated the situation room at the White House. Great—we got Barry on it, and if he can bring down bin Laden, a 19 year-old should be child’s play. 

I myself am thinking of contacting—no, not official enough—of communicating or putting myself into communication with local, state, or federal law enforcement personnel to notify them that the individuals in question seem to be in a kitchen with two stoves. This appears to me to be a fact of extreme importance, though at this point in time and in the investigation process it may be premature—or even dangerous—to speculate or make hasty conclusions. More important is the fact that both stoves appear to be functional—at least one of them there appears to be a pot that may be connected with the recent activity of food preparation, as evidenced by the presence of apparent food items on the table. There is a steam kettle on the other stove. This could be significant if the brothers are, as media reports them to be, of Russian origin. The Russians love their tea!

This just in—the grey Honda with the license plate CRV-E58 has been located, so we can all cross that off the list of things to monitor in this fluid and emerging situation. Oh, and no fear, Canadian readers—the border patrol is monitoring the border and working in close communication with United States officials. So you’re safe up there.

I break to report—with shame—that ABC news has made a horrible gaffe and is very wrongly reporting the name of a Watertown street which is being evacuated. Guys! Get a little professionalism here, hunh?

Well, I’ve done my duty, I do think, down here in sunny Puerto Rico, of keeping my readership abreast of the troubling developments taking place even as we speak in the city and neighboring communities of Boston, Massachusetts. I’d like to urge you, as so many others have done, that your personal safety and the personal safety of those you love is the number priority for you at this point in time.

Lastly, all indications are that, yet again, the two suspects were quiet, good students, fine athletes, courteous, and even played the piano! So, if you or anyone you know should happen to know an individual with some or all of those characteristics, I urge you immediately to contact local authorities and report any suspicious behavior or activity.

Thank you for your cooperation in this matter. 

Plus ça change...

Well, well—time to dust off the high school French, which I did by consulting, as always, Wikipedia. So here it is: plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. Or I suppose I could tax my brains a bit and figure out who said—in Latin—that there is nothing new under the sun.

Certainly not the Caribbean sun, shining so brightly on tourists and dropping conveniently away when it’s time to do what we do very well down here.

Smuggling.

Here’s how it works. We send up the drugs. You send down the guns.

That white powder that isn’t talc but is occasionally mixed with it has to come through somewhere. It used to be Mexico, but then things got a little hot up there. So the game changed to Puerto Rico, which famously, in the words of an early 20^th century US Supreme Court decision, is not the United States but “pertains” to the United States. (Anybody up there who can explain that, please give me a call. Been wondering for years….) In other words, no customs. If you can get the drugs in, you can send them in any aircraft, cargo container, or package through the US mail or FedEx.

So the drug traffickers have recreated the Middle Passage, though in this case it’s South America to the Caribbean, not Africa, and now it drugs, not slaves. But don’t imagine that it was Sam Walton who dreamed up logistics, though he did further it a bit. Nobody loves an empty ship.

And here, I take a deep breath and concede—maybe—a point to the NRA. “Outlaw guns and then only the outlaws will have guns!” they cry. (Nice turn of phrase, hunh? Great little marketing slogan….) Because Puerto Rico has probably the strictest laws in the nation about guns.

For one thing, they’re not considered a right. But let the Orlando Sentinel tell the story:

Buying a gun legally in Puerto Rico takes six to 18 months to complete paperwork and convince a police board that the applicant needs a gun. Puerto Rico does not consider gun ownership a right, said Edgardo Nieves, Rossello's spokesman.

By comparison, Florida residents only need to turn to a flea market, gun show or their newspaper's classified advertising section to buy without restriction.

And happily for everyone but the victims, it’s quite profitable. You buy a gun from Craig’s List for three hundred bucks, and you can sell it for three or four times as much on the streets of San Juan.

Well, with a deal like that, everybody wants in, right? So you’ve got your own little business started and established—a punto that is selling cocaine and heroin and god knows whatever else. And then some punk decides to move in on your territory. You gonna let that happen?

Fortunately, there are people who can help you. Sure, it costs, but money is not a problem. This is a business expense.

Now there used to be a little honor—the hit man killed in the punto, not stores or restaurants, or anywhere they could find the intended victim. So if you weren’t suicidal, you stayed away from the puntos. Now, if you’re not suicidal you stay home.

Two points. I may not be ready to concede the logic of “only the outlaws will have guns” to the NRA. It may be if the rest of the nation had our strict gun laws, there wouldn’t be the price difference that makes trafficking them into Puerto Rico so attractive. It might also be that there would be far fewer guns in the fifty states.

Second point—I read yesterday about the Mayors Against Illegal Guns. They are a significant group of 800 mayors; the mayors of Clairon, Clarks Summit, and Felton—to name three towns in Pennsylvania—have all signed a pledge. They’re gonna fight illegal guns, which make up the vast majority of weapons in Puerto Rico.

Well, we have a new mayor in San Juan, a lady who is busy trying to come up with the 800 million dollars that she needs to run the city. That’s daunting.

But what about the old mayor? The guy that put up all the signs announcing the projects that never got the money to get done? He’d been around for 12 years; in that time, why hadn’t he signed on? The group, by the way, is headed by the mayors of New York City and Boston. So they found the time…..

I’ve written about two of the three ingredients in this explosive stew. Here’s the third…

…money.

The Killer in Your Kitchen

It was the alert doña Taí who advised me of it.

“You ever heard of the Boston Molasses Disaster?”

Sounds like a joke, doesn’t it? And if it weren’t, why, having lived in Boston for a year, had I never heard of it? Definitely something to check out.

It seems that on 15 January 1919, a huge vat of molasses exploded in the North End of Boston, creating a 40-foot wave that rushed through the city. Killed 21 people and several horses; 150 people were injured. And it did some serious damage to infrastructure. Take a look below….

Well, in my zeal to alert the international readership of this blog, I checked all this out in Wikipedia. Only to discover that there was a reference to another disaster.

The London Beer Flood.

Jump back a century or so, to 1814, in the St. Giles section of London. A vat of beer explodes, and causes other vats to explode in a domino effect. All in all, 323,000 imperial gallons (no idea what that is, but it sounds impressive…) of beer flood the city. St. Giles is an area of poor houses, with many families living in basements. These flood, and the death toll is eight.

Well, it seems that nothing is safe anymore. There are killers in the schools. Molasses can kill. Beer as well, in a way I had never thought.

With all the mayhem afoot, I’m happy to report that a great bunch of kids from Ponce, Puerto Rico, decided to cheer up a food court in their hometown. Here they are, in full swing!