Not having fun is a major part of life. It happens all the time!
And there ain’t nothin’ you can do about it. But I’ve found that the more planning one does in advance, the less likely it is for that inevitable Unfun Day to occur. Still… occur it will. And when it does, the best thing you can do is just roll with the punches. As the Borg said, “Resistance is futile.”
Anyhoo, SuperKid and I had an Unfun Day not long ago which I’m going to tell you about!
We’d finished our Saturday soccer game and had planned on going to my recording studio to clean out ten years of junked memories as I was finally being evicted. But… it was an unseasonably nice day for whatever damn month it was, so instead we hit the park.
A visit to a park can contain much action and excitement. One never knows what new kid or old kid or crazy kid may be there to start an impromptu water balloon fight or join in a frenzied game of our own brilliant creation, Hat Tag.
But on this day, there was nuthin’ doin. The energy just wasn’t there. My attempt to start a Hat Tag game fell as limply as the requisite hat did when it bounced off SK’s disinterested head.
Deflated, we hoofed it over to Urban Rustic for an iced red-eye with vanilla soymilk (only one measly buck for a refill… a deal seemingly unmatched in the rest of gentrified Brooklyn!) On the lazy bike ride towards the studio I remembered that I wanted to get some Mod Podge to seal up the custom chess set we’d made out of wine corks and toilet paper rolls. But I couldn’t remember the location of the nearest art store, and it would be months before my then stupid-phone would morph into a much smarter, sexier iPhone. Cruising down Union Ave. we spotted a yellow and pink-haired damsel who looked pretty damned arty to me. My designation was correct and she reminded me of Artist & Craftsman Supply over on Metropolitan Ave. The friendly, helpful staff had us hooked up in no time and the store is always a pleasure to visit, with cool holiday cards and games among every single art supply you could ever possibly need, whether you’re a pro or amateur.
It was on the bike ride back that I reached down to my hip and felt that wretched twinge of horror: my phone was gone! How would I receive important missives from my friends? How many sales would I miss? And perhaps most importantly, how many subtle or not so subtly sexy texts would be lost forever?!
Our already lacking day had taken a turn for the worse. We began painstakingly retracing our steps, in the way that only I can, with my unfortunate and bizarre obsession with minutiae and detail. Which side of the street did we come down? Where did we cross? We relentlessly circled back and forth… and back again. No luck.
For reasons that I will keep a mystery at this time, I happen to own a second cell phone with another number. I of course immediately launched a barrage of calls and texts at my main phone. No good. As John Lennon sang in his superb vignette of jealousy and betrayal from the Beatles For Sale album, there was “no reply.”
I paused for a moment to look up at the merciless sun. There was a clickety-clack as I glanced down to see the back casing of my second phone come loose from its shell, and fall to the floor which just happened to be one of those metal gratings above certain sections of the subway. An instant later the battery followed it down into the seemingly bottomless abyss, all right before my eyes in a flash of stunning and senseless activity.
I looked up at SDK and we cracked up into hysterical laughter.
Back at Le Casa de SupreDupre, I found another battery and immediately enabled the function that takes any incoming calls from my lost phone and forwards them to the phone I still had, much to the consternation of the army of baffled and ill-tempered Spaniards who now appeared to be calling my misplaced cell.
It would be almost a week later, having given up on it completely, that I received a call from a mysterious, slurry voice which informed me my phone was at a bodega only a block away. Ironically, it had moved closer to me since being lost, subject to the same harsh economic realities that led me south of the high class eateries and bars of Grand St. in the first place.
I could just barely see through its shattered screen that it now spoke (or at least texted) Spanish and would remain that way for the brief duration of life it had left. Happily, I was able to extract its almost 500 contacts before I began the inevitable migration to the thrilling world of the smartphone, bringing a satisfying conclusion to a classic Unfun Day.