The Great 7/19 Blackout: 30 Minutes of the Apocal-ish

Recently I was couchin' it at home, and as I drank my whatever-it-is-I-drink, things truly felt serene.  A light thunder rumbled ever so gently, like a snorer's obstruction in the nasal passage that doesn't quite require medical attention (though a sleep study wouldn't hurt).  I watched my local sports team perform however-it-is-they-perform, and considered the state of my union: it was pleasant.

 8:37 PM. A crude artist's rendering.  The rendering's crude, the artist's actually rather polite.

At that moment, a tiny slice of armageddon pierced my world.  Without warning the lights ceased to shine.  The television halted its broadcast.  The microwave's green glow of the wildly wrong time dissipated into nothingness.

8:38 PM.  High-res photo of the blackout.  Diagonal white lines are "spirit streaks".

My entire world suddenly shifted into the 'off' position.  In my desperation, I think I coined some new profanity like "shuck".

Step One in my survival handbook was apparently "Have an Exceptionally Dumb Look On Your Face", so I did this.  Soon my brain was running through possible disaster scenarios that might be playing out at that very moment, momentarily convincing myself of each one's veracity.  "Could this be...oh my word...this is al-Qaeda.  They're here!  They've exploded all the transformers in a quarter-mile radius!  Of course they'd start with suburban South Jersey - it's where we'd least expect it!"  Then I'd switch to a more likely circumstance.  "No no no - this is merely the straw that has broken the camel's back that is our decrepit power grid.  It was me, running my wash at an inopportune - nay, catastrophic - time, that has overwhelmed the infrastructure up and down the entire Eastern seaboard.  My bad, you guys, this one's on me."

Each potential cause I identified served to explain the situation, but did nothing to mitigate its effects.  In fact, as time wore on, the intensity of the disaster at-hand only magnified - or perhaps just my perception of it.  I envisioned a torch-bearing mob banging at the windows of Wawa (in my head, they were already zombies - go figure!), each flashing-light vehicle that sped by was en route to a bloodied, society-crippling riot, and the pitter-patter of rain that still caressed my roof was the precursor to epic floods that would leave this land in ruins, or at least with that moldy smell that's annoying to get rid of for awhile.

Geez, brood much?

Doomsday visions swirled in my head. I checked my cell phone.  Twenty minutes of darkness.  A thought along the line's of "God hath left us - was He ever even here?" entered my mind, but delivered by Daniel Day-Lewis.



It was a steamy night, and the absence of AC was fast becoming palpable.  A bead of sweat formed at my brow - my left one, if memory serves.  For a moment I rationalized that turning on a fan would allay the meltdown, until it sunk in that everything I own is grid-operated.  Even my batteries plug into the wall, for hyperbole's sake!

Forty minutes into this hellscape, an explosion of light and sound filled the air.  Greta Van Susteren's mellifluous tone wafted through the room, which is strange because I wasn't watching Fox News.  I swear.  I was too mentally exhausted by this point to consider that particular conspiracy theory.  Instead I cracked open another whatever that I had deftly tucked in the freezer at the outset of the crapstorm.  I have priorities, and I exercise them.

The next hour passed much like the one that follows a near-death experience.  I think I wept at one point, the evidence being smeared eye-liner all over my face, which I don't even wear because I'm a gentleman; I'm telling you, it was a weird night.  But I vowed to myself this: I will prepare myself.  I will be ready when the next blackout hits.  Because that one might be the real deal.  So whether it be excess grid-demand or Talibanistic in nature, I'll be prepared. 

It should be noted I talk to myself in italics.

So here I am now, sixteen days later.  In those sixteen days I've lost my phone charger and ran out of milk.  Because the only thing I am more than an American, is an idiot.  Someone should write a song...

Wow.  Talk about a powerful, let alone apt, image.  The only thing that could ruin it is a self-aggrandizing caption that totally neutralizes the meaning behind it.  And the only thing that could make it better would be like a bunch of machine guns at the bottom-right there.  You know, for freedom.