Four Phones

Something to Ponder

We have four phones including two ancient flip, one land, one prepaid smartie- pants, three computers (all quite elderly, two of which are almost expired), one ipad mini slow as molasses and basically nothing really works.

In addition, we do not feel especially tech saavy and frequently are frustrated beyond belief. Example: an hour spent talking to a local rep about why you cannot sign in to your “my verizon” aint’t nuthin’ next to two hours or more with a disembodied voice on the other side of the planet who does not speak your lingo very articulately as you try to figure out how evil, monstrous little things and other electronic devils latched onto your desktop. . . . And these are but a few silly instances of stuff that can happen, a lot of which can be worse, much worse.

The information super highway in effect has all but wrecked our lives, mainly because there simply is no way to beat the system unless perhaps you are a strange but brilliant tech geek though often not even that; and forget streamlining, or even considering for one mad moment, putting it all on one device because that is the very scariest of all. Think friends, family, doctors, bank accounts, credit cards, business contacts, self help lines because all this is driving you completely nuts, to say nothing of virtually everything that comprises your identity, body and soul, mind and spirit, the virtual footprint that has replaced the YOU; the “I”that is not in essence or in any way whatsoever the ME.

I long for the days of heavy, fraying, torn and frequently outdated telephone books, dirty phone booths that eat your quarters with relish, hand written receipts from merchants of every stripe, endless wait times on the phone with bureaucratic functionaries in bad moods who hate their jobs, cashing checks at the grocery store, waiting in line for long spells at the bank, books that only can be read with covers and crisp pages, your personal health info crammed into burgeoning file cabinets at the back of your doctor’s office, exhausting trips to department stores that often yield nothing, no robocalls in the middle of the night and more face to face contact all over the place, whether you like it or not.

And slowness, slowness, slowness. . . .

So now you can sit at your screen all weekend long and particularly during a rain storm, perusing hundreds, nay, thousands of items perennially “on sale;” big deal! Big flippin’ deal! Chances are you can’t find anything, will no doubt have to return it all anyway, and really want to touch the material and still pay homage to caveat emptor.

Oh Star Trek with your obsessive concerns about time travel, unknown tech dangers and the threat of losing our humanity. . . those episodes indeed were the prophets of doom!

Happy Memorial Day (and ditch those damn devices will you, if you dare. . .).

New York Pooch

You know it’s spring when New York dogs start tiptoeing through the tulips; decorously sniffing at the resplendent profusion of yellow and red Dutch-inspired blooms cozily planted here and there along the sidewalk, the iconic petals often protected by the confines of low, black, iron fences to keep out said dogs.

The particular flowers of which I speak were sitting happily on a pretty little traffic island. The pooches in question were residents of the neighborhood out on a stroll with their dog walker and fellow coffee klatch doggy buddies. In truth, though just mere, domesticated canines, they believe themselves to be rightful heirs to the hustle and bustle of the streets, the nods of doormen, the fragrance of the blossoms, the whiz of passing cars and runners, and of course the wonderment of curious, stopping toddlers so much closer to their own modest, nearer-to-the-sidewalk height.

As we passed like two ships in the night, except that it was noon and the sun was shining, and I was traveling solo while they were in a little band, I could not help but notice how very  individually and gotham-like each pooch presented itself; each one quite different from the others, and yet all with that same cosmopolitan whiff (or should I say whoof?).

The black brooder with pointy ears, part wolf, part poor sap, ever vigilant. The shaggy busybody, coolly attired in one of those fashionable doggy sweaters, continually looking around, checking things out. The white haired little devil, impertinent and small and so cute; The corpulent, serene scratcher, plopped down on the pavement all fluffy and puffy, bountifully maned in a champagne hue. You could just hug them all, almost.

Because of allergies and upbringing I’ve never actually had my very own pootch with whom to cavort and chat, walk and confide in. At this point I also probably would not want the responsibility. Nor for same reasons do I skip up to random mutts for a good nuzzle. But in the deepest recesses of my dyed-in-the-wool, small apartment dweller’s urban heart, I’ve always retained a soft spot for the idea, along with a healthy dollop of chronic pooch longing. I even fantasized on occasion about a scotch terrier named ‘Duff after Macbeth’s nemesis and all the fun things we would do together.

And so I retained a long lasting if quiet interest in poodles, spaniels, mutts of all sorts. Excluded from this panoply were only chihuahuas for reasons of temperament, as well as dogs the size of ponies and giraffes.

If dogs assume human qualities, then stereotypically NYC dogs can be seen as neurotic, pretentious, scruffy but occasionally well dressed, stuck up, intellectual snobs who like to go for walks in the city, as well as picky foodies who quite often are spoiled. Perhaps they come off as a little brash and hard edged at times, but always willing to help a stranger with directions. They wouldn’t touch a bagel anywhere else in the country and truly believe the place where they live is the center of the universe. . . .

Lucky for them they don’t have to pay the rent. In essence they’ve got it made, and they know it. Who needs the wild prairie when you can stroll, chat, socialize, window shop and never have to worry about grocery shopping, laundry, cleaning the house, meters or alternate side parking? Like I said, they’ve got it made, bless their scrappy little New York hearts. . . .