The Joy of Tech

Chalk it up to a talent for consistency if you like, but I've always been young. I'm going on a 26-year streak now so I predict the trend will go on indefinitely. But such perpetual youth is not free of pain and hardship. I speak - as you have no doubt guessed - of the lack of a decent smartphone.

Notice I say "decent smartphone," not "smartphone." This is because up till last month, I stood enmired in a 1 1/2-year codependent relationship with a smartphone that had clearly, in its youth, been emotionally wounded by a sadistic mother.*  The result was an amalgam of Tourette's, dementia, low battery, schizophrenia, night terrors and chronic dropped calls. I also eventually realized my phone was refusing to receive text messages people were sending me, and as we well know from helpful posters in bus stations, when your significant other won't let you talk to your friends, that's a sign of an unhealthy relationship. But I was in too deep to realize. (Remember I mentioned I am pretty young.)

This was all part of an inexorable cycle. First, I would threaten to replace my phone and/or flush it.** Then the phone would wail and whine at me to take it back, because THIS time would be DIFFERENT. Accusations flew back and forth; tears flowed; passionate embraces were exchanged, and finally we would have a long, gratifying round of make-up texting. Then everything would be okay for any a week.

Long story short, I finally saw the light and acquired a new phone, and I have never been happier. Gone are the bad old days of no connection and under-productivity; the new phone has ushered in a bold new era of constant connection and under-productivity at a much faster rate. Now I can verify, on the way to the subway, what celebrities are dead. I can avoid answering my email en route to my very own bathroom -- or someone else's bathroom, for that matter (although they often wonder who I  am, and what I am doing in there).

And let's not forget to talk about Swype. This is a delightful program performs the vital dual functions of allowing you to type misspelled words while getting smeary finger stains all over your screen. Why misspelled? Well, the smartphone is only so smart, which means much of the time your messages are somewhat compromised. For example, say you're trying to write the following:

Dear Stan,

I will be running a bit late. I look forward to seeing you shortly.

Sincerely,
Nicola McEldowney

Before Swype, you would have had to type those words letter by letter, and you would have run the very real risk of spelling most of them correctly. But thanks to the efficiency of Swype, your message will look something like this:

Dear Arab,

I will be rubbing a nub large. I look forward to seeing you shirtless.

Sincerely,
Bucks Microfiber***

See how handy it is? As a smug and entitled upper-middle-class white person, I heartily go on the record as saying everyone should have one. And I think it is fair to say that, if you don't get one, you're not a real person.

In any case, I love my new smartphone. I've had it for over a week now and our relationship has yet to turn to pure unalloyed crap, which is more than I can say for its predecessor, as well as a few other individuals. As a matter of fact, I think it may be "the one," but then God knows I've said THAT before.

But there is no need to dwell in such places right now. Now is the time to revel in my newfound ability to plumb the depths of BuzzFeed while riding a bus. Did I mention my capacity for under-productivity? It's at least as legendary as my talent for youth, and I dare say it probably has at least three times the staying power.



* I can't know, but I imagine she was a microwave.
** On which note, flushability would be a great feature in other kinds of partners, if you get my drift.
*** This is what my phone originally thought my name was. I think it would be a good stripper name, assuming (a) I decide to adopt a second career and (b) I don't want any clients.

Northern Exposure: An Introduction to the Bronx

Writing about geography holds a special place in my heart. This is because every time I do, I get irate comments from readers with severe issues and excessive spare time. "How DARE you suggest that Belgium and France are the same country?!!" they write. "I am APPALLED. On the other hand, what can you expect from someone who thinks the national animal of Kazakhstan is the chocolate bunny?" To which I reply: I NEVER said that! I said he was the prime minister. But choose to believe what you want, if it makes you happy.

Anyway, I do admit my grasp of the world is tenuous, which is why today I'm sticking close to home, with the following overview of:

~ THE BRONX ~

The Bronx was created many geological epochs ago, when a Cro-Magnon workman named Unghh, who still works on 231st St., took a really big rock and banged it down hard to see what he would squish. This resulted in the shifting of the tectonic plates of the Earth. The Bronx split off in one big glob ("Bronx" is Cro-Magnon for "glob") from Manhattan, leaving untold thousands of Cro-Magnons without immediate access to artisanal coffee. Needless to say, they died instantly. The exception was Unghh, who lived on other Cro-Magnons.

That's how the Bronx got to be so far north. Most people don't even realize it exists. I know this because I used to be a student at Columbia, where it is de rigueur never to go further than your dorm bathroom, and some people never even bother with this. Columbia students believe the northern boundary of the known universe is Harlem, which they vaguely know to be a place we should all care about deeply but never go to. Whereas Harlem residents are a little more broad-minded. They believe the Earth terminates with Washington Heights. I don't know what Washington Heights residents think, but here is a simplified diagram of my best guess:

TUNDRA

↓

WASHINGTON HEIGHTS

↓

HARLEM

↓

A BUNCH OF OBLIVIOUS SNOTS AT SOME SCHOOL

↓

GROUND ZERO

↓

FLORIDA

Well, I'm here to tell you that "tundra" is actually the Bronx. You probably don't know much about it because the Bronx doesn't have the best reputation. This is a shame, because every so often I need people to sublet my apartment and pay large amounts of money. So that's why I'm here: to stand up for my borough's somewhat crud-festooned integrity. 

How far has the Bronx come since the Cro-Magnon days? Well, I will tell you: now we have an iHop, and one of these days soon we are getting a T.J. Maxx, so just chew on that, why don't you. Even these days, pre-T.J. Maxx, commerce is strong here. I speak particularly of the "iPhone" truck down by the high school. This is a truck that sells "iPhones," if you get my drift. It also sells "batteries," "chargers," and many other items that attract a vast number of consumers, if you continue to get my drift. This is why on any given day, a long queue of high-schoolers wait outside, demonstrating their profound devotion to phone chargers.

You know what would be really funny? If a person actually went up to the iPhone Truck in hopes of purchasing, say, a charger. I assume this has never happened. Such is not the way your savvy New Yorker conducts his business transactions. Your savvy New Yorker entrusts his business to trusted corporations. He doesn't go throwing money around at places with nice-sounding names that are obvious huge fronts for crystal-meth operations, such as "iPhone Truck" or "Columbia University."*

Nevertheless my point is that the Bronx's economy, despite the turmoil of the Cro-Magnon era, stands strong. And what's more, the Bronx has the further advantage of having - I want to be very clear about the magnitude of this - a comical name. You can't find that just anywhere in NYC, at least not at these rent prices. (You can find it in Long Island. Check out the LIRR callboard at Penn Station and you'll be entertained for days by places with names like Yankywanker.)

Last of all, I should like to close today's geography lesson by dispelling the long-held notion that the Bronx is far from Manhattan. On the contrary, travel a mere 20 minutes, and you will be in a really unappetizing part of Manhattan. You'll want to come right back to the Bronx, which luckily is only a hop, skip and a jump away.

So to summarize, the advantages of the Bronx are as follows: excellent local commerce,  a funny name, and convenience to places you wouldn't want to go anyway. Have I made my case? I think so, and now if you'll excuse me, I have to purchase an iPhone charger. Don't forget to attend geography class next week, when we'll discuss the Staten Island Chocolate Bunny Rebellion of 1915. The chocolate bunny is the official borough animal.

* If you didn't know this, you were kidding yourself.

In Your Face

The other day, on the subway, I inadvertently smushed my handbag into some girl's face. She voiced her displeasure thusly: "You get your BAG outta my FACE."

You may sympathize with this reaction, particularly if you're the type who doesn't like handbags in your face. I, on the other hand, got mad, because I'm the type who doesn't like getting shoved.

Many might have crumpled before this show of aggression. However, I, an unrepentant Tough and Gritty New Yorker, was not about to back off. So I looked her squarely in her eye and I said  - and I want to stress this is a real thing I said -

"You COULD say EXCUSE ME. You DON'T HAVE to be RUDE about it. "

That's right.  

You DON'T HAVE to be RUDE about it. 

 All the bloodlust in the world, or at least the Bronx, coursing through my veins - and all I could manage was to sound like somebody's uppity granny. She should have slapped me around. I considered slapping me around. The words still replay in my brain daily, in all their gooky self-righteousness. You DON'T HAVE to be RUDE about it, my brain squeals, on medical appoinments, at work, at dinner with friends. The shame is real.

What is to be done about this? Well, the ideal would be to go around with a mental repertoire of scathing retorts at the ready. But if you're anything like me, you can't remember scathing retorts.  So your best bet is to carry a handy list. Then you will have conversations like this:

PERSON ON TRAIN: You get your BAG outta my FACE.
YOU: (Stand there blankly for a moment, because you remember faintly, back in some dark recess of your mind, that this is your cue to do something. You just can't remember WHAT. So, stalling for time, you reply as follows.)
Oh YEAH? ... YEAH? Well...
(Suddenly it dawns on you, and you fumble around for your list.)
Hang on a second.  
(You dig madly through your bag, throwing things every which way: a lipstick, a wad of receipts, a coupon for Chock Full o' Nuts-brand coffee, etc. Finally you locate the list of witty retorts.
A-HA! Here we go! Well, uh...
(You stare at the list.)
Um. I'm sorry. Can you start over?
PERSON ON TRAIN (having forgotten the whole affair): Huh?
YOU: Um, well, I mean, we've kind of lost momentum. Can you say it again?
PERSON ON TRAIN:  Say what again?
YOU: "Get your bag outta my face."
PERSON ON TRAIN (deeply affronted): My bag isn't IN your face.
YOU: No, no, no. "GET YOUR bag OUTTA MY face."
PERSON ON TRAIN: (shoots you at close range)

Naturally any thinking court would rule this a justifiable homicide. So now technically I've forgotten what my original point was, if I had one. But I do want to close, on this Thanksgiving, by offering this heartfelt counsel to all my brethren, human and train-travelers alike: don't shove people, because shoving makes enemies. Then the shoved enemy will write a totally anonymous blog entry about you that you'll never see, and boy will YOU be sorry. So be a lover, not a shover. OK?

And if you disagree with me, fine. But you DON'T HAVE to be RUDE about it.

 

Animal, Vegetable or Mayoral?

Every so often, I decide it would be fun to put enormous amounts of stuff in a suitcase and lug it between Maine and New York at considerable expense. This is just one example of how human beings are criminally insane compared to animals. I cite as scientific evidence my cat, Danny, whose undertakings differ from mine as follows:

EXAMPLE 1:
Me: Lug enormous amount of stuff from Maine to New York at considerable expense
Danny: Sit on couch. Occasionally lick self. Communicate with unseen Zen master.

EXAMPLE 2:
Me: Go to meetings.
Danny: Sit on couch. Occasionally lick self. Communicate with unseen Zen master.

EXAMPLE 3:

Me: Attend professional "networking" events.

Danny: Sit on couch. Occasionally lick self. Communicate with unseen Zen master. 

EXAMPLE 4:

Me: Attempt to socialize with the opposite sex.

Danny: Get neutered at a young age.

I think the animal advantage is clear here, which is why it baffles me that we keep selecting humans for - to take just one example - high office, when we could instead have, say, Labrador retrievers. Sure, there would be enormous amounts of butt-sniffing, and periodic humping orgies, but in other ways the government would be very different from how it is right now. For example, Congress would frequently be adjourned for a rousing round of Fetch.

What I'm getting around to here is - obviously - the impending New York City mayoral race. Right now we have two candidates, Bill de Blasio and Joe Lhota, both of whom are widely suspected to be humans. This would appear to be a classic case of speciesism. That's why I'm urging you, my fellow voters - New Yorkers and otherwise (hey, why not?) - to write in an animal as an alternative candidate for mayor. Of course you don't get to choose just any animal. No, it must be an indigenous animal current with the Concerns of the People of New York. That's why I've taken the liberty of narrowing it down to the following three:

1. A cockroach named "Roscoe," formerly of my building in the Bronx, at least until my roommate and I - I admit to this - actually caught him in a cup and set him free outside, because we lack the moral strength that would allow most thinking persons to stomp him to a stain. Who knows; perhaps as soon as Roscoe was released, he was squooshed by another enterprising foot. But more likely he is out there happily spreading disease to cute children. Assuming Roscoe lives, he is on my short list.

- ADVANTAGE #1: Stalwart citizen of the Bronx; of sufficient mass to carry his own personal Bronx ZIP code.

- ADVANTAGE #2: Carries slightly less bacteria than Anthony Weiner.

2. The rat I once saw scampering around in the tastefully arranged garden square outside of Bergdorf Goodman. On the other hand, given its real estate, this individual is probably a Republican. So forget it.

3. A small, yappy, vicious dog such as is found in the dog runs of Riverside Park, when it is not being casually consumed by German Shepherds as an hors-d'oeuvre. I'm suggesting these dogs because they never get a chance to shine. Granted, this is because they are basically little hateful walking wads of hair, fangs, poop and evil. But these qualities are of great advantage to a mayor.

- ADVANTAGE #1: These dogs are invariably owned either by Paris Hilton or elderly ladies named Edna, which means that - presuming the owner were appointed city energy czar, and evil could somehow be harnessed for "green" energy - we'd have enough energy to power all Brooklyn, or one Trump bathroom.

Okay. Let's get ready to cast our primary votes! Think carefully, now. Ready?

TICKA-TICKA-TICKA-TICKA

Good job! I've tabulated the votes, and here's how the city voted, borough-by-borough:

BRONX: Too pissed off at you, personally, to vote; ask again later; will still be too pissed off later.

BROOKLYN: Recused itself. Thinks it remembers hearing that all three animals were involved in a non-fair-trade coffee enterprise awhile back.

QUEENS: A nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there.

STATEN ISLAND: Unnecessary.

MANHATTAN: 13% for the dog; 15% for the cockroach; 9% for the Bergdorf Goodman rat; 25% remind us it's all Bush's fault; and the remaining 38% say HEY! WHADDAYA LOOKIN' AT??!! YOU WANT ME T' TEAR YOU A NEW ONE?!! I'MA RIP YOUR FACE OFF'N USE IT AS A POTHOLDER! STANCLEARADA CLOSIN' DOORS! I SAID STANCLEARADA CLOSIN' DOORS, #@$!%&-HOLE!!! HAVE A NICE DAY. OH YEAH? YOU 'N WHAT ARMY? And meanwhile, the one remaining resident, loveable mensch Milton A. Frumpklein of Chelsea, says shyly that he knows of a really good place to get bagels.

Personally, I think - and I know you were wondering - that Roscoe, the cockroach, is the obvious future of the city. But you may disagree with me, and in that case, if you think I give a rat's ass, that would be very interesting. One way or another, I look forward to seeing how this city decides. Say what you will about our system of democracy; it always brings a tear to my eye. And just wait'll I get into what they do in France.

P.O.'d

Every so often, you may find yourself in a state of pure inner peace and contentment. This is unnatural to anyone who is not deeply disturbed or my cat. Fortunately, there is a remedy. I speak, of course, of a visit to my neighborhood post office.

Take last Tuesday for example. I woke up feeling like a shiny new penny.*  This is not my natural state; my natural state is one of perpetual, knuckle-popping aggravation at mankind and fellow subway riders alike. So I went to the post office to set myself straight. I knew my needs would be met, for the postal clerks are tireless in their efforts to bathe your day in enmity. They take no breaks except to eat their young.

You too might do well to pay a visit if, like me, you find yourself out of sync. So here's a handy-dandy guide to the experience. You're welcome.

A VISITOR'S GUIDE TO MY LOCAL P.O., LOCATED IN AN UNSPECIFIED

METROPOLITAN BOROUGH THAT, TO PROTECT ITS OTHERWISE STERLING REPUTATION, WE SHALL CALL "THE GRONX" (NOT ITS REAL NAME) 

Step 1. First, you shall join a line of 56,000,000,000,000 wretched, defeated customers who have been waiting in line since the Crusades, which would have been preferable. Every so often, people's body parts fossilize or turn to goodge. Some individuals have turned altogether to flesh puddles with bifocals floating around in them, but BY GOLLY THEY ARE GOING TO WAIT IN LINE UNTIL CALLED. And so are you, because that is the kind of spunky New Yorker you are, goddammit.

Step 2. While still spunky (a period lasting 22 seconds), you entertain yourself by dreaming up creative ways to kill those ahead of you.

Step 3.  Meanwhile, you observe there are twelve service windows, two of which are staffed by snarling, hate-crazed, froth-spewing beasts ready to impale you on their digi-pens at a moment's notice. Even the courtesy sign says so ("PLEASE WAIT TO BE CALLED, OR THE FROTH-SPEWING BEAST BEHIND THE WINDOW WILL IMPALE YOU ON HER DIGI-PEN").

Step 4. Now it is your turn to approach the window. Genuflecting and offering up your firstborn without even being asked, you move one nanometer closer to the window, whereupon the cashier, in a voice that could vaporize Russia, utters the traditional federal pleasantry: "YOUGETBACKINLINE!!!"

Step 5. You are formally called to the window.

Step 6. That was a daydream. You are still waiting while the cashier counts her skin cells.

Step 7. Meanwhile -- anyone in the Gronx may feel free to back me up on this -- additional people, meaning people who weren't even in line until now, appear around you. Apparently these individuals have been belched forth from the walls. Naturally all of them get called to the window before you.

Step 8. Finally you really are called up to the window, and as it is your lucky day, the postmistress decides to go easy on you by not incinerating you with a single glance. 

Step 9. The two of you lock gazes in a death battle. Her bloodshot, sideways eyes dare you to carry out your transaction; yours say, Bring it on, baby. Just as she prepares to electrocute you telekinetically, Pokémon-style, you make the bold, unprecedented move of actually whipping out your wallet. That's right. You're gonna complete your transaction and you're not backing down. Whoa-ho-HOA! Betcha didn't see THAT one coming, now, U.S. Postal Harpy, didja? Do your WORST! BOO-yah!

Step 10. Only momentarily stunned, your opponent quickly regroups, retaliating with one swift, hostile gesture that means you must open the postal sale window. You accept the challenge; there's no stopping now. You open your window. She gives you the Death Look that means close it now or else. You do so, whereupon she opens the corresponding window on her side. Out of sheer spite and bravado, you open yours again. She slams hers down, a warning to quit playing with the big girls now or else. But you just slam yours down again. So she slams hers down again. And on you two go, SLAM, SLAM, SLAM, SLAM, back and forth, until finally you two are slamming to the exact rhythm of "Mars, Bringer of War" from The Planets. This slam-a-rama could go on all night.

Step 11. At last, you are done. She let you off easy when she realized you had not, technically speaking, brought anything to mail, having accidentally left it on your kitchen table. But such details are minor to you, the victor of the day, because your opponent did not win. Visibly shaken by the experience, she eats only half a child for lunch.

Step 12. And finally, secure in the glory of a mission accomplished, you wend your way home. Sure, you may not have actually mailed anything; but you have done the impossible in emerging with all your original extremities. So go home, pamper yourself, and rest assured of a job well done! Take the rest of the day to kick back and luxuriate. It will be ages before you realize you forgot your wallet.

 

* Which is to say, round and brown with Abraham Lincoln on my front.

A Tale of Two Fringes, Part 1: San Diego Edition

For those who don't know (and I assume there are a few members of the Amazonian Pirahã tribe who don't know), my musical Aisle Six recently made it into two Fringe Festivals.

 Q. Are you saying "French" or "Fringe"?  
A. Yes.

Q. Okay, so what is the "Fringe"?  
A. I'm glad you asked. The term "Fringe" comes from the Latin fringum (first use, year XIII), which can be used two ways (not at once, and not while pregnant or nursing). One of its uses was to indicate bodily harm, as in, "I hear Grumio the serf got a boo-boo on his fringum." The other meaning was, "Theater that will one day be performed on the Lower East Side, though God only knows why you'd want to go there, since it's the year XIII and there are no decent tacquerias." This is the meaning of Fringe that we preserve today. Plus now we have decent tacquerias.

Actually, the first of my two Fringes took place not on the Lower East Side, but rather in San Diego, California, which has had good tacquerias since the Precambrian Era. This is pretty darned impressive when you consider there weren't even any humans yet.*

The San Diego Fringe Festival was new to its city** this summer, joining the ranks of other cherished San Diego traditions, most notably:

 1. The Comic-Con, an annual event during which the San Diego Convention Center emits clouds of ecstatic nerd testosterone so powerful their fumes fell bison in Yellowstone, and
2. The yuk-a-minute gag of airplanes flying so low they routinely land on your head and kill you. This is a practical joke by the fun-loving San Diego-based air personnel, intended to liven up the "laid-back" atmosphere, and/or cull the herd.

But in all seriousness, the first thing you notice in San Diego, in between ducking and covering, is the kindness. San Diegans, as a general rule, are gifted with a warmheartedness so sincere, so profound, that it can only be caused by large quantities of drugs.

No! Just kidding.*** My point is, whatever the cause, San Diegans tend to be full of happy, positive energy. You take the first read-through of my play. I wish you could have been a fly on the wall. I appeared on Skype from Maine, while the rest gathered in a room in San Diego, alternating between reading and dissolving in laughter. It was the most fun read-through I've ever done - and not just because I never had to leave my bed.

So - as I ask myself upon any unexpected event, good or bad - what the heck happened? These people didn't already know each other, weren't friends seeking to have a good time around friends. The norm among strangers is diffidence and tightness - especially when those strangers are asked to do an awkwardly soul-bearing thing like read a play aloud. Yet instead, every single one of my San Diego actors came in ready to rock and roll, as if absorbing the positive energy from each other, then expelling it with interest. I'd never seen anything like it, but I hope I will again.

What's more, it continued like that. From the first rehearsal to the last performance, the whole production experience was filled with such intense, heartfelt positivity that it could only have been fueled by drugs.

No! Sorry. Only joking.**** Didn't mean that. Whatever the reason, the cast took on the play as their very own and made it soar. They provided Aisle Six with the kick-start it needed, the launching pad for its future success wherever it goes. And I can't thank them enough.

I think theatrical experiences like mine at the San Diego Fringe come along only once in a blue moon. I've had maybe one other like it, where the cast came in with open minds, fitting together, bouncing off one another's personalities and individual energies, totally in tune with each other and the piece. What this does is elevate the piece, giving it new and often unexpected life, raising the bar for every production to come. There's no greater gift this cast could have given Aisle Six. There's no greater gift they could have given me.

Except, of course, for some of their drugs.




* Though as you can imagine, the service was lousy.
** San Diego.
*** Maybe.
**** I think.

Tumblin' in the Wind

Hey hey, everyone! I made a Tumblr for my musical. Check it out here: http://adventuresofaislesix.tumblr.com/