I walk back to my apartment at 12:15am, after seeing Green Zone in the movie theater that is two blocks from my hose (score one for expensive Manhattan apartment). There is a guy who has walked behind me for an entire block who also enters. The doorman appears to know him. He’s about forty, dressed in a black leather biker’s jacket, black T-shirt, and black jeans. He’s got grey hair under a bandanna, a moustache, and a little bit of a beer belly. He’s carrying what appears to be an entire shrub of lavender branches in one hand, and a plastic grocery bag in the other. We enter the elevator together silently and I reach past his bouquet to press the button for my floor.

Unable to help myself, I ask: “Someone sent you out at midnight for flowers?”

I intentionally keep my personal pronoun gender-neutral because it’s quite possible he’s bringing all this back to his African-American lover who is waiting behind one of the apartment doors somewhere in my building at this very moment, dressed up as an Indian.

“And a tub of ice cream,” the guy responds nonchalantly.

“Ah, a midnight craving for ice cream, I understand. Flowers, a little less.” I say.

“I’m trying to make an impression.”

“That should do it. Good luck.” I say as the elevator doors open and he steps purposefully out.

Sometimes I love New York.

One of their weird European habits has to do with registering and de-registering where you live with the city’s Town Hall. I think this arcane practice dates back to the time of walled cities, when moving from one town to another was a risky and dangerous process for both the person moving and the town receiving them. When you move to a new town, you have to take a copy of your rental contract or your mortgage to the town hall, along with numerous pieces of identification, and register yourself as a resident in the town.

Now, there’s all sorts of benefits (to the city bureaucracy) of having every single family/household registered (for example, it makes it easy to collect taxes and turn off your water and charge your for shit that you don’t know what it is because you can’t read freaking Dutch)… but for the most part, this is a ridiculous practice that should have been phased out in the 1800’s.

The problem for me was, I REGISTERED just fine, but when I left I was, oh shall we say, slightly absent-minded about all the shit I needed to turn off, cancel, unsubscribe, and, yes, you guessed it… de-register.

So, after being back in the US for eight months and STILL getting charged 90 Euros ($7,000 USD) a month from my old insurance company I got fed up. I called the bank. I spoke to a customer service rep (which is a term you use loosely in Europe) and demanded that they stop letting this insurance company take money out of my account since I haven’t been a resident in 8 months.

“Oh,” she says, “Then you didn’t want the car, apartment, and other insurances that we charged you 450 Euros for a month ago either then?”

I DON’T FREAKING LIVE THERE. WHY WOULD I WANT APARTMENT INSURANCE!?

“That’s right. I don’t.” I say. My face turning crimson and contorting as I master my anger.

“Oh, well, we can’t stop your insurance because you’re not de-registered from the Hague.”

And cue exploding head.

More phone calls. More customer service (loosely used) reps. Letters written and mailed (yes, MAILED, as in actual pieces of paper that are transported from one location to another, as in what they did in the Stone Ages). More waiting. Actually, I have to be fair, not too much waiting. Two weeks later I was emailed (my god!) a PDF copy of my de-registration letter from the Town Hall.

I forwarded that on to ABN AMRO (my bank) and have been waiting for my money back, but the one thing that counts is that those fuckers from Groene Land Achmea (the health insurance company) won’t be getting any more money from this American.

Still, it was a sad day. I have now officially severed all ties with my former life. I am poorer as a result, and I don’t just mean financially.

Actually, that’s not true. I have something that looks suspiciously like a letter from the Tax Department sitting unopened on my sofa which will probably make my head explode again (after I get it translated).

But we’ll save that for another time.

I was completely psyched to be playing ultimate in Manhattan and not having to trek all the way up to Westchester to play in the WUDI league (which took about an hour and a half each way if you had to take the train). I joined WUDI, payed my dues, went to one game, the captain yelled a lot and was pretty tense for a summer league captain… and that was the end of that.

But Manhattan Ultimate… now that’s a different story.

The first time I get an email from the captain (a great guy named Mateo) he starts off by saying: “I didn’t draft any of you, but if I had been given the opportunity, I would have drafted you all anyway, so let’s have a great time.” Ha. Great. So basically, I’m on the reject team. The team that was drafted by a representative, after which they found a captain to assign to the motley crew of ultimate misfits who nobody else wanted. What was even funnier was that the first game of summer league both the captain and co-captains were out at another ultimate tournament with their (more serious) club teams and Mateo sent me an email asking me to be the default captain for that day.

To make a long story short, we were the worst team in the league.

But that’s not really what counts. What counts is that, even while we were soundly being crushed week after week (I think we won two games out of 12), we had a hell of a time. Yes, we were not a very balanced team, yes we lacked experienced players, yes me and Joseph were the only ones who showed up one day (THAT was a fun Sunday)… but damn it, we had fun. We laughed a lot, we played as hard as we could, we had parties, we did all the things that you want your summer league team to do, and so I count my first season in the Manhattan Ultimate Disc league as a great success and hope to be joining again in the Spring.

I had been using my work laptop plugged into my monitor and my Internet cable in the Hague, and then when I moved to New York I just hid it in a corner and kept using my work laptop. But there are certain limitations of using your work laptop for all your personal business, so I knew the situation wasn’t sustainable, but it took a catalyst for me to get a new machine: here’s how it happened.

Brian wakes up one Saturday. This Saturday is unusual in that Brian is actually in his bed in New York and not in some hotel room in Germany or in Lynn’s beautiful apartment in Godalming. Brian is immediately depressed. Brian motivates to perform daily hygenic tasks and tries to continue motivation by making a list of things to do:

• join Facebook
• buy toilet paper*
• buy pillow cases*
• buy a computer monitor
• get a haircut
• transfer money from Netherlands to pay bills*

*= not actually accomplished

So after eating chocolate chip pancakes and sausages alone in the diner down the block, I make my way to the Circuit City. I think long and hard about buying a PS3 (because then I can start watching BluRay movies AND occupy my time with games, all in one device!), but decide against it as I am in debt (because I haven’t done my travel expenses in four months). So I walk up and down the two aisles with monitors, and finally decide on a nice widescreen monitor. Give plastic. Get box. Walk back to apartment in rain. Unpack box. Hook up monitor.

My old work laptop doesn’t support my new monitor.

Now, some might think that this is the kind of thing that one should have checked before one invested $250 in a new monitor that is now staring dumbly at me from my hastily cleared-up desk. I look at him. He looks blankly back at me. “You dumbass,” he says. Actually, I say it for him.

In a desperate attempt to fend off the inevitable, I call the HP support line to see if there is some driver or something that I can install that will magically make my old hardware support my new monitor. I speak to a kindly Indian gentleman who determines in two seconds that my graphics card just doesn’t support the screen size of my new monitor. No magic software. No silver bullet.

And then he hits me with, “Can I interest you in buying a tower?”

Why yes my good man, you certainly can.

We make a deal. He throws some numbers at me. It’s been so long since I’ve been into hardware that they are essentially meaningless. Computing is a utility, I just want to pay my bill and get mine turned back on. I rush him through the details and then remember my previous mistake so I quickly ask: “This new machine will support my monitor right?” He tries not to chuckle. He passes me off to a nice Indian woman who handles the actual sales process. I throw some numbers at them, they approve me in the system, and tell me that, magically, in one week, a new computer will arrive at my apartment.

It’s a beautiful world. Everyone gets what they want.

True enough, I came back from a trip and there was a big cardboard box that I manhandled up three flights of steps (while lugging my suitcase in the other hand because I refuse to make two trips). I repeat the manic process of unpacking and hooking up. The machine starts… and then displays a colored background and nothing else happens. I finally look at the instructions. “It may take up to 20 minutes for your operating system to load the first time.”

Fine. I watch TV. An hour later I look at the screen and it is still stuck. WTF.

I pull the plug, then restart. My machine thanks me for this by going into an endless feedback loop saying “Windows did not install completely, restarting.” Then it restarts itself only to come to the same conclusion… endlessly.

I curse profusely.

I call tech support again. This time I get a woman with a lovely Scottish brogue, as she walks me through the Latin incantations and complex dance steps I need to exorcise the demons from my machine, I find out she’s from Glasgow. She reminds me of my girlfriend. My heart is content. Finally, the black magic ritual is complete and the bastard machine boots up correctly.

Welcome to Windows Vista.

What the hell am I looking at? What the hell have they done with the desktop? Who moved all my stuff.

I realize I am old. I do not like change anymore. I want things to stay the same forever and for everyone to color inside the lines.

No, I don’t really, but after so many frustrations I just don’t have time to learn a new operating system. I think back to the days when I would have spent hours going through all the “What’s new?” tutorials and watching all the marketing videos. In those days I would have had all the time in the world an no bills to pay and no expense reports that are four months overdue.

But life moves on and now I write blog posts instead of toodling around with my new toy.

If there’s one thing I like about my new computer, it’s the cool clicking sounds my new keyboard makes as I type on it. That’s probably why this blog post is this long.

Anyway, that’s the story of my new computer.

For those who want the quick quick version I will say only this: never, EVER, consider going to Tavern on the Green for a New Year’s Eve party. It was the worst run, worst organized party event that I have ever been to or could even conceive in my wildest imaginings.

And let me tell you why.

First, know that I paid $150 per ticket (plus service charge) for these tickets. The location seemed great, the place was open bar (top shelf) and I had to believe the food would be good. The fireworks in the park are right there. And the place would be full of hot chicks in formal wear (especially mine). So, it sounded like a good deal.

The doors were to open at 9pm. We arrived at about 8:45 and were greeted by a line of about six or seven hundred party goers which snaked around the circular driveway and went all the way to Central Park West. Well, I suppose that’s to be expected. But what really started to piss off me and everyone else was how people just kept walking right up to the door, completely ignoring the hundreds of people already in line, and crowding in a chaotic mass near the doors.

The crowd started to really get riled. There was sporadic yelling and shouting to “get the f*ck back in line!”. I have to say, after I couldn’t take anymore of the constant stream of assholes trying to cut both the long “General Admission” line AND the VIP line, I started heartily participating in the chants of “ass-holes, ass-holes” whenever groups of people started walking up toward the door past all the people standing in line.

Losing your temper is like breaking some seal: once you’ve done it, it’s impossible not to be just generally pissed off at everything.

Two things particularly enraged me while I was standing in line freezing my ass off.

The first was the fact that they didn’t open the doors until 9:45. No one, not even for the people who paid $350 for “VIP” tickets, was let in until then. And it was freaking COLD outside.

The second thing that sent me into a homicidal fury was the organization. The stupid assholes running the place didn’t even have the wits to set up one of those tensor barriers to establish some kind of order toward the front of the line. As a result, all the pushy, assholish New Yorkers who decided they deserved to be in before the hundreds of people who had patiently queued in the freezing cold for over an hour just pushed up toward the door and generally made a mess of the entire system, taking away any incentive for anyone to behave civilly.

A simple rope barrier that would establish the fact that, yes, you have to stand in line you stupid motherf*ckers who get out of taxis at the front door and pretend not to see close to a thousand lined-up people.

It just enraged me. A simple rope, that’s all that was needed. But they had nothing.

It took us another 40 minutes to work our way inside. We got in line at 8:45 and got inside at 10:30. That is f*cking ridiculous. And, as Lynn pointed out earlier as we were freezing our asses off outside and wishing horrible deaths on all line-jumpers, it puts everyone in a bad mood once they get inside.

And it didn’t get any better once inside. The place was packed, standing room only, there were too few bars, the bartenders were acting like they were all fighting the effects of sedatives, and people were pushing and shoving and everyone was pissed off. Having not eaten anything all day but sandwiches, Lynn and I made our way to the buffet, along with half of the entire party. It was so crowded that it was hard to figure out where the line for the food was, and I think we committed the cardinal sin of cutting the “line” a bit ourselves while trying to get some food, but I honestly tried to find the line and get in it.

And then people kept sticking their hands through me to get to the plastic plates and silverware so they could then walk up the line and cut in somewhere else. When the third person did this I walked right up to him and shouted “get in the fucking line”. His four-foot tall Latina girlfriend immediately told me to get out of her man’s face, which was so hysterical that it would have broken the spell of fury that I was under if not for all the rage built up inside of me from all the injustices of the evening.

Words were exchanged. Things along the lines of “back the fuck off” and “get in the line or I will punch you in the face” “bring it my friend” “any time you fucking prick” etc. etc. In the end the invaders were beaten off and I was one second from beating my chest and howling with victory. Hey, treat people like animals long enough and they start to reply in kind.

We reached the end of the line with our tiny plastic plates that had one or two pieces of pasta on them, they ran out of carving meats. Typical. While waiting for our ration of meat there was a big commotion behind us as two stocky men locked arms in a shoving match about somethign to do with the food line. I knew just how they felt.

We ate standing up as people streamed around us, since there was no place to sit down and not even any standing-height tables we could put the plates on. My fury at the event organization of Tavern on the Green knew no bounds and I angrily considered what kind of a prison sentence I would get for demolishing some of their crystal chandeliers and throwing something through their glass walls.

We saw two other fights that night, one while I was standing right at the front at the bar trying to order a drink and two guys crashed into the whole group of people, upending the entire bar table and sending all the bottles crashing to the floor. All just seconds before I was going to place my order.

Typical.

In due course the year ran out of time, the fireworks went off and we watched them through the skylight of the VIP room for twenty minutes. Lynn consumed a few too many strong gin and tonics in too short a period of time and then decided she wanted to dance (which really meant that she wanted to twirl uncontrollably around the packed dance floor until getting so dizzy she couldn’t do it any more and then proclaiming, “I want to go home now”).

Music to my ears.

Tavern on the Green can kiss my ass. The event staff and the promoters can all burn in Hell (after long and protracted terminal illnesses).

Listen to me and hear my words: DO NOT EVER GO TO A NEW YEAR’S EVE PARTY AT TAVERN ON THE GREEN.

You have been warned.