Slumped at the Bar

...the genius bar, that is. Apple Store employees cannot bid you hello, or perhaps even tell you where the rest rooms are, without first stabbing your name and details into an iPad, that is interhyperlinked with, with, with — with who knows, Steve Jobs' cyrogenically-frozen zest for making money?

I need a small part for my phone. A basket or three of said small plastic parts are probably sitting on shelves behind the vertical metallic grey acres of faux-Titanium (the horizontal acres are always faux-pine, except if feet are routinely upon them — then they are faux-granite) wall — or 'façadage', no doubt. Slumping...

D'art

 

I recently fell asleep on the D train (actually, it was the day that Hurricane Sandy arrived — I returned to Manhattan on the last Q train before the deluge) and woke as the train arrived at Fort Hamilton Parkway station. My accidental snooze took me down into deep Brooklyn's West End, which has seen a string of station renovations, and there are some brilliant new works of art.  

I'll say more about what's to see later, but above is an example of some work on glass by local artist Portia Munson. Even with steel-grey storm clouds approaching, the above-ground station glowed with her vivid, symmetrical flower patterns.