-This is our "ool." Notice there's no "p" in it. We'd like to keep it that way.-

So reads one of those novelty signs that adorn changing room walls in public pools. Any camp counselor knows that the audience most in need of this reminder is too young to grasp the humor, and perhaps too young to read at all.

Chlorine can only do so much. I like to think that our bodies can accept non-potable water despite its impurities, so long as the microbial passengers are familiar. Because sometimes we have no choice.

In the past few hours, two siblings have contributed water-themed stories that push my own hydro-understanding beyond a reading of Blue Gold.

From New York, my sister tells me of a college that responds to algae by putting bottles of water in all of the student mailboxes.
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A week ago I asked my aunt if she could remember the exact moment bottled water overtook tapwater in this country. She couldn't, and neither can I; my vaguest guess would be the late nineties.
Nevertheless, there hasn't been much grumbling about the high prices paid for plastic bottles of plastic tasting water. Gouging at raves, I expect, but why should people with faculties in good working order stand for this?
My theory? Water was the cheap, forgotten utility. People didn't value it until it was gone. DC residents with fewer options are mobilizing, but too little, too late, too disenfranchised. People with the means to do so want to pay more for the bottle the same way they want to buy brand name items. Unconscious snobbery? You bet your glass.


From Virginia, my brother contacts me from his office, where he and many of his coworkers have been trapped for hours by rapidly rising flood waters.

This has happened before, as seen in archival photos provided by the Richmond Public Library.

The speedy accumulation of water took them all by surprise, but it made sense; the James river curls around this beautiful, expensive, and delicate area of the city, a point so low that floodwalls are required to keep it dry in the best of times. Dueling weather systems made the area a funnel, putting over ten feet of water between the streets and the surface. Since nearly all parking in this area is street level, the floodwater moved all the cars about like toys in a child's bathtub. Before a larger piece of automotive flotsam plugged the gap, many cars washed off the streets and into the James. Even as the waters recede, dead jeeps and sedans tangle in odd, muddy configurations in a once vibrant area that is now condemned.

And now it has happened again, as seen in these pages provided by the Richmond Times Dispatch.

The troubling question for city leaders now - is it possible to rebuild? Is it advisable? For many companies, including my brother's, this might seem to be the best time to move out of downtown. It will take time to repair their operations, and for all of those employees and managers on the second, third, and fourth stories looking down, the slurping sound of the last water down the drain lingers.