a one-sided witty repartee.

This New York Moment brought to you by the New York City Department of Fuck You

To be honest, I was staring at her ass.

Her hips moved to the midtown powerwalk tempo, swaying her summery white skirt below a sailorish blue striped top, her blonde Betty ponytail bobbing in time, a half-block ahead of me since forty-fifth street.

I was only absentmindedly staring at her ass, mind you: she was the prettiest girl going my way on Park Avenue, and I had to look somewhere. 

Betty was just starting to cross forty-seventh street when a beat-up red Honda swung a too-fast right around the construction outside the JP Morgan building. In mid-step I wound to slow motion, waiting to see whether the car would stop, but she kept going. Through my headphones, I could hear the staccato sandpapered slide of tires on asphalt as the Honda braked hard.

I blinked.

Betty, her bare shins less than a foot from a battered red bumper, had turned to face the large wild-haired woman at the wheel, who was staring angry and agape behind her windshield at the petite ponytailed pedestrian blocking her path. Betty upturned a bangled wrist opposite a hand-held iPod and purse-crooked elbow in the internationally-recognized body posture for “what the fuck”.

And then, with sun glinting off the gold temples of her sunglasses, ever so subtly, her shoulders came back and her chin chucked out and her victimized posture turned pugilistic. She wasn’t pleading don’t hit me; she wasn’t asking what were you thinking; she was telling: she was declaring: 

HEY. I’M WALKIN’ HERE.

When Betty turned to continue her stroll up Park Avenue, Midtown pace caught up. I resumed stride where I had left off and joined the dozen other drones criscrosswalking before the still-stalled Honda. I turned towards my office on forty-eighth, but Betty kept walking, and maybe with just a little extra self-satisfied swing in her step, maybe just a little extra vivacious with victory, maybe just a little extra adrenaline-pumped power for having started the morning toe-to-toe with New York City in all its Fuck-Youness and Fuck-Youed it right back.

And at the end of it all, I really just want to know what song she was listening to.

This New York Moment brought to you by Weather Dot Com

Fresh back from a week in the Caribbean, tanned, brimming with the memory of clear blue skies over white coral beaches and azure waters and kicked in the ass by the first Spring weekend in New York, I decided to go for a run outside this morning.

Fifty degrees is perfectly fine outside-running weather. I wear a windbreaker. Rolling Stones in the headphones and my legs feel great. Just as I clear the initial twists and turns of the Brooklyn Bridge, I’m met with the city’s own personal “welcome back”:

Everything — the road and the sky and the bridge and the exhaust from the cars — is grey, the skyscrapers are shrouded in still darker grey, and it starts to rain.

Fuck you, it said. Fuck your vacation. You’re back in the city now, you fuck. Go to work.

And I thought to myself, “It’s good to be home.”

This New York Moment brought to you by Ninjas

When someone’s parents are in town, the bar gets raised a little. We dressed a bit spiffier. We swore a bit less. We made reservations at a nice restaurant. We went to a wine tasting class at a shop with a well-curated selection of organic wines and locally-sourced bottlers.

We were the consummate urban professionals enjoying our weekend of refined and sophisticated Big City entertainments. We picked up cheese and baguettes before returning to show the proud mother her son’s (recently-cleaned) apartment.

Then, at some point during the comparison of Alice’s Tea Cup and Tea & Sympathy, the son leapt forward with a napkin and plucked something off his roommate’s cardigan. He crumpled it and walked to the trash can.

“What was that?” asked the roommate, clearly confused, as she examined her sweater.

He glanced at his mother before answering. “A cockroach.”

And New York was still New York.

This New York Moment brought to you by Kiki de Montparnasse: Makers of Fine Exercise Accessories

She’s just finished a spin class. Black three-quarter tights and carrying her cleated cycling shoes, but neither her bra (burgundy, push-up) nor her tee-shirt (white, drenched in sweat, clinging, transparent) were designed for the level of athletic exertion she’s just endured.

Sweat still runs rivulets down her neckline, her chest still heaves with each panting breath. She falters. Her knees tremble through a few halting steps. She brushes a sweat-matted dirty-blonde lock from her forehead and pauses to lean against the wall.

She inhales and heaves a full-body sigh — the kind of sigh that comes after adrenaline-fueled overexertion, that accompanies the near-comatose satisfaction of knowing you’re totally spent, that involuntarily emits that cross between a moan and a purr — and just as she does it she makes eye contact with me.

In a single, visceral, electrified second, any trace of piety is gone from my preacher curls.

And then she walks away, and I’m left with bated breath and barbell, a victim of the right place at the right time. But I remember exactly why I pay for this fucking gym membership.

The Times They Are A-Changin’

Laid out like a movie scene in the piazza at the steps of Brooklyn Borough Hall, a mob around two-hundred strong had rallied on this freezing January morning to wave their hand-written plackards and chant in unison. On the steps, photographers jockeyed for the appropriate angle, though I didn’t see any news vans.

But what are they protesting? I doffed my headphones and moved closer. The first thing I noticed was the age differential in the crowd — it really spanned generations.

As in: the bulk of the mob was elemantary schoolchildren — probably between six and twelve — flanked and herded by their teachers and administrators.

Their signs read simply “Peace” or “Freedom.” To the best I could hear, they were chanting “Peace and Hope.” That’s it. They weren’t against anyone at all — not a “stop” or a “release” or a “withdraw” among them. In all their naivete, these babes came out this morning to protest for something.

I got chills when it dawned on me — They were there to learn about Martin Luther King. I had half a mind to join the crowd just to hug the teacher that decided to remove them from class and corral them before the hallowed halls of local government to demand a better world. Goddamn, that’s beautiful.

Fists up for a meaningful education, motherfuckers. Start ‘em young.

and I like to call it “the butterball effect.”

I like to think that every time I wake up at the asscrack of pre-dawn, choke down a Clif bar and haul myself through the frigid blackness to the gym, a still-slumbering fatty has a nightmare about being chased and devoured by a six-foot Twinkie.

This New York Moment brought to you by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints

A posse of papmphlet-profferring apparitions, praying for peace and praising their pastors while pimping pious propaganda to passing pedestrians, staffs a folding table set up inside the 44th St and Lexington Avenue entrance to Grand Central Station. They offer a variety of marketing materials about salvation and donation and abortion to a commuting populace that barely breaks stride to avoid colliding with them. The work-a-day public wears blinders of Friday-evening quests for binge-drinking, sex, time with their neglected families, freedom, reclaimed humanity. Now is not the time to be saved, so get lost.

One is rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, eyes shut to a squint, leaflet clutched to her bosom, muttering in tongues under her breath.

And I think to myself: “There but for the grace of God go I.”

History In Context

This is one of my favorite stories of all time.

“If I have seen further it is only by standing on the shoulders of giants.”
—Sir Isaac Newton

One of the most famous statements of humility in genius, Newton’s quote sounds like it was from an acceptance speech at some physics awards ceremony, acknowledging the greatness of his accomplishments while deflecting the glory onto his predecessors and colleagues. But it’s not.

In fact, that line comes from a letter he wrote in response to another scientist who had accused Newton of stealing his ideas — no, it wasn’t Leibniz, and the subject of the dispute wasn’t calculus. The other scientist, Robert Hooke, has been largely forgotten by history, but was remarkable for one thing: he was a hunchbacked midget.

So taken in context, “If I have seen further it is only by standing on the shoulders of giants” has nothing to do with humility: it’s a short joke. Sure, I built upon the work of others, but I didn’t get nothin’ from no fuckin’ midget.

Burn.

How data architecture is like the ballet.

Full disclosure: I’ve watched two documentaries tonight — Planet B-Boy, about the “Battle of the Year” break dancing world championships, and Ballerina, about the Kirov Ballet. For the record: Ballerina was better. That’s one dialectic, this is another.

Ballet is an art that is so technical and has had so much time to mature that the limitation — human physical potential for movement and posture — has adapted itself to the needs and whims of composers and choreographers. From a choreographer’s perspective, the perfect ballerina is the one who can listen to your instructions and bring that idea to life. Perfectly. Elegantly. Holding any pose for any amount of time, executing any series of movements so fluidly and so naturally that you would never believe a choreographer had issued instructions.

The art in ballet is making the unnatural seem natural. The magic in ballet is that you can relate to a series of choreographed movements that you yourself could never execute.

Data architecture is creating the means by which “data” becomes “information.” Think about the census: the fact that Sally Jones in Des Moines, Iowa makes $37,000 a year as a sales rep for a paper company, is married, has three children aged 5, 7, and 9, drives a Ford Taurus, subscribes to People magazine and spends $120 annually on toilet paper is a datum. (A “datum” is the singular of “data”). Multiply that by the 301,791,627 people tracked by the census in 2007 and you have data. The fact that the average household income in Des Moines is $67,798.33 and the Ford Taurus is the third most popular car in Iowa and 14% of households subscribe to People magazine is information.

Data is everywhere. Information is scarce. The number of times you brush your teeth in a week is data, the number of times you need to brush your teeth to prevent cavities is information. Your bank statements and credit card statements are data, whether you’ve exceeded your budget this month is information. Data is meaningless. Information is useful. The art of deciding the intermediary structure and processing, at a large scale, is data architecture.

Yes, I said art. The art in data architecture is making the unknowable knowable. The magic in data architecture is creating systems through which this knowledge can flow seamlessly and effortlessly, so anyone can access any piece of information they want at any time.

Ballerinas and data architects both have audiences, and both types of audiences have needs. The ballerina’s audience needs to experience the emotion intended by the composer of the ballet. The data architect’s audience needs actionable insight from the information about the source of the data. Neither the ballerina nor the data architect decide what the message is, but we deliver that message. The methods and means are totally different, but the act of interpreting potential meaning into actual meaning is the same.

Data architects and ballerinas are both technicians tasked with bringing to light that which lies beneath the surface. By learning a craft, we both hope to connect our sources to our audience in a way that is both meaningful and fruitful for them.

I never would have expected that. I really want to go see a ballet.

Bested in Barista Brevity

In a venti-non-fat-extra-hot-cinnamon-dolce-latte-with-sugar-free-syrup-no-whip world, I take pride in just ordering coffee at Starbucks. Now, I know that I shouldn’t be in Starbucks to begin with, but my office lacks the kitchen facilities, roasting machines, coffee plantations and migrant labor to really do it right, so fuck you, Starbucks is right on the corner.

I have the time to count out exactly two dollars and eleven cents while the person in front of me debates half-caf mocha versus gingerbread chai latte and then takes five minutes rattling off the options packages (shot of hazelnut, flat lid) and paying for it using a Starbucks card with seventy-one cents left and the rest on an American Express Platinum Rewards card. Get those miles, baby.

I savor this moment. It’s not an order, it’s a quip: “grande drip,” exact change. My transaction is completed in less than a minute. Neat, clean, no muss, no confusion. Before the barista has even opened the tap for my coffee, I’ve stepped aside and the gentleman at the cash register has moved on to the guy behind me in line. “And what can I get for you today, sir?”

“Tall.”

Tall. That’s it. One syllable. Tall.

The cashier doesn’t miss a beat. He looks back over his shoulder to the girl who’s pulling my grande and tells her “And a tall, too.” Tall gets his coffee at the same time I get mine. This is devastating. He’s beaten me at my little game that I invented just to beat people because they didn’t know they were playing, like when you race off the line with the ‘88 Dodge Caravan that pulled up next to you at a stoplight. Fuck you, Tall. You’re undermining my superiority complex. I need this superiority complex to get through the day.

And yet, through my sudden and unexpected seething hatred of Tall (who, for the record, is shorter than me), I can’t help respecting him. He’s elevated the game to another level. I was good, he’s fucking zen. It’s as though he unasked the question of what you can get for him; he refuses to acknowledge that there is any other drink than coffee at Starbucks. I never even thought of that. My whole Starbucks experience is ruined. I’ll have to start going to the Illy around the block.

You’ve won this round, Tall, but you just wait. I’ll get an electric kettle and a french press and a coffee grinder at my desk. And bone china mugs. And a cow from which to milk fresh cream. And every morning I’ll french press coffee fresh off the plane from Bolivia and squeeze the cow’s teat directly into my mug and laugh.

“Probable impossibilities are to be preferred to improbable possibilities” —Aristotle

Somewhere in the complex financial processing networks series of tubes that separates my check from my landlord’s bank account, somebody fucked up. Some faceless check-processing drone at one bank or the other misread a number and unwittingly gave me a substantial discount on my rent.

However, both Bernie Madoff and my landlord will surely back me up when I say that the most minor clerical errors will always come back to bite you, so today I was off to my bank to see what was to be done.

As it turns out, what was to be done was a lot of head shaking and explaining why this should never have happened before packing me off to my landlord’s bank, where there was a lot of brow furrowing and avoiding my questions. Not only could they not help me, they couldn’t even find this transaction in their records. Just before the latter bank blamed it all on the former, they had the gall to suggest — since my bank was clearly not meeting my customer service needs — I should open an account with them.

“Actually,” I said, “I switched because you guys charged me hundreds of dollars in inexplicable fees, and I thought your customer service was terrible.”

“Oh,” they said. This was the best part of my day.

In the end, I had to settle for a note on my account explaining the unfixed mistake. In a completely electronic financial institution, I’m praying that a teller’s hand-typed note will save me from wretched depravity if ever the error is corrected.

You know, the state of American financial institutions and the debates about Swiss banking really had me believing that moving money around was easy, but apparently this is only the case if you work for the bank and the money isn’t supposed to be yours — god forbid a fucking customer service rep ever service a fucking customer — and so the rest of us will have to pursue, badger and berate as we’re ever-so-politely hot-potatoed back and forth between (press one for) bad options and (press two if you would like) worse ones before we go home beaten and jaded with no recourse except to cross our fucking fingers and pray that nobody adds a couple fat zeros to the next check we write. Welcome to the big pond, little fish! It’s a sad fact that consumer banking pales in volume and profitability next to mortgages, fixed-income securities, corporate financing and, you know, every other pot that conglomerated-amalgamated-investo-bancorp got into after they finished buying up all the friendly, unsuspecting neighborhood S&Ls back in the early nineties. You, my friend, and all the money you have, had, and will ever earn are but a fraction of a percent of the transactions that whiz through your bank every day, and the difference between the best customer service and the worst is how effectively they hide from you the fact that the time it takes to answer your question is probably costing them more than the amount you’re disputing.

For the record, I’m not one of those off-the-grid anarchist types and I actually think my bank does a wonderful job concealing their contempt for me. Along with a perfect bank account, I’d also like a flying unicorn with a diamond saddle and a chocolate penis that ejaculates money; the fact that what I want doesn’t exist won’t stop me from bitching about it.

This is, after all, the internet.