#iwny - Prologue

The storms had broken the hot and humid weather of the weekend, and it was a crisp and clear Monday morning. I had gotten up early to shower, check my email and other social media messages and then hit the road for Internet Week in New York City. Since I was only driving down to the station, I took the old black car. There are plenty of traffic lights between my house and the New Haven Railroad station, and as I approached each one, they turned red. The pessimistic old soothsayer that often joins my thoughts tried to warn me that this was not a good omen, and when I got to the train station, I couldn’t get on to the public Wifi. Yet the more optimistic internal soothsayer pointed out that it was just stop lights slowing me down, and I could still get cellular connectivity. I hadn’t hit any detours, roadblocks or dead-ends.

I skipped the coffee and donut at the train station. I didn’t sit in one of those seats I’ve scoped out that is always squished but has a power outlet. I figured I’d try to get a little more rest as the train propelled me into New York. It was an express which only makes four other stops. Half a sleep, I heard the train whistle as it approached stations and the various rattling sounds as it blew past them.

I love the train ride into New York. So often there are interesting stories to hear, like the young woman from a rich section of the gold coast talking about her struggles with her younger brother’s emotional problems. The story sounded like it could have come straight out of Gatsby. There were no fun stories to listen to, so when I had rested enough, I pulled out my copy of “Fear and Loathing in Los Vegas” that I had picked up at the local library the other day.

It had recently struck me that Hunter S. Thompson captured what blogging and citizen journalism is all about a generation before people started blogging, and I wanted to rediscover his writing and test my hypothesis. No, I did not take a hit of acid and travel with a Samoan attorney, but I carried a little bit of an outsider’s edgy skepticism. Something about marketing people talking about relevancy and authenticity sets off alarms for me. It sounds too much like people talking about things they don’t really do, like some of my nerdy high school friends from years ago that told good stories about their sexual adventures but were probably scared to death of actually talking to an attractive classmate, or the faux-Zen Masters loudly telling everyone what one hand clapping really sounds like.

So, I arrived at the Metropolitan Pavilion ready for the coming week, realizing that it was only stoplights that impeded my progress, and not roadblocks, detours, or dead-ends.