There are gratings in the sidewalk all over Manhattan. Some blow warm, moist air up your trouser legs as you walk over them, others emit rumbling, grating sounds from the subway. You’re left with the impression that there is some kind of civilization down there, quite independent from our own.
I’ve always made rhythms out of the sounds I hear. A train journey can become a two-hour concert of recurring themes and unexpected interruptions to the pattern of clacking as the wheels pass over the small gaps in the track put there to allow for expansion of the metal lines in hot weather.
In Times Square, amongst the hurly-burly of the traffic we passed a grille emitting just such a regular, rhythmic rumble. It was reminiscent of a mechanized loom with its synchopated but constant cycle. In my mind I added some samba cowbells and the surdo and found a rather good fit. And in the time it took me to walk past the grill, the rhythm only varied in distinctly musical ways. I doubled back and stood a moment, listening intently to the ground beneath my feet. The New Yorkers studiously ignored me while Rachael wondered what was going on.
My first thought was that there was a tribe of gnomes in this underground world having a party. I figured this was unlikely even in New York. The next theory was that there was a samba band practising in the basement of the building next to us. Then with a flash of inspiration I realised there was probably a subway station here. Sure enough there were the telltale globes-on-pillars across the intersection. A swift New-Yorkian jaywalk saw us descending to the subway station where a guy with a bass drum and cowbell was accompanying two guys playing industrial-sized paint tubs. The sound was fantastic. I was forbidden from filming them but threw a few dollars in the hat when it came around.
When they finished it turned out they were selling CDs. Having just donated, I didn’t have enough cash to buy one and they seemed pretty hostile so I didn’t bother haggling too hard to spend the last of my cash on them.
Nathan Myhrvold was on the radio saying words to the effect of “The real Computer revolution is yet to come. Computers are at the stage now where automobiles were at the first part of the 20th century: they are significantly hard to use.”
That’s an appealing standpoint, but from that point of view there are a couple of observations:
- Macs are significantly easier to use than most other computers
- Nobody really knows what “a computer” is for - we find a washing machine easy to use, and it contains a computer. We find a phone pretty simple to use, and it contains a computer. We find a lift easy to use and it contains a computer.
- The car was difficult to use because of a lack of features. Before synchromesh you had to double-declutch to change gears. Before vacuum advance you had a small lever on the dashboard that required constant adjusting to the speed and driving conditions. The computer is difficult to use because of unexpected features - in the interaction between human and machine the machine often takes the lead. This relates back to the point above.
The early automobile was so simple that a reasonably smart person could know every moving part within a year or two’s maintenance. The computer is so complex that the shop that sold you it is unlikely to be able to give you positive advice on many faults you might experience.
So the car of yesterday had a distinct advantage over the computer of today. Everybody knew what a car was for. It was for being a carriage without the overhead of keeping horses. What is a computer for? Is it a TV? a Video? A radio? A musical instrument? A games console? A communication device? An archive? This is the big challenge for the computer, and it does not have a clear answer.
Though the answer seems to be converging on “A computer is for filtering spam and blocking porn and viruses”.
The North ‘Merkins have some cool shops.
In Canadialand, in Kingston, is As The Plot Thickens - a Mystery Book shop with a wonderfully evocative atmosphere. The front door gives way into a dark-cornered, wooden-floored space filled with shelves and an armchair placed where Holmes might sit, voraciously absorbing the contents of the books. The proprietor is dignified, balding, and moustachioed, and seems in my mind’s eye to be wearing a monocle, although I strongly doubt that he really does.
Also in Kingston was an interesting board/strategy/role playing game shop, which may or may not have been called Kingston Gaming Nexus. Ricochet Robots, a billion Risk-alikes, and some fascinating looking strategy games rub shoulders with interesting wind-up trinkets and some great wrapping paper.
In Saugerties on our way up New York State, we found a gift shop that smacked of pumpkin pie and gumboots. Possibly called “Trillium” it reminded me of the America of the Berenstain Bears, and of Forrest Gump’s youth. Just up Partition Street (presumably) from there was a tiny cafe that had a light in the bathroom that periodically switched off, seemingly by design. Made aiming rather tricky. There, if you order mint tea, you get two dozen leaves straight off the mint bush in a large glass of hot water.
Through a tiny door in Manhattan, past a friendly dreadlocked security guy, and up two floors in the elevator, is Drummer’s World containing many noisy toys and expensive bits of kit to go with them. Rachael was particularly impressed by their range of Udu Drums. I liked the range of cowbells. Most places in Britain have a solitary cowbell lying uwanted down the back of the radiator. This place had a whole range of them, from big corporately-produced names to a bunch of bells hand-made in the Bronx. Unfortunately I couldn’t find one of these that I really liked the sound of, as it would have been serious kudos to strap one of those to my timbales at a jam night…
This is what I need to learn right now. When your pride is deflated (I got marked as “unsatisfactory” on “Leadership Strength” despite not actually having anyone to lead), when your work is genuinely futile (completing delivery of a cancelled product), and when you’ve just been given your year’s personal measureable objectives 10 months late and 20% of your mark is subjective and 30% of your mark is not personal but company wide, you have a unique opportunity. This is the point where you show the bastards that you can still press the buttons on your computer in the right order and perform the futile tasks to a high quality and remain cheerful, AND seek to improve your leadership qualities despite not being in a leadership role.
My instinct of course is to go home and watch a DvD.
But Jenny-the-ex-fiancee must be my guide here. She was routinely shat upon for months by her first employer but she never ever gave up. She kept on pushing through it all and eventually somebody recognized her strengths, tripled her salary, and gave her some people to boss around.
I don’t necessarily want triple my salary or people to boss around (uh oh, that’s not gonna score high under Ambition To Lead) but I would like to be able to do what she did. It’s probably better for everyone than simply drafting ascerbic “I quit” emails.
Last night I went down to Bobolobo’s Latin Jazz night again, this time armed with 3 cowbells, güiro, and claves. It were really good.
The güiro has an amazing ability to turn heads all on its own. Who would have thought that in this age of in-car DvD, massive-scale online multiplayer games, international football, live coverage of wars, cheap flights around the world and frequent space missions, the sight and sound of someone scraping a dried vegetable with a porcupine quill would be so engaging?
I was thanked and invited back whenever I like, so that was a boost. Next step is to get some of the other Yorviquiños up to the point where they’re comfortable getting up there.
The day we left Montreal for Toronto (4 september 06) began with a series of errors. First, we went shopping in Montreal’s incredible underground mall, which we had discovered on the Sunday, just as all the shops were closing. So we tacked on a morning’s shopping to our planned day’s driving, only to discover that it was Labor Day and everything was even more closed than on Sunday. Interesting that everyone we saw working that day was black.
Second, we tried to vary our plan still further. Should we take the extra 80 miles’ detour to check out Gatineau near Ottawa, and maybe see some hot air balloons en route? As it was, we hadn’t made the decision by the time we reached the critical junction and found ourselves on highway 17 to Ottawa. When we reached Ottawa we had no idea what junction we needed, and it wasn’t until we had run up an additional 30 mile penalty to go and see Ottawa that we worked out where we were.
So we abandoned that town (it had greeted us contemptuously anyway, with dismal rain and pylons) and headed down route 416 to the Thousand Islands. On reflection the direct route would have bought us an extra hour driving down the water’s edge into the golden evening sun. But we enjoyed the time we did get doing just that, and arrived at the outskirts of Gananoque (gan-an-AW-kway) around teatime.
We had landed at what seemed to be another stripmall with a Pizza Hut, Canadian Tire, Dollar World (or something) and Holiday Inn Express all lined up alongside the road. We had a room booked at this last, and went to check in.
The girl at the desk offered us a cheap upgrade: CAN$30 extra got us a CAN$399 per night suite, with jacuzzi, widescreen TV and wet bar. How could we refuse!
The room even had a double-door from the bedroom to the lounge, lit from directly above, especially for making spectacular negligee entrances, I reckon.
After getting 2.5 loads of laundry done while watching Fame on the widescreen telly, we went in search of food, and of some wine to have in the jacuzzi. Being labor day, we had no joy on the alcohol front, so went for the next best thing: root beer.