Leaky Faucets

For some reason, every one I meet or speak to on the phone lately, I assume is Canadian.  The technical support guy from Apple, for instance.  I swore he was Canadian, even before I heard him say “about” in the inimitable Canadian way.  Then there’s our neighbor, Jim, who lives two floors above us.  I met him for the first time last weekend and he had what I thought was a Canadian accent.  The phone rang last night.  At first I thought it was our friend Eric, who is Canadian-he’s from Toronto.  But it was Jim.  Further proof, perhaps, that he is Canadian.  Maybe I should ask him next time I see him.  Not that it really matters if he is Canadian or not.  I’m just very curious about this sort of thing that nobody else pays attention to.   A few weeks ago I had lunch with a co-worker who is originally from Vancouver. She just got back from maternity leave, and now I seem to run into her all the time on the subway in the morning.  Maybe hanging out with her has given me this perception that everyone I meet is Canadian.  Or maybe everyone I meet is Canadian…

I never knew how important my left ring finger was until I tried to avoid using it.  It is very difficult to type-especially the “S” key-and even harder to tie your shoes without it.  I’ve come to realize this over the past few days after I severely cut the tip of my finger trying to slice a very thin piece of cheese with a perilously sharp knife.  Aya had previously warned me of the sharpness of our new knives, but I guess I was a little careless anyway. 

Reluctantly, I saw a doctor yesterday at a First Med walk in urgent care center in Bayside.  I didn’t think it was necessary to see a doctor for a cut, but it was still bleeding more than 12 hours later so I finally gave in to Aya’s persistent suggestion that I get it stitched up.  I first walked into a store front medical office on Merrick Boulevard across from the library.  The receptionist said the doctor wouldn’t be back for a few hours, and she wasn’t sure if he was taking insurance yet since they just renovated.  That was enough information to take my business elsewhere.  That and the fact that this medical office was next to a check cashing establishment and a church of sorts located in an adjacent store front.  (Another option was going to my own doctor, which was not geographically convenient and would not be quick based on past experience; Dr. Joseph’s receptionist told me I should go to the emergency room instead, which I refused to do, knowing that I would probably spend half the day waiting to be seen at Jamaica Hospital.) 

My boss was nice enough to drive me to First Med and wait for me while I got treated.  The doctor said I didn’t need stitches.  He just put on some adhesive glue and some steri-strips, which he said to keep on for five days.  I also got a tetanus shot since I couldn’t remember if I had gotten one during the past 10 years.  In the curtain next to mine, I overheard another patient, a Marine who served in Kuwait but not Iraq, ask if he could jog later.  He was getting stitches for a cut.  The nurse said he could, after greeting him with the Marine motto “Semper Fi” to which he responded with a unintelligible, shrill barking sound, apparently the appropriate response.  (This affirmed my suspicion that the relatively conservative northeast Queens is a hotbed of military support.) “I was wondering the same thing,” I told the doctor.  He said I could as well.  I felt an instantaneous bond with this Marine whose face I never saw despite the fact that I’m not what you call a military cheerleader.  Anyway, back to my condition.  The steri-strips which were covered by several criss-crossed band-aids came off in the shower this morning.  What a waste, taking the time to go there yesterday.  But I guess it is good that I at least had it looked at just in case.  It started bleeding again this morning so I wrapped it in four band-aids.  Hopefully, it will heal quickly.  I do not plan to go back to the doctor for this.

I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I think I’m in agreement with Bush about something else, although I suspect our motivations are different.  God, I hope so.  I’m speaking of the immigration issue of course.  Another red herring?  Regardless, if there are only two sides to this debate–the conservative Repbublican xenophobes who would prefer to declare open hunting season on all immigrants illegal or not, or Bush’s side, I guess I really have no choice here.

Nevertheless, I can’t resist the urge to poke fun at him for this faux pas: “No one should pretend that immigrants are a threat to American identity, because Americans have shaped America’s identity.” 

It’s not what’s in your bag that counts, it’s what’s on your bag.  I mean the logo.  The brand name written on the bag.   When people take a paper or plastic bag from their house to carry items with them around the city, do they really think carefully about which bag to take?  When a Queens woman is riding the F train with an iconic Tiffany blue bag, does she purposely select the Tiffany bag rather than, say, a Gap bag.  I think she does.  Riding into Manhattan from Queens, she most likely did not come directly from Tiffany, so there must be a reason behind her choice to carry that particular bag.  Is it because it is the right size?  Perhaps.  Is it because it is strong enough to hold her assortment of stuff?  Perhaps.  Or is she trying to cultivate a certain image by subtly broadcasting to everyone else in the train that she, yes this woman, has at least once purchased something from that mecca of high end jewelry enshrined in a Truman Capote book and subsequent Audrey Hepburn film?  I suspect that this is the case. 

In New York, the bags we carry with us are like the bumper stickers on the cars we don’t have, letting our fellow travelers know a little bit about who we are by telling them where we choose to shop.  I suspect that most of the people who carry Tiffany bags outside of Manhattan received something from Tiffany as a gift (probably a $20 paper weight) and cherised the bag and the image it conveys even more than the item itself, which was probably lost the last time they moved. 

What does it say about someone who carries a small paper bag from Starbucks?  Are they that proud that they can afford a $4.00 Latte?  On the other hand, people who carry bags from Duane Reade or Queens Library probably just need something to convey their necessary items.  I myself prefer a backpack.  No name brand.  But I must admit, I once boarded the train with a Victoria Secret bag.  It was the first bag I grabbed from the closet and it was just the right size.  That doesn’t mean I want everyone to know that I like to browse women’s lingerie.

It’s incredibly frustrating to watch my boss do something on the computer such as attaching a file to an e-mail or formatting.  She is so slow and not very dexterous with the mouse.  As she moves it, the cursor sways wildly around the screen seemingly out of her control.  Everything takes forever.  Sometimes, if we are in a hurry, I just say “I’ll do it” and grab the mouse from her.  Whenever I work on something and she has to e-mail it, I’m afraid she is going to screw it up.  One time I wrote something for her to send and she attached my original message which contained some language that should not have been seen by the recipient.  I went through the same thing with my old boss at McCann-Erickson.  Both are older women who probably learned how to use a computer when they were in their 40s or 50s, a tough age to learn something new.  

It’s been a long six weeks since I first wrote about the illness of my iPod.  For most of this time, I just left it alone.  I didn’t have time to deal with it because I went out of town five weekends in a row and needed to be at home in order to call Apple tech support in case the problem involved my computer.  During the week, I was too tired after work to bother. 

So, this past weekend, the first weekend I was home, I decided to try tech support.  I was well aware of the fact that my warranty had long expired; I suspect that Apple somehow makes sure the iPod doesn’t start having problems until just after the warranty ends.  I didn’t expect that they would be able to help me at all or even try to help me, but I called anyway.  Even though I was no longer under warranty, they would give me telephone support for $49.  If they could fix it, it would definitely be worth it.  It was certainly better than shelling out $300 for a new one.

I spoke to Vincent, who sounded Canadian, but could have fooled most people until he used the word “aboot.”  I didn’t ask him if he was in Canada because he probably would have denied it.  Not that it would make a difference to me.  Fix my fucking iPod.  I don’t care if you’re in Bangalore, Detroit or San Salvador.  Just fix it bro.  I asked him about a money back guarantee if they couldn’t fix my iPod, and he gave me a vague promise.

Vincent suspected that it was a software problem, which provided a glimmer of hope.  He had me delete the iPod and iTunes software, empty the recycle bin, restart the computer, and then restore the iPod.  We were on the phone for more than 45 minutes.  Then, hopeful, I started the process of copying the 4,325 songs from my iTunes back to the iPod.  I figured it would probably take a full day to add all the songs back.  After about an hour, the copying seemed to be going well.  It was up to 400+ songs already.  I would be leaving soon to go out to dinner, so I figured there would be several hundred more songs added by the time I returned.

I was wrong.  After 472 songs, iTunes froze.  I had to restart the computer.  The iPod read “Do not disconnect.”  I didn’t know what to do, so I disconnected it anyway.  I checked the song list thinking that there would be 472 songs, but there were none.  Apparently, after all that work, I still had a problem.  I tried a few more times, but it didn’t work.  I knew I would have to call Apple again.  It may be dead yet.

I did not get home on time on Monday, so I called Tuesday night.  This time I spoke to Michael who sounded American, but who knows.  It didn’t really matter anyway.   Michael took a completely different tack.  He thought it sounded like a hardware problem, which basically translates to: you’re fucked. 

This situation typifies the problem with devices that rely on computers to work.  Once the computer goes, it’s all over.  Contrast that with a mechanical device like a record player, which will last for years as long as you can still find the spare parts such as needles.  Years ago things were built to last, but with the computer revolution I think companies have gotten more devious, or at least figured out how to make things last only a short period, so the consumer is forced to keep upgrading and buying more of their product. 

Michael started off a bit on the rude side, but by the end of the call, we had a good rapport.  I respected his approach more than Vincent’s.  He thought outside the box more.  He came up with a workaround to prevent iTunes from freezing by telling me to copy the songs manually.  It worked for five songs.  The iPod actually played.  Now I need to keep manually copying 5-10 songs at a time.  We tried to do 20 at once and it froze.  It still freezes a lot, so the process will be frustrating and time consuming, but just maybe it will work, and the life of my precious will be prolonged, at least for while.  That’s probably the best I can hope for.  So far I have 53 songs copied– !Cubanismo! , Ahmad Jamal, A Tribe Called Quest, 13^th Floor Elevators and Bad Religion’s “All Ages.” 

The bottom line is my iPod is not yet dead, but is terminally ill, and will never be the same again.  The good thing about this prognosis is that I don’t have to be careful with it anymore.  If I drop it–oh well, it wasn’t going to last anyway.  At least I can listen to it now, though it feels so tenuous, like the slightest jostle will put it out of commission for good.  I actually went running with it earlier, and it didn’t give me any major problems, no small feat.  It still freezes, meaning I have to keep resetting it, which Michael said will eventually destroy the hard drive if you do it too much, whether the iPod is sick or not.  But I have no choice, so basically I’m subjecting it to a slow death.

We were eating at Lannam, the Vietnamese restaurant just south of Union Square.  As usual, at some point during the meal I had to use the bathroom.  (I can’t help it, I’ve got a small bladder or an over active kidney or something.)  Lannam is not fancy but it isn’t a dive either, so I was shocked to see scrawl all over the green tile of the men’s room.  You know the type of graffiti that exists in every men’s room of every academic building and dormitory on every college campus in the United States: drawings of penises, racial epithets, revolutionary rantings, illegible script that appears to be gang related, phone numbers of woman or men who are well accomplished in the art of fellatio, and insults of previous bathroom authors.  You don’t expect to see this type of thing in a decent restaurant, although I suspect this to be the work of NYU students because of the close proximity of the campus.  All it takes is for one wise ass to write something, and then its open season for anyone with a magic marker.  Who the fuck carries a sharpie with them to a restaurant anyway?

The Song
I had two great finds yesterday–one hoped for and the other completely unexpected.  All weekend long I had this particular jazz tune in my head, but I couldn’t remember who the artist was or the name of the song.  I knew it was in my collection somewhere so I decided to start listening to all the jazz songs in my iTunes.  I suspected that it was Sonny Rollins or Miles Davis or John Coltrane, but wasn’t positive.  I started with Coltrane, listened to the entire Ballads album, perfect when you’re in a mellow mood, but it definitely wasn’t there.  This tune was much more upbeat, so it had to be elswhere.  Next in the rotation was Coltrane’s Giant Steps, and as soon as the fifth song began, I knew I had found it.  Syeeda’s Song Flute.  I’ll never forget it again.

The Cheese
Aya and I made our way to Whole Foods Market at Union Square after dinner at the Vietnamese restaurant Lannam, and a futile attempt to shop at the chaotic Trader Joe’s that just opened down 14^th Street.  After meandering through every single aisle in the bottom floor of Whole Foods, I found myself in the cheese section in the back corner.  Our fridge was pretty well stocked with cheese, but out of habit I decided to browse the selection.  I was looking for an elusive Italian cheese that I had been lucky enough to taste over three years ago when my former boss brought in an assortment of cheeses that his wife had just returned with from Italy.  The nutty taste was absolutely addictive.  The problem was that I couldn’t remember the name–only that it started with a P.  No, not Provolone or Parmigiano Reggiano.  I felt confident that I would recognize the name if I ever came across it again, so every time I enter a store with a sizable cheese section, particularly more upscale establishments, I search for the one that got away always coming up empty and disappointed.  I had tried this at Whole Foods a few times before and even at Murray’s Cheese Shop in the Village which theoretically should have every kind of cheese available for human consumption.   

But I had a hunch, a sixth sense you might say, that somehow this time would be different.  My eyes scanned the more common varieties on display: Gouda, Asiago, Manchego.  Then, I looked up and glanced to the left, and there it was, the magical Piave.  Elated, I grabbed a hunk, threw it in the cart and rode the escalator to the main level to check out.  Earlier today, I sliced some of the Piave to sample.  It was just as I had remembered.  It was similar to a Parmigiano but much subtler.  My three year cheese quest is over, and now that I know the name, I won’t have to go through this ordeal again.

Happy Anniversary to you, Happy Anniversary to you, Happy Anniver–sa–ry dear George, Happy Anniversity to you!  It’s hard to believe three years have gone by since you decided to shower the world with death and destruction, ahem, I mean peace and democracy.  Anyway, I didn’t really know what to get you until now.  I apologize for the last minute nature of this gift but I think you will enjoy it.  Since the traditional gift for a third anniversary is leather, and because I know you are such a huge baseball fan, I will be sending you a catcher’s mitt.  Every time you play catch with Dick, I hope it will remind you of the great joy you have brought to the world.  Gotta go.  I have to start planning ahead for next year.

Why does Bush bother doing a weekly radio address.  He has had the exact same message about Iraq for at least 77 weeks in a row: We must continue to be patient.  There will be more danger ahead.  There will be more sacrifices.  Things are getting better.  We will win.  America always wins.  I’m starting to wonder if he is even recording new speeches or if he’s just recycling or replaying old ones.  Who would know the difference.