Sweet headline bro, very Onion but true: “No lines for Apple iPhone 7 in London — Because people learned about the internet.”
Seems those savvy Londoners know how to make online appointments to pick up their new iPhones later that day. No need to stand in line with the American #manbuns for two days and fill dead air (when the iPhone 6 battery dies and there’s nothing to look at) with groundbreaking subjects like not settling for anything less than satisfaction in life and the Tinder STD of the week. I just had my 6S screen replaced because I cracked it again; waited a few hours even with an appointment. I’ll stick with old Trixie for the foreseeable future. Although I love perusing the Apple store in Grand Central Station I’d rather spend the money on something less newsworthy like hookers. Just kidding, still depending on the kindness of strangers with candy.
I’ve been looking at apartments in Soho even though I am kind of attached now to the West Village and it’s village-y feel of actually being a village, like literally. As I approach my 48th birthday I find myself reflecting on a life ambition of 30 years ago: to have a loft in Soho with nothing but old TV’s as furniture and 70’s album art not on the walls. Crazy 80’s gummy bracelet ideology I know, but still I have that Soho loft on my list of things to HAVE before I die in 2 years. Tick tock. But the mutherfucking tourists! Soho is infested with French people who don’t share the sidewalk, it’s infuriating. Being that it was #fashionweek the Amazonians have been in full look-at-me force actually carrying their own American Apparel bags down Broadway four across the sidewalk/catwalk. When I actually look up from the iPhone and the barrage of Scruffmail from 22 year-olds in their Daddy phases I feel as if my time has finally come to give up on the dream of the Soho loft. Wah-wah. I really need to be on an island in the Bahamas or the Keys by myself, growing my own fruit and vegetables and writing in long hand for full authentic effect. The older I get the less patience I have for anything. Yesterday I almost jacked a boy named Tyler’s Uber because I’d been waiting on Charles Street for all of THREE MINUTES. Time is slipping away. So sayeth the defeated. If I had balls enough to jump in front of a bus I’d have done it by now.
Fridays, for me, bring out the worst in my repertoire of observational irritations. Construction noise in the city perpetually under construction and lingering summer heat actually had me missing San Francisco for about a minute until I read an article in Curbed SF about the annoyingly-named Millennium Tower at the very undignified corner of Mission & Fremont Streets in the SOMA hood and how the building has sunk fifteen inches into the ground over eight years. Fifteen inches, OMG. There’s a class action lawsuit from condo commandos against the developer now. Over fifteen inches. Like, those California kooks don’t know not to buy real estate built on quicksand, for sure. I looked at an apartment in this building when it was new and although it was very glam I couldn’t get over the location. Yeah, I’m a location snob, what of it? That put the kaput on the San Francisco melancholy. Just goes to show, no matter where I move to I’m always there. It’s not my surroundings it’s my negative outlook that’s making me so discontent.
Anyway, whatever, life in the big city for an olde man on his own in the world. No need for editing, just gay old and outdated pop culture icons in a new millennium of new icons (one guaranteed to come along every fifteen minutes) and Instagram stars on the New York runways. The end, my friend, is near.