Down for the count

Hi campers. I hope you all had relaxing and recuperative weekends. I had an involuntarily low key weekend. The train that I take into the city was replaced by shuttle buses today and yesterday so they could do “track work.” Now I am a lot of things, but I’m no train expert, so I have no idea what they were doing, but I can tell you what they weren’t doing; carting my happy ass to and from Queens on a bus with 300 other late, pissed off people. I stayed as far away from there as possible. It worked out well as I didn’t get any ushering shifts this weekend anyway, so I had a homespun weekend of errands and chillin out. I managed to get two episodes of The Nine in on Friday evening before… my dvr froze.

This time, however, I was actually a little excited that it froze, because as it turns out, I already had an appointment scheduled for Time Warner to come look at the problem. I could barely contain my excitement as the four hours between 10 and 2 approached, and when the buzzer’s siren-like wail wrapped around my ear drums I jumped off the couch and sprinted to the door. In just a few short moments, Mr or Mrs cable guy was going to get to see first hand what I had been experiencing for the last six months. I buzzed the lock, and when I heard the tell tale sound of clomping feet outside, opened the door. (I tend to wait until the last minute to open the door so that the curry tsunami is held off as long as possible.)

Much to my surprise, this week’s cable guy was the same as last week’s cable guy! When he saw me he had that look we all know and love, the “oh SHIT how do I know this person” look. “Back again are ya?” I asked him, and he laughed, relieved to be out of that awkward social scenario. I chuckled a bit when he shook his head and asked, “Are you still having problems?” I mean at this point the whole thing is pretty absurd, and there’s no point getting mad at him, so I just sighed and said “Yes, it seems to be a trend with all things technical lately,” and then told him about how I had written all about it on my blog. He said something about not seeing a fireplace in my apartment, so I let the whole blog thing go.

He puttered around for a few minutes, said hi to the dust bunnies behind the tv stand and then climbed my ladder to look at the connection from the outside cable to the inside cable. “Well the signal’s boomin here.” Despite my ten years in New York City, I still haven’t picked up a lot of the local vernacular, so I can only assume that “boomin” is a good thing. Then he checked the signals on the cable box and the modem, and made his diagnosis. “Boomin.” Money well spent on that PhD I’m sure. After puttering around for about ten more minutes he said, “Well, all your signals are good. I still can’t get into the main box for the building, so there’s not much else I can do. Try your cable now and let’s make sure it’s working.” I was all too happy to oblige. I clicked the tv on, hit the power button for the cable and everything worked fine.

He sighed and said, “Well, looks good to me.” “Not so fast, Boomer,” I thought. “Wait,” I said, “let me try the dvr.” I chose a show at random, this time The Colbert Report, selected it and hit play. The little progress bar at the bottom of the tv showed up, the show LOOKED like it was about to start, and then…nothing. Success! I had finally repeated the problem for someone else! It was not all in my mind! Boomer looked non-plussed. I’m a bit of a mind reader in my spare time (yes I am, damnit) and I could see exactly what he was thinking; “This’ll fix itself soon.” A full forty seconds ticked by ever so slowly, as absolutely nothing happened.

In Freshman English at FSU, I was told to go out and do something I had never done before and then write a paper about it. I went and got really drunk at a frat party and slept with a sorority girl. Before you judge, I had never done it before (slept with a sorority girl that is), and anyway, you’re supposed to experiment in college. The following week, the professor handed me my paper with an A on top, and said, “Hunh.” There were probably a lot of things he wanted to say to me, but in the end, he was stymied, just as I’m sure Boomer was when he peered into the bowels of my tv and said “Hunh.” After a few seconds he said, “It ain’t supposed to do that.”

When the cacophonous applause from the audience finally died down, I handed Boomer his Most Obvious Statement of The Year Award. (George Bush came in a close second with “War is hard.”) But much to my chagrin, Boomie was still perplexed. He rattled around for a bit, shook a few things, and then replaced the cable box. I had to think, as I watched him forlornly pack his cable guy tools, that he really did want to solve this problem, he just couldn’t. He muttered something about calling them again if this doesn’t fix it, and sheepishly made his exit. I will of course keep you in the know about all the Time Warner developments, so stay near by.

All that writing (and reading on your part) and still the weekly installment hasn’t even started. Not to worry tired readers, this one is pretty short. But it’s a knock out. (You’ll get that in a second.)

As some of you may know, I’ve been on a bit of a health kick for the past, oh, four years. At the ripe age of 28 I gave myself a double hernia carrying a room air conditioner up a flight of stairs. Let me tell you, you don’t know pain until you’ve ridden a subway with staples where your pubes used to be tearing at your skin upon every lurch and rock of the train. Childbirth? Please. After walking like a constipated old man for two weeks, the staples were removed and I made a solemn vow that I would never put myself through that again. I joined a gym, hired a personal trainer, quit smoking and started eating things that weren’t frozen in a box. I have a few stories about my personal trainer, Craig, but for now just rest safe in the knowledge that a large portion of my credit card debt is due in no small part to his steel blue eyes. Anyway, it’s four years later and I am happy to report that I am still fairly disciplined when it comes to my body. I haven’t even touched a cigarette; they actually repulse me now.

But my routine has been shattered lately, due to an unfortunate incident with George Foreman. As I’m sure you all know by now, in addition to naming all of his children (even his daughter) George, Mr. Foreman also endorsed a line of grills that cook just about anything you can imagine in a way that allows all the fat to drip right off the food into a handy plastic “fat collector.” (There’s a Kirstie Alley joke here somewhere.) For those of you who have never experienced the Foreman Grill, it really is a great little gadget for a bachelor like myself. You can cook as much or as little as you like, and it’s relatively easy to clean up. When I moved to Astoria I upgraded to a newer Foreman grill that has removable grill plates, so now it’s even easier to clean. Apparently, those removable grills are problematic.

About two months ago I pulled out the Foreman to do my cooking for the month. After you stop laughing, believe me when I tell you that it’s much easier to eat properly when you cook everything in advance. 28 turkey burgers, 8 hamburgers and lots of veggies later and I’m good to go for the whole four weeks. It’s such a relief to not have to open the refrigerator and stare in it blank-faced for five minutes trying to decide what to make. That sad evening, I was especially excited because I was trying something new; asparagus. I usually stay away from the stinky-pee veggie, but I figured what the heck, what could go wrong? Oh Shawn, when will you learn.

I’ve been doing this routine for about three years, so I am not exaggerating when I say I’m a turkey-burger grilling machine. I knead out all 28 patties first, fill the sink with soapy water so that I can wash my hands easily, heat up the grill and throw four on at a time. I usually put on some upbeat tunes and go to town. On Asparagus night, I was on burgers 13 – 17 when I noticed something a little out of the ordinary. One would expect a little smoke when you’re grilling four burgers at a time, but this smoke was thicker than normal. I popped open the window, put the smoke out of my mind and continued shakin my booty to “Hung Up.” Time does go by so slowly Madonna, it really does.

At first I thought the popping I heard was coming from my cd, and I was about to be extremely angry, but when I hit pause, the noise persisted. I snuck a quick look at the speaker wires to make sure all was well, which it was, then turned back into the kitchen just in time to see a big, gloppy piece of fat fall from the side of the Foreman to the counter. “Hm, that sucks,” I thought, “but better the counter than my love handles.” I grabbed a paper towel to sop up the unusual spill, leaned in to wipe it up and saw, quick as a flash, three sparks fly out the back of the Foreman.

"Self," I thought, “this is not going to end well.” My first thought was to unplug the Foreman. I leaned around the right side of the grill to where the cord was draped over the counter just as a few sparks shot out that side as well. In addition to being darned cute, I am really good in emergencies. Something about the way my mind works allows me to completely divorce my emotions from what is happening at the moment and focus solely on doing what needs to be done in that second. I’d be a great e.r. doctor, save for the whole “grossed out by organs” thing. I knew that if I let this continue, I’d be calling 911 in about a minute or so (if I could get a signal on my cell phone). I pushed the grill to the back of the counter where the gleaming white, fireproof tile was, and gave the plug a big tug to free it from the extension cord. Thankfully that went off without a hitch. The fat collector, however, had a mind of its own and chose to go in the exact opposite direction of the grill and tipped over, spilling its vile collection of turkey fatness all over the counter, and down into the cabinets. The grill meanwhile was none too pleased to have its removable plates jarred out of whack and was spitting out venomous pellets of hot, liquid turkey fat.

Did I mention I was in my underwear? (That part of my system has since been revised). Showers of grease were now darting out both sides of the Foreman and my forearms, stomach and chest were absorbing the brunt of their fury. If ever presented with this scenario, I defy you to think anything but “FUCK!” Like Spock saving Captain Kirk, I grabbed Sparky Foreman and dunked it into the sink of soapy water, half cooked turkey burgers and all. A quick glance at my body confirmed that I was not on fire, and not seriously injured, but I was a bit freaked out, and more than a little upset at the mess. Grease, water, and greasy water were everywhere, not to mention little balled up pieces of half cooked ground turkey. Tasty!

The customer service representative at Toast Master, Lucy, said the following, and this is a direct quote. “It did what? Sparked out the side? That’s shocking.” I mean, come on Lucy. She told me they would send me a box for to ship the now useless grill back to them, so that they could “fully investigate the problem,” which I’m sure is code for “cover our asses from a lawsuit.” I wasn’t really injured, and other than the mess there was no real damage, so I’m not even bothering to pursue any sort of legal recourse, but I’ve been without a Foreman ever since, and my eating habits have gone downhill. I started off well, cooking my turkey burgers in a skillet, but really, I can’t cook, why pretend? They end up burned, or in pieces, or half cooked and usually just plain gross. I would order in, but there is one remotely healthy place near here, and how much grilled chicken and pita can a person eat? I’ve come to rely on steamed chicken and broccoli from the local Chinese place, Sun Wok. (Actually, it’s spelled Sun Lok, they just pronounce it Sun Wok.) And trust me, when the Chinese food delivery guy becomes familiar enough with you to tell you that he likes your apartment, he’s been there enough.

Supposedly a new Foreman grill has been shipped, and I did get a little note from UPS on my door Friday, so we’ll see. Cross your fingers. I’m not holding my breath. I am, however, in the market for an apron.

Until next time guys. Be well, and leave your comments!

What an ass

Hi everyone. I hope you all are enjoying what’s left of our amazing fall. New York’s weather has been pretty damn sublime. A few bizarre storms here and there, but other than that sunny and cool. I adore this time of year. The leaves are changing color, the funk of sweat is finally gone from my fellow subway riders and most importantly, my birthday’s coming up!

This year will be a little weird because it’s the first time in six years I won’t be celebrating with Hal. His birthday is the 2nd of November so we would usually have a really fantastic dinner in addition to whatever we did with friends. This year I’m not sure what I’m doing. Who really cares about turning 33 anyway? I mean, I’m happy I’m turning 33, as opposed to the alternative, but what does one do to celebrate mid-life? Before you say “mid-life?” I say to you; how many men do you know who live beyond their 60’s? So this could very well be my mid-life! Guess it’s time to go buy a Porsche.

OK, so a quick update because I know you want to hear about everything. Last night I went out with some friends to a bar called Vlada (rhymes with Prada!) and got a little drunker than I thought I would. They really make some strong ass drinks there. I woke up at about 11 today, still in my clothes from last night, which means I must have passed out without even getting ready for bed. That was a lovely taste in my mouth, let me tell you. I hobbled out to the living room in a bit of a stupor and decided that this hangover called for some serious vegetating in front of the tv with the shows that I’ve been recording all week. I’m caught up on the important shows, Lost and Housewives, but I’m also recording The Nine, Six Degrees, Brothers and Sisters and Heroes. I’m not hooked on the four new shows yet; I’m just watching to see if any of them get interesting. Right now, I could take them or leave them, which as it turns out, is a good thing.

I decided to go with Heroes, arguably the most cheese filled of the four and therefore the easiest to digest, hit select on my remote, hit play and…. poof. No picture. You guessed it. My dvr has frozen. AGAIN. Up-to-date readers know I just had a technician out here last weekend, but I guess we can safely say he did not fix the problem. So I’ve called Time Warner (I spend more time on the phone with them than with any of my friends or family) and they’re sending a new technician out next weekend. They’ve also put me on some customer relations track so that now I will have “individualized attention” until the problem is resolved. I’m sure that means someone in India will be calling me tomorrow to find out if I am satisfied with what little Time Warner has done to address my problems. Until then, I am missing Housewives and Brothers and Sisters tonight, and who knows what else until it’s fixed… if ever.

There are some new technical woes on the home front as well. Saturday I grabbed my Ipod and went to the gym for a quick abs/chest workout. I wasn’t planning any cardio, but it was so pristine out I decided to go for a run in the lovely borough of Queens (which you may be surprised to learn is not a borough full of queens). I stop home, drop off my “gear,” rip my shirt off (shut it) and hightail it outside. I start running at a nice pace, get halfway down my block and notice that my once strident Ipod is now completely silent. I look at the screen and find that my battery has died, which I simply cannot believe because I took it off the charger directly before I went to the gym. Unfortunately, dear readers, it’s true. The battery lasted less than an hour. When I charged it today it lasted for about an hour and when it would play songs, which was rare, it didn’t work very well. The songs would stop and start, or rewind and fast forward, completely at random.

It appears my Ipod is now I-dead. Much like Paris Hilton, it’s had a good life but it’s time has come. Three years, countless drops and several splashes later I can’t say I’m at all surprised, but the timing really is a bitch. Looks like Visa will be buying me an early Christmas present. Now I’m faced with a tough choice; black or white? My friend Ted will no doubt leave a comment extolling the virtues of the Zen, the Zune or whatever Ipod-killer MSNBC is choosing to shill this week, but as a man of discerning tastes I choose only the cutest gadgets available so it’s definitely an Ipod for me. Sorry Ted.

If these things keep happening I’m never going to make it to present day in my blog. I know my legions of fans (thanks, mom) are dying to be caught up. Thus on with the show.

Today’s entry is about Verizon Wireless. This story shouldn’t be too long, but I did want to share it because it’s one of the most aggravating things I’ve ever had to deal with. As you’re devouring my story, keep in mind that while the entire cellular nightmare is going on, I was also in the very worst part of the Great Time Warner Debacle, so this was quite a trying time.

Shortly after I moved in it became apparent I got less than a stellar signal. Inside my apartment, I consider myself blessed if I get three bars, but more often than not, it’s one or two. I have found a pocket or two in my apartment where I sometimes get four, but they’re fleeting, and I have never seen five in the entire time I’ve lived here. Right now, I only have a cell phone. (I am hoping to get the whole Time Warner thing sorted out so I can get internet phone, but until then it’s just my cell.) Around June or July, my cell service in my apartment went from “mediocre” to “unbelievably bad.” Like Rush Limbaugh without his Viagria, I couldn’t maintain a call for more than two or three minutes before it would drop. I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably say it again, but this did not happen in Chelsea.

So I called Verizon, who informed me that I was experiencing problems because I lived in… wait for it… a rural area! I think… I’m not positive… but I think my block has A tree. One. Uno. Collectively, there are more people in Queens than in most major cities in the country, so it causes one to wonder; what exactly qualifies an area as rural? I mean, the last time I saw livestock, it was a donkey that was being led through Times Square by a man dressed as Juan Valdez promoting the new sign you see below.




This is actually my office building. I swear. My office is the window next to the right front hoof. I’m so proud.

Anyway, turns out, “rural” is code for “not in Manhattan.” There are ten times the number of those ugly square cellular receivers in Manhattan than there are in Brooklyn and Queens. Combined. One could argue that, yes, the “important” things that happen in this city happen in Manhattan, i.e. the stock exchange, the UN, the terrorist attacks, but the people who make all of those things happen (including the terrorist attacks) often live in the outer boroughs. Don’t the people who keep the machine running deserve the same level of service that the people who own the machine enjoy? In America, no. As it turns out, of the three…THREE… receivers in my rural neighborhood, two were “damaged.” But no one at Verizon could tell me this; I had to find that out from a friend who had T-Mobile. Verizon just kept telling me it was because the area I lived in was considered rural. No one could explain how I mysteriously had mediocre service for five months, and then suddenly didn’t. It seems to me, that’s a sure indicator that something is afoot, but hey, I only broker multi-million dollar deals all day long, what do I know about logic?

After about 20 phone calls (to Abib, his cousin Rashih, his mother Azad and their neighbor “Ben”) I actually got connected to an English speaking person who was called a “Section Leader.” He apparently “led” my “section” and concurred that it was ludicrous that Queens is considered rural, and that clearly something had gone wrong because I didn’t have a problem with dropped calls when I first moved in. He put a work order out on the two receivers that were broken. (It must have been easy to find them, because hey, there are only three.) Three days after that, my calls stopped dropping. Praise Valdez. Or whomever. I still get a crappy signal, but at least it’s constant.

Now, let’s insert the Time Warner Debacle in here so you can get the complete picture; I couldn’t call them from the office because they needed me at my computer, and they couldn’t call me back if my call was dropped at home, so for weeks it was just a litany of dropped calls and frustrated moans. And yes, even a few swear words. The absolute worst was when my internet went out, my dvr was frozen, my calls kept getting dropped and… oh, I can’t mention that part yet. It would have ruined my next entry! Suffice it to say, though, I felt like I was living in a third world country. Of course, I practically am.

So campers, that’s my Verizon story. It doesn’t sound like much, but it was the umpteenth layer of stress when all I really needed was a helping hand from the universe.

Thanks for listening gentle readers, and cross your fingers that in three weeks we’ll have replaced a bunch of corrupt, war-hungry Republicans with a bunch of corrupt, moronic Democrats. I’ll take stupid over evil any day, thanks. Until next time, love to you all and a special shout out to my friend Vern who is going through a really rough patch right now.

The House of Prada

Hi all. A brief update, and then on with the show. Time Warner Cable came back again to figure out what is going with my internet and dvr. This guy at least was honest and said he had no clue, but that if I wanted it solved the best thing to do would be to request a “re-run.” I had visions of a fat guy in orange pants jumping up and down waving his hands, but it turns out a “re-rerun” is when they take all the cable out of your apartment and put new cable in. Surprisingly, re-runs aren’t free. So now I have to decide if I want to spend the $30 for something that even the technician said would have a 50/50 chance of working, or suck it up. Given the history in my little apartment so far, I don’t think I’m willing to take the odds. Oh speaking of odds, start kissing up to me now because I’m winning the lottery tomorrow. Which is a good thing because now that it’s chilly the curry factory has gone into overdrive.

SO. Where was I when I left off? Ah yes; Verizon Wireless, Xbox, Prada and George Foreman. Now before you sigh and say “Shawn, what could these seemingly unrelated items possibly have in common with each other,” (and shame on you for using such a stilted question), I’ll tell you. For the most part I’ve moved on, but in order for you to get the complete picture of the last 8 months of my life I feel I must share. I see you shiver with antici…pation.

I’ll start with the biggie. Prada. For those of you who don’t know, The House of Prada is a clothing and accessories line that was founded in 1913 by Mario Prada in (where else) Italy. Mario was mostly famous for his leather luggage, but the company never really took off. In 1978 Miuccia Prada, Mario’s grand-daughter, took over the design elements of the company and her husband, Patrizio (I love that name) took over the business side. They introduced the Prada Bag, a series of streamlined black purses made of Pocone, a waterproof nylon, and New York exploded. Even the most influential people were put on a year-long waiting list to buy a $600 purse. Now, Prada is recognized worldwide for its simple and elegant creations.

When I whine about credit card debt, please remind me that Miuccia is responsible for a nice chunk of that. Their shoes are… expensive. Anyway, last year for Christmas Hal got it right and got me a rather large gift card for Prada. He had such a knack for getting bad gifts that it had become a joke between us, so I welcomed this stroke of genius wholeheartedly. Shortly after Christmas (ok, the day after) I hightailed it to the Prada 5th Avenue store. I could have gone to the flagship store in Soho, pictured below, but I find the crowds there to be a little too “sceney” for me. (Must be the fitting room doors that frost and defrost at the touch of a button.)















The people at the 5th Avenue location are much more civilized when dropping ridiculous bank. Anyway, I found what I like to call The Perfect Pair Of Sunglasses (henceforth referred to as PPOS). You can see the PPOS in the photo in my profile, and as you can tell they looked, well, perfect.

After buying the PPOS I had a little left over so I was able to pick up the Coolest Keychain Ever (CKE). A part of me does shudder at the fact that I spent $125 (well, Hal did) on this little symbol of style, but I kid you not when I say it was designed by Miuccia for me alone. The CKE was a sterling silver rectangle bar with Prada inscribed on it. Attached at either side of the rectangle were two keyrings. The simplicity of it was stunning, but when I saw that you could detach the rings and have a “going out” set of keys and a “full set” of keys I was hooked.

Flash forward to about four months ago. It was the hottest day of the year here in balmy New York. In fact, we broke a heat record that day. 103 I think. Oh yeah, and a lot of humidity. On my lunch break I had to run a quick errand to get my brother Derek a birthday card. I will forever associate his birthday with my tragic loss. While paying for the card, I put my sunglasses down on the counter for a second… a split second... to get my wallet out of my non-Prada bag, and the PPOS were gone. Faster than you could blink. Even the cashier was amazed at how fast the woman next to me had grabbed them and took off. As it was so hot I was a bit sluggish and my normal reaction time was off, or else I would have been out the door and after her. But sadly, I honestly didn’t notice until she was long gone.

I was horrified. Not only were the PPOS gone, which is bad enough, but I’d have to walk around all day sans sunglasses. In New York sunglasses are not only practical, they are a necessity; they’re the best way to maintain that veneer of cool indifference required of all New Yorkers. Nothing says “I really love you darling, but you bore me” better than talking to them with sunglasses on. The only time I ever walk around without sunnies is when I’m leaving a club after daybreak. So they were gone; it was a $175 birthday card for Derek this year. At least I still had my CKE.

About three days later I woke up incredibly late for work. We open at 10, but my boss thinks (and I agree) that it’s better to get there at 9:30 and map out the day. But I woke up at 9:45. Shouting the typical expletives associated with running this late, I sprang to action and was out the door. I got all the way to the subway when I realized I didn’t have my wallet (also Prada!). I turned around and went back home, pulled the CKE out of my bag and noticed something… different. It registered slightly, but I ran upstairs, opened my apartment, grabbed my wallet and hightailed it to the train.

While on the train, I pulled out CKE to find out what was causing this unsettled feeling I had. To my utter dismay, one of the rings was missing. I was fairly convinced that it had just fallen off somewhere at home, so when I left work that day I was optimistic about my chances of finding it and returning it to its proper groove. Optimism is for suckers I say. That ring is long gone, and the whole point of the CKE – to have a bar with two separate rings that pop on and off – is moot. I now have a bar and a ring that hook up. Ooooh.

In case you’re wondering, these are not items I can run over to Prada and replace easily. Obviously the cost is prohibitive, and they’re last season anyway so they’re no longer being made. I thank you in advance for the tears you shed for my PPOS and CKE. At least I still have my wallet. Jesus, knock on some wood.

Well this turned out to be a long entry. See how I share?

Up next, Verizon Wireless. “We never stop working for you-oooh hoo hee hee ha ha.”

New York, New York

Hope everyone in blog reading land is doing great. A quick update and then I'll dive right in.

For those of you who are not Blogger members, if you want to leave a message, scroll to the bottom of the latest entry and click on where it says the number of comments that have been left. A little window will pop up. Click on the “anonymous” bullet, and when you’re done just click Login and Publish. You won’t actually have to log in; it will just publish it. Make sure you say who you are though, or I’ll never know.

I had another appointment with The Devil Saturday morning. Those of you who have done your homework will recall that The Devil is Time Warner, that my dvr was freezing and that my internet kept disconnecting. Sometime between the lovely hours of 8am and Noon on Saturday the guy was going to come over and fix everything. (I love how you have to block out half of your day just to get your cable fixed.) So at 10:30 Mr. D shows up to look at my equipment, so to speak. First he looked at my box. (Wow, who knew cable tv was riddled with sexual innuendo!) Once again, I explained the problems to him. He started by unplugging the cable box, staring intently at the back for about twenty seconds and then saying “Hmmm.” As you can imagine, that inspired great confidence in his abilities to get the kinks out of my box. (Really, I’m that good.)

Then he asked if I had Verizon Wireless. "What the..." I thought, "…he's here to fix my cable, not my cell phone." (Which by the way doesn’t work either, but that’s another story.) I told him yes, I do in fact have Verizon Wireless, and guess what? Turns out, Verizon's signal causes The Devil's signal to jam up. I find this A) hard to believe because I never had this problem in Chelsea and there were TWO of us in the apartment with Verizon and B) incredibly frustrating because although my cell phone barely gets a signal in my apartment it is apparently strong enough to freeze my cable.

So I asked the hirsute cable guy if a new box would help. (There's a joke about hairy boxes here somewhere.) He said a new box might help, but that he didn’t have one. (Too easy.) So I stared at him for twenty seconds and said “Hmmm. You came to fix my cable and didn't bring a new box?” He concurred, and said that if I wanted a new one I would have to take the old one to the Time Warner office in the city. We all know how that went last time (well, the more dedicated Shawn Stories fans do anyway) so I’m not so keen on going through all of that again, but I will trudge down there and let you know how it goes. On the bright side, my internet seems to be worki

Today I have a treat for you. A story that happened less than five months ago! I promise I’ll get to Prada, etc. soon but for now, sit back and enjoy.

It's no news that New York is a challenging place to live, but there are times when the city envelopes you in its timeless grasp and everything goes... better than right. Ask any New Yorker to tell you about how hard it is to live here, and you'll be regaled with stories of woe and despair. Rude people, smelly streets, dirty surroundings, crime, so on and so on. But I bet if you ask the same people to tell you why they stay, you'll hear a story or two that proves that what is good about the city eclipses most of the bad.

A week ago my office received notice that our building's power would be shut off from 1am to 6am on Monday morning so that they could do elevator maintenance. My boss has a tendency to be a bit over protective when it comes to our server. (I guess if I spent $10,000 on a computer I'd want to protect it too.) Anyway, he decided it, and everything else in the office, should be shut down to protect it all from the surge of the power coming back on at 6. He wanted it turned off at the last possible minute though, so that the backup would happen and so we would still receive faxes.

After listening to him whine about how he was going to have to come all the way back to the office on Sunday night to shut everything down, I told him that since I was ushering on Sunday and would be in the neighborhood anyway I could come in and shut everything down. (I know, there’s a place in heaven for people just like me.) He was wary of trusting me with something so important, but his desire to have a lazy Sunday evening was stronger than his nerves. I told him not to worry, I would take care of everything.

At 11:30 on Sunday night, as I was settling into a post-Housewives stupor, an A-bomb went off in my tummy when I realized I had completely forgotten to go to the office. All the computers were still on AND I couldn't remember what time the power was being cut off. I was convinced it was midnight, which gave me a half hour to get to the office. On a good day, it's a minimum of 35 minutes to the office by subway. A $23 cab ride to the office may take a little less time, but I prefer to take the trains rather than put my faith in the traffic gods. (Yes, there is traffic going into the city at 11:30 on a Sunday night.)

I threw on my shoes and ran to the train. That makes me sound somewhat calm; to the contrary, I was torn between blubbering like a baby and vomiting. Not only would the server inevitably die when the power came back on, but my boss would never put faith in me again. This is when New York kicks in, for those of you keeping track.

The N train miraculously pulled in about a minute after I got to the station. It was an angst ridden minute, but only a minute nonetheless. I scooted nervously onto the train just as the conductor slammed the door. This was good; he was one of those conductors that gave you a split second to get on board before he told the driver to go. That could shave precious seconds off my commute. During the trip I am literally crawling out of my skin, begging the train to go faster. Every stop brings with it the relief of being that much closer, and the dread of actually arriving there and finding I was too late.

And then inexplicably I started tearing up. I didn't feel THAT upset I thought, but looking back, it had been a really hard week and I guess this kind of put me over. New Yorkers are great at ignoring people freaking out on the subway; it's practically an art to notice but to PRETEND not to notice. I wasn’t really concerned about making a scene, but as my friend Anthony says I didn’t want to be one of those people walking through Times Square crying. So as I'm trying to calm down and just breathe, the doors open and this Rastafarian guy with a guitar gets on board. "Great," I thought, "now I have to hear some shitty singer ply his trade and ask for money."

His dreads and beads jangle as he aimlessly shuffles down the length of the train, and as he comes to about a foot away from me, stops. I guess I looked like hell, because after a pause, he says in his best Rasta-man voice "It look like dis guy here need a song tonight." "Of course" I thought, "so much for being inconspicuous." He begins strumming on his guitar, and starts singing that damn song "Baby don’t worry… bout a thing…." Of all the songs he could play, he chooses the most predictable. And yet, the sub-par singing voice aside, his gesture really struck me. He could have been a dick, or he could have ignored me like everyone else, but in the best way he knew how, he was offering a helping hand.

Well that was all it took; the damn tears were really flowing now. But I wasn't sad so much as relieved. Relieved because for some stupid reason, which I can laugh about now, I really believed him. So much so that I gave him a dollar, which I think might be the first time in ten years that I’ve given someone on the subway money. I am a stingy bastard after all.

The subway entrance by my office is literally in the heart of Times Square. I was going to put a very dramatic picture of Times Square here, but once again this stupid blogger service won't load pictures. I may soon have a new blog address if this continues.

Anywa, it was 11:55. The lights were still on! Being that this is Times Square, there were tons of people everywhere and it was pretty much impossible to run, but I definitely did the “pants-on-fire-walk-run-thing.” When I got to the building and read the sign saying that the power was being shut off at 1am it felt like the bones in my body melted with relaxation. I got to the office and shut everything down without a problem, although our internet has been strangely slow ever since. I think I exude some bio-rays that fry modems. The best part is that as I was leaving, contemplating how long it was going to take me to get home, the security guard made a point of telling me that the power was being shut off at 1 and that I’d better shut everything down in my office. I thanked her and told her that’s what I was here doing. She smiled and said “There gowna be some ticked off people tomorrow.” And I’m sure there were.

So there it is. My first happy story! The train came right away, I got home at 12:40 and was in bed (well, on the couch…yet again, another story) early enough to get a decent night’s sleep. And my boss, until now, was none the wiser that a meltdown almost happened in the office, and in my head.

Hope you are well. If not, baby don’t worry…

At Least You Have TiVo

Wow, it’s been about a week since I’ve written my last installment. I wasn’t kidding when I said I was busy. I can post pictures again, so scroll all the way down to see a picture of what was under my bathtub.

Thanks to all of you who are keeping tabs with what’s going on in my little corner of the world. I can’t believe I still haven’t made it to the present day yet! I’m sure you can’t either. So without further ado…

My hot friend Ted Rybka whose blog you can visit at http://veryapeaz.blogspot.com left a comment after my last installment that said “At least you have TiVo.” Coincidentally, that is the perfect segue-way into my new chapter. How lucky for him.

When I moved out on my own, Time Warner Cable (henceforth referred to as T.D., as in The Devil) had just begun a “triple play promotion” wherein one receives high speed internet, basic cable and internet phone for $99. A steal. A cheaper version of that was available also, where you get two of the three, so I chose the $69 high speed internet and basic cable package. First of all, they aren’t kidding when they say “basic.” If it’s remotely interesting, I don’t get it. Unfortunately, that includes ESPN and YES, so I never get to see my beloved Yankees trounce foe after pitiful foe. (That includes the sweep in Boston. I missed all of it.) And of course, no HBO, Showtime, etc. Surprisingly though, the internet speed is ok. It’s not your standard high speed, but what they call “High Speed Lite.” It serves its purpose; I can email, im, surf the web and download porn. Works for me. Or does it?

Day 1 of the T.D. nightmare begins literally on Day 1. My appointment was between 12 and 4 on a Friday afternoon. It was either that, or wait for three weeks. So I took some time off work and prayed that the cable dude would come on the 12 side of that window. At 12:30 I looked out my window and there was a Time Warner truck sitting outside with a driver inside. I was thrilled; I would be done with this and back at work by 2:00! At 1:00 he still hadn’t left the truck. Or woken up from his nap. At 2:00 he was still asleep. At 2:30 I called Time Warner and asked for an update. The operator, T.D.’s apprentice, told me that the technician was on another job but that I was next in line. I told her to call him and ask him where he is, because I was staring right at him asleep in his truck. She put me on hold, and I looked out the window just in time to see the guy jump at the sound of his phone ringing. Five minutes later he was in my apartment. Other than the mess he made putting everything together, he was in and out pretty quickly. (Story of my life.) He tested everything, showed me how it all worked (oooh a REMOTE) and left.

I thought it would be a good idea to check my work email to see if any disasters had occurred in my absence, and logged in. I slogged through the 50 or so emails, found one I needed to reply to right away, clicked on “respond” and… got an internet connection error. “That’s odd,” I thought. “my internet is connected. Isn’t it?” Lo and behold, those four glowing goddesses of light that indicate a complete connection to the internet were neither glowing nor twinkling, but flashing ominously. I unplugged it, waited, plugged it back in and it worked fine. For five minutes. “Self” I thought, “It’s best not to get into this now. Go to work, come home and it will be fine.” Oh the young and naïve. I came home that evening eagerly awaiting the gigs of porn I was going to download, and to my surprise… I still had no internet connection. I reset it several times, etc, but to no avail. I should point out here that I had been without cable/internet for two weeks so I was really jonesing. This new development was not a happy one. I got on the phone to Time Warner (which is rather difficult because of my cell phone, a whole OTHER story), got a few dropped calls, and finally got through. T.D.’s apprentice told me that she was getting no signal from my modem. My brand new modem. I had two options; wait for a tech to come out a week from Monday, or take the box to Time Warner myself. Well, tomorrow was a Saturday and I did have the day off, so I figured I would take care of it myself.

Over night, a water main broke near the train I take into the city. Little did I know, though I will readily admit I should have turned on NY1 before I left the house. But I didn’t. So I got to the train and saw the pink tape of death across the turnstiles that meant “no trains to Manhattan.” Ah, delightful. So I decided it was a nice enough day, I would walk to the R train. The R train was skipping the stop nearest my house (and by nearest I mean a 20 minute walk away) and I had to take a train in the opposite direction to catch an express going into the city. I left my house at 10. It was 11:00 and I was farther away from Time Warner than I was when I first left my house, but I finally made it by 12. The funny thing about the Time Warner location is that it is the one… ONE… Time Warner location in New York City. There are 9 million people that live here, and I think it’s a safe bet to say that more than half of those have cable. So I waited in line for an hour, got a new modem, took the train home, plugged it in and… it worked! (Pause.) Temporarily.

I’ve since had three technicians out to determine why I STILL cannot maintain an internet connection, and every one of them has a different answer but no one has found the solution. It isn’t a huge crisis, but it is annoying when you’re chatting, doing your banking or downloading something (porn) and the connection dies. I do know it’s not my computer, because it of course worked fine when I lived in Chelsea. I’ll let you know if it’s ever fixed, but don’t hold your breath.

“But Shawn” you’re saying, “you titled this entry At Least You Have TiVo. What’s up with that?” Funny you should ask. When my cable was installed, I spent hours searching for interesting things to DVR so that I would not be beholden to the Basic-Ass cable. Season finales were coming up, as well as some summer premieres so I figured there was plenty of stuff I could save for later. I set it to record my shows and went on about my business. The following weekend, I had some time to kill and decided it was a good chance to watch one of the ten episodes of Good Times I had dvr’d. (Don’t judge, people, you have your guilty pleasures, I have mine.) I bring up the list, select the episode (JJ moves out after a fight with James!) and push play. And the screen goes blank. About thirty seconds later, the screen flashes a bright blue, the cable box freaks out, and everything reboots itself. “Self” I think, “this is not the way DVR is supposed to work.” I know this because it worked fine in Chelsea.

So I call T.D., (after having two technicians out to look at the internet) and tell them about this NEW problem. They send a technician out (a week later) who replaces the box and ALSO decides to go off on a tangent about how George Bush has destroyed this country by letting all of the Mexicans in who are taking all the jobs from decent Americans. I told him that I agreed, George Bush HAD destroyed our country, but only because we’ve pretty much lost all of our civil rights (hello, you and I can now be jailed indefinitely for no reason) and he scoffed and said “that’s how you catch the muslim bastards.” I shuddered at how loud he said that, given the curry cooking population in my building. Anyway, he replaced my cable box and went on his disgruntled way.

The great thing about getting a new cable box is that you lose everything you’ve recorded! Sweet! So I got to start the whole process over. Flash forward, if you will, to last Friday evening. After a crazy week at work, and after ushering at my least favorite show ever I was thrilled to come home and watch some season premieres I had recorded. I come home, turn on the tv and… nothing. No picture. No signal. Hm. I call T.D., whose pre-recorded message practically tells me the exact street address and apartment numbers of the places in Manhattan where there are service outages, and then says “There are also service outages in: Queens.” For you non-New Yorkers, that’s like saying “There are also service outages in: Chicago.” I get T.D’s apprentice, who tells me that it won’t be long before the service is restored. Surprisingly, she was right.

I pop open a Corona, pick a series premiere I want to watch (“Six Degrees”) push play and I watched the best hour of television of my life. Nah, just kidding. The screen goes blank then flashes a bright blue, the cable box freaks out and everything reboots itself. And as of today I am unable to watch anything I’ve recorded, including several movies I snagged during a free trial period of HBO and Showtime. The service guy is coming on Saturday. I’m going to have some curry waiting for him.

So, no Ted, sadly, I don’t have TiVo and let me tell you, watching tv when things are actually on really bites. Thank god a lot of these shows are available online, but I am seriously freaking out about the Lost premiere. I know not how I’m going to handle that, because I have to work that evening. So if anyone out there is planning on recording it, please don’t erase it until you check with me and for god’s sake no one tell me what happens!

Hope you are well and that your internet is working fine so you can read all this! Don’t worry about me; I've managed to download enough porn to keep me entertained (in five minute intervals) until Saturday when my new cable box arrives.

Up next in Shawn Stories, Verizon Wireless, Prada, George Foreman and Xbox. It’s a strange, strange land, this place called “Astoria.”