4:00am, or thereabouts.

So I own a place.

My high-school science teacher, or maybe it was one of my dad’s friends, described black holes (or were they wormholes?) as anti-spaces in which time and space compress, and were you to go through one, you would travel in time. That’s what happened to me over the past three months.

I remember seeing this place for the first time, walking in past the entry way and into the grand living room, seeing the massive windows and and endless view of Bedford Stuyvesant, I remember holding back a smile as to not let the broker know how bad I wanted to live here, my jaw hurting like I was hiding some sour candy I stole from a jar.

I feigned disappointment in a couple details and made an offer two days later.

I’m not sure what happened after that. I remember negotiations, lawyers, checks, and near breakdowns that included calls to my mom who injected me with the fire I needed to call lawyers and brokers and demand things. I remember movers who seemed to do nothing but somehow got my stuff into my new place. I recall my first night that wasn’t as special as I had hoped because I was fucking exhausted.

And now I’m here, waiting for new furniture and fussing over two floorboards that aren’t even. I’m calling the super tomorrow, damnit.

But it’s mine.

My 360. In a box. On its side, crying.

People are awesome.

I’m moving to a new condo soon, about which I am very excited. Save your congratulations for a moment and read ahead a tale of Internet monsters, trolls, and half-human beings who suck at the teat of our not-so-free time and make life an exercise in frustration, fear, and facepalms.

As I have been sorting through my stuff, it’s become clear that I should get rid of a small load of old-but-useful gear: A PowerBook G4, an Xbox 360, a universal remote, and a few other random gadgets. “Put the stuff on Craigslist” was the mantra a few years ago when I last moved several years ago when the world was a better place, so I snapped some pictures with my iPhone and put the ads up. At reasonable prices. With full descriptions. With pictures. And prices.

What follows are actual accounts of my non-transactions. These items have been on Craigslist for about 30 hours. Nothing has sold, but I’ve learned a lot about people I don’t know.

My Ad:

PowerBook G4 15″
PowerBook 5,4 model, the newer aluminum one
1.33 GHz, 1.25GB RAM, 60GB HDD

In excellent condition, no dents or dings, with original box, receipts, and manuals. Battery holds charge, but not sure how long. Installed with OSX 10.5 and iWork.

Pretty clear, I thought.

Here’s one respondent:

Him: Would u sell me the screen? Text [number omitted]

Me: You can have the whole thing for 200 and do whatever you want with the screen. [I didn't text him]

Him: Yea I really don’t need the whole thing just the screen u maybe able to sell it faster + more money if you sell in parts

Thanks for the advice, dude! You wanna come over and rip apart this fully-functional PowerBook just for the screen, for, what? 20 bucks? Rad.

Here’s another one (I received no fewer than four of the same ilk):

Him: offering 125.00 [Yes, that's the whole email]

Me: Might meet you halfway at 150 if you are nearby. [Thinking "screw it - if he's nearby, just get it off my hands."]

Him: Im in Westchester, I would come and get it, all I have is 125 tho. thanks

So… he only has $125 for a fully-functional laptop that’s already priced well and he lives an hour away, would burn about $10 in gas and would probably still haggle me down.

I’m also selling an Xbox 360. It works perfectly, I still have the original box and manuals, and I’m selling it for $125, which I figured was reasonable.

Here’s the ad:

Xbox 360
20GB HDD
Wireless Controller, Power Brick, Headset, HD Cables, manual

With original box. Works fine.

Pretty straightforward, right? A game console. In the box. For a price. Buy it, fucker.

Oh look, here’s a response from a potential buyer:

Him: Call tx @ [Number omitted]

Me: [So I call him. What the heck, right? Maybe he's mobile and ready to go. I get his voicemail. His voicemail box is full. Popular dude. So I email him.] Hey, tried to call – your inbox is full.

Him: [He texts me. All spelling and punctuation intact.] Hey uhave an xbox?

Me: Yes.

Him: What’s ur package/offer

Me: [Sigh. This is all in the ad, but whatevs, let's humor the poor sod.] 360 original box $125

Him: Thaast it?

Me: Yes. With the controller, 20GB HDD, original box, manual, and headset, of course.

Him: White or black?

Me: White.

Him: I have $100 right now. $75 for console and headset not controller.

Kill me now.

Go.

1. The husband is a simple being who just wants TV and sports.  The wife is an intelligent task-master who is proud that Product X got him off his fat ass or tricked him into health.
2. The husband or boyfriend hates being in a relationship and wins some degree of freedom from the shackles that bind him.
3. The car in the ad is different than all others.  It will make you stand out.  It will make you special.  It is the best car…ever.
4. Company Y, despite its sins of the past, is now saving children, the environment, and the economy.
5. Baby talks.
6. Animal talks.
7. This product is about people.  In fact, it was made by people just like you.  The people on screen are not actors, sorta.
8. This medicine will save you from whatever ills you.  Its side affects just might kill you, or at least gross you out over the next 90 seconds.
9. Product Z is made in a very clean environment by funny people you can relate to.  You want to hang out with them as you consume Product Z.
10. The people on this evening news program are hysterical locals.  They are your friends who live down the street.

All this travel, I realized a couple weeks ago, has been to places obscure in nature, at least in relation to my own world view. Japan, England, St. Kitts, Seattle – these places really have nothing to do with my episteme.

So in a fit of desperation for self discovery, I booked a trip to Budapest, Hungary. I will spend five days in my grandparents’ homeland, looking for some missing pieces, opening my senses to whatever I can relate. I’ll follow that up with a few days in Paris, because, well, I’ve never been there either, and I’m frankly tired of hearing people talk about it and need to see it for myself.

I’ll travel alone, I’ll write, I’ll drink coffee, I’ll probably pick up a couple bad habits and eat some things that I’ll regret, but I blame it on my father for giving me that plastic cycle a bit too early.

“You come by here every day and never say hi to me. I always say hi to you first,” she said right as I was halfway inside. Three customers streamed out, thanking me for holding the door.
“You never give me a chance. You say hi first.”
“You were almost inside. You weren’t going to say hi.”
“What if I was going to say goodbye on my way out?”
“What if I wasn’t still here? Saying hello would have guaranteed you saying something to me.”
“Wait,” I said, letting the door close. “Were you waiting for me?”
“Define waiting,” she said, looking past me at the barrista on the other side of the glass. I could hear the hiss of the milk steamer and was reminded of how badly I needed a coffee.
“Hold on. Let me grab a coffee real quick and then we’ll talk, really.”
She stared at me blankly.
“Okay?” I was getting frustrated.
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
When I stepped back outside, she was gone. I can’t say I was surprised.

As I was walking with a friend tonight under the Williamsburg Bridge, we passed a large, black building.  The entire thing was black, including its windows.  Peter Luger — the steak house — apparently owned the entire building.  I guessed that it was filled with a giant meat locker for the famous steak house.

“You’ve been watching too much anime,” he quipped.

Then it struck me.

The entire building houses one giant cow form which they cut small slices.  The upper floors were filled with grain.  In other words, it is a giant, terrible veal box.

Yummy.

Starting Slow.

Track ID#72JL (Running) | Brooklyn, NY, USA

Running is annoying and painful.  There is nothing about it that one should like.  It takes time, requires expensive shoes, isn’t good for the knees or back, and did I mention that it hurts?

It is for these reasons that I have decided to start running.  I have never understood runners, why they would take the time and deal with the pain.  In school I learned to hate running because I was told to do it before baseball and tennis practice.  I was subjected to Presidential Fitness Programs that told me I could run faster.

Running became symbolic of everything I hated: compliance, buying in, and obediance.

And then I read Haruki Murakami’s Everything I Talk About When I Talk About Running.  He explains how he uses running as a side dish for his writing, how running until you can’t think is a cathartic escape from the complex world that is the writer’s mind and emotions.  Running, he said, wasn’t about the pain, but about not feeling the pain.  About being aware of it, but choosing to not give in to it.

It is the ultimate lonely act, the ultimate way to train one’s body who is boss, and, for some reason, I’m suddenly on board.

Hopefully for good.  Writing, like marathons (or is it marathons, like writing?) require endurance.  As I try to finish this post, I see the Publish button beckoning me to finish, to quit, to say “Okay, this was enough.”

I’m not about to get into why writers or runners choose to do what they do, why they look past the pain, why they accept it, why they don’t just go and get a real job (or an elliptical machine), but those questions are certainly interesting.

Okay.  Publish.  I’ll run a bit more next time.