I am a victim of Hurricane Irene.
My friend and I were visiting New York when Irene “struck” early today — Sunday, August 28. We had plane reservations to leave the city on Saturday, August 27. Delta Airlines canceled our reservations on Friday afternoon. It, like all the other airlines, abandoned traffic to New York more than 24 hours before any hurricane could possibly have caused trouble at the airports. Because of these cancellations, travel throughout the nation was convulsed.
None of this was necessary, or wise, or profitable to anyone. It was the result of a panic induced by government and media, and willingly indulged by the kind of corporations that have acquired the worst characteristics of both — arbitrary power and a zest for misinformation. When our reservations were zeroed out, we were emailed, almost a day after the fact, “Your flight has been cancelled” (no apology, no explanation); then we were told that “we have rebooked you on another flight” — two days later. Notice the transition between the passive mood, which people in power reserve for the bad things they do, and the active mood, which they choose for the good things they don’t do. Our flight wasn’t rebooked by the airline; it was rebooked by us, after we pestered the airline and they eventually returned our call, and after we were unable to rebook it on the airline’s website, which wasn’t working. The woman who finally assisted us acted as if it was an amazing idea that we should be reimbursed for the downgrade of our tickets from first class to coach.
But let me report a few highlights of this ridiculous exercise in misinformation and authoritarianism, by which all America was damaged by a minor storm.
On Wednesday, ABC reported that the hurricane, then reputedly a category 3, or maybe 2, “could be category 4 by Thursday.” Other media, including the Weather Channel, suggested that it would be. When the hurricane came ashore in North Carolina on Saturday, it was barely a category 1, something that the media geniuses never believed could happen to their darling, “the hurricane of a lifetime,” although normal people easily guessed it. By Saturday evening, Irene was visibly disintegrating, had lost its eye, and was about to become a mere tropical storm, and not an especially strong one. Yet at that time, the mayor of New York was strongly advising all people to stay at home between 9 p.m. Saturday and 9 p.m. Sunday, had closed all mass transit at noon on Saturday, had sent his goons out to advise people living in 30-story buildings that they ought to evacuate, because the park next door might flood, and was telling workers to plan on mass transit still being shut down during their Monday morning commute. He seemed to enjoy himself, decreeing fates like that.
Businesses were closing everywhere in Manhattan, because of the mass transit shutdown, but my friend and I found a restaurant, “Da Marino,” that promised to be open on Saturday evening, and on Sunday evening if possible. To deal with the transit problem, the management had rented rooms for their employees in a hotel next door. So on Saturday night we enjoyed a good meal and listened while people accurately identified Bloomberg as the man who was causing the mess. But most merchants had shut down on Saturday afternoon, or failed to open that day at all. All Starbucks stores shut down. Pastry shops that cater to the local hotel business shut down, even though they had a captive mob of customers. Madame Tussaud’s shut down. Even churches canceled their Sunday services. Leaving Da Marino after an excellent dinner, served to customers reported to be more numerous than at any time in the restaurant’s history, my friend and I looked down Broadway from 49th Street to Times Square. The lights were on, but there was no crowd, no life, no business. A few people drifted across the street, in posses of two or three. Official vehicles could be seen in the distance, idling and flashing their lights. A faint drizzle of rain came down. That was the Great White Way on Saturday evening, August 27.
And why? Because the official class decreed that there should be a disaster.
Back in our hotel, we turned on the disaster reports on TV. Local news was enthusiastic about a picture of Grand Central Station standing empty except for cops who were there to fend normal people off. “No reason why you should go there anyway,” the news anchor said. A young newsperson, standing on location amid a few drips of water, predicted that soon, very soon, the neighborhood in which he stood would be hopelessly flooded. Anchorpeople advertised the fact that 4,000 people were now without electricity in New Jersey, New York, and Pennsylvania, not stating how many of the millions who live in those areas are without energy at any normal time. The electric company, prompted by the mayor, threatened to cut off energy “preemptively” to large areas of New York City, allegedly to protect its equipment against flooding. And to make matters worse, yet another of Bloomberg’s constant news conferences was threatened.
My friend and I fell asleep. When we awoke at 10 on Sunday morning, the rain had gone; the sun was shining; and people were walking the streets, sans umbrellas, hunting for places to eat. Places to enjoy. Places to honor with their business. Places that had survived the onslaught of paternalism.
Soon we will hear how many billions of dollars Hurricane Irene cost the nation. But remember: the hurricane itself was responsible for virtually none of those losses. This was a manmade disaster.