Subject line from an email marketing piece from Telecharge, the ticket vendor:
“XANADU on Broadway – The Critics LOVE It. Seriously.”
Category: Observed (Page 12 of 24)
Compared with my previous cell phone and my BlackBerry, the iPhone’s touch-screen UI greatly increases the chance that at some point I am going to get hit by a car.
<a href="/photos/iphone.jpg"><img src="/photos/iphone.jpg" border="1" alt="iPhone" width="512" height="384"></a>
If you wanted an iPhone this weekend, you could have waited on line for three days, like some of the folks who made it into national newspapers, or you could have done what I did: roll into the Apple Soho store just after it opened at 9:30 Saturday morning, gotten on a very short line at the register, and walked out with one in roughly four minutes.
So far, it’s pretty terrific. The learning curve is short and the pleasures of the UI are long. Free wifi is easy to find in the city, so I the major shortcoming cited in early reviews (AT&T’s slow EDGE data network) has not been a factor. And I can sheepishly report that the iPhone withstands a three-foot drop onto concrete without any damage to the system or the beautiful display, although my day-old gadget is nicely scruffed.
Also: the iPhone comes in a dedicated <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/19348052@N00/667385521">iPhone bag</a>. Carrying this bag around Manhattan turns a person into a temporary rock star. The buzz around this device is truly astounding.
Leave it to me to make a courtroom laugh.
Judge, addressing the jury panel: “Since this is a criminal case, we’d like to know if any of you have ever been the victim of a crime.”
I raise my hand.
“Yes, Mr. Wertheimer.”
“This is going to sound a little silly, but I once had my pants stolen….”
Our mail hasn’t been coming to our new address, so I called the old post office to investigate.
Me: “Hi, we submitted change-of-address forms for April 2 and aren’t getting forwarded mail. Can you help me find out why?”
Supervisor: “Your carrier would know what’s going on, he’s right here, let me get him for you.”
Carrier: “Yeah, I saw your note in the old mailbox, but I never got any forwarding information.”
“But I have my confirmations right here.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, I don’t have any yellow slips.”
“That doesn’t make any sense—I got several pieces of mail with the yellow forwarding sticker, just nothing consistent. Where did they come from?”
“I really don’t know. I don’t see anything here that has a new address on it for you.”
Exasperated, I tried a different question. “I went to the old mailbox on Monday and got my mail, and when I went yesterday it was empty. So where’s my mail from yesterday and the day before?”
“Oh,” the carrier said, “Once I saw your ‘moved’ note, I sent everything back.”
“Sent it back?”
“Yeah, returned to sender.”
“You marked all my mail return to sender? But I sent in change of address forms!”
“I’m sorry, but that’s what I did.”
I asked for the supervisor again. “How,” I asked, “do you not have anything indicating my new address?”
“All I can tell you to do is to re-submit your change of address form,” the supervisor said.
“That’s fine. But what about the confirmation letters that I received?”
“That doesn’t help. We didn’t get anything here.”
“Why wouldn’t you get the form I got?”
The reply, and I quote:
“Well, sir, it may have gotten lost in the mail.”
Hi! I’m in an airport. Charlotte (NC) Douglas International Airport, to be exact. I am enjoying the free (!) wifi in Terminal D while I rock gently in a white wooden rocking chair (!!), one of dozens situated in large picture windows throught the airport.
I am mid-trip from Myrtle Beach to New York-LaGuardia. I normally abhor two-hop air travel, what with the dual protocols and four rounds of ear popping and twice the chance for frustration (case in point: my connecting flight is currently delayed). But my rocking chair and wireless is making me smile, as is the exposure to small-airport America that US Airways provides. Charlotte to Myrtle Beach! Charlotte to Dayton! Charlotte to Harrisburg! I had nearly forgotten that jets flew point to point between mid-market cities. New York has truly skewed my perspective.
Most notably, I flew MYR-CLT in a whisper-quiet Canadair CRJ-700 outfitted in leather. Regional jets don’t climb to 30,000-plus feet like the jumbos, so the pressurization is significantly lessened in addition to the noise; my usually difficult ears didn’t even pop on the descent. The flight was so easy and uneventful that I downright enjoyed myself, a rarity for a domestic flight. I deplaned in such a good mood that I began to consider looking for short-hop regional flights when I next need to travel. Maybe if I had occasion to fly to Dayton.
The news now is that lightning has shut down the runway. We’ll see how long this rocking chair can keep my spirits up through the delay. Regardless of my departure time, though, my first regional jet experience actually has me looking forward to more.
If you’re going to exit a mildly competitive round of golf without finishing, don’t do it on the eighteenth tee.
My burger kick continues unabated. I paid a fresh visit to Burger Joint on Tuesday, with a how-exactly-will-we-fit party of eight, and came away satisfied. Burger Joint’s “works” burgers remind me of the In-N-Out Double Double, all slopped up and ready to go, but in a unique (well, until BLT Burger ripped off the wood-wall decor) and amusing setting. French fries were great, the black and white milkshake spot on, and the service was terrific: eight burgers and eight orders of fries were delivered en masse, piping hot. We even got seats. This joint stays on my list, although I’m still partial to the “oh goodness, that’s a big ol’ burger” style than the 4-5 oz. patty.
Stand, on the other hand, delivers those big burgers: 7 ounces, overwhelming the bun and full of salt. That’s the good news, such as it is. The bad news is that the service is poor and the attention to detail worse. Our waiter asked us three times if we wanted blue cheese, which wasn’t on the menu, then reported that the menu is wrong; forgot about us when we had a question on the bill, forcing me to stand up and go to him; and required a manager’s intervention to bring dessert. Oh, and when I ordered delivery from them a week earlier, the delivery took 55 minutes (the restaurant is four blocks away) and arrived ice cold. At least the $20 I blew on Sunday was credited back to me Friday, making the bill (a not-cheap $75 for four, without alcohol, after discount) a bit more palatable. Better options exist in the neighborhood.
So, yeah, three burgers this week. I’m fat and happy, but fat. Someone get me a salad.
Having written previously about local pricing policies and Petco in Union Square, I’d like to make a public note of the following price differences, this time between the (local) Food Emporium on 14th Street, in my apartment building, and the (national) Whole Foods across the street.
Darling brand Clementines, crate
– at Food Emporium: $9.99
– at Whole Foods: $6.99
Bananas, standard (non-organic), lb.
– at Food Emporium: $.79
– at Whole Foods: $.69
Seedless grapes, standard (non-organic), lb.
– at Food Emporium: $4.49
– at Whole Foods: $2.89
When I began living in this neighborhood I griped continuously about how outrageously expensive the Food Emporium was. When Whole Foods opened I rallied in Food Emporium’s defense, since I liked the convenience and selection. But when the premium-priced organic emporium is beating supermarket prices on everyday fruits and vegetables, what is the smart consumer to do?
Whisky (or “whiskey”; see update below) refers to alcoholic beverages that are derived from grains and aged in oak casks. Scotch whisky (or simply Scotch) refers specifically to whiskey produced in Scotland, and which is distilled primarily from malted barley. Bourbon, in contrast, is an American whisky that is at least 51% derived from corn. Canadian, or rye, whiskey typically is 51% or greater rye alongside other grains. And, of course, those with small home distilleries and unspecified grain percentages have a name, too: moonshine.
I am far from a drinker, but I do enjoy a nice glass of Scotch on the rocks, Lagavulin in particular. And as of this past weekend, I’m going to start exploring the world of bourbon as well (Knob Creek was a good introduction). Just don’t reprimand me if you see me ordering it before dinner instead of after.
Update: the wise and observant Ken Schlager points out that the correct spelling (per AP style) is “whiskey” unless referring to “Scotch whisky.” Duly noted and repaired.