Today’s soundtrack: Pero mientras que exista el mambo
Today at 8:02pm: paying a buck-fifty for guacamole



Why is the last mile, the hardest mile goes the song. And I do have to say, walking home from work, the first fifty blocks fly by but those last ten always put bricks in your shoes.

Every time I get home from work, the routine is as follows. I have no illusions this will be interesting to anyone but I’m going to write about it anyway, and if you don’t like it you can move the cursor up to the little ‘X’ and return to the rest of your iLife.

Back in the house:

1) lock door

2) molt (shed shoes and outer layer of clothing)

3) empty pockets
a) cash
b) Metrocard
c) Trident
d) cigarettes
e) matchbooks and assorted receipts
f) cell phone
g) wallet
h) work ID
i) iPod
j) sidearm (just kidding)

4) pee as needed

5) check phone messages if in social mood

6) go through mail if in responsible mood

7) remove laptop from bag, plug it in

8) collapse in chair

Yesterday I got up to step number 7 before something went wrong. The tip of the laptop power cable, which normally glows green, remained dark after I plugged it in. I connected it to the computer anyway and fired up some programs that have nothing whatsoever to do with illegal file-sharing.

A few minutes later I curled my nostrils at the unmistakable smell of burning plastic. An under-desk olfactory investigation led me to the laptop’s power adapter, which was scorchingly hot and clearly trying to kill me by emitting a poisonous gas.

I wanted to do number 8--I was exhausted--but I unplugged the adapter in a hurry, put my jackets back on and reloaded my pockets. The adapter was clearly shot and the laptop is something I’d rather not live without, even for a night; tired or no, I had to go out and get a new one.

After seven minutes of wading through SoHo riff-raff I arrived at the Apple Store on Prince. For some reason there was a huuuuuuuge line in front. It stretched all the way around the corner and ran up the sidewalk all the way to Houston Street.

Although the line clearly ended at the door to the Apple Store, I saw people walking in and out freely so I did the same and skipped the line. Inside the store was moderately jammed. I walked up the steps to the Technical Assistance area, which they call the “Genius Bar,” don’t ask me why. There was nearly thirty people standing in front of it.

I stopped a passing Apple employee. “Uh, ‘scuse me, is that the line to the, uh...”

“Genius Bar?” said the employee. (I avoided saying “Genius Bar” aloud for the same reason I hate going into restaurants where the dishes have ridiculous names and you have to order them as such, i.e. “I’ll have Bob’s Big Bitchin’ Bacon Bomb Cheeseburger.”)

“Yeah,” I said.

“Yes, that’s the line,” he confirmed. “You may want to come back tomorrow. We’re very crowded today because we’re having a special event.”

“Yeah, what’s with that line outside?” I asked.

“That’s the line for if you want to buy an iPod Mini,” he said. “They go on sale at 6pm.” I looked at my cell; it was 5:45 and the line already traversed an entire block.

I couldn’t believe it. When I heard about the iPod Mini I thought for sure no one in their right mind would buy it. Here you have a 4-gig MP3 player for 250 bucks. For 299 bucks you can get the 15-gig iPod. What goddamn sense does that make? Why would you buy a 4-gig joint when an extra fifty bucks will get you almost four times the capacity?

Later I met up with Deadly and Lam for burritos, and I told them about the iPod Mini line. “From Prince to Houston,” I said. “What goddamn sense does that make? An extra fifty bucks will get you an extra eleven gigs. I thought Steve Jobs was out of his fucking mind but apparently the things are selling like hotcakes.”

“It doesn’t make any sense mathematically, but it’s an emotional purchase,” said either Lam or Deadly, I can’t remember.

That’s when I realized how clever Steve Jobs is.

His business model makes no sense, but he’s appealing to people’s emotions. And we all know people will do all kinds of crazy shit under the influence of their emotions. They’ll throw away relationships, fuck the wrong people, make foolish purchases or say outlandish things before you’ve even had your first drink. They’ll rip up letters, take the wrong job, cry into margaritas and wait at the train station when they know damn well you’re not going to show up. People can be relied upon to make bad decisions while using the wrong half of their brain, and Jobs has figured out how to make money off it.

I saw the iPod Minis when I was walking out of the Apple Store. Behind the counter and in five pretty colors were dozens of them, all stacked up like treats in a candy store. If the line outside was any indication, by now the whole lot of them is scattered throughout pockets and purses all over Manhattan. The white cables of the headphones leading up to the ears, framing the heads making decisions, nodding to the beat.

Day 182

Today’s soundtrack: yesterday I was, half the man I used to be
Today at 8:02am: Sitting upright in bed.


I work (intermittently, on the whim of others) at a large, multinational conglomerate where I have a dedicated desk. The Corporation has global influence, name-brand recognition and manufactures products you can buy worldwide. Millions and perhaps billions of dollars change hands every day due to the workings of this particular corporation.

Anyways when I came into work this morning, someone stole the fucking lightbulb out of my drafting lamp. Again. This is the third fucking time. I’m sitting there turning the lamp switch and getting no light, then I grab the lamp and turn it over and see an empty socket gaping back at me like the Grim Reaper’s left eye.

On this particular morning I haven’t had to talk to anyone yet, so my first words in the office were “Those motherfuckers.” I walked five feet to the cabinet where I now keep the extra lightbulbs and screwed one in. Then I hunkered back into my chair, put my nose to the monitor and began grinding the mouse down on the tabletop.

Today at Hapkido the Sabumnim said I taught a good class! I was beaming. I teach every Thursday and try to be genuinely helpful to as many people as I can. It is my one weekly event where I connect with members of society whom I don’t know well. The rest of the time, on the subways and sidewalks of the city I mostly avoid people like the plague. If SARS, the Black Death or any other human-communicable disease ever breaks out around here, trust me, I’ll be fine.

Then again, lately I have been giving directions a lot on the street. I used to hate doing it but now when I come upon a tourist furrowing their brow over a map, I can’t stop myself from saying “You lost” and pointing them in the right direction. I do it because there were times when I was lost in foreign countries and strangers gave me helpful directions.

It amazes me though. The people who are lost here are often looking for major landmarks that are easy to locate, I believe, by universal standards. The times I got lost was because I was seeking out obscure locations and became befuddled by nonexistent signage or a multitude of angled and unlabeled streets; Manhattan, in contrast, is mostly a grid with each street clearly labeled at least twice at every intersection.

Today the tourist freaks I helped were looking for Times Square--in Chinatown. After I helped them I felt a little irritated, I mean these people weren’t even trying. Read the fucking guidebook. Buy a compass. Rent a Sherpa.

I should start a business where I rent out Manhattan Sherpas. I’ll call it Sex and the Sherpas. I’ll add that to the pile along with my business where I rent muses to creatives, and the other idea I have where I lobby the city to rework all the plumbing so that every apartment building has milk on tap. And fresh coffee, and shampoo and any other kind of liquid you want; you just push a button and it comes out of a nozzle. Why should I have to buy a half gallon of milk that will go bad when I only need a little at a time.

So if I ever get rich my house is going to have milk, orange juice and other popular fluids on tap. Even sperm. No just kidding.

Of course this does bring with it the possibility that inattentive houseguests will accidentally end up washing their hands with hot coffee, but I will circumvent this by providing my guests with an apartment guidebook they must read. I’ll also have Orientation for any friends that come to stay over. We’ll start off with some icebreakers, next I’ll tell an ethnic joke or two and then I’ll break out the guidebook and get down to brass tacks.

Holy cow I forgot to tell you, last week at Hapkido this girl almost passed out in my class. I wasn’t even working them that hard but she collapsed. I went over right away and took one look at her and for some reason I just knew what the problem was.

“Did you have anything to eat today?” I asked.

“I...I forgot,” she admitted, sheepishly. Well, it’s not the most unusual thing in the world. If you live and work in Manhattan it’s a good possibility that breakfast is a novelty, lunch a luxury and dinner something you’ll get around to eventually.

In my bag I had a Power Bar I’d taken two bites out of, so I gave the rest to her and had her sit off to the side. I made her drink some water too.

Eventually she regained her energy and even rejoined class, which was a relief. Like I said I wasn’t even working them that hard (compared to some of the other, more Navy-Seal-like Assistant Instructors) but in my class I make sure everybody sweats. My attitude is, if you took the trouble to come all the way down to the dojang and get into your uniform, you should be rewarded with a worthwhile workout.

The only thing I might make the students do to the point of endurance is leglifts, because I believe strong kicks come from having strong abs. Bruce Lee was a skinny little whip of a man but he had ripped abs, and people who trained with him said that when he kicked you it was like getting hit by a car.

The student breakdown at my dojang is pretty diverse. (And I mean the breakdown of the students as a whole, not the breakdown that girl had from not eating.) Some Russian cats, some guys from Africa, some Asians who speak English like me and some Asians who speak English like they’ve got fresh stamps in their passport, a French dude, Latinos both native and alien, a South Asian here and there, black Americans, and grip of white people. It’s a regular human Noah’s Ark.

Speaking of which, one of my favorite cartoons from The New Yorker is the one that apparently explains the extinction of a certain species. One of Noah’s buddies is standing next to him on the Ark and whispering “Bad news--the unicorns are gay.” Well, it’s funny if you see it.

The Corporation is pretty multicultural too. You see all races in the hallways. I think they make the full-times go to Sensitivity Workshops too because some of them are fluent in super-P.C.-speak.

Anyways there’s a room on Six called “The Learning Center” where they give free lectures on heart disease and work stress and whatnot. Today they had a sign in front that said “February is African-American Heart Month!” It was either a typo or I read it wrong, or read two signs at once and confused it. I’ll go back and check tomorrow.

Black people have February, Asian people have April. I’m not sure what month the Latinos have or if they even have a month, although if I know me some Man I bet it’s in March.

I’m also not sure what all of this means, anyway. It’s not enough to “celebrate diversity,” they need to throw in some economic benefits. I wish that during Asian and Pacific American Heritage Month all Asians wouldn’t have to pay their taxes. For Black History Month I want some Black History discounts. For Latino History Month I want a 0.0% APR.

For Passover I want free DVD rentals. Christmas, free chicken at all major supermarket chains. Ramadan, everyone gets free computer upgrades.

One thing APA Heritage Month does mean to me is college gigs. I may have a gig lined up for Princeton in April, and I just got an e-mail from somebody at S.U.N.Y. Buffalo. Basically, every once in a while a school invites me to lecture or read some of my fiction or do backflips. A few years back I wrote a column on urban dating for this website, and after it built up a little readership the college offers started pouring in.

It’s an amazing thing, the internet.

Case in point: Yesterday I was writing about Eskimos and at the bottom of the entry, urged any Eskimo readers to drop me a line. Well, one actually did. (What’s up, sled_dawg.) I keep forgetting that the internet goes far--it even goes into Canada!--and further north. So if there are any Martians reading this, or people who have weapons of mass destruction, or people who know where Osama bin Laden is, drop me a line. Or book me at a college.



ME
Thank you for having me! It’s an honor to be speaking at...what’s the name of this school again?

MARTIAN ZELROG XT-427
Xrnkcvtlgb College.

ME
Right, at Xrncvtlgb College. An honor. And I’ve gotta tell you folks, I don’t know much about this school, but I’m loving the atmosphere!

AUDIENCE
[Dead silence.]

ME
I’m loving the atmosphere!

AUDIENCE
[Distant coughing.]

ME
Right, er...well I’ll also tell you, I’m surprised to see so many females in the audience. Because I thought that only men were from Mars, and women were from Venus!

AUDIENCE
[The sound of Martian crickets.]

ME
Er...is this thing on?

MARTIAN ZELROG XT-427
Yes. And you know what else is on? ...My ray-gun.

Today’s soundtrack: I’d rather drink muddy water
Today at 7:02pm: eating ginger snaps and watching the trailer for Onimusha 3


I walked to work today, and after I got off I walked back. It’s about a hundred and twenty blocks round-trip. I like it though. Walking up Park Avenue is like walking through a concrete and glass canyon. And with a good iPod playlist, sixty blocks goes by like nothing.

I saw lots of interesting things on the way up; I always do on a long walk through the city. In fact I end up seeing so many interesting things I forget what they were. You see three interesting things, and once you see a fourth, you forget the first. It’s a function of urban environments and information overload, I believe. When that starts to happen it’s only the bizarrest of events that I can recall with ease.

Like this. The other night (okay, a month ago) I’m walking up in the west 30’s. I hate the west side but that’s where the 24-hour post office is. Anyways so I’m walking down 39th or something and the streets are dead, it’s like after midnight, and I hear this buzzing noise behind me getting steadily louder.

I sense the noise is closer to me than I thought and I turn around. There’s a blond female midget, tiny, less than three feet, wearing a red leather miniskirt and matching jacket, fishnet stockings, and she’s riding a little red miniature motorcycle. I mean the motorcycle was tiny, about the size of a child’s tricycle. But it’s a real motorcycle and get this, it’s a chopper.

So I step aside, and she buzzes around me, then buzzes down the block and buzzes around the corner. If I was a movie wino I’d stare at my bottle, shake my head and throw it away.

Anyways I want to start walking to work more, especially now that it’s been cold for so goddamn long that I’m getting used to it. Like an Eskimo, I suppose. At some point the Eskimos, after coming over the Bering landbridge or whatever must’ve been like hey, this place sucks, let’s go back to the warm part of Asia. But then it was too late and they just got used to it and learned to make igloos and snowcones and Klondike Bars.

Eskimos make Klondike Bars, right? If they don’t, they should. I don’t want to buy ice cream treats from some inventor from Cleveland, I want to buy them from an Eskimo.

I bet Eskimos never play tennis. Because if you give them a tennis racket they just tie it onto their feet and start walking around on them.

It’s been so long that The Corporation’s actually called me in that today I almost felt excited to get in the office and solve some problems. Can you believe that shit? Just goes to show, everyone needs a function. Lately I haven’t been able to write much so I’ve just been sitting in my apartment, working on my future apartment finance scheme (roommate’s moving out--more on that later) and rotting.

About a month ago I realized I was in financial peril, so I shook the freelance tree to see if anything would fall out. Nothing did. I made a round of phone calls to old clients but no one needed me. Then Providence smiled on me. Yes, that Providence, the capital of Rhode Island. The mayor called up to laugh at my problems.

I figured I should sell the car, because that’s what people do when they have money problems. My little hatchback isn’t much but whatever cash I could get for it would take care of the rent for a while. But then I struck upon this scheme which I’ll tell you about as it comes into being. I don’t know if it will work but I am going to pursue it anyway. It’s a gamble but it’s about time I rolled the dice.

If there are any Eskimos reading this, please say hello.

Real Eskimos only please.