Binghamton, We Have to Talk About Your Parking Problem

This is my first day blogging. I was gonna talk about Fergie’s national anthem or how everyone on my Facebook feed is obsessed with Black Panther or how annoyed I am that Adam Rippon hasn’t been on television in two days but I can’t. I just can’t.

I have to rant.

And you may not like it.

We need to stop going on Facebook and telling everybody there’s nowhere to park in Downtown Binghamton. For reals.

Now hear me out: I moved to Binghamton about ten years ago and I’ve lived downtown for six years. I have to park downtown every day (I pay for a spot in the ramp but when I’m late, I drive places. And I’m late, like, a lot).

Now, when I park on the street in the middle of the day, I find a spot within a block of where I’m going 80% of the time. EIGHTY PERCENT! That’s like, more than 79%! That’s a lotta percents! Sometimes I have to go two blocks.

If it’s a super, super busy Friday night (First Friday Art Walk), I usually have to park in the ramp. Now the ONLY TIME I’ve ever seen a FULL LOT sign in the ramp is during LUMA. In TEN YEARS of living here. Not even Parade Day. How can we have a parking problem?!?

Now, Bing, I’m gonna level with ya: Sometimes, when you live in a cool city, ya gotta walk. And the cooler the city, the longer the walk. You’ve been to Manhattan. Sometimes ya walk 20 blocks. Because it’s worth it. Have you EVER had to walk more than 4 blocks in Bing? BE HONEST.

The better downtown gets--the more restaurants and bars and shops and bubble tea places there are--the more ya gotta walk.

Why? Because parking lots are butt ugly. Think about your favorite city. Think about what it looks like. What’s pretty about it. Storefronts? Parks? Benches? Which one of you said the parking lot. NO ONE. And every place you put a parking lot, you can’t put a theater or bowling alley yoga spot. And everybody loves yoga.

So what am I saying? I’m saying: I’m as lazy as the next jerk. And if I had my way, a team of doped up Russian Olympic curlers would just carry me from one spot to the next. Maybe swing into Water Street Brewing for a cool IPA on the way. Not for the curlers; just me. I need them sober. But until I can get my own team of Olympic curlers to carry me places (and then possibly sweep my kitchen floor because they've got the skills anyway), I’m gonna park the four blocks away at the ramp and walk.

You can hate me. But I still love you. (And you know deep down I’m right.)

Tomorrow, more on Fergie. End rant.