Over the decades I’ve used computers, my drawing skill has all but vanished—along with my ability to do calligraphy or even write legibly. Which is why I’ve started forcing myself to sketch again every day. Practice is the best form of hope.
“Are you here with your child?”
It’s a Sunday and my daughter is visiting her mom. I’d spent the morning lugging my daughter’s old clothes and toys to a donation bin, where they’ll be given to some of New York’s neediest kids. Now I was on a photo walk, shooting places in my neighborhood along the East River.
At Saint Vartan Park, where I had gone to shoot the pink cherry blossoms, a large man walked up to me somewhat aggressively.
Saint Vartan is a pocket park near my home. It has a playground area where local families bring their kids. I took Ava there for hours every day until she was six or so. We practically lived there.
The cherry trees overhang a public space adjoining the playground area, and it was there I’d stopped to take photos when the big man put himself in my face.
“Are you here with your child?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“You have to leave,” the man said.
He wasn’t a cop, he just a big white man wearing tee shirt, shorts, and sneakers.
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” I said. “My daughter practically grew up in this park.”
“You said you didn’t have a daughter.”
“I said she isn’t here today. She’s thirteen. I’m a dad, like you. This is a public park. I’ve stopped in to take pictures of the cherry blossoms.”
“You can’t be here without your child,” he said again.
“Really. Is there a sign? I’ve come to this park for years, this is my neighborhood, there’s no rule about who can come to the park.”
“If you don’t have a child here, you have to leave,” he said.
He leaned down closer, emphasizing the difference in our heights.
I could see he was becoming angry. So was I. I had an irrational impulse to punch him in the face.
We were walking, now. He had moved closer to me and was escorting me out of the park. Like he was a cop and I was a criminal. No, not that. Like he was a decent, God-fearing parent, and I was some kind of pervert who got off taking pictures of kids.
Only I wasn’t photographing kids. I was photographing the cherry trees at the edge of the park. It’s the only place in the neighborhood where there are pink cherry blossoms.
He was much bigger than me, but we were both agitated, both ready to fight, both fighting our urge to fight.
We had moved in sync toward the exit, but now I walked past him, showing him that I did not need an escort.
“I’m going to photograph this tree,” I said. And stood with my back to him and took the shot. To prove a point, I guess.
And then I left.
Later, at home again, I saw things from his point of view. He didn’t know me. He saw a guy with a camera not far from where his kid was probably playing, and felt protective. I might have felt the same.
Maybe he wasn’t feeling anything, at first; maybe his partner was anxious and he was acting on their behalf. Maybe he and his partner had been annoying each other, and here was his opportunity to act the hero.
Maybe, as a longtime resident, on a sunny Sunday, I should have known not to enter my neighborhood park with a big honking camera around my neck.
I think of that park as my park. My daughter’s park. It’s as much a part of our family as our favorite neighborhood restaurant. I forgot that my daughter has long outgrown the place, that I don’t know the parents of young kids in my neighborhood as I did when my kid was young. I forgot to imagine how an anxious parent might view a stranger with a camera and no kid.
But when my kid was young and that was her park, if a stranger with a camera had triggered my parental anxiety, I would have walked gently up to the middle-aged photographer at the edge of the park and said hi. I would have asked questions, not assumed ill intent. Not taken the other man in hand, like he was a lesser being, an annoyance to be handled.
Maybe that’s because I’m short, but I prefer to think it’s because I’m kind.
My interaction with the big man took all of two minutes. And happened hours ago. I have done many things since then, most of them positive, some even joyous.
But I still want to punch that big fuck right in his big fucking face.
MOST mornings my daughter Ava and I easily navigate the path across and down Manhattan to her middle school. This morning was not most mornings.
There was the bus driver who chose to block 35th Street between 1st and 2nd Avenues. Followed by the congestion of every car on 1st Avenue trying to take 37th Street instead. And the dead eyes of the bored, white city worker who pulled over every vehicle that did so—because someone at City Hall decided this morning that it’s now illegal to turn onto 37th Street from 1st Ave. Or use the right lane. Or something. The nature of the crime wasn’t clear.
The street was filled with cars that had been pulled over, and drivers who had exited their vehicles and were standing around in the cold, awaiting punishment of some kind. Most were people of color. After five minutes, we apologetically paid our cab driver, even though he hadn’t really taken us anywhere, and sprinted across to 2nd Avenue, hoping to beat the late bell of Ava’s school, two miles downtown from and west of us. We had eight minutes to get there.
“This is a little adventure,” I said to Ava, as we stepped into a fresh cab.
“Not to the driver,” Ava said sadly, looking back.
TRAVELED 1400 miles to end up in the same place.
Flew my daughter Ava from NYC Laguardia to Chicago Midway in the morning so she could spend Thanksgiving with her mom. To expedite boarding, Southwest Airlines does not assign seats, and there is only one class—Coach. The sooner you board, the better your chance of securing a decent seat; the more you pay for your ticket, the better your boarding position.
Additionally, line position depends on how quickly you check in online the day before your flight. Check in the first moment you can, and you’ll be first in line. Check in a minute later, and someone else may be in front of you. Hours later, you’re at the end of the line.
I love a pointless challenge. You can bet I’d set alarms to go off 24 hours before our flight so I could be the first to check in. And you know Ava and I were at the front of the line, so we could sit in the front row. I love an aisle seat, but I sat in the middle so Ava could sit by the window. It’s the little things that give you the chance to show someone how much you love them.
Southwest got us to Chicago 40 minutes early. Ava’s mom kindly met us at the gate, and off they went. I turned around to go home. My flight back to Laguardia was not scheduled to leave for another four and a half hours, but Southwest let me switch to an earlier flight with no penalty. There was just enough time to suck down some rice and beans at a fast food burrito stand in the airport’s food court—my first meal of the day—and dash to the gate in time for boarding. I flew back to New York on the same jet I’d flown in on, with the same crew, and sat in the same row: aisle seat this time.
Back home by 3:00, I fed the cats, watched “Jaws” on my iPad (somehow I’d never seen it), and fell asleep during the climactic fight to the death that ends the picture. Hours later, I woke up, confused, and made myself the traditional feast: leftover tofu on quinoa.
And that’s the true story of my Thanksgiving.
YESTERDAY I took a bath. Doesn’t sound like much, but it was quite a treat.
I’m staying in a hotel room in Chicago, and there’s a tub here.
I have a tub at home but can never use it, because Snow White, our infantile rescue cat, who wasn’t fully weaned as a kitten, is always sh*tting in our bathtub and p*ssing on our bathroom floor. She has a litter box, and I keep it clean, but that doesn’t matter to her.
Because she was not weaned, she goes through the motions of an adult cat without understanding what they mean—like a Catholic reciting Mass before Vatican II. For instance, after she p*sses on the floor, she bats sand from the litter box all over the floor as well. She knows that sand batting follows p*ssing. She just doesn’t know why. It’s clear to me that her mother tried to teach her how to use a litter box, but she was taken away before the lesson stuck.
To keep our tub at home somewhat clean, I plug it and keep it filled with water. Since cats don’t like water, Snow White refrains from jumping into the tub and sh*tting in it. But the tub is always filled with cold water, which grows dirty over time. You’d think I could drain the tub and bathe in it. But, no.
The tub is hard to plug. Most times, the plug doesn’t work. If I unplug the drain to run a fresh bath, the plug won’t re-plug … water drains silently from the tub, and, while I sleep my innocent sleep, Snow White hops back into the tub and fills it with sh*t. The aromatic, meaty sh*t of cats.
The only way to stop her is to keep the tub plugged and never ever use it. If I think about this, it’s such an overwrought metaphor for so many blocked things in my life, I could scream and never stop.
Instead, I take baths in hotels, when I can, and count myself a lucky fella.
RAINY MORNING IN NYC. Put my kid, my ass, and my suitcase in an Uber. Dropped Ava at school, then crawled to JFK via every emergency-vehicle-blocked thoroughfare Lower Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens had to offer. The roads were all rain and sirens and nobody getting anywhere.
From JFK, flew across the country to surprisingly sunny Seattle. Now ensconced at the Edgewater, the Robert Mitchum of hotels. Built for the 1962 World’s Fair, it sits at the end of a pier over Puget Sound, perpetually threatening to drown itself, but somehow never going through with it.
The rooms are small, but many face the water. Some boast crow’s-foot tubs and windows over the water. Others, smaller and tub-less, make up for it with a sliding glass door to a tiny patio above the water. Mine is the latter type, and my sliding door is flung wide. Gulls caw and ships pass as I rehearse my AEA presentation and catch up on work.
I brought a sketchbook with me (it was a gift from Ava), and gave Ava a sketchbook before I left. We will draw while we’re apart, and compare drawings when I return to NYC.
Looking forward to seeing friends I’ve not seen in months, and to putting on our first AEA show of the year!
WHEN my daughter Ava was much younger—about seven—I took her to Toys R Us in Times Square one Saturday that was also Saint Patrick’s Day. You couldn’t ask for a more chaotic location and crowd. After stocking up on a sufficient number of Barbie accessories (Ava was in a girly phase at the time), we headed out of the store and toward home.
It was a hot March that year. Unseasonably sweltering. The streets were unwalkable—thickly thronged with drunks and tourists—and there were no cabs to be seen. So we ended up hiring a bike rickshaw to take us home. I’d recently done the same thing in Austin, where the ride cost $10. The sign on the New York rickshaw also said $10. Unfortunately, it meant $10 per city block—as I discovered to my cost, and horror, upon trying to exit when we finally reached our destination.
But the ludicrous overcharge was worth it, because the trip created a memory.
Ava is half Irish Catholic and Bohemian on her mother’s side, half Ukranian and Russian Jewish on my side. At the time, she identified Irishness with her mother’s qualities, such as intelligence, warmth, and elegance. She did not know that Saint Patrick’s Day in major U.S. cities is mainly an excuse for high school and college students from out of town to come fall down drunk in the street.
As our rickshaw driver pedaled his way to the bank, we passed wave after wave of staggering, shouting, woohooing greenclad coeds, accompanied by slightly less inebriated predator dates. The women shrilled “hey” at us. They stumbled into the crosswalk. They vomited between parked cars and then made out with their companions.
Hammering down 38th Street in the shuddering rickshaw, Ava got up on her hind legs. “You’re a disgrace to the Irish!” she shouted.
A drunken collegiate, making eye contact with the child while not necessarily understanding her words, shouted, “Woo-hoo!” and belched.
I think of it every Saint Patrick’s Day in New York. The righteously indignant little girl, the sweating Asian immigrant bicyclist, and the sea of drunken adolescents out of Trenton and Staten.
Mainly I think whimsically of those words. “You’re a disgrace to the Irish!”
AT HOME, sick with a cold and bored, my daughter buys a single packet of “My School Dance” in a freemium iTunes game. The manufacturer charges her (well, charges me) for ten packets. This same “accidental” 10x overcharge happens across three different games by the same manufacturer in the span of about an hour.
American Express notifies me of the spurious charges, but won’t let me dispute them until they are “posted.” I spend half an hour on the phone with a very nice gentleman at Amex learning this. Why would Amex notify customers about a charge days before they can do anything to resolve it? I don’t know. And I don’t ask the gentleman on the phone. His job is hard enough.
A few days pass. Amex “posts” the false charges and emails me with a link to resolve the problem on Amex’s “dispute a charge” web service.
Amex’s “dispute a charge” web service “encounters an error” when I try to use it to resolve the problem.
This happens every time I try. I try for three days.
So I call Amex, but I can’t resolve the problem because I don’t have the card in my wallet.
So I head to iTunes, where I should have gone in the first place, and click through two or three generations of iTunes “Report a Problem” interfaces: visually different generations of iTunes software, with different user paths, all still being served by Apple. Generations of iTunes software that, when they fail, link to other generations of iTunes software, which also fail.
I click and click my way through five years of iTunes interfaces.
Finally I find an iTunes page where I can manually “Report a problem” for each of the 27 false charges. (Three of the charges, remember, were legitimate. I’m willing to pay for the three items my daughter intended to buy. But not 30.)
If one software product overcharges your kid by a multiple of 10, that could be a software bug. When three products from the same manufacturer all do it, that’s not a bug, it’s a deliberate attempt to defraud families, by overcharging on purpose and hiding behind the opacity of iTunes’s purchase reporting. Simply put, the manufacturer is dishonest, and figures iTunes’s support section is impenetrable enough that you’ll eventually give up trying to get a refund.
But they didn’t count on my tenacity. I’m the Indiana Jones of this motherfucker. I have studied maps and bribed natives and found my way to the hidden iTunes refund page that actually, sometimes, works.
On this page, I inform Apple of the fraud 27 times, in 27 different boxes. Each time, after reporting, I click a blue button, which generally returns an error message that iTunes was unable to process my request. So I enter the data and click the button again. It’s only 27 boxes of shit. I’ve got all the time in the world.
The page tells me that only two refunds went through. Every other request ends with an error message saying iTunes could not process my request, and encouraging me to try again later.
Instead, I leave the page open, and, about ten minutes later, I manually reload it. When I do so, the display updates—I guess this generation of iTunes software preceded “Ajax”—and I learn that most of my refunds have gone through.
So the software actually works about 33% of the time, even though it indicates that it only works 5% of the time. Remember that wait-ten-minutes-then-randomly-reload-to-see-if-anything-changed trick. It’s the sign of excellently designed consumer software.
I’ve put over two hours of my time into this. Going on billable hours, I’ve probably lost money, even if I get all my overcharges refunded. But there’s a principle here. Several principles, actually. Tricking kids is wrong. Stealing is wrong. Building a beautiful front-end but neglecting customer service is wrong. Mainly, I’ve just had enough of 2016’s bullshit.
Fuck you, 2016.
I SPENT yesterday with my Swedish friend Pär (“Peyo”) Almqvist, who returned from LA Sunday morning and headed home to Sweden Sunday night. We met in Stockholm in 1999, when Peyo was 19, and have been close ever since. In 2000, Peyo wrote “Fragments of Time” for A List Apart. Reading it, you can see how thoughtful he is as a creative person.
A few years ago, Peyo cofounded OMC Power, a start-up that brought affordable solar power to rural villages in India—profoundly poor villages where, until that time, folks had relied on dirty gasoline-powered generators to get what little electricity they could.
National Geographic TV covered OMC’s work just this week in their special, “Years of Living Dangerously;” in the video clip on their site, you can watch David Letterman interview one of Peyo’s co-founders about what they’ve accomplished so far, and why it matters.
Letterman went to India to cover the threat of climate change and what’s being done to fight it. OMC Power is providing clean energy and a model for India to electrify itself without adding to the pollution that contributes to climate change. OMC started in India because folks in India needed the power and therefore welcomed them; and also because, by working with small rural villages, they encountered less violent opposition from the oil companies than they would have if they had attempted the experiment in Europe or North America. When the power grid fails in the west, folks in India will still have power—an irony of developed nations’ dependence on dirty fossil fuels.
In a time when so many of us feel helpless about climate change, and others, at the behest of corporate masters, cynically deny that it exists, it is good to know people who are making a difference and earning a living in doing so.
While Peyo remains an advisor to OMC Power, he has since co-founded a music startup, which I can’t talk about yet, but which I believe will meet real a need in music and may even change how some music gets made. (Like me, Peyo has a musical background, although, unlike me, as a producer and composer he has had hits in Sweden.)
It was his new music start-up music business that brought Peyo to New York and LA during the past week. I missed the chance to spend the week with him as I was in San Francisco doing the final AEA conference of 2016. It was great to spend a day together in New York, talking about our families, our businesses, and the world.
OUR UBER DRIVER must be hard of hearing, because he plays his right-wing talk radio morning show LOUD. It’s not your erudite, intellectual morning show. It’s hosted by Morning Zoo-type personalities: braying, hyper-testicular fellows, as subtle as a Cuban tie.
To illustrate some local New York story about a Hassidic synagogue, they play a nerve-shattering recording of an air raid siren. They talk over each other, like men do when they’re excited, and segue seamlessly into sponsor messages about homes for the aged, and medical recovery facilities for seniors. Then right back to the entertainment portion of the program: the two men, cross-talking in stereophonic sound, sharing revealing fragments of the public and personal between sound effect blasts and explosions of machine-gun laughter.
If you had just one minute to live, you’d want to hear this, because it would make your final earthly moments last longer. Okay, to be fair, I’d toss a coin to decide between this and root canal. My fellow passenger farts silently, which I consider a reasonable response. Soon. Soon I will get out of this car.
We learn that both show hosts live in Long Island. The super-aggressive one tells a story about taking his daughter to soccer practice and then taking his son to soccer practice while his wife borrows the car, but we never hear the denouement, because the dominant guy, who is even more aggressive, keeps interrupting.
The news continues. An unfinished story about taking the subway to eat at a famous pizza parlor in Brooklyn. Something about the Muslim call to prayer. It seems the secret service doesn’t want to protect Hillary Clinton because she is such a nasty woman. The polls are looking up for Donald Trump.