My Wife is a Carnie

Ariana got a new tattoo tonight. I think she uses the opportunity to go out of town as an excuse to go under the needle; no wonder she's scheduled herself for so many trips this year. I like 'em, kind of makes me feel like I'm married to a bad-ass biker chic, except without the bike. I also like the fact that she gets them in places that aren't necessarily hidden - like her wrists, back of the neck and sternum. It shows a certain commitment to her art that the girl with her sorority tattoo wouldn't understand.

It's making me really pine to get another one myself. I have one on my right shoulder that I got when I was 18 (nearly 14 years ago!), and despite my constant musings about how I would like another, something has always prevented me from going through with the idea. I've always used the excuse of money, but somehow I've always managed to scrape enough together to buy a pack of cigarettes no matter how poor we were. Why shouldn't I be able to do the same with a tattoo?

I'll never be as daring as Ariana. I doubt I would ever get inked anywhere where I couldn't hide it relatively easily because I don't want my image to be the reason I'm not hired. I know it's shallow, I know there are lots of teddy bear men who have a skull and crossbones tattooed across their necks, but can you picture those guys as investment bankers? As much as I love the counter culture, I would probably take my money elsewhere.

And therein lies my dillema; I'm too radical to fit in and too normal to stand out. Perhaps my next tattoo should simply be the words "I wanted a tattoo, but all I got was this sentence instead".

I love flying to Tampa! There’s nothing like stepping onto a plane in the dead of winter and stepping off in the heat of summer. Every time I come down here I wonder why I ever left. I could have gone to the University of South Florida and ended up no further academically than where I am now, but I wouldn’t be married to my wonderful wife. All things have a way of working themselves out in the end; I just wish it could have worked out here.

Don’t get me wrong I love New York. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now (well perhaps Seattle…someday). It’s just that there’s something about the sun that makes everything seem easier. Right now, if I wanted to sit outside at a café table in New York, I would most likely need more than two layers of clothing. Here in Tampa I am broiling in my long sleeved T-shirt. It’s 7pm and the sun just went down here, in New York we would have been cloaked in darkness an hour ago – all right, in the middle of all those skyscrapers we really only see the mid-day sun anyway.

But for all the wonderful weather, I just can’t seem to fall in love with Tampa. Perhaps it’s the lack of a true pedestrian city center, perhaps it’s just that there are too many gated communities; whatever it is I just can’t wrap my heart completely around the place. It’s a nice place to visit, but a terrible place to call home.

Maybe it’s the fact that Jeb Bush is the governor and the infamous hanging chad put his brother in the oval office.

The Underground Olympics

New Yorkers have a sixth sense about them when it comes to catching the subway. They can be half a block down from the entrance, blindfolded and ears covered, and somehow they will know when the train pulls into the station. When this happens, even the frailest of little old ladies suddenly becomes an Olympic sprinter. Despite the frequency with which trains run, no one ever wants to wait.

And there is no string of curses like those muttered by people who get up to the subway doors only to watch helplessly as they close before them. Those same little old ladies have the dirtiest mouths you’ll ever come across when they miss the train. They become the mouthpiece of Satan whose sole purpose is to deflower young, innocent ears.

Another funny thing to witness is a fight between two cabbies, especially if they are from different countries. I often don’t know exactly what they say, but I can certainly understand what they mean. There is no mistaking a fist shake in the air - it’s one of those universal signs, and likewise it’s hard to ignore the meaning of spitting. The funny thing is that cabbies are notoriously bad drivers and extremely prone to making mistakes. I guess it’s always easier to blame someone else.

Michael Dell is an Idiot, and other such ramblings...

No offense to the fine people of India, but I really hate this trend of outsourcing customer service to the southern Asian country. Not only are they paid shit wages to get shit upon, but the accent barrier only serves to increase the frenzy of already angry customers. It's so bad that I often catch myself wishing for someone with a Cockney accent just so I can understand what they are saying. Hell, sign language might even be an improvement.

Shame on you Dell! That's right, I'm calling you out Dell. Although you're based in Texas, I have never actually spoken with anyone who might remotely know where Texas is on the US map - and I've called more than my fingers and toes can count. It's strange that in a place with over a billion people, not one of them has ever been able to provide satisfactory help.

You may have guessed that I recently had to call Dell. They have again charged us a late fee when our bank statement clearly indicates they took our money well before the deadline. This isn't the first time this has happened, nor do I expect it to be the last. We bought a laptop from them almost three years ago, and I haven't had another I've loved quite like I've loved that one, but the customer service has been nothing short of abysmal.

Dell is kind of like a squirrel. It's so goddamn cute, but then it bites you and suddenly you're in the infirmary getting five agonizing shots in the stomach for rabbies. That's the last time you get any of my nuts.

These Boots are Made for Walking...and Leaving Behind

There are three things New Yorkers are better at than anyone else in the country: Staring, spitting and generally getting in the way.

I don't know what it is about this place, in Madison you would be lucky if one person in a hundred made eye contact with you on the street. Here, not only do they make eye contact, they make eye lock. Maybe I'm just being sensitive, but it's enough to make me feel like there's a gigantic pimple on my forehead. Perhaps if I were famous I could understand the blatant stares, but I'm not famous, not even remotely, and the constant oggling is enough to drive me batty.

The gawking is one thing; the spitting is an entirely different level of disgust. In general, I don't like judging people because (and let's be honest here), who could stand up to the same level of scrutiny? It's impossible to live up to the same expectations we place on other people, our heads would explode. In this instance however I believe I can genuinely say I think I stand head and shoulders above the average New Yorker. Spitting is a pastime here, and people hone their skill as if they were trying out for the majors. How people produce so much saliva I'll never know, but there seems to be an endless well from which to draw.

Finally, and I'm not sure this one requires an explanation, there's the general getting in the way. Just try getting onto the subway at rush hour to see what I mean. Doesn't matter if you are the first one at the door, some little old lady will push her way in before you. Most people here have the "me first" mentality. Generally this means getting stuck behind someone walking waaay too slowly on the sidewalk or getting pushed from behind by someone walking waaay too fast. The middle ground exists only in Middle America.

Now I'm not saying it's all bad here, just ask the average New Yorker for directions and they will usually try to help (this surprised me the first time I came here). Perhaps the staring is simply their way of trying to connect to each other, creepy as it may be, and the spitting may be a harmless way marking territory...which I much perfer over the urination method. The pushing, shoving and getting in the way is probably just the mindset of the East Coast - and not merely localized here. All in all, it's still a fairly pleasant place to be.

Anyway - I found these abandoned boots on 2nd Ave. and 19th street. Can't say I blame them, look at those heels. They look like devices of torture and I wouldn't want to walk around the cement sidewalks in them either. Still, it's kind of sad to see them alone like this, kind of like they're huddling together for warmth.

Surprise

I came from a town of 220,00 people, where the tallest building topped off at 87 meters. New York by contrast, has almost 38 times as many people in the city (8,168,000), and the Empire State Building dwarfs the Wisconsin State Capitol by a factor of 4 (381 meters). You can understand why I might have felt like a country bumpkin when I first moved here.

But after nearly a year in the Big Apple I am discovering something strange - yet entirely explainable as a consequence of human nature - I have stopped looking up. The technical term is "rubbernecking", and I no longer do it. I have finally become acclimated to the narrow corridors of the city, and the spire of the Chrysler Building is as commonplace as the dome of the Capitol Building.

Every once in a while however, something will jump out at you and catch you off guard. Such was the case yesterday as I went to get my NY driver's license (which requires the most ridiculous amount of proof that you exist - but that's another story) and walked out of the subway on 34th St. and 8th Ave. I had to smile.

Sure, one of the pictures is an advertisement for Delta Airlines, but you have to admit the scope alone is pretty impressive. The Empire State Building was the first thing visible as I left the underground, and damn if it isn't majestic!

A Million Dollar Idea

If I weren't so afraid of being investigated by the Child Protective Services I would start a business whereby one could "rent" children for the day. Why? Because of places like this where you aren't allowed without a munchkin.

I have never been excluded from a place due to lack of prodgeny. I've seen plenty of places parents couldn't go with their kids (like the pub, the local adult shop, etc.) but I have never seen a place that excludes non-child rearing adults. It's a shame too, because I like to swing and play hopscotch as much as the next kid.

These places are all over the city, and it's like peering through the gates of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory: irresistable because they're off limits. I understand the need in a city this size. Parents need a place to go without the threat of strangers looming over their kids, and I'm thankful that there are actually safe places for children to play. It's just that I get the urge to climb a twisty slide with the best of them and New York is unfortunately without adult playgrounds. Maybe there's a card we could create that proves we've had a background check.

So if you're brave enough, and have a child you don't mind leasing for a couple of hours, I am sure there's a market for you. After all, most of us are just kids in wrinkled skin anyway.

The Hidden Coffee Gem

If there's one thing I miss about Seattle, it's the rain. Seriously. There's nothing I loved more than a steaming hot cup of coffee filling the underside of my umbrella with caffienated mist on a rainy day. Consequently, the other thing I miss about that city was its coffee culture. Don't be fooled, just because Seattle is the birthplace of Starbucks doesn't mean it was without local flavor as well.

When I moved temporarily from Seattle to Tampa, I was distraught to discover that coffee had yet to find its way to Florida. I went from hyping myself up on Sumatra and Verona to brewing Juan Valdez at home. It was a dark place in my life.

It's not just the quality of the coffee however - the atmosphere of the cafe is equally important. Here on the other coast we unfortunately have to deal with bright and sunny days, but at least we have a plethora of coffee shops. Viva la Revolution! Sure, Starbucks has taken over the city (my friend Mark was tickled pink when we were on our way to meet Ana at the Union Square Starbucks, and I had to ask which one...) but the explosion has been good for the local culture as well.

Case in point: Ninth Street Espresso. I discovered it today and am christening it as I write. The smell of the place is phenominal - like a freshly brewed pot of coffee. The atmosphere is enough to make me forget about the lack of rain. And the espresso, oh the espresso tastes like liquid orgasm! I feel like I ought to have on my flannel and I half expect Pearl Jam or Soundgarden to walk in at any point. Talk about diamond in the rough...this is an emerald on the island.

The very best part is that it's in Alphabet City - where the snobs of the West Village refuse to go. The clientel seems laid back and the baristas are geniunely friendly, as opposed to frigid like their Starbuck's counterparts. Oh yeah, the lack of Frappucinos is a gigantic plus. Anyway, the place is so good that it makes me feel like rain on the inside.

Bedbugs and Other Fairy Tales

Here's a bit of irony for you:

In our attempt to be more eco-friendly, exterminators have moved from chemical sprays to bait traps to kill the roaches that have plagued our society for so long. This has been largely effective against the little buggers, so much so that I've only seen one (albeit a huge one) during my time here.

But here's the twist -cockroaches are a natural predator of bed bugs...and bait traps do not work against the little creatures. As a consequence, we've been experiencing a rash of outbreaks the likes of which could only be described as biblical. From New York to Sydney, four star hotels to the local slums, bedbugs have become a universal problem. It's not a matter of cleanliness, bedbugs don't feed on the crumbs swept under the rug, they feed on people. Honest to god vampires a quarter of an inch in length.

Now if you're like me, you thought these bed bugs were mythical, kind of like the Tooth Fairy in reverse. "Don't let the bedbugs bite"! What child actually thinks these things are real? Well believe it my friends. Not only are they real, they are painful, and their bites last for weeks. The bastards are sneaky, hiding in the cracks of walls and seams of beds, waiting for night to come so they can feed. It's difficult enough to come to grips with the fact that they exist, but that's nothing compared to trying to kill them.

We've been dealing with this problem for a couple of weeks now, and it was our unfortunate friend Julius who suffered the first bite when he stayed here over the holidays (Sorry J - I swear we weren't hiding them before we left), so why do I bring them up now? Good question.

Last night I suffered the indignity of getting a bite in the absolute worst place imaginable. They normally stick to the ankles and the waistline, and Ana has even been bitten on the breast...but last night they crossed a line. Last night they bit me in a place that "taint" my ass nor "taint" my penis. Get my drift? I woke up at 5 A.M. this morning scratching the most painful itch I have ever suffered. It was so awful that I couldn't get back to sleep without putting some ointment on it.

Oh the humanity! Why there?

Now it's uncomfortable to walk, it's painful to cross my legs, and it's embarassing to scratch the bite in public. The little fuckers got me, and I "taint" happy about it!

P.S. - Thanks to National Geographic for the picture. Being asleep during their active hours makes it difficult to catch them in the act...that, and they wouldn't exactly pose for a picture.

I Thought We Might Actually Escape This Year...HA!!

Holy shit, did it ever snow here!

SNOW... Shit-No-One-Wants...SNOW.

Well that's not exactly true. There are those strange folk who absolutely love the stuff, I might even know a few of them, but what absolute weirdos they are.

I'll hand it to them, snow is beautiful while it's falling. The noise of the city is muffled and all the sharp edges are smoothed by the fluffy white drifts. The absence of street traffic allows people to walk down the middle of the road, which on First, Second and Third Avenues is a strange sight indeed. And oh yeah, I can't help but enjoy watching someone suffer the indignity of falling on their faces. We're all evil that way.

But once it's stopped, once the traffic has returned and tree branches have shaken off the dusting, it all becomes slush. Brown and black dirty slush. Cold brown and black dirty slush. There's nothing worse than waddling on a half-shoveled sidewalk with wet socks, praying that the snow would melt so you could take a full stride again.

Maybe some of my bitterness comes from all the shoveling and mopping up I've done throughout my life. My back begins to ache at the very thought of it. Sure, it looks light and fluffy until you try to push it out of the way...then suddenly it's as heavy as lead. And when it melts, it expands. A small snowball can cover the entire first floor of your house in water after it melts.

But for now it's cozy, and at least I don't have a car to shovel free (I think snow plows work hand in hand with the meter maids).

Ballet Makes Me Feel Inadequate

Wow! I am left absolutely speechless, but your sake I will try to put it into words.

Spectaculafabulocrediblazing! Is that a real word? Well it works for me because that's what it was like.. almost indescribable. I know the picture above is a little fuzzy, but I think it aptly portrays the surreal nature of last night. I captured this while walking through the Lincoln Square Plaza when the magic was just beginning.

The first act was "Divertimento" and was a simple taste of ballet - no props, no elaborate costumes, just good old fashioned dancing. I liked it, being the simpleton that I am, but Ana thought it was slow and mildly uninteresting.

That changed with the second act, "Friandises". We were fortunate enough to be at the world premier of this piece, which had been commissioned for the centennial of Julliard by the NYC Ballet Company, and I get the feeling it will be around for some time to come. It was like watching Mexican Jumping Beans compared to the Pinto Beans of "Divertimento". Awesomely dynamic and physically demanding, the dance was a display of how exciting ballet can be.

Our final piece of the evening, "Union Jack", is apparently a celebration of the bicentennial of British-American heritage. It was broken into three pieces, each with all the pomp and circumstance we've come to expect from proper British folk. The first part was a march of tartan clad dancers, a procession of clans that eventually filled the entire stage. The second part was a pseudo-vaudeville act, and I was suprised to see a bit of humor in ballet. Who knew? The final part was much like the first, except with the dancers dressed as Sailors from the fifties. It seemed like there were thirty or so Fred Astaires bounding about on stage.

My ass was numb by the end of the evening and I was lightheaded from the lack of oxygen at such high elevations, but all in all I was very pleased.

One observation about ballet however; it mimics real life. While both ballerinas and ballerinos are graceful, it's the women's dance which seems more demanding. It often seemed as though the men were present simply as accessories to the women... there to hold them, turn them, and lift them up in the air. The difficult maneuvers (toe points, still poses, etc.) are performed by the women. I didn't see a single man do the splits, I didn't see a single man hold a pose for more than a second.

Just like real life.

Men in Tights and Women in Tutus

I have officially lost my "Macho Man" card. It's not like I was going to run for the "Man Club" President or anything, I mean I shriek at the site of vomit and I weep at all the appropriate movies, but I was at least a club member. Not anymore.

Tonight we are going to the Lincoln Center to watch the NYC Ballet, and I couldn't be more excited about it. The theater is supposed to be amazing, as is the dance troup, and I can't help but wonder why it took us so long to attend such a cultural event. Ok, we did see Stomp off Broadway when our friend Julie was here, but there's something drastically different about the two genres. Stomp didn't make us feel bourgeois.

And to be honest, I'm kind of excited about that part. I like the idea of dressing in your Sunday best to go out to the theater. I like that there (hopefully?) won't be any crying children sitting next to us. Call me elitist, but I'm excited by the fact that - unlike the movies, there won't be the threat of someone sitting in front of me talking on their cell phone.

The best part is that the tickets were surprisingly cheap. Sure, our noses will probably bleed, but the beauty of the Lincoln Center is that there are no bad sight lines. When I saw Les Miserables in Madison many years ago, I remember losing 1/4 of the action to the column I was sitting behind. That's probably changed now thanks to the construction of the Overture Center, but so have the ticket prices. Let me see.....$30 for ballet in NYC or $27 for the Four Bitchin Babes concert in Madison? No contest.

OK, maybe I wouldn't mind seeing Four Bitchin Babes. Goodbye macho card.

Butter My Buns? Please!

Now this was simply too good to pass up. Sure, it meant standing in front of a gay porn shop long enough to get the picture, but I think all the passing giggles were well worth the effort. Besides, I wasn't alone - Ariana was right by my side.

We came across this while hunting for a place to eat last night. We had meant to go to La Bonbonniere, supposedly one of the better places in the city to get breakfast, but ended up 14 streets north of our destination. We told the cabbie "28th and 8th"...but in actuality it was 28 8th Ave. See how a little thing like an extra "th" makes a world of difference? Details Kris, details.

We ended up in Chelsea, not exactly the only straight couple in the area but certainly in the minority, and meandered around in search of a replacement restaurant. We found it, and I had the perfect plate of over-medium eggs (you'd be surprised how difficult it is to find someone who knows how to properly cook huevos). I wish I could remember the name of the place because I'd like to go back, but alas... I can not.

Guess I'll have to look for the "Boy Buttter" sign if I ever hope to eat there again.

Which is worse..DMV of SSA?

I'm here applying for a replacement social security card, and the waiting room alone is enough to make me never lose it again. It's uncomfortably hot, crowded, and the gentleman sitting behind me is getting me drunk with his breath.

I need this to get my New York driver's license. Yes, I have finally decided to take the plunge and transfer my citizenship from Wisconsin. I know, I know...Wisconsin is an important swing state whereas New York is solidly democratic, but I want to take part in local elections. I love Russ Feingold and Tammy Baldwin (and I am proud to say I did my part to vote them into office), but since moving I have lost all touch with Madison's local politics. Time to jump back into the game.

But back to my original point - this SUCKS! A woman just started cursing her heart our (in front of her daughter no less) about how she was feeling "fucking disrespected". Perhaps she was, but all I know is that the woman behind the counter shut down and refused to help the crazy lady. I don't see how she expected her outburst to help.

OK...I swear I'm not making this up. I just turned around to help pick something up for the the man behind me (the one who has been getting me drunk by breathing on me), and I noticed a puddle of yellowish fluid collecting by his pant legs. I think I may have touched it when I was picking up what turned out to be a calculator...although why he would be carrying a desktop calculator is beyond me.

I want to wash my hands in the worst way now, but there is no bathroom. Perhaps that's why he peed himself in the first place. At least it wasn't vomit.

One of the best parts about this city are its museums. Whether you're interested in paintings, photographs, scuplture or even graffitti...it's all here. There are so many that it kind of gets ridiculous. I mean really, who could possibly be interested in The Museum of Sex?

Ok, maybe more than a few - but you get the gist, right?

My point is, there is something here for everyone...and if you're on your toes, you can see it all without spending a great deal of cash. Only tourists pay full price (because most people who live here can't afford the cost of admission).

On Fridays the Museum of Modern Art is free from 4pm to 8pm. It is an amazing collection of things that make you go "hmmmm", and often you're left wondering why you didn't think of it first. Paper mache blobs? They've got em. Coat hangers twisted in a knot? Yeah, they're there. Anything and everything that defies convention is prominently displayed in MoMA's galleries.

But they've got an awesome sculpture garden. It's a courtyard (pictured above) whose most distinguishing feature isn't the art...it's the view. Talk about cozy! I like how the city closes in from above, like an overbearing babysitter keeping watch over the crib. The sounds of sirens and car horns are muted, creating a soft quiet in the heart of midtown. I wish I could live there.

Screw the Pixar exhibit - I'll take the skyscrapers anyday.

Just weird

Here are some strange things which, while they may not be unique to New York, are certainly epitomized here.

Watering the sidewalk. What's up with this? Now I'm not talking about using a jet of water as a broom to clean off a particular piece of the sidewalk...I mean people water the pavement like they expect it to grow more into a mature cement garden. I would call it a tremendous waste of water were it not for the fact that it ends up in the sewers and aids in the flushing of garbage through the system. Without these strange people, who knows how many alligators we'd have in our septic?

Fashion victims. These people are the butts of their own jokes. In most places these people would be wearing sweatpants, but here they are wearing Armani, and yet still they embarass themselves without even knowing it. I have seen no fewer than two exposed nipples whose owners had no clue they were "letting it all hang out". In each case these women were wearing tops that cost in excess of $100, only to be let down by the shirt's inability to stay put. My $5 T-shirt does everything I want it to and more...without the embarassing spillage.

The Star Trek earphone. Remember that huge thing that Lt. Uhura used to stick in her ear to listen to the transmissions from Star Fleet Command? Well they are finally a reality here in New York. The boom microphone is nothing new, we've had them for at least a decade, but the standard procedure is to take them out once you are done talking on the telephone. Not here. Not by a long shot. It is a surprisingly common occurance to see people walking down the street with what looks like a small spaceship attached to their ear.

On the subject of phones, I HATE those nextel walkie-talkie thingies. Who the hell wants to listen in to your conversation anyway? Everytime I hear that annoying "chirp" my spine tingles with irritation. It's a phone stupid, not a megaphone.

Protective scaffolding over every sidewalk. Old folks sitting on the sidewalk in lawnchairs. People spraypainted head to toe in gold doing the "robot" on the subway. Donald Trump. you name it, we got it.

One of the Reasons to Stay

OK, I won't deny it. New York can often smell like garbage. There are times in the height of the summer when it can be downright suffocating, and all a boy from Wisconsin think of is how wonderful cow shit can actually smell.

But not always. There are some advantages to having so many people crammed into such a small space. One such blessing is the Bodega. On nearly every corner there is a small general store which carries a bit of everything, and most of them have outdoor extensions to their
markets. Some choose to put fruits and vegetables outside, others arrange displays which would shame the average florist.

The aroma is heavenly, especially when they change the water buckets. Compared to what the sewers normally see, I'm sure the wastewater of flower buckets is a welcome relief. You can smell it a block down. Think of a rose garden that has been distilled to a single flower, and you'll have some idea how potent the aroma can be. It's wonderful.

And beautiful. Candy for the eyes as well as the nose.

Finally, The Big Update

So nothing is happening here... OK, just kidding. There's shit everyday. That's why I love this place so much. Found $40 that was orphaned in an ATM (or TYME machine as we Sconnies say), and I gave it a good home at the local pub. I bought not one, but TWO Treo 650's. First one was a scam from craigslist (more on that later) and the second was an overpriced new one from Sprint. I also had two really fantastic job interviews which I ultimately turned down.

The Treo Story:
Ever since christmas when my mom and I perused the various cellphone stores, I had been dying to upgrade from the 600 to the 650. I wasn't unhappy with mine, but as a technophile I felt obligated to have the "latest and the greatest".

There was little I could do about it in Tampa, so I just read whatever I could about Palm's top of the line model while waiting to return home. It was little more than a week after getting back when I read a craigslist classified for a slightly used Treo 650 with a 512MB SD card for the low price of $200. Hot Dog! This was my chance if I could only get ahold of the person first.

I sent an email right away saying I would love the unit and that I would be willing to pay cash right away. It worked, and we met later that evening in a Union Square cafe. Having successfully used craigslist on four other seperate occassions, I thought the threat of
getting screwed was minimal. Besides, the guy actually looked respectable. But screwed I got.

I tried to activate it that very evening and heard the dreaded words; "I'm sorry sir...that phone has been reported either lost or stolen."

Shit. Double shit with a side of crap.

But it wasn't all bad, at least not yet. Apparently all I had to do was to get the guy to release the phone's serial number for activation. I didn't have his phone number, so I was a little nervous
when writing the email, but to my immense relief he actually responded.

I explained what had happened, and thankfully he replied that it was his phone (on his ex-wife's plan) and that he would send me the receipt and credit card statement as soon as he got home. Against my better judgement I settled for this and waited for his email. It never
came.

At this point I was getting panicky, the kind of panicky one gets when they realize they might have just burned two perfectly good $100 bills. You start thinking about all the other good things that money could have brought into your life - good things like electricity, heat
and food.

After a couple more desperation emails (read: 5), I decided it was time to get serious. I didn't have any information about this guy other than his email address, but armed with this information I was able to track down his website promoting his web page design business. Two phone calls to deactivated numbers later and I was feeling no closer to my goal. Fortunately he left a vague reference on his downloadable resume about how he works for the largest bus/truck repair facility in the city...and one short google later I had his work
number.

I will never forget the surprise in his voice as he answered the call. Almost worth the $200...almost. I politely tried to explain the situation to him, hoping I could resolve the situation without further confrontation, but it was not to be.

Turns out he would have had to contact his ex-wife to reactivate the phone, and that was something he was unwilling to do. Apparently it was a painful breakup. I have no doubt it was all his fault.

He tried to end the conversation by saying he was tired of dealing with the situation, that he had sold me a Palm Pilot and not necessarily a phone, and that I got what I paid for. Apparently he
didn't realize that in acquiring his work's phone number I had also discovered the address - and I didn't care that it was in Brooklyn. I told him I would be right over, and for the second time in the conversation the surprise in his voice was plain as day.

He looked different than the first time I had met him. Nothing about him changed physically, but somehow I could only see the weasly features of his nose, the ridiculous faux-hawk his dusty blonde (probably bleached) hair. Funny how much perception changes everything.

Again he tried to suggest that he had sold me a Palm Pilot, and that he never guaranteed that it would work as a phone. Ha! I had printed out the ad prior to leaving the house and showed him the two places where he referenced it as a phone. He was stuck.

Unfortunately he said that even if he wanted to give me the money back he couldn't because it had all gone toward bills (probably to pay for the divorce - I hope she took him for everything he had). Eventually we agreed that I would give him a week to collect the money, and I would return for a refund. If it didn't happen, I not so gently implied that I would take his sorry ass to court.

It actually worked. I can't explain the immense feeling of satisfaction once I had that $200 back in my pocket. Of course I ran all the way back to the subway station since you never want to carry anything more than a twenty in Brooklyn, but by God it felt good.

The life lesson in all of this: the right threat in the right situation can actually work. Ok, just kidding. I know the real moral of the story - never trust anyone named Simon.

Eventually I got my Treo 650, only this time it was legitimate from the Sprint store. Of course it cost more than twice as much, but it was worth it the first time I downloaded my email on it. I love it! I love it as much as you can love something that isn't a someone. It's like a car to a sixteen year old. All my expectations have been exceeded and most of my fantasies have been fulfilled.

The Interviews.
It is my firm belief that career fairs are designed by Buhddists looking to teach us the lesson of patience. In every one I've been to, there's a whole lot of waiting and very little payoff. I wasn't
expecting anything different this two weeks ago. I attended out of a desire to feel proactive about my job hunt, and not because I was expecting to find much.

But in a freak of nature, lightening struck twice in the same spot, and by the time I left I had two interviews arranged for the following week. You have to understand how strange this was. The average person is lucky just to get one, but somehow I had lucked into two of them.

The first was with Sprint of all places, and what was supposed to be a 45 minute interview turned into three and a half hours. Needless to say, it went amazingly well. The one problem with the whole affair was that I was unwittingly applying for a sales position that I wasn't
sure I wanted. The man at the career fair who recruited me said that they were in need of both salespeople and techs, and I had hoped I would be able to tear apart all the gadgets. Alas, it was not to be. Seemed like they needed pushers more than they needed repairers.

They almost had me hooked had it not been for the final 15 minutes of the interview. You see, I've never wanted to be a salesman, in fact I despise salesman the way I despise George Bush. They've always had a false quality about them. For the first three hours I thought Sprint might actually be different - I thought I would have the freedom to get people what they wanted, and not what I thought I could sell them. There's a subtle difference there. One allows you to help people, the other forces you to take advantage of them. The final fifteen minutes illustrated which side of the fence Sprint was sitting on.

I think the exact words were something like, "the free phone will, in all likelihood, be fine for most people. If you can't get them on a more expensive phone then try to get them to buy accessories. That's where the meat of your sales will be: accessories."

Ugh! Just because I'm a sucker for the latest and greatest doesn't mean that everyone has to be. I don't like being a pusher.

At least it was good practice for the whole interviewing process. All I had to do was to just relax, be myself, and give honest answers even if I knew they weren't the right ones. As it turns out, the guy told me I had given him all the responses he didn't want to hear (such as; I'm not
a salesman, I don't like the idea of commission, I think most people would be more than satisfied with the free phone, etc.) yet somehow, when taken as a package, he thought it was one of the best interviews he's ever had. I still didn't want the job, but it was gratifying to
hear that.

My next interview was with a company called Accent Energy. They sell alternative energy to businesses for a fixed rate - something the big guys can't do out here. Another sales position...ugh.

With that in mind however, this one sounded fairly promising. They pay for a monthly subway pass, cover your phone bill, offer $15 a day (tax free) for food and expenses, full benefits, great base salary (in addition to commission) AND there were no hard sales. You apparently go into each business, offer what you have, and if they say "no" there's nothing more to it. Move on to the next place. Sounds good, right?

But there's a catch...quotas. There may be no hard sales, but if by Thursday you don't have your quota, I gotta believe you're going to push a little harder. You might be less willing to accept the "no".

I can't get the image of Willie Loman out of my mind. Guess I'll have to keep looking.

Finally, I've posted a picture from my recent trip to Boston. I arrived by bus, sick as a dog from the drive, and needed to walk around a bit just to feel like I wasn't going to throw up. By chance I encountered one of the oldest cemetaries I have ever seen (and perhaps one of the oldest in the country), the final resting place for the likes of Samuel Adams, John Hancock (maybe? I can't remember now for sure), and Ben Franklin's wife. It was fascinating to see how headstone styles have changed over the centuries. Very grim indeed, but very cool. If I was going to be buried I think I would like one of these over my grave. Kind of like the Grim Reaper keeping watch.