The car century was a mistake. It’s time to move on.
I’ve just begun to do so. I have committed to carving out an hour each week with no meetings, no phone calls, no email, no Twitter, no Facebook, no mobile alerts and no podcasts. Sometimes, I plan to spend the hour sitting down, as Shultz did, and other times taking a stroll. I keep a pen and paper with me and have set my phone to ring only if my wife calls. (My boss can’t start a war, so I’m willing to ignore him for an hour.)
The fact it felt hard to commit to a full hour was a sign of my need to do so. Like many people, I’m overly connected. I have confused the availability of new information with the importance of it. If you spend all your time collecting new information, you won’t leave enough time to make sense of it.
his friend Harvey Breit, the editor of The New York Times Book Review. “Simpler to leave stuff for when I am dead.
allows users to unsend emails. But it is not really unsending them; it’s just holding them for about seven seconds after you hit send, because that is the window where you inevitably discover you made a typo, or forgot something you wanted to say, or realize maybe the response you were about to give didn’t need to be given at all.
How many bad tweets, if we were given seven seconds to rethink them, would never see the light of day? How many fewer typos would we make? How much less identity-driven keening would be added to every tempest in a teapot, a new one of which crops up about every 10 minutes on the TL? Probably a lot.
“Sir, those muffins will be toasted. You can bank on it.”
With his suspenders, slightly rumpled button-down shirt, moustache and mop of curly strawberry blond hair, Gold was an easy-to-spot silhouette around town, peering through the order window of his favorite food trucks and sending chefs into near-panic when he would show up at restaurants unannounced.
Affectionately known as J. Gold, he explored L.A.’s endless culinary offerings in his beat-up green Dodge Ram 1500, racking up 20,000 miles a year as he traversed the sprawling city in search of his next great meal. It was typically found in places “jammed into a strip mall, sharing a parking lot with a doughnut parlor, a kebab house and a check-cashing emporium,” as he described Culver City’s Mayura.
“I loved that when I went out with him — and I think this was true for a lot of people — he picked me up in his ridiculously oversized and always on-the-ropes truck and he dropped me off, even if it meant he was driving across the entirety of Los Angeles four times in a night,” Meehan said. “The pre- and post-meal conversation in the truck was part of the Jonathan Gold experience, and it was not optional.”