Category: Observed (Page 23 of 24)

Upon moving to a new city, one goes through the natural acclimation periods, including a stretch where the city is comfortable, but not yet home.

Then comes an instance where suddenly one lashes out, and acts in a way not previously thought possible on a personal level. The Moment is when realization sets in: Yep, this is my town.

Upon moving to a new city, one goes through the natural acclimation periods, including a stretch where the city is comfortable, but not yet home.

Then comes an instance where suddenly one lashes out, and acts in a way not previously thought possible on a personal level. The Moment is when realization sets in: Yep, this is my town.

I grew up in New Jersey, always traveling to New York City for events and weekends with my family. I began working in Manhattan when I graduated, and two years later I moved into the city proper.

For a while, I was a Jerseyan in the City, right down to my abundance of khaki pants and brown shoes. I defended my home state (still do); I identified more with my past than my present. It was natural to do so. But I quickly succumbed to the rhythms of city life, since I knew them well before I moved.

A few months after relocating, I was heading north in Times Square at the corner of 46th and Broadway, and I wound up standing on the corner, behind a man who wasn’t stepping off the curb. I pushed past him, bumping his shoulder as I went, muttering under my breath about stupid tourists clogging up the sidewalks.

Then I looked up and found myself crossing 46th Street against the light with a car barreling toward me.

I got to the far corner without incident, but I knew what had happened. “Well, David,” I thought to myself, “you’re a New Yorker now.”

I’d like to win the lottery, really; today I’m buying a ticket for MegaMillions, which stands at $35 million for Friday’s drawing.

$35 million lump-summed and taxed would leave me with roughly $9 million in cash, maybe not quite enough to retire and live life as a fat cat forever—the dotcom upstarts of the late 1990s always said that would take $10 million or more, because at that level, one could stick it in a trust and live off the $1 million in annual interest and investment gains—but plenty for me, undoubtedly, to take a long vacation and buy a bigger apartment for me and my lady, and exit the Web world for a while, and buy a lot of CDs, and write for a living, or at least pretend to write for a living, knowing full well that the chances of me making a six-figure annual income off words are slim, but that’d be okay, because I’d be sitting on the $9 million that made it into my pocket on even slimmer odds, and I could eat at the bar at Union Square Cafe once a week, if I felt like it, instead of once a year, when I decide I really deserve that $23 veal and pasta appetizer.

Barring that, I’ll get a cheeseburger for lunch on Saturday.

Sadly and unsurprisingly—and not a little bit exhilaratingly—I have found myself doing lots of the little (marginally annoying) things authors do when their books are published.

Like what? You ask:

Sadly and unsurprisingly—and not a little bit exhilaratingly—I have found myself doing lots of the little (marginally annoying) things authors do when their books are published.

Like what? You ask.

Like, I tell everyone “My book is out!” even if they didn’t know I was writing one.

I whip out a copy of the book, uninvited and unannounced, if I happen to be carrying it, to show just about anyone I can, from my high school friends to my girlfriend’s doorman. This usually just precedes the “My book is out!” announcement.

I got a cheap and obvious thrill out of seeing Amy’s copy of her book arrive in its Amazon.com box last night. (And no, silly, I didn’t force her to buy one; she decided it would be fun to support me. Even though my free-book box is in her apartment. And it was fun.)

I had my brother ask at the desk at his local Barnes & Noble if they had my book in stock. (They didn’t. Dammit.)

I check the Amazon page for my book several times a day to peek at my Page Rank. (It’s gotten as high as 6,378, which is not too shabby for a tome that isn’t available at retail yet.)

I don’t feel any more important or special than I did six months ago, but if you’re wondering about this whole newly-published-author thing: Hell yeah it’s fun.

In New York City, the Belt Parkway, a clogged interborough artery, bears the honorarium Leif Ericson Drive.

“Yeah, it must suck designing for 300 monitor configurations.”

You say you’re a liberal-minded centrist, but are you sure? Audit your assumptions at The Political Compass.

My books arrived yesterday! I came home from a midday viewing of “Star Wars: Attack of the Clones” to find a “sorry we missed you” FedEx delivery tag on the front door of my apartment. I hadn’t been expecting anything, especially the books, which weren’t due to arrive until the first week of June.

The books arrived yesterday, hot off the presses from Donnelly and Sons, delivered to my home—almost—by Federal Express.

I came home from a midday viewing of “Star Wars: Attack of the Clones” (better than expected; fun and exciting; Anakin and Amidala were terrible, but I still had fun) to find a “sorry we missed you” FedEx delivery tag on the front door of my apartment. I hadn’t been expecting anything, especially the books, which weren’t due to arrive until the first week of June.

In my apartment I logged onto fedex.com and tracked the package. The contents were listed as “books (5),” and my eyes grew wide.

My books!

The excitement was almost too much to bear. “My books!” I kept yelling as I bounced around the apartment. “My books!”

I called FedEx. Their Manhattan processing center—way over on 42nd and 11th, which is inconvenient but not nearly as bad as UPS, which is up in the Bronx—was open until 9. Well! Over we go.

Two buses and one subway ride later, I found myself sitting in the FedEx waiting area, tearing open my cardboard box as I waited for the bus to take me back east. Beneath some bubble wrap lay five clean copies of “The Site Speaks for Itself,” as promised, with my name on the cover and my photo inside (twice, no less). Everything looked as promised, handsome and clean.

I flipped through the rest of the book, taking in everyone’s images and pull-quotes, reading Matt‘s bio and Molly‘s introduction on the subway ride to my girlfriend’s apartment. The moment had climaxed rather quickly; I had, after all, seen my chapter and the book cover dozens of times, and I knew what to expect. But the thrill of holding the book, of officially being a published author, still tingles through me a day later.

Amy arrived home from the airport half an hour after I got to her place. She grinned as she pointed at my name on the cover, grinned some more when she found her name in my acknowledgements.

The real fun of publishing is in sharing and showing the finished work. I can’t wait to give my parents and my brother their copies.

I’m a busy man the next few weeks, but I loved contributing to this project, and I can’t wait to write again. Bruce Lawson, expect a follow-up call in July. I’ve got another book to pitch.

Upgraded my cell phone plan today. I’m not sure how AT&T Wireless is making money off me anymore. But I remain a satisfied customer.

After four years as a satisfied AT&T Wireless customer, I have learned to keep an eye on new calling plans to ensure I get the most value for my money.

For a while, AT&T Wireless wanted to upgrade me to a lesser plan than my outdated one; they wanted to yank my unlimited evenings and weekends (this in the days of 500-minute off-peak plans) or charge me more for additional services I didn’t need. Then they started increasing their minutes and decreasing the cost. I had:

1. 60 peak minutes and unlimited off-peak for $29.99 a month

2. 200 peak and unlimited off-peak for the same price, because my unlimited off-peak minutes were grandfathered into the original plan (which drove the customer service reps crazy)

3. 250 peak, 1000 off-peak with SMS and an extended roaming area for $39.99/mo (I gave in)

4. 250 peak, 1000 off-peak reduced to $34.99/mo with free national long distance, awarded to me after the customer service rep said, “I can’t give you that plan, but if you lead me to believe you may cancel your account because of this, I’m allowed to see what I can do for you. Is that what you’d like me to believe?”

Today’s New York Times carried an ad for a new mlife “National Network monthly calling plan.” The same $34.99 upgrades me to 300 peak minutes and unlimited night and weekend minutes again. Good deal, eh?

“Unlimited-night-and-weekend minutes are only available for new customers signing up for two-year agreements,” the customer service representative informed me. “But what we can do is give you 3,000 ‘anytime minutes’ instead.”

In my four years as a satisfied AT&T Wireless customer, I have yet to use more than 1100 minutes in a month. Sold.

Frankly, I’m not even sure how AT&T Wireless is making money off me anymore. But I remain a satisfied customer.

I have an incredible hankering to write something and I was really tired of that celebrity spotting piece, so I have compelled myself to jot a new piece in this space.

Alas, nothing has hit. So you’re stuck reading this (and the weblog! the weblog!).

If you’re curious, I am on the cusp of a very busy spring: Fixing up this Web site (very soon), contributing new and exciting pieces to other sites, taking a class, contemplating new print authoring ideas. I have pledged to myself to keep this site running smoothly through the schedule crunch.

So yeah, this is a poor excuse for an essay. At least I’ve relegated skinny-ass Renee Zellweger to the archives.

Sorry!