Open Bar, Insert Phone

Open Bar, Insert Phone

A riddle:  When is an open bar not free? (answer found in next sentence)  When you wake up the next morning and find your iPhone sticking out of your bedside glass of water.  That's when.  

So, we were in Boston for a wedding.  One of Erika's friends.  I'll skip all the nuptials and get right to the reception.  This was the full monty, by the way.  Tray pass hors d'oeuvres, four course dinner, midnight pizza, AND dueling open bars.  The scotch was Macallan 12 year.  This was gonna be good.  

There was a DJ spinning all the latest hits.  There was a floor.  And I had a fever.  Dancing fever.  

I didn't stay with the single malt.  I quickly made the "safe" move to red wine.  Like an athlete and his Gatorade, I was a dancing machine only taking breaks to rehydrate on J. Lohr Seven Oaks Cabernet.  By the end of the night, I had eliminated the breaks, but not the Cabernet.  Thinking I looked debonair, I swung my hips about the dance floor, snapping my fingers with one hand, balancing my glass of wine in the other.  I left a splattered trail of red wine droplets behind me, a Pollockian reminder to those who might follow.   

The night was over.  I had successfully brought sexy back, and to bed I went.  

Cut to:  6:30 am.  I woke up needing water.  My eyes opened, began to focus.  There was my glass of water on the night stand.  And there was my iPhone submerged within.  "Baby," I sleep-mumbled to Erika, "I put my iPhone in my water."  "Oh, Baby," she sleep-empathized back.  

The worst part was I don't remember doing it.  Somewhere in the night, I must have checked the time, then reached over and put the phone back, but somehow in the two and a half inch opening of my water glass.  

Right now, the phone is submerged in uncooked rice because that's what the iPhone chat room people all said to do to get the moisture out.  If that doesn't work (and I'm giving it a 2% chance that it will), it's back to the Genius Bar at the Apple Store.  Who's the genius now?

The Genius Bar

The Genius Bar

little geniuses

I went to the Apple Store today.  Had two questions about my iPhone.  "Why does my phone keep freezing up?" and "Why did my email stop working?"  

You know what they call their technical support division at the Apple Store?  The Genius Bar.  

Now if that's not setting us all up for disappointment, I don't know what is.  I see "Genius Bar," I'm expecting a lot.  I'm expecting insight, creative solutions, passionate thoroughness, bad hair cuts and zits.  But the blue polo shirted genius that helped me (after having to make an appointment and come back in two hours) brought none of that.  He had no insight, not a single solution and ultimately admitted that there was nothing he could do.  He did have three zits and a God-awful haircut.  The iPhone, you see, is like a pack rat of data.  It is a little computer that over time gets confused and too full of bits of information.   Like most computers, it needs to be defragmented.  But you can't defragment it.  It needs to be cleaned out, but the only way to do that is to wipe it completely clear of all information and start over as if it were a new phone.  In the meantime, it slowly devolves into frozen screens, inconsistent functions and the always entertaining phone calls where you can hear them but they can't hear you.

And I kept asking him if there was anything he knew to do about each problem.  The answer was always the same.  "Nah, not really.  I mean, you could wipe the memory completely and reinstall."

So, I finally said to the genius, "So, I guess I'm just realizing one of the drawbacks to the iPhone is that over time it slows down and starts performing poorly."  "You hit the nail right on the head," the genius replied.

"Thanks, genius," I said and made my way out past the $50 iPhone protector cases and into the crowded LA streets.

I thought to myself, "Would a real genius go get a job that pays $12 an hour?"

Probably not.

Moving Day

Moving Day

I could almost hear Alanis Morissette singing, "A broken elevator...on your moving day..."

Isn't it ironic?  Don'tcha think?  (Actually, no.  It's an inconvenient coincidence, or perhaps the result of an elevator built in 1927 trying to haul my friend, Potsch, myself and a solid wood wardrobe down four stories.  But it isn't very ironic.)

In any case, it sucked.  Moving is hard enough without running one hundred armloads of boxes down four flights of stairs.  Where did we get all this stuff?  Oh, right.  Craigslist and Ikea.  And the Craigslist stuff was undoubtedly previously purchased at Ikea.  Hey, we don't have a lot of money and we like faux birch wood.  What else is an LA couple gonna do?

Apparently, our now-former neighbors have the same aesthetic taste as we found them rooting through our stuff when we came down the stairs.  Actually, another tenant saw them first and alerted Erika thusly, "Hey, some Mexicans are going through your shit."  Ah, I'll miss the old hood. 

It's funny how moving day always goes.  There are five discernible stages.  (1) Unrealistic Optimism.  This is during the morning.  You're proud of yourself because you rented the U-haul, your friend showed up to help, you're sipping coffee, laughing, saying foolish things like, "I figure four hours - max."  You are generally wasting precious time you will desperately need later. (2) Focused Work.   This is during the afternoon.  You're quiet, diligent, communicating through short phrases like, "Turn left," "Lift," and "One, two, three, up!"  You are sweating, but it feels good.  You say things to your beloved like, "Baby, you need any help?" Or, "We work well together, don't we?"  (3) Oh, Shit.  This is late afternoon, just after the first disaster has struck.  In our case, the elevator broke.  It could be any number of problems such as a friend not showing up, the rental truck breaking down, or an injury.  The incident will always occur at the exact moment you realize you are going to run out of time.  It's 4pm and you haven't even emptied half of your apartment.  The truck is due back by seven and you haven't eaten in six hours.  You share the moment with your beloved by saying things like, "We're fucked," "What are you doing right now?" or "How the hell is it already four o'clock?" (4) Frenzied Panic.  It's dark outside.  The wheels have come off.  No more neat stacking.  Random shit is being thrown into Trader Joe's bags.  Tampons next to TV remotes.  Jar of capers on top of the toilet scrubber.  You can't sweat anymore because you are too dehydrated.  You scream at your beloved, "I told you we needed more boxes!" "This is a fucking disaster!" Or, "Leave the mayonnaise!  We'll get more!"  (5) Exhaustion.  Nighttime.  The truck has been returned with two minutes to spare.  You are sitting in the one spot of your new place that isn't covered in boxes.  Your body finally understands it can relax.  You want to eat, but you don't have the energy to forage for the food box.  You want to drink, but you can't find the wine opener.  You want to bathe, but you...just...can't.  You mumble something to your beloved like, "I love you, baby." 

I think my favorite part of the move was around 9pm when I collapsed my exhausted body into the cab of the U-haul for the final run to the new apartment only to find the battery had died.  We had been double-parked with the hazards on for the better part of two hours.  Oh, I get it.  We moved on April 1st.  Good one.  Fortunately, a very generous Hispanic guy from our building was standing there and gave me a jump.  I wanted to hug him.  I did.  He let go first.    

At the end of the day (read: night), we got it done.  Now comes the real work, turning a mountain of boxes, sacks and furniture into a home.  Hmm.  I think I'll start by setting up the Ikea bookcase next to the Ikea desk.  It will look perfect across from the Ikea couch which sits in front of the Ikea coffee table (that matches the Ikea TV stand).