Reality Check

“Officials say they can reduce stink near Carousel Center.” That was the headline on a Thanksgiving Day story in The Post-Standard about efforts to keep the stench of our collective flatulence from seeping into the Mall Upon Which Rests All Our Hopes.

It turns out that sticking the sewage
treatment plant next to the mall of the future (maybe not urban
planning’s finest moment) is causing a disturbance in the force.
Although sewage experts across the political spectrum hastened to
assure us that the stench could indeed be reduced, a serious and
gaseous blow has already been administered to the image of our region.
If we want to appeal to folks across the border and around the country,
maybe we should offer them something a cut above stench reduction.
“Come to Destiny USA: It stinks less than it did last fall” doesn’t
seem like a solid promotional program.

Even if the odor can be reduced, we
should be looking for multi-pronged approaches to the future of Central
New York. With the difficulties in the downstate economy scaring many
residents of the New York City metropolitan area, now is an ideal time
for Syracuse to renew its efforts to promote our town as a wonderful
place to live. We have a lot of great things going for us—cheap
housing, lower unemployment than most of the region, easy access to a
beautiful nearby countryside—not to mention a mall which, on many days,
does not smell awful.

If you can reach out to a young family
ready to plop down a six-figure down payment on a condo in Brooklyn,
and tell them that for that same amount they can own a handsome, solid
four-bedroom in a nice neighborhood of Syracuse, that will get their
attention. If, in addition, we fully implement the “Say Yes to
Education” plan, Syracuse will become a magnet for people all over the
region—assuming they can get a job at the mall.{mospagebreak}

“Say Yes” could essentially give any
17-year-old who has gone through the Syracuse City Schools a free ride
to the college of their choice. What new parent wouldn’t love that? But
there is still the reality that many young people who grow up here move
away as they come of age. I propose that we adopt a companion program
called the “Say No to New Jersey” program, which essentially gives a
free ride to New Jersey for anyone in Syracuse who reaches 17. New
Jersey, even on her best day, will have any Syracusan who visits
clicking her slippers together and whispering that there is no place
like home.

You will not be surprised to learn that
this plan was inspired by a recent trip to New Jersey, which is home to
many fine people and has many pretty, albeit carefully concealed,
destinations. Without New Jersey there would be no Bruce Springsteen,
no Tony Soprano, and no New Jersey jokes—all reasons enough to rejoice
in the existence of the Garden State, but no reason to let our youth
abandon us in favor of Jimmy Hoffa’s presumptive final resting place.

I believe that if we give each kid in
Syracuse a trip to New Jersey at just the right time in their future
planning process, we will no longer have to worry about that giant
sucking sound siphoning our youth off to the South. 

New Jersey traffic is a redundant term.
You get across the lovely Delaware Water Gap Bridge into western Jersey
and within a few miles you’re surrounded by four lanes of traffic. Your
mirrors and windshield are clogged with people who live to pass on the
right and drive slowly in the left-hand lane. Bruce may have been born
to run, but most of the rest of Jersey has been reduced to a crawl.
It’s a land where the utilization of a directional signal is considered
a sign of weakness and defensive driving a lifestyle choice best left
at the border. It’s the only state with a governor who was nearly
killed on official business when his driver wrecked the limo and sent
the seat-belt-free chief executive into orbit over the Jersey Turnpike.

One of the nice things about New Jersey
is inexpensive gasoline. Defying all the laws of economics, New Jersey
gas prices are a good 30 cents cheaper than New York prices, even
though all gas in New Jersey is pumped by—get this—gas station
attendants. It’s not the 1950s: It’s the law. The attendants will even
clean your windshield.

Don’t fall for it. They just do this to
entice you to get off the highway. It’s one of those exits New Jersey
specializes in, with signs telling you that there is food and gas, but
not telling you how far you have to drive to get there. On this day I
drove until I swore I could see palm trees. 

In New Jersey, you have to make all
turns from the right-hand lane. To make a left you have to make a right
and then swing around a jug handle (I believe the term is copyrighted
in Jersey) to get yourself roads so packed with Jersey drivers that it
can take several changes of the stoplight and a couple of Hummer
drivers flipping you the bird just to get you through the intersection.

In the pursuit of cheap gasoline, you
can easily find yourself driving around enough jug handles to burn up
any savings you might have realized. What you come across along the
way, if you can look up long enough without getting cut off, scenery
that makes Route 31 near Wal-Mart look like Yosemite. 

Just before you make it back to the
highway you come across Smiles 2, a go-go bar. (Judging by the number
following the name, I’m guessing that somewhere else in the Garden
State there is a similar establishment named Smiles 1.) What really
caught my attention was the sign on the marquee: “Tonight at Smiles 2:
Benefit for Scott J. Squires!” Don’t you want to meet the guy who, when
facing a life-threatening illness, is lifted up by his friends and
neighbors, not at some clam bar or beer hall, but at a strip club? 

Here in Central New York, we hold a
clambake and people play lawn darts when somebody gets sick. At this
Jersey exit, it’s lap dances for charity. Maybe there really is nothing
better in this whole wide world than a Jersey girl. 

Oops. The light has changed, as the
blare of SUV horns behind me reminds me. I’m back on the road, turning
west, heading back to Syracuse, and the sweet smell of home.