A couple of months ago I decided to go on a keto diet of sorts. I say of sorts because I knew I would never give up putting a couple of teaspoons of sugar in my coffee every morning. Nor was I going to fast for 16 hours of the day, and that I was going to be tempted to eat the occasional baked morsel. Not to mention the odd corn chip here and there.

One of the things that swayed me into plunging into keto (besides eating meat) was that peanuts and peanut butter were on the menu. I love peanut butter.

I love hummus and chips too, but peanut butter won out.

I thought it bizarre that legumes were off the table; they’ve been a part of my diet since my mother served me my first pinto bean. And chickpeas are legumes, so bye-bye hummus. And my famous refried beans.

But hello peanut butter!

I’ve been a fan of peanut butter since I was a child and my mother would buy the big cans of welfare peanut butter from our neighbors on welfare in the projects. My mother also bought the big slabs of American cheese from them, but this is all about peanut butter.

It didn’t taste as good as store bought peanut butter like Jiff or Peter Pan, and as a kid I couldn’t put my finger on the difference.

Turns out it took me many, many years to figure that one out, to reach my eureka moment.

That happened when I was living on the Lower East Side in the ‘80s. I lived on East Houston Street with my then wife Kathy, and we discovered a health food store called Prana on First Avenue between 7th and St. Marks place. Besides having fresh ground coffee they had these big jars of organic peanut butter that were actually less expensive than Jiff or Peter pan. The only problem was they didn’t taste the same.

The old Prana storefront on First Avenue

I finally had the temerity to read the labels. Skippy, Jiff, and Peter Pan all contain sugar as well as salt. And they are roasted peanuts! Roasted peanuts taste better than raw peanuts! What a revelation!

So I sought a middle ground, and in-between. Something that was healthy, without sugar, but still with that roasted peanut taste. There were new health food brands coming out, like Smart balance and Smucker’s natural peanut butter. But they all had an inch of oil floating on the top! What a pain in the ass it was to mix it all together- something one is never quite successful at. You end up dripping oil on yourself (if you prefer to eat it out of the jar like me) the first half of the jar and having your teeth glued together when you get to the bottom of the jar.

Have you ever seen a dog eat peanut butter? They spend half the time figuring out why their teeth are stuck together! Well, that’s how I feel when I get to the bottom of a jar of “Natural” peanut butter. Why isn’t it homogenous like Skippy and Jiff? Partially hydrogenated vegetable oils! Skippy and Jiff are made with partially hydrogenated vegetable oils, and not sugar, but high-fructose corn syrup. And Americans eat Skippy and Jiff by the boatload. Which is why a lot of Americans in most of the country look like boatloads.

Well, I got tired of looking like a boatload, so I take care to avoid processed foods that contain partially hydrogenated vegetable oils, high fructose corn syrup, or both.

Back to natural peanut butter. With the advent of health food stores came grind your own machines, and I decided to try them. After all, what could be more natural than grind your own? But it tasted different. Again, it was raw vs. roasted. And roasted without salt is different from roasted with salt. Now I have to bring a saltshaker to Whole foods if I want my fresh peanut butter to taste like what’s in the jar. Plus, it’s actually more expensive to grind your own, price per pound wise. Don’t even get me started on Fairway’s prices.

So, for my comparison, we’ll stick to Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s as they each have their own store brand peanut butter. They both have the floating oil on top, and they both claim to be just peanuts and sea salt. Smooth or crunchy, and there’s an unsalted option. No sugar, high fructose, or partially hydrogenated oils.

Trader Joe’s 16 oz. jar is $1.99. Whole Food’s 365 brand is $2.49, fifty cents more. Of course I’m gonna buy the cheaper one, though a long time ago before there was Trader Joe’s I relied on the 365.

Last week I was in Whole Foods and I decided to splurge, after all I would save a trip to T.J’s and isn’t that worth fifty cents? So I bought a jar of 365, my first in many a moon.

My method of dealing with the oil on top syndrome it to store the jar in the fridge overnight upside down. That way the oil flows down and is at THE BOTTOM of the jar when I open it. It’s also slightly congealed and therefore less watery when I mix it all together. I’ve gotten pretty good results, less oil stains on my at home snack eating tee shirts. So I did the same to my jar of Whole Foods 365. This is a recent discovery so this was my first 365 jar to be put to the test.

Well, wasn’t I surprised when I opened the jar two days later and discovered that the oil came right back to the top! And didn’t seem to have solidified at all!

Very disappointing, especially for fifty cents more. I can only describe it as Watery As Fuck.

I read up on natural peanut butters and such since the W.A.F. 365 peanut butter. On the jars they tell you that the oil naturally rises from the freshly ground “just peanuts.” But I have to tell you; in all the plastic tubs of peanut butter I ever ground myself, with or without salt, I have yet to see the oils rise to the top. It’s just all ground peanuts. So I have to think that the oil in the jars is added. Not naturally rising to the top. Just another finger on the scale. And guess who has the heavier finger in this case?

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Yesterday evening I had just finished a volunteer shift directing trash traffic at a cultural event at the Abrons center on the Lower east Side and went down to take the train home at Delancey-Essex street station. It was a little after 7:30 PM, and the station was crowded.

A woman’s voice was making some kind of shrill announcement from the PA system, but because of the crowd, a J train on the Brooklyn bound side of the upstairs tracks and a really loud amplified busker down on the F platform all I hear was “all trains holding in place.”

I had already swiped my card and was sorry I had gotten off the M-14 A bus, which would have gotten me across town to better train choices.

But I had no idea, right? It was one of New York’s little surprises.

I checked my Bus Time app; there was another bus in 3 minutes. But just then a train pulled into the Manhattan bound J/M tracks. Salvation! I bounded up the steps just in time to jump on a southbound J train. I was hoping for an M to take me to West 4th, but an A train at Fulton would do.

When I got to the A platform at Fulton Street I started getting a better picture of the situation, hearing things like “power outage” and “stalled trains.” There was a nearly empty A train sitting in the station and hoards of people milling about on the platform in a state of absolute confusion.

Ever the consummate New Yorker I dashed off to the 2 and 3 line upstairs, which would get me home. It wasn’t my first choice due to the fact I knew the 1 train was ending at 96th street and I would have to bus it to 145 to get back on another 1 train for the one stop trip to 157th, my home station. But I was running out of choices.

A Brooklyn bound train pulled in, so at least I knew this line was moving. After 10 minutes a crowded uptown 2 train pulled in and I miraculously got a seat thanks so t gaggle of confused tourists. God bless the tourists, at least sometimes.

It turned out to be an exercise in futility, the train stopped for 5 minutes at each station and crawled at a snail’s pace between stops. It took 45 minutes to reach 14th street from Fulton. I seriously debated getting off at 14th but by now a clearer picture of the little surprise was emerging.

“Due to the loss of power in some stations, we have significant delays in both up and downtown service,” the conductor kept saying. Not knowing which stations lacked power I thought it prudent to stay on the 2 despite the slow going.

“This train will be going over the local tracks, and will not be stopping at Columbus Circle.” Came the next bit of news.

So I braced myself and kept my nose in my New York Times crossword. Saturday’s nonetheless.

I finished it by the time we got to 42nd Street. We stopped at 50th, and I was surprised until I remembered we were going local. By now the “being held in the station by supervision” was down to 2 minutes instead of 5-7. (Yes, I was timing it.) As the train slowly rumbled forward I wanted to see what all the rumpus was about on 59th street. As the train pulled into the station I encountered a sight I’d never seen before. The station was completely dark, illuminated only by the light from our passing train. Spooky indeed. I snapped a few photos on my iPhone for posterity.

The train actually stopped at 66th, which was totally dark except for the countdown clocks, which read “2 to 96.” Truly eerie stuff. I wondered what other stations were in darkness, and if there were trains with people on them stuck in stations. I knew now this was serious.

I worried about my wife Danusia, who texted me she was going downtown to pick up her bicycle, which she’d left at her job in the Village. I kept texting her “no trains” to no avail and settled for one last “ride safe.”

Being a savvy New Yorker I thought I’d outsmart the crowds and get off at 72nd, where I could possibly catch the M-5 bus all the way home or if I was lucky, a cab. A cab would be impossible to come by at 96th street with the crowd alighting from the subway looking to get uptown fast. So I got off at 72nd.

When I went upstairs I was surprised to see that south of 72nd street there were almost no lights on! It wasn’t just the subway. And there wasn’t an empty cab in sight. I raced down the stairs and was lucky enough to catch another 2 train to 96th.

The crowd waiting for the busses was beyond immense; there were thousands of people standing in the middle of Broadway waiting to mob the first bus that came. I got in front of the crowd ready to fight my way onto a bus when I miraculously spotted not one, but two cabs on the downtown side of Broadway.

I maniacally dashed across Broadway narrowly missing the front of an approaching subway shuttle bus and jumped into the closest cab and told him where I wanted to go.

I was met by a real rarity in New York nowadays, a white guy behind the wheel.

An aged hippie who railed against every mayor since Wagner and told me the Larry Silverstein guy had sent the planes into the World Trade Center so he could make some money.

“That’s why they killed Kennedy, too,” he added. I didn’t ask him to elaborate.

As he drove up Riverside drive (The Henry Hudson was packed, he told me.) and ranted about bikes and Ubers and Lyfts I noticed he hadn’t turned on the meter. When we got to my building he acted surprised and said “oh, boy, do you think you can pay me in cash? Like twenny bucks? You think that’s fair?”

I handed him my last twenny and spotted my wife pushing her bike up the building entry path. I was glad she made it home safe.

Watching the news later I found out that it was an isolated area on the west side that had been affected, and it seemed weird that some lights went out and others didn’t. I noticed channel 4 NBC news was having a hard time broadcasting while ABC news was clear quality. I also learned that yesterday was the same date as the great blackout of ’77, July 13th.

I remembered finding out about that one over the phone. I was calling the Sutton Theater on 57th Street where my then girlfriend Anna was working to tell her I was on my way to pick her up. The manager answered and in a weird voice said, “Can’t talk now. The lights. The lights,” before the phone went dead.

I was at a payphone on the corner of Washington and DeKalb Avenues in Brooklyn, and as I hung up I glanced at the Manhattan skyline at the river end of Washington Avenue. I could see the Empire State building, and I watched in amazement as the lights in it went out floor by floor, then block by block until it got to where I was standing. The police sirens started almost immediately.

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BYOB has a totally different connotation nowadays at Trader Joe’s. At least for me it does. I’ve been shopping at T. J.’s ever since the first store opened on 14th street back in 2006. But I never noticed the “bring your own bag” raffle until a couple of years ago.

I wasn’t big on bringing my own bag for a long time, much to the chagrin of my wife Danusia, who is very eco- conscious. At least much more so then me. But finances being what they are I started thinking about winning that $25 gift card. After all, twenty-five bucks is twenty-five bucks for a senior citizen on a fixed income.

Plus since completing the Master Composter’s course this spring I have myself become more eco- conscious, and felt guilty every time I went shopping without taking a reusable bag. And I’ve no excuse for that given that we have tons of reusable bags at home, including two that are 100% compostable that I scored at the Zero Waste fair I worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard last month.

The reusable bag I got from T.J.’s

I always assumed that if I brought my own bag I was somehow automatically entered in the weekly BYOB raffle, but as we all know the world is full of unrequited assumptions. So I finally asked my wife about it.
“You have to tell the cashier you want to enter the raffle,” she said. And all this time I was waiting to be invited to partake. Like I keep waiting for someone to offer me a job.
I saw a woman on the subway yesterday with a T-shirt that said:

I’ll do it tomorrow
I can’t do it
It’s too hard

I can definitely relate. But now I knew the secret, so I had no excuse. So for the first time last month, as the cashier filled my own bag with a smile (they smile because they are being watched, unlike the Whole foods employees who won’t even look you in the eye they’re so mad) I bravely blurted out,
“I’d like to enter the raffle.” There, I said it, I want in.
The smiling young man said “Sure,” and tore off a strip of register paper and directed me to write my name and phone number on it. It seemed pretty low tech and cheesy, I remember when I first spotted the board with “This month’s winners” I looked around for entry forms like they used to have at Key Food years ago, and seeing none wondered how they did it. Now I knew, on a strip of torn register paper.
Whole Foods has a raffle for a $250 gift card, but you have to go online and fill out a whole survey. In a way it’s easier to do that than to ask the clerk for a piece of paper.
I’ve been entering dutifully for the past couple of months at every Trader Joe’s I’ve shopped at, and anxiously looking for my name on the board every time I walk into a T.J.’s. After I told Danusia about it she said, “I’ve been doing that ever since they opened the 14th Street store and I’ve never won. I think it’s impossible.

Years ago when I was married to my first wife and working in Queens I shopped at Key Food. I shopped at the one in Kew Gardens where I worked and Kathy and I shopped at the on Avenue A a couple of blocks from out home on Houston street. Key Food ran a weekly raffle for $50 worth of groceries. We won three times, once in Queens and twice on Avenue A.

Of course we stacked the deck by swiping all of the entry forms and sat at home filling whole books of entry forms and stuffing the box with them. After the second time at the Avenue A store the manager smelled a rat and informed me that we were disqualified from further entries. At least we got $150 worth of free groceries out of the deal.

I also won a $50 gift certificate from Balducci’s on 6th Ave around the same time because I answered a question right on the trivial pursuit game some radio station used to run. The question was “What New York City gourmet food shop employs a strawberry topper?” Since I worked down the street from Balducci’s at the time I figured it was them, and I was the first one to get it right when I called the radio station. I got the gift certificate and a stack of trivial pursuit cards in the mail a couple of days later. I bought a $30 steak and some expensive cheese with the certificate, and learned who Mel Ott was.

Last night I looked at my phone as it was done recharging and saw I had a message from a 212 number I wasn’t familiar with. I played the message.
“This is Christine from the Trader Joe’s 93rd Street store. I’m happy to inform you that you have won this week’s $25 raffle. Stop in as soon as you can to pick up your gift card.” Dang, I won! I thought. I told Danusia about it, and she reiterated she’d been doing it for years and never won.

What you can get for $27.36 at Trader Joe’s

So this morning I went to the 93rd Street store and claimed my prize. “Where’s the board with the winners names on it?” I asked. I wanted to take a picture of my name up on Trader Joe’s wall. “Oh, we don’t do that at this store. Sorry,” the smiling young man that gave me my card and free reusable bag said. Well, you can’t have everything, I guess.

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I just got done watching season three of True Detective on HBO, and I have to say it was a big disappointment. I thought the writing and the direction were pretty weak. Direction because a guy like Mahershala Ali, who just won his second Oscar comes off like a third rate community theater actor trying to act like an old man (the make-up however was first rate), not very convincing to me, and if it was to the director, then he should look for another job.

Stephen Dorff as Detective Roland West, on the other hand was great. He pulled off the old cynical depressed alcoholic with great charm. I guess it’s harder to act like a doddering old man on the brink of full-blown Alzheimer’s than just an angry old fool. I even liked the scene where he goes into a biker bar looking to get his ass kicked, his dialogue was so sharp (the woolly mammoth you’re fucking) that he had to be ad-libbing, because the writers were so lazy they stole actual dialogue from other movies.

In the final episode’s last scene Carmen Ejogo, Mareshala Ali’s love interest in the series walks into the VFW post bar where his Detective Wayne Hays character is drinking his depression away and approaches him. When he asks her without looking up what war she fought in (you’re not supposed to be in a VFW bar unless you qualify as a veteran of war) she retorts:

“I don’t let people talk to me that way, few women and no men at all…”

I sat up straight when I heard that, it’s a rip off of a line from Charley Varrick.

Charley Varrick is a Don Siegel crime thriller from 1973 if you don’t know it, and it happens to be one of my favorite movies. I’ve seen it many times, first when it was released in theaters and then on TV whenever I came across it on late night re-runs. Sometimes I would catch the whole movie and sometimes somewhere in the middle, but I always watch to the end.

The main adversaries are Walter Matthau, a bank robber and stunt pilot, and Joe Don Baker, and enforcer for some kind of Southwestern Crime syndicate. I’m not going to relate the whole movie, but if you like crime movies like me, it’s a must see- especially the last scene where Charley shows why he is “The last of the independents.”

Here’s Molly!

Early on Baker’s character, a hit man called “Molly,” is asked to repossess a car from a black man. It’s a brand new Cadillac the man has defaulted on. It’s to be his transportation during his pursuit of the bank robber Varrick, who has inadvertently stolen $765,118 of the mob’s money from some tiny bank in New Mexico.

As he walks up to the car key in hand, the unnamed debtor reaches for Molly’s arm and says,

“You pink punk ass you…” And Molly quickly swings around and punches the guy in the face, knocking him down. As he continues to the car, unlocking it, he says, “There are few men that speak to me in that tone, few Caucasians, and no Negros at all…”

Now if that’s not a practically verbatim rip-off of dialogue, I don’t know what is. Maybe the writer loves the John Reese novel, since I’ve never read it I don’t know if that bit of dialogue is in it. Most likely the screenwriter (Howard Rodman) put that in. But it’s a great line, the whole script crackles with great lines.

So here I add T.S. Elliot’s take on plagiarism:

One of the surest tests [of the superiority or inferiority of a poet] is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different than that from which it is torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion. A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time, or alien in language, or diverse in interest.

To me it’s most certainly defacement.

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I was in Whole Foods yesterday picking up stuff for the holiday and looked for my mandatory supply of green unripe avocados. Nothing todo with Thanksgiving, but avocados are a staple in our home and I buy them every time I visit Whole Foods, Fairway, or Trader Joes. There’s a Mexican grocery on Broadway that I will buy from if they are unripe.

Through years of experience I know that in order to get a good avocado you have to buy it green and let it ripen at home. This takes a little bit of forethought and planning, but the results are worth it. Getting an already ripe avocado means you run the risk of opening a fruit full of black spoiled spots. These are bruises, caused by food workers in the stores that don’t give a shit and dump the avocados into bins like a sack of rocks. Then come the customers, who think they can determine the softness of an avocado by squeezing it. I have news for you- the best test to see if an avocado is ripe is the color. If it’s black or dark reddish, it’s ripe. If it’s bright green, it’s hard and unripe- not ready to eat.

But people stand there and squeeze them and bruise them and then toss them back into the bin, like a rock further damaging them for the next unsuspecting person. Those people should be beaten with a hard avocado in a sock. Or better yet, a rock.

Another good test is to press on the little nib where it was cut off from the vine. If it comes off easily, the avocado is ripe and ready to eat. If it takes work to flick it off or doesn’t come off at all, the avocado is not ready to eat.

A good detail of the nib:

If the avocado is mushy or dented, it’s ready for the compost heap. Or the trash, depending on your sustainability quotient.

Now that we got that out of the way, my pet peeves, ignorant shoppers and uncaring food workers, I’ll get to the meat of the matter.

I looked at the bins where Whole Foods usually keeps their avocados, and there were mangoes or something else there instead. I searched the entire produce section and no avocados at all, not even the small ones they sell bagged up. I was desperate enough to get one of those, but those weren’t present either. I finally asked one of the workers, and he said, “There’s a protest in Mexico.”

            “So no avocados?” I asked.

            “Nope.” Answered the young produce worker.

When I got home I turned on my computer and typed in“avocado protest in Mexico.” And there it was. Growers in the state of Michoacán were setting up roadblocks to prevent avocados from leaving. It was about money and other states trying to pass off their avocados as Michoacán- grown.Apparently the ones from Michoacán are the best Hass avocados in the world.

I texted my wife Danusia and said if she saw any avocados anywhere to snap them up, as we were down to half a large avocado.

She later told me there were none to be found anywhere, and I braced myself for avocado-less salads for the duration.

Today I went to Fairway for our fresh young turkey (less expensive then Whole Foods) and went straight to the avocado bin, and, there were avocados! Joy! Thank you lord! Saved!

I even sent this text to my wife:

So it seems the avocado crisis is averted, at least for now-of course prices will be higher but the alternative is to do without avocados entirely. So I will pay.

I went to my local store this afternoon, a Finefare on Broadway and 161st Street. They had Florida avocados for 99¢, but the Mexican avocados were $3.49 each. Last time I was at this store they were$2 each. But I think the farmers in Michoacán deserve to get a fair price for their crop, so I’ll pay it and like it.

And I breathe a sigh of relief the avocado crisis is over.

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I saw Twyla Tharp today for the second time ever and it was wonderful. The first time was in 1973, and I believe it was at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. My live-in girlfriend at the time was in the theater program at Pratt Institute and got student tickets to a lot of things, but the thing I found interesting, at least more interesting than seeing Oklahoma! At the Met was going to see Twyla Tharp. That I’d even heard of her is a testament to her talent and popularity, or maybe it was just the haircut. She certainly was an interesting looking woman, even in 1973. I said hell yes, I’ll go with you.

What we saw that night was Deuce Coupe- a piece Twyla had choreographed to the music of the Beach Boys. I knew nothing of modern dance then and know precious little now but I have to say I was blown away then and blown away today.

My wife Danusia is a big Pina Bausch fan and I’ve gone with her to see two Pina Bausch performances, both at BAM by the way, and though beautiful and entertaining, quite amazing in its own way- they didn’t blow me away the way Twyla Tharp does.

I saw the ad in the paper a couple of months ago, and I’ve always wanted to see Twyla Tharp dance again. I figured she’s pretty old now but I was sure she must still be in great shape. I told Danusia and she said yes, we should go and got tickets.

And last week she realized she was going to Maine to do aSoundBites performance today. Bummer. I tired to sell the ticket, actually I would have given it away, but my Facebook invitation to an extra ticket got no takers.Then there was the question of where were the tickets.

“You have to pick them up at the box office, under Will Call.” That got my anxiety going. Will they believe I was Danusia’s husband? Would they believe I was Danusia? Ask for I.D.? I already had an inkling of a notion to sell the extra ticket to a complete stranger.

The woman at the box office gave me no problem. I spelt the name right, and when she asked me to sign I scribbled something illegible and got the tickets. I glanced outside to see if anyone was asking “tickets? Extra tickets?” Like at a rock concert, but there was no one. I figured I could at least put my coat on the empty seat, reserve it for Danusia’s spirit.

The show started on time, surprisingly. Twyla came out all dressed in white to wild applause. Well at least I applauded wildly.

She started talking about this new project, Minimalism and me. The first part of the show was Twyla standing at a lectern while explaining early works performed by her wonderful dancers. They are Matthew Dibble, Ron Todorowski, Reed Takersley, Kara Chan, Kellie Drobnick, and Mary Beth Hansohn. I didn’t remember all that, I’d be a terrible reporter; I copied that from my program. But they were all such wonderful dancers I would be seriously in not mentioning them.

Twyla talked about the first piece, Tank Drive as a female dancer came out and held a position for the whole three minutes plus of Petula Clark’s “Downtown.”

A woman who can mix a tank drive with the song Downtown is surely someone special, a person in sync with the ultimate in hip sophistication.

Which is why I was blown away in 1973 when I watched her and her company perform ballet top the music of the beach Boys.

Mistakenly I thought I had seen Eight Jelly Rolls when I saw that show, I almost said to the young woman sitting next to me “I saw this in 1973.” But then I realized Jelly Roll Morton ain’t the Beach Boys.

After the first part of the show, which was basically a primer on Twyla Tarp’s repertoire and early career, she did not dance. But she was very smart and clever, and I laughed a lot. The dancing was superb, involving a group of extras mixed in with the company of six to replicate some past glories.

As she announced the intermission she said they’d be back with the Eight Jelly Rolls and a special surprise from “now.”

The Eight Jelly Rolls were wonderful, I mean I’ve always loved and appreciated Bob Fosse, the extent of what I know a choreographer to be but the moves I saw today were nothing short of breathtaking.

So when Twyla came out for the last piece, the “from now,” I did almost lose my breath.

I certainly had to fight back tears as Twyla demonstrated that at the age of 77 she can still bust a move. When it was done I shot out of my seat- there had to be a standing ovation for this genius and if it was only going to me so be it. But just about everyone stood, and the applause lasted a good five minutes.

As I left the Joyce Theater after sitting in the second row center for a performance that brought tears to my eyes I knew I was going to have to write about it. Thanks for getting me to write again, Twyla. And for being such a talented human being.

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aluminum bar

I awoke this morning to the sound of raindrops pattering on the bedroom air conditioner. The patter was punctuated by distant rumbles of thunder. The bedroom was still pretty dark at almost 8, which is why I hadn’t woken up yet.
I’m usually up at dawn, as soon as the first light hits the bedroom windows. So I was given an extra hour or two by the rain. Since I had nothing to do this morning, it was OK.
I love the sound of the rain on the AC; it’s really soothing. But some people hate it. It drives them nuts.
Sometimes I get calls about it, and I go and glue a thick piece of foam rubber on top of the AC to dampen the noise.
One client called about that- but it wasn’t the rain, it was a recalcitrant AC two floors above her that let a constant drop-drop-drop fall on her AC, and I have to say it was pretty annoying. It was so loud a drip I needed to double up on the foam pad.
When I worked as a handyman on the Upper West Side my cheap boss used to use cut up pieces of discarded carpeting for the same thing, we’d cut out holes for the ventilation vanes and then use silicone to secure the carpet remnant to the top of the AC. Of course the carpet in time unraveled and worse smelled like wet carpeting, so if you want to dampen the sound I recommend the foam rubber pads.
I don’t use the pads; both my wife Danusia and I like the sound of the rain. And we live on the top floor so we don’t have any other ACs dripping on ours.
I do however use an aluminum L bar to hold the AC in the window, I take off the bracket that’s screwed on top of the AC and replace it with the L bracket cut to the width of the window. Guaranteed to keep your AC from falling out the window.
Then I use Plexi glass cut to size to fill in the open areas and silicone them in. Watertight, and more importantly airtight, and cuts down on outside noise considerably.

I’ve seen people use cardboard, even shoeboxes. There’s someone across the courtyard from us with an old K-Swiss shoebox keeping out the world. The of course there’s the shitty plastic accordions that come with your new AC, neither water nor sound proof. You get quite a draft through them in the winter if you are the type of person that leaves the AC in the window year round.


This thing is like a sieve.

I do that with my living room AC, it’s too big to store during the winter. But with my double thick Plexi we’re as warm as toast.

steel pot
To the people who can’t stand the sound of rain patter on your AC, you’re lucky you never heard rain patter on the top of a steel army helmet. I have, when I was in the army, and it almost drove me nuts. But having wet hair is even worse so I put up with it.
I have no idea how it sounds on the new Kevlar helmets; those were just being tested when I got out in 1981. Probably a little softer, but I’m sure it’s still annoying.
Anyway, if you can’t stand the sound, go to the local hardware store and get the padding. Or you can call me; I can always use the work.
I hear it’s going to be hot next week.


Posted in do-it-yourself, Humor, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments