Lost phone

Somewhere on the 6th floor of the NYC Googleplex, in the marker tray of a whiteboard, sits a silent Blackberry Pearl plugged into a wall.

I read somewhere that for some Europeans the loss of a phone is considered to be the loss of one’s network, of one’s social circle, an occasion for great angst and loathing.

Me? Happy as can be. Off I go to AT&T tomorrow to get me one of the big boy sized blackberries. The old one, which lost the latch to its battery cover, was ratty with scotch tape and is now dead to me.

Until then, I am a landline kind of guy.

Next haircut …

May 1999, I spent two weeks in Paris, renting a flat on Ile St. Louis behind Notre Dame. Whenever I needed a new book I went to Shakespeare & Company on the Left Bank and bought something from George Whitman, the man in the video above. He was a hoot, a literary legend who let starving writers live in the bookstore in exchange for cooking and sweeping out. Apparently you did not want to get on George’s bad side. Fortunately I managed to stay on his good side, but not good enough to get a demo of his haircut technique.

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