Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

So the time I was hopping into a cab, went to grab the doorhandle and mistakenly chucked my iPhone out the window and it skidded down Park Avenue while I shrieked at the driver to hang on a sec... Nothing happened. By that I mean my iPhone remained stoic and unfazed by its wild aerial adventure. Maybe a tiny scratch, but otherwise pristine. So I was a little cocky when the iPhone flung itself out of my pocket on the Central Park Outer Loop and I jogged on it accidentally. Sad face shaped big crack right down the middle of my poor little iPhone. Maybe stress impact is cumulative. Or maybe I run a lot faster than previously suspected. I like to be delusional, so it's still a conundrum.

So it's a done deal. I am steadfast. I'm talking about jazz acts featuring a lead singer who sits motionless with her eyes closed for lengthy stretches of my night out. I don't care how tight the backing musicians lock it up or if her lovely voice conjures rainbows. It always plays out with me flatlining into a brainspace occupied previously by long car rides-- the ordeals where I'm wedged in the backseat with my little brother, a pile of wrinkled maps and three hardshell suitcases, my entire torso covered by a thin layer of saltine cracker crumbs, my soaring soul crushed beneath the pungent smell of old pleather and motor oil. It's not just the ennui of it all. The no rhythm, no peaks, no valleys. It's the part where she banters between songs in this tone of voice that makes me expect her next words to be "schwetty balls." If only. That would certainly be a highlight for me.