SWEAT CITY (RATING: R)

I've never been so hot in all my life, I swear.

Oh, the Port Authority Bus Terminal was air-conditioned, all right, after a fashion (the sort of Yankee air conditioning that doesn't require a coat). But there I was, standing in line at platform 404 for the bus to Jersey City, feeling big drops go plop, plop, plop from my ears onto my shoulders, like I was standing in the rain. Only it wasn't rain!

A little while before, about 10:05 p.m., I had said goodbye to Joe and stepped out of the cab on 42nd Street. Or was it 7th Avenue? Beats me! The ride through Times Square had rattled my concentration. If it doesn't rattle yours, you ain't breathin'! The colors, the noise, the crowds, even at a time of night when God-fearing people in places like Omaha have better things to do than prowl the downtown streets. . . New York is, ah, different. I wonder if New Yorkers have any idea just how different it really is?

Berlin, for example, is a much larger city geographically speaking, vast and spread out, without the feeling of living at the bottom of a canyon. You can walk the Kurfürstendamm at night and the streets will be just as crowded, the giant sidewalk cafes overflowing, but it's not the same. I don't remember seeing a single policeman in Berlin, and no one was sweating much that I can recall. (Attitude or latitude, who can say?)

On all four sides of the block occupied by the Port Authority bulding, however, the glistening faces of the homeless, the sexually addicted, and the merely stranded reflected the flashing neon. Where had they all come from and where did they hope to go? Perhaps they lived there: most seemed to be neither waiting for transportation nor hoping for salvation. On each corner and by the doors stood hatless scowling policemen, also sweating heavily in the heat and humidity, warily eyeing the throngs. Like prison guards in the exercise yard, they seemed in more peril than I was! After all, all I had to do was make my way inside and upstairs to New Jersey Transit bus #99S, which would take me back to our hosts' condo across the Hudson. It had been a very long and exciting day at Macworld Expo, and I was ready to collapse and dissolve in sleep. . .

Macworld!!

For years tales of the fabled Mac gathering had been ringing in my brain. Macworld! This time I was there, with my Applelinks press badge hanging from my neck and a sackfull o' loot. Mac loot, of course: free magazines, press kits (some with CD-ROMs), glossy handouts, and iBook posters!

Speaking of which, I invite any skeptical PC-biased analyst to witness the reaction of the crowd when the Apple slaves fill the poster bins: good God almighty! Think of the video images of Kosovar or Rwandan refugees fighting for loaves of bread and you'll have a sense of what I mean. Are we that starved for Mac nourishment or tangible proof of Apple's existence? Maybe, but I think it's because of pride and wanting to have something to show off: "Just look at that, will you? You shoulda been there to put your hands on it! They're gonna sell a shitload of these things!"

And I hope they do -- they certainly deserve to. The vision, energy, and dedication required to design and manufacture something like this in so short a time must be extraordinary. How long has Steve Jobs been back, after all? First the iMac, then this! That damn stock should be selling for $100 a share. No, of course I'm not qualified to judge the market, I'm just an enthusiast.

"Just" an enthusiast???

I'll believe Apple is just another computer company when I see video of trade show attendees trampling each other underfoot to grab a Compaq poster. Or a bleeping eMachine, for God's sake. "Just" an enthusiast, my ass. Gimme a break! There are millions of us. Apple is "just another computer company" like New York is "just another city." Uh-huh, yeah. And Macworld is "just another show." I don't think so!

"Think different," it turns out, is less a slogan than a description. Just ask the women! I fully expected Macworld to be something like a geeked-up auto parts store, the kind of place my lovely wife wouldn't be caught dead in, but maybe next time she'll show up -- a lot of other women certainly did. Booth babes you'd expect, like at a car show, but I saw plenty of female journalists, Apple employees, and attendees. Older women, too -- not as many as younger ones, but enough for me to notice. (Writing these words makes me remember the choice of giant "Think different" posters flanking the keynote stage: Jane Goodall and Dr. Spock. Think about it.)

On Thursday night, hurrying through the Port Authority building to find my bus, I was thinking about something quite different. Public transportation was -- and is -- somewhat of a mystery to me, probably because of a strong independent streak and because of going to junior high school in West Texas, where such things were considered "socialism" or worse. At any rate, I was a newbie. A New York City newbie, to boot!

(The last place I had been on a bus was in Germany a few years ago. My wife and I had just hopped aboard a local bus for downtown Trier, and being unfamiliar with the currency as well as the farebox next to the driver's seat, one of us accidentally dropped a coin into the wrong slot. Oh Lord. . . "DAS IST NICHT GUT!" bellowed the driver, while two dozen passengers glared their disapproval. I slumped into my seat and spent the remainder of the trip recalling the mortal sins of the German nation and formulating devastating comebacks in perfect Deutsch. They would've had to have been perfect, of course.)

I rushed up to the second floor on my way to platform 202 and the bus I hoped would take me back through the Lincoln Tunnel and past Hoboken to Palisades and Franklin. Halfway down the corridor I remembered our hostess' warning: "exact change!" Damn, and me without my $2.65. Oho! A newsstand and an opportunity! (All day at Macworld and nothing in my swag for the wife.) I grabbed a new VOGUE and handed it to the cashier: "Would you like this in a bag, sir?" he smirked. Arrghh! But I had scored my change, so to hell with the impudent bastard!

Puff-puff-sweat-puff down the hall I went. At last, the gate for Platform 202! EMPTY and deserted!! (Gulp) Oh no! What's this?? A grimy little sign on the window read: "Area Closed After 10 P.M." Jesus H. Christ!!! Puff-puff-sweat-sweat all the way back downstairs. Read the schedule again, Farr, and make it count this time: "After 10 p.m., Platform 404." Hallelujah!

(And the rest is history. . .)

I was exhausted and soaked, but I was safe. Back in Jersey City at our friends' condo, I walked out onto the upstairs deck with its glorious panoramic view of Manhattan across the Hudson. Every building in the city was lit to within an inch of its life, a terrible beauty, I thought. Didn't anyone ever turn out the lights? Of course not! Not any more than they turned down the noise: a constant background din of rumbling trains and honking drifted up from Hoboken, punctuated by occasional really BIG sounds like locomotive horns, screams, and crashes. Ah, the city!

But something was beginning to make sense: Macworld New York. . . if Apple could pull it off in New York City, could make itself seen and heard amidst the raging concentrated energy of this most unnatural place, anything was possible! Steve Jobs is nobody's fool, that's for sure. And then I remembered our encounter after the keynote address:

I'd been told that Jobs always disappeared backstage after speaking, but not this time. I didn't see it happen, but after the dramatic masterstroke of having a hundred Apple employees stand up at the end, holding shiny iBooks high over their heads, he must have jumped down into the crowd. He was there, anyway -- I could see his unmistakable face in the middle of a huge mob in front of the stage, so I pushed in closer. Just when I got near enough to hear him say, "Excuse me, I have to go find some people," he started walking right in my direction!

The crowd parted like the Red Sea. I kept walking, hoping for eye contact and a chance to say congratulations, but our man Steve was coming fast! I edged to the left to avoid collision. Eyes boring straight ahead, he strode past with a bow wave of body odor I instantly recognized as performer's sweat! Two steps past me, he high-fived Jon Rubinstein* with the loudest smack I've ever heard, the two of them grinning like fiends and happy as hell! (He'd better thank him, I thought.) What a charge to see these guys so hyped, so deservedly pumped! (Ya done good, men, ya done good.)

It's good to know Jobs and I have something in common. It's even better to know that he's in charge, and not the likes of me! (Or thee, for that matter) I just have one thing to say: Don't ever go back to Boston, Steve.

It's too damned nice!

John H. Farr also edits the Apple Computer News for Applelinks.com and invites your comments. Writers like feedback, you know. You can leave messages for me or each other at the Farr Site Forum . The Archives have links to all 82 columns. Ye gods. . . every week for a year and a half!

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*If I'm wrong, please forgive and set me straight!

Picture Credits: me, Apple Computer, and a helpful correspondent who took video clips of Steve Jobs on CNN. Psst: want to see a really hideous Web site? It's the official one for Jersey City!

STILL FOR SALE: a wonderful 1928 house on 2.57 acres. Inquire within. And a grand piano, a sailing kayak, an old John Deere 110, an oxy-acetylene welding outfit, picture frames, original art, bronze castings, clothes, furniture, tools, books, computers, and a whole lot more. . .

January 08, 2009