Just saw an somewhat puzzling scene. Walking about 20 feet ahead of was a black woman with her young son. He was maybe 6 or 7 years old. The kid picks up a metal pipe from the sidewalk and starts playing with it. The mother does not know this because she is walking several steps ahead of him. The kid takes the metal pipe and throws it to the ground, causing a bit of a racket. The mother turns around and starts yelling “You are joking! You are joking!” She is showing real anger. She repeats those words over and over. As she continues to scream at him a white police officer appears. He had calmly stepped out of an NYPD van that was parked a few feet behind the spot where the kid had tossed the pipe. The kid sees the police officer and raises his hands in the air, as if he is under arrest. He starts yelling “I’m sorry, I didn’t know!” I honestly thought the police offier was about to confront the little kid, and the mother seemed to think so too.

As ominous as the scene might have looked it quickly became clear that the police officer did not even seem to notice the kid at first. He was unaware or oblivious to the pipe throwing incident. After a few seconds I think he noticed that the kid’s arms were raised and that he seemed to fear the police officer. Then he asked questions, like “What’s the matter?” and  said “Don’t worry, man, it’s OK.” The officer held his hand up in a high five gesture. After a few moments of hesitation, during which the kid’s mother yelled at him to respond to the nice policeman offering him a friendly gesture, the kid and the cop exchanged a high five. “There you go” the police officer said. It was a strange spot for the kid to be in. In front of him was his mother, screaming at him  over something he did that did not seem to me like that big a deal. And as she is screaming at him the cops appear, as if to back her up and arrest him. So he throws up his hands in surrender.

…

I am at the millennial pub again. Not such a fan of this place any more but whatever. Decided against going back to Manhattan.

Thinking today about the many reasons I had had enough of that therapist. One reason stands out, though: She had nothing to say about the Internet. She never used it, and she had no idea how influential it has been in the lives of so many people. When i described my fear of public shaming she had no idea what I was talking about. She also frequently commented on how busy she was. That’s kind of annoying to hear, since I am not allowed to ask her what is keeping her so busy. Or rather she is not allowed to answer such a question.

…

Since this is kind of a rough draft for posting to the payphone site, I might as well get more thoughts out.

I’m glad I did not voice my concerns beforehand, about how I was afraid Mo might be a comic of the ridicule genre. Had I said something they would have thought me a pretentious prima donna. They might actually have tried to find someone else.

We really could have used more time. Just another half hour. I was just getting into a groove, really, as the 10:00 hour neared. But we had to be out when the library opened to the public. The library was very accommodating, though.

Both the sound/lighting dudes said I was great. One of them said I was “non-stop”, referring to my verbal effluviousness when talking about payphones. And I loved how Mo’s eyes lit up when I made a prticular comment about what it feels like to be inside a wood phone booth. My first signal that Mo was not a comedian of the ridicule genre came early, when he commented on things I had written something like 20 years ago. I forgot until he reminded me that another inspiration behind the original Payphone Project was an NPR piee I heard in high school, in which a reporter dialed random phone numbers in war-toen countries and places of great domestic turmoil, just to hear what real people in those places had to say about the circumstances. That was an amazingly influential piece. It inspired me to find a phone at the University of Tampa and dial random telephone numbers in Brussels, belgiu, the sity where my sister was born. I had a memorably long conversation with someone whose name escapes me now. I had his name and number on a chalk board in my bedroom for years. But I never called him again. I remember starting the call by saying “I am calling from the United States.”

After the main filming finished the producer and I sat outside for about an hour. We were not becoming BFF. We were just waiting for the lighting and sound dudes to break down their equipment so they could get one last shot of me walking past a payphone on 42nd Street. We made good conversation while we waited, though. He really is a pretty interesting guy. I commented that we were sitting mere feet away from the spot where Calvin Klein held a bag filled with $100,000 cash in February, 1978. This was on the day his daughter Marci was kidnapped (or “kidnaped” as they seem to have spelled it back then).

There is a rather spectacular photo from the Daily News showing Mr. Klein in a phone booth on 42nd Street at 5th Avenue. He is holding a bag in his hand which was said to have contained $100,000 in twenties. He is waiting for a call from the kidnappers with further instructions. The bag actually looks kind of small to be holding 5,000 twenty dollar bills but maybe it’s just newsprint resolution not showing enough detail.

The incident had some follow up controversy regarding the way the Daily News clandestinely got the photos of the handoff and of Klein’s emotional reunion with his daughter. The tabloid had learned of the incident by monitoring FBI frequencies. Can you even do that any more? Police frequencies sure, but FBI? Evidently the FBI broadcast enough information for the Daily News to know exactly where to camp out to capture photos of the incident. The Daily News defended its actions by noting that they stayed far away from the scene and did nothing to influence it, only to document it.

Some have suggested that Klein staged the incident to pump up sales of his clothing products. Sales did, in fact, surge quite spectacularly after the incident. But what already successful designer do something like this, and would use their child as a pawn in such a scheme, as if a surge in sales would be guaranteed?

I told this story to the CBS producer, who seemed shocked he had never heard of it. It was front page news in the New York Times for 3 days in February, 1978.

Funny thing is that I was getting ready to tell him this story but I could not remember the name the fashion designer at the center of it all. Pierre Cardin? Whoops, he’s not fashion. Vidal Sasson? I’m not even sure what that dude made. I went across the street to get a cup of coffee and on the way I just happened to see Calvin Klein’s name on the window of a clothing store. That’s who it was, I said to myself. So I felt prepared to share the story with the producer, who Googled away the moment I started talking about it.

It didn’t bother me today but I can get annoyed by the company of people who Google every fucking thing I say. I remember one night at a bar someone used the word “Haikus” in reference to Li Po’s output of Haiku. I commented “the plural of Haiku is Haiku.” The four other people in the conversation all took to their fucking smartphones, Googling away “plural of haiku”. The tension receded. That palpable anticipation on the part of those search-engine-wielding geniuses eager to prove me wrong quickly disippated. Heads nodded in chagrinned resignation as they all mumbled “the plural of haiku is haiku.” I half expected them to ask me how the hell I knew that without Googling it first. “How do you just know stuff without Googling it?” Similar incidents happened throughout that conversation. I would say something vaguely questionable and the furious Googling began, like I was being followed by witchhunt fact checkers.

OK, I’m going to play a video game and then go home. Drinking early but it’s cool since I was up at six fucking thirty.