Are you ready to grumble?

Last Tuesday, my mp3 player, a Dell DJ, inexplicably died. On the Brooklyn-bound platform of the F train at 14th St to be specific, it froze and the buttons stopped responding. Once I got home I got a paper clip into the reset button, but it was too late. When I tried to turn it on, I just got a "hard-disk problem" message. On Thursday I called tech support and was told that my warranty was out and that replacement parts weren't even available. I was transferred to another department where I was told that it cost more to repair it than a new one cost. There was an unaffiliated website that sold parts but didn't do repairs. So basically their answer was: oh, you're mp3 player broke after you only had it for 13 months? Buy a new one! No thanks. I was so disheartened that I decided to forgo replacing the player immediately.
On Sunday as I sat considering the long hours I faced on the subway without music, I got a call from Dell telling me that this one time they would replace my mp3 player. I'd get it on Tuesday or Wednesday, and all I had to do was send them the old one. Great! Apparently they'd reviewed my profile and decided to right my wrong; it was nice to think that someone was listening.
But now I was faced with the prospect of refilling an empty player. I'd lost my mp3s when my laptop's hard drive had become corrupted and I'd become pretty sick of most of what was on my player anyway. I didn't want to go back to Kazaa (the way I'd filled my player in the first place), but I had kept seeing those ads for the new Napster subscription service. It seemed like a good deal: all the mp3s I could download for a flat monthly fee. I had to wonder what the catch was. I'd looked into Napster last summer and back then their deal was: you buy the mp3, but we own it. There were too many restrictions and the fact that they kept tabs on what I did with the songs was creepy. This time around the math seemed too good: $10,000 for 10,000 songs or $15.00 a month for unlimited songs. So I signed up for a free trial.
Well the first catch was that not all of the songs were eligible for the subscription; some songs, usually a band's biggest hit, were still only available for the usual .99. Plus some bands, most notably The Beatles and Led Zeppelin and a lot of lesser known indie bands were unavailable. Napster blames the license holders: Michael Jackson owns the Beatles' catalogue (he might not molest children, but he molests music!) I just like to think I'm into stuff that is too underground for mainstream Napster. But that's not the biggest problem: the service isn't compatible with my player and I didn't find this out until I tried to transfer songs to my new player. I like to think that I did my homework before signing up and all the ad info pretty clearly stated that the service is for the Dell DJ. It made no mention that it only works for the second generation players. Something about how the service only works with the upgraded firmware, which I can't upgrade my firmware to, because...they want me to buy a new one!
I am offering money for something I can get for free, but it's not enough. Isn't greed one of the seven deadly sins?

Vermin Infestation

Previously I mentioned the mice I witnessed in Dylan's candy bar; well tonight, I witnessed them in mine and Susan's favorite cafe, Cafe Orlin. After dinner (Sushi) we walked down to Labortorio del Gelato, only to discover that it was closed and decided to head back uptown for bubble tea. Once I discovered that I don't like bubble tea (tastes like shampoo), we decided to get gelato instead. On the corner of St. Mark's and 1st, Susan and I had a disagreement over where Cafe Orlin is located. Susan thought it was on the block to the east, and I thought it was on the block to the west. So not trusting my memory or sense of direction (I can no longer count the number of times I've led friends on wild goose chases in the east village to bars I could have sworn were right here!), I followed to Susan to Cafe Mogador, which is eerily similar to Cafe Orlin. We stood arguing on the sidewalk, to the amusement of one of the couples having dinner outside, about whether this was a different place entirley or Cafe Orlin had changed its name and had a considerable amount of remodeling. We souned like an elderly couple up for the weekend from Palm Beach; I'm the senile husband by the way. Once we went in, I agreed that it had to be the same place. There were too many similarities for it to be a coincidence. How many cafes consisting of three combined storefronts with sidewalk seating and a bar to the right of the entrance can there be on St. Marks? Apparently two. After being told that we couldn't only have dessert, we walked to the next block to find...Cafe Orlin. Just as we left it and our table vacant. So we had our second dessert of gelato, wine and french fries. Susan agrees that eating potatos with ice cream is delicous. When we first got there, there had been a couple a few tables but they left soon after. I thought I noticed something under the table, but I figured it was a crumpled napkin. 10 minutes later, I saw a mouse running around. We were freaked out, and I'm not exactly sure how we kept our composure. Pretty soon other groups came and sat at the other tables, but we got the hell out of there as fast as we could. I don't know if it's the heat or what, but I've seeing a lot of vermin in places I don't normally. I mean I knew they were in the kitchen, but I don't want to look at them while I'm eating. Start spraying pesticide again!
I also went to the Mermaid Day Parade today, an annual celebration of Coney Island's tacky and freakish history, in which people dress up in homemade costumes and parade on the boardwalk. It's like a John Waters's movie come to life, in a word: awesome. But at the risk of this becoming a Brooklyn blog, I will write more at a later date.

I decided to move to Brooklyn, because I felt that 'real' people lived in Brooklyn. I wanted a neighborhood, a community. So I found an apartment that was a decent size and that had new appliances. I never would have been able to afford it had it been in Manhattan. Unfortunately it's in the ghetto. I am no stranger to the ghetto. For the first seven years of my life I lived in Washington Heights, which at the time was one of the most violent crack addled neighborhoods in New York. My grandparents still live there, and everytime I go visit them I notice how many things have changed. The lot where they used to strip down stolen cars is now full of minivans. There are restaurants and bars, and people are on the streets after dark. Real estate prices haven't risen drastically yet, and maybe that's why the gentrification has been "gentle" so far. None of the long time residents seem to have a problem with the new residents.
In Bushwick things are different. There's abandoned buildings and garbage on the streets. Supposedly there are hookers in one of the abandoned buildings on Broadway, although I've never seen them. But there is a shanty town, shacks made of corrugated metal and blue tarp, around the corner. At night rats race between the lot and the garbage dumped on the sidewalk. Last week when I was walking home from the store, a crackhead asked me for change. When I noticed the white film around the lower half of her face and her mottled skin, I realized who she was. It wasn't scary; she called me pretty lady and just walked away when I said I didn't have anything. That's the thing with Bushwick. It's not that dangerous; it's just inconvenient and uncomfortable. We're surrounded by the signs of the growing chasm between the haves and have nots, and everybody feels it. The people in my building don't generally shop in the neighborhood. There aren't any cafes, the supermarket doesn't stock artisanal cheeses and there's no cute little clothing stores. That's where the resentment in the neighborhood comes from. We live here, but we don't invest in the neighborhood.
This week we got Fresh Direct. They put up posters by the mailboxes announcing that the perseverence of one of our neighbors had brought us delivery of montauk bay lobster and espresso smores. From the wording, it seems like its only our building getting delivery. The reaction, going by the comments scrawled on the poster, is mixed. The positive messages are simple: thanks and you rock, but the negative messages are a little more provacative including a nomination to the honky hall of fame and a question as to whether the building can be anymore yuppified. Honkies? Yuppies? Bitch, please. As for me, well my first order is coming on Friday.

Last Night

Creative title, I know, but appropriate and descripitive nonetheless. Whitney is in town this weekend and Joanna is in New York all summer; so last night I met up with them and Jennie and Alice at Serendipity. I can't believe I haven't seen either Whitney or Joanna in six months. It feels like we just left Via Pelliccerria ( I can't even remember how to spell it anymore.) Bizarrely, I was standing in my kitchen the other day and was just overwhelmed by this reverie of last semester. I just miss the way life is so grounded and old in Europe.
During the hour long wait for a table, we took the tram to Roosevelt Island. The tram goes over the East River and the views are incredible. We walked along the river and looked at the skyline, and it just glittered and shimmers. It really made me miss living in Manhattan; I'm finding the charm of Brooklyn elusive. On the way back the tram goes over First Avenue, right over the taillights and headlights and past the high rise apartments. It looks just like Christmas.
Then we all had bathtubs of ice cream at Serendipity. Even I could only eat half of my sundae. Peanut Butter, delicious. We were saying goodbye on the corner in front of Dylan's Candy Bar and watched three mice run around the inside the store. Then Whitney saw her first subway right and Jennie promised to sing her song about how New York rats are spoiled and won't eat crumbs. Me too.
Tonight: mole and tequila!

"The positive thing is this makes you smart."

According to a paper published by Utah geneticists,http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/03/science/03gene.html?pagewanted=2&incamp=article_popular_4, Ashkenazi diseases (Tay-Sachs et al) are related to intelligence and make you smart. I thought that children with Tay-Sachs generally die before their fifth birthday; how many chess world championships and nobel prizes could you win in that time?
Actually this does remind me of a kid I had french with through most of high school. Later I began to thing that he had a learning disability or Asperger's or something. I always wondered how a Jew could be so dumb. It is kind of surprising.

Good News/ Bad News

Good News: I have a job! Maybe by tomorrow, I'll have two.

Bad News: My dad lost his job and they're moving and giving the dog away.

Everything else has kind of paled in comparison to that.