Stinkboken - 201
Hal Wastes His Wages!
September 11, 2006
 

Cooler weather is making its way to our little urban enclave, and I for one am more than ready to dust off the fleece jacket and dig those long pants out of the bottom of my laundry pile. A decrease in temps means much more than not having to watch overgrown women in undersized bikinis creepily hovering a bit too long over the water jets in the Pier A’s fountain. It also means the overpowering stink that stalks our streets in the summertime will soon once again crawl back into its rancid tomb for another season.

As you stroll along our streets on a lovely afternoon constitutional, you’re routinely slapped in the nose by the most gruesome of odors. Some you can place your finger on, like the stink of sun-soaked urine or hot, sour milk. There are others that you just know to expect, like when the sewers regurgitate their offal and belch forth wretched foulness after a hard summer rainstorm. But then there are those other smells that just get trapped inside your sinuses and leave you wondering what on God’s green Earth could have combined to evoke such a revolting sensory reaction.

Take for instance the miniature pools of standing water that form in the city’s many potholes. Weeks after the last rain they’re still there, like sludgy little Petri dishes reeking of death and pestilence. They’ve turned an unnatural shade of milky brown, far fouler than even the filthiest frat house crapper, and you wonder if Satan himself used that particular pothole as a pit stop on his way back to Hell after leaving an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet. But at least you can see those coming, as opposed to the criminally offensive assault on the olfactory that hits you on the southwest corner of 3^rd and Washington Streets, directly outside the Hoboken branch of an internationally known fast food franchise. Everyday that dour little man is out there jet-washing the sidewalk (and anyone who passes by), and every afternoon the smell is back and stronger than ever. I imagine the nightmares that poor man takes home with him are dreams that would make Dante squeamish.

It’s not all bad, of course. While some might find it hard to believe a stroll along the Hudson could be pleasant, normally the brackish air and cool breeze provide a pleasant respite from the stink of city life. But unfortunately even that’s ruined on Thursday mornings, after packs of negligent slobs abandon trash piles casually leftover from “Movies Under the Stars.” Most of the other city parks also provide shade and casual comfort, but for the park bench squad bays of Hoboken’s homeless Hoovervilles, and pet runs so pungent my own dog downright refuses to enter (of course I pick up after her, but not everyone does—which makes me want to catch some scofflaw pet owner in the act just so I can pick it up and whip it at him like a stink-filled grenade of civil vigilance).

But now as the earth’s axis begins to tilt a different direction, we will no longer be ants under the heaven’s magnifying glass. The crisp smell of autumn will soon give way to the winter snows. Damn, I hate the snow—it get’s all slippery and nobody shovels and it’s impossible to park and there’s grey and yellow and brown crap everywhere and when drunks puke on the street it instantly freezes and stays there for like a month and I really wish the snow would go away so it could be summer again…

…so continues the circle of gripe.

(Even with all that bitching I surely missed something, so send your geographically specific horror story of Hoboken summer funk to current@hudsonreporter.com.)

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