Royal Flush

A few years ago we were at a restaurant with some friends when our friend’s daughter came back to the table.

In tears.

She had just dropped her cell phone into the toilet.

And flushed.

Not necessarily in that order.

I could understand the drop.

I suppose.

Slip happens.

But that’s some serious kind of bad luck to drop your phone AND flush.

At the same time.

Or not in that order.

Or whatever.

The bottom line is the phone was gone.

She was devastated.

Her dad was fired up.

And I was amused.

On the inside.

People act like they care.

But if it’s not happening to them.

They don’t care.

Like being on a plane with a crying baby.

Somebody else’s crying baby.

Before becoming a parent, it might’ve driven me nuts.

Now...

I love it.

Really.

Of course, I don’t enjoy watching the baby cry.

But watching the parent scramble.

Priceless.

As long as its not you.

My friend’s daughter dropping her cell phone into the toilet a few years ago.

Funny.

My son dropping his cell phone into the toilet a few months ago.

Not so much.

Fortunately he didn’t flush.

After the splash, he did what any 11-year old boy would do when he drops his cell phone into the toilet.

Roll up your sleeves and.........

Well, you know the rest.

I took the phone to the local Verizon store to get a new one.

I tried to fib (and play dumb) that I had no idea what had really happened.

But that’s when I learned that these phones have little sensors on the inside that change from white to pink.

Or pink to white.

When the phone gets wet.

In essence, flushing the warranty right down the toilet.

In our case, the sensor was the wrong color.

The lady at Verizon acted like she cared.

But since it wasn’t her phone.

She didn’t care.

She claimed to be really sorry.

Then said, if we want a new phone we needed to pay for one.

Full price.

Now I was the one in tears.

Before writing that check, I decided to take the old one home to see if we could make it work.

One of my friends suggested putting all of the wet parts in a bag with dry white rice.

Seriously.

And somehow, through the magic of rice, the liquid from the phone would get sucked out.

Sure enough.

It worked.

Whether it was the rice.

Or a little hair dryer action.

Or some old fashioned good luck.

We brought the phone back to life.

Now if we could only get the boy to wash his hands.

The bottom line, when it’s your life, it matters.

When it’s not.

Not so much.

And I’m not just talking about cell phones and toilets.

The same week my son dropped his phone into the can, I got a call from my old boss.

Actually, my old bosses’ boss.

A big cheese, who drives a fancy car.

Well he told me that his good buddy was looking for a guy.

And I was the perfect guy to be that guy.

He just wanted to make sure I would be interested.

And then he would set us up.

In the Jewish world, it’s called a shidduch.

The gentiles call it eHarmony.

Either way, I was game.

And I let him know it.

And this big cheese was well aware of my situation.

Aware of my employment.

And the merger.

And the unemployment.

And the new job.

And the end of the new job.

And me being home again.

Without a job.

He knew it all.

And he sounded like he cared.

But clearly, he didn’t.

And why would he?

It wasn’t his life.

Or his family.

That phone call was nearly four months ago.

And while I’ve tried, I haven’t spoken to him or his guy.

Since.

I’m sure he’s busy.

But four months busy?

Really?

At least I know where I can flush that contact number.

Walk on the Wild Side

There are about a buzillion things I love about living in New York.

The energy of the city.

The weather in October.

The food on every street corner.

This week I’ve had a chance to show off all of those things to my wife and kids who are in town for a visit.

There is however one thing that in the immortal words of The Fine Young Cannibals, is driving me crazy:

Sidewalk traffic.

We don’t come from a place where people actually walk much, at least not on the street, so this has been quite the experience.

I am totally cool with the fact that 1.6 million people live in the 23 square miles of Manhattan.

And I am totally cool with the fact that those 1.6 million people own at least 2.4 million cell phones.

But do they really need to use them while they are walking?

Shouldn't they pull over to the side of the sidewalk to text?

Oprah, can you write up another petition please?

And as for those people who prefer to walk at a pace like they are doing an audition for Chariots of Fire, The Prequel....

Speed up or get off my sidewalk!

I understand that my quick pace of walking is not shared by all, but these slow walkers make me loco.

And I really love the people who walk right in front of you....

.....And stop.

Stop cold!

And I really love the people who stand in the middle of the sidewalk to take a picture of... a building.

Google Images people!

I always loved watching Barry Sanders play football.

He'd run right at a traffic jam.

Evaluate the smallest hole he could fit through.

Stop on a dime.

Spin his body around.

And run for a score.

Of course, if I tried any of those moves on 6th Avenue, I'd instantly tear my ACL.

But if you want to be successful walking on the streets of New York, you’d better apply the same concepts.

One of the true rewards of walking in New York is the sport of jaywalking.

Red light, schmed light.

If you don’t see a car coming, start moving.

If you do see a car coming, move faster.

I’ve noticed that the taxi drivers like to speed up when they notice a pedestrian walking across the street when they are not supposed to.

And everybody does it.

I mean, EVERYBODY.

If New York really wanted to fix the budget crisis, they’d start handing out jaywalking tickets.

They’d have like 19 trillion dollars by Tuesday.

My wife is a very cautious person.

But not in New York.

Sure, she’s still careful, especially when she is with the kids.

But this week I have definitely noticed her becoming quite the daredevil.

At least by her terms.

That little sign that tells you when it is ok to walk is about as useful as a calorie counter at a Baskin Robbins. 

Everybody sees it, but nobody pays attention to it.

New York is the first city I’ve ever lived in where you don’t really need a car.

In fact, when you factor in the traffic and the outrageous parking prices, not only don’t you need a car, you don’t want one.

That was definitely not the case when I lived in LA.

Take your car away and they might as well take your feet away too.

The public transportation in Los Angeles barely exists.

Living in LA without a car is the fastest way to a nervous breakdown.

The second fastest is having a car in LA.

There were days, plenty of them, when my 25-mile commute would take close to 90 minutes.

And that was 90 PAINFUL minutes.

Stop and go, the entire way.

With a whole lot more of the stopping then the going.

But with the help of the traffic helicopters in LA, I was usually able to adjust and try a different route.

Maybe that's what New York needs...

...sidewalk traffic reporters.

I can hear it now.

"For those of you headed uptown this morning, you may want to consider the right side of Madison Avenue.  There is a mother with twins on 5th Avenue and the double-wide stroller is not letting anyone pass."

Or perhaps.  

"If you are headed Eastbound on 27th street and in need of some caffeine this morning, head two blocks south.  The Starbucks on 25th Street has a shorter line than the Starbucks on 26th or the seven Starbucks on 27th."

I think I’m onto something.