Spotify–the mega music library with a social twist–is pretty much, awesome.  I don’t know who wouldn’t enjoy unlimited access to every song ever made.  It’s user-friendly, free, and subscribers will never have to buy another song again.  But because of its Facebook association, it means that if you play Cypress Hill’s Hits From the Bong, everyone logged-in, including your mom, will know it.

Not all songs make us look stupid though.  I was recently Spotifying my favorite punk rock album, No Control by Bad Religion, when a dear high school friend saw it.  Immediately, he “liked” it on Facebook.  We hadn’t talked in years, and we were able to connect, once more, like we were surfing a crowd again to the band we’d seen 20 years ago.

But sometimes, sharing music doesn’t have the same bonding effect.

Last week, during one of my more sensitive moments, I got busted listening to the entire album, Speak Now, by Taylor Swift.  I could have, with similar effect, gone bowling in a dress.  But instead, Spotify did the emasculating for me, notifying the world that I possess pansy tendencies.

That said, some music is meant to be kept private.  I mean, if I listened to Miley Cryus’ Party in the USA, like, ten times, I wouldn’t want the rest of the world to know it.  Not that I’ve ever done that, I swear.  And if Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream plays on my Spotify, you can bet my account has been high-jacked by high school cheerleaders.

Music tells our personal stories.  Lyrics can blast our political views, assert moral code, even state that being a bad boy’s not so bad.  When I see a friend playing Billy Currington’s Pretty Good at Drinking Beer, I’m pretty sure I know what he’s thinking.  And Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get it On, well, that might be too much information.  Just because music speaks for us, doesn’t mean all of us need to hear it.

What makes music so wonderful, however, is that when listening to it, we can privately be who we want.  We can swoon to Sade serenity, dance alone to Empire of the Sun, shed tears to a Band of Horses ballad.  Not that I have ever been busted doing these things, but I suppose it’s better that no one else knows.

But then again, Spotify may be a modern lesson in self-expression.  We are who we are, and there’s no shame in telling everyone.

But if that’s not enough to comfort those shameful Colby Caillat Crooners, Spotify offers a solution.  It has a “privacy” option, which blocks our Facebook friends, so our music is only for our ears whether we are banging heads or emptying a box of tissues.  But since it’s not the default, every time users log in, they must deliberately choose to privatize their listening habits.  If missed, there’s no telling what the world will think of you.

My friend Kate works for the airlines which means she, and her peeps, basically fly for free.  It’s no biggie to her.  Just a perk to the job, like suntan to a lifeguard.  She recently gave me some airline tickets. To me and everyone else I know, it is a very big deal.

“You must have done something very nice for her?”  My friends ask, looking surprised and impressed, as if I’d saved her from drowning, or taught her kids how to speak French.

Not the case.

“We’re just friends,” I say with a shrug.  I’ve done nothing extraordinary to earn these gifts.

What I have done, however, is fly to Colorado to surprise a childhood friend on her wedding.  I watched fireworks light New York City on July 4th.  I also found surprise in San Francisco.  It may be just a perk to her job, but those gifts were priceless to me.  I owed her, big time.

She’s an outdoor athlete so I ordered her a gift certificate from Backcountry.com.  While emailing customer service on where to send it, I typed Kate’s name into the “To” field to verify her email address.  I copied it, paste in the message, and clicked send.  Giving gifts feels good, and I was tickled.  But since I forgot to delete her email as a recipient, I accidentally sent her a copy too.  Instantly, my surprise was ruined.

“ABORT THIS MISSION,” she replied immediately.  In fact, she was so adamant about refusing my gift that I nearly felt bad for offering.

I once dated a girl in college and after the first month, she bought me a nice watch.  If I had accepted it, I’d have been implying we were closer than we really were.  No one wants to receive gifts undeserved (holidays don’t count), nor do we want gifts that are bigger than the relationship warrants.  Big gift givers might be a little crazy anyway, so I kindly refused the watch.  Maybe this was how Kate felt about me.  She thought I was crazy.

But wait a minute.

Didn’t she give me a big gift first?  Didn’t I receive a gift that let me galavant the whole country and enjoy ethnic foods in different time zones?  Who’s the crazy, big gift giver now?  Oh, I’ll show her.  I waited a few weeks and sent my gift again with a note.  “Gotcha!  You can’t return now!  Haha!”

She threatened to return it.  I threatened to credit her Paypal account.  She said she’d credit me back.  I decided I was going to slip her cash.   Fortunately though, weeks passed, and the gift-war receded.  She never returned my gift.  I didn’t cough up any dough.

Some of the best advice I was given by an elder was when given a compliment, take it.   I was also told to never turn down a tip.  Instead, show gratitude.  That’s how we give back.

Today, I received an email from Backcountry.com confirming my “shipment” when I’d ordered nothing from them.  Why that sneaky little…  Oh, I was going to show her.  I’d return it, go to a local store, buy things fit only for a girl like lingerie and Taylor Swift Albums, then mail with no receipt and a note, “Take that!”

I know, I know.  That may be getting a little crazy.  I should first see if I like what’s in that shipment.

Claire had never been to Montana.  She didn’t even know where it was.  This girl I just met had been in New York City her whole life, and while she may have been geographically puzzled, she knew one thing.

“You’re not from around here,” she said.

We were drinking cocktails in SoHo at the Spring Lounge.  I was feeling especially dapper in a crisp shirt and polished shoes.  I even had an entourage of local friends.  But something set me apart from the others, and Claire knew it.  Maybe I was uncommonly polite.  Maybe I was too trustful from the start.  She couldn’t explain it, but she knew I was different, as if I just pulled straw from my mouth, lifted a cowboy hat, and spat on the floor.  No Mam, I ain’t from here.

“Not that that’s a bad thing,” she insisted, which was comforting, but still disconcerting.  Why did I not fit in?

I may not possess that New York edge, but I’ve been to the Big Apple enough times to master the subway and recognize a Long Island accent.  I’ve met clients on Avenue of the Americas, jogged miles in Brooklyn, ice skated in Bryant Park, had my fortune told at Coney Island.  For a country boy, I’d say I’ve grown comfortable in the big city.  But Claire, my new New York friend, was right.  I was a visitor.

I grew up riding lawnmowers and dirt bikes.  After college, I moved to a ski resort in The Big Sky State.   Growing up in the country made me afraid of the city.  It was where cars got stolen, girls got raped, and gangs killed skinny white boys for their sneakers.  OK, I’ll admit now that I was a little naive then.  But maybe Claire could sense my innocence even if I had outgrown my urban fears.  As diverse as New Yorkers are, they still have the ability to spot an outsider.  I shouldn’t have been surprised though.  New Yorkers stand out in mountain towns too.  

But the great thing about New York is that visitors and locals can behave alike.  There are enough activities, opportunities, and places to eat that first-time experiences await everyone, everyday.  Even my local friends, Jeff and Lauren Solomon, have no qualms about being tourists in their hometown.  They suggested we try the twilight sail around Ellis Island.  Once I saw that our vessel resembled a pirate ship, I was in.

It was then, aboard, that we all fell in love with New York like our first time.

Once we drifted away from Pier 17 onto the Hudson, the city no longer felt like a city.  It was quiet.  The sky looked bigger than Montana.  Planes glided overhead like flocks of birds.  Skyscrapers stood like mountains.  As we passed the Statue of Liberty, Lauren, who grew up on Long Island, touched her heart.  It had always moved her, she said, ever since she was a kid.  While no one on the boat came from the same place–from French speaking lovers to Asian toddlers–together, we all felt it too.  As the sun tiptoed from the sky, the horizon ignited like golden campfire, and the iconic lady waved her torch to us as she had done for our ancestors generations past.  My appreciation for American freedom never felt so natural as the wind sailed us past her feet.  At that moment, anyone could have fit in, in New York City.

It’s risky to fly standby, but I did it anyway.  I was heading to Eugene with a layover in San Francisco.  Worried I might get stuck in the Bay Area, I phoned my local friends in advance, which is a fairly awkward conversation.  “Would love to see you guys if I can’t get to where I really want to go.”  Luckily though, I have friends who don’t take it personally for being second choice.

Airports are not always the friendliest of places.  Add weather delays and cancellations, they are about as fun as a flip phone video game.  The clouds above SFO were thick like bread and touching the Golden Gate.  I was lucky to have arrived.  Once landed, I knew I wasn’t getting out.

The airport was so busy, no seats were available in the waiting area.  Passengers were mad at the airlines, mad at the weather, mad at the privileged ones who had seats.  I was so tired of standing I envied a man in a wheelchair like “what makes you so lucky.”

Then it occurred to me that spending a night in San Francisco would be a much happier place.

I’d only been there a few times, once during spring break, and another time when I was five.  It was all new to me this time: the ocean-side smells, the pastel buildings, the train ride on BART.  I met my friends in Oakland at Dopo, a boutique cafe with homemade pasta and house cured salami (where pronounced “SAW-luh-MAY”).  The greeter was one of those guys who acted like he’d been waiting to meet you his whole life.  Everything said welcome.

I hadn’t seen the lovely Jim and Kat Goodrich for 6 months.  We had lots to discuss—travel, families, health, fashion.  Dinner was nothing shy of perfect—tasty food and lively company.  Even the staff felt like friends.  After some cocktails, the night passed by as smoothly as cars on country roads.  This place felt like home.  Remarkable how good friends can do that.

So Eugene was no longer my destination.  I found everything I needed in this one, incidental evening with my delightful friends.  I was convinced that my purpose had been served.

But then we drove home.

Going to a toddler’s birthday party as a bachelor is like playing beer-pong sober.  You’re going to lose.  But when your parent-friends are cooking enough food to feed K thru 12, even a playboy will buddy up with screaming children and their unavailable moms.

It was a messy affair.  Kids dropped cake and stepped in it.  Adults spilled beer and dogs licked it.  Piñata shrapnel doused the yard.  A 5-piece drum set was in the living room, and every kid passing by thought he was Tommy Lee, minus the rhythm.  Minus the tattoos too, but this was still a rowdy crew.

Inside, crashing cymbals shook the walls.  Outside, on a trampoline, children tumbled over one another like a roller derby pileup.  Everywhere, adults were chowing on heaps of food.  All ages were smiling.

A friend, John, was the only other single guy there.  He was in the kitchen when I stepped in.  At first sight of me, he clutched on.

“What are you doing here?”

I waved a drumstick in his face.  He nodded.

“You?”  I asked.

“Same.”

Simultaneously, we both stopped chewing and exchanged a look like, us bachelors gotta stick together.  We were outnumbered.

Then Kene Sperry came over to us.  He was holding his 3 year old, Neko, who I’ve known her whole life.  She’s still shy and hides from strangers, sometimes me.  Perched over her dad’s shoulder, she glanced over.  That’s when the magic happened.

“Hi Victor,” she whispered.  It was the first time she’d ever greeted me unprompted by an adult.

Kids have little brains.  The limited space up there is meant for ice cream and playtime.  For this little one to remember me was a big deal.  I thought I’d reached achievement when the owner of our company of 7000 employees first called me by name.  It validated my existence as an employee.  Hearing this little kid remember me, in a way, validated my existence as a living person.

I wanted to stand on a chair and face the crowd.  “You hear that people,” I’d yell.  “A 3-year-old knows me!”  At this kid’s party and beyond, I was certain, I belonged.

I’ve hung on to a flip phone longer than most people. Every time I snap open its lid in front of new company, they are puzzled like I just pulled a banana from my pocket and held it to my ear.

“Nice flip phone,” they tease and roll their eyes. “Using a dial up connection at home too?”

Haha, very funny. “It is a Blackberry!” I protest, “Has emails and Pandora!”

“Suuure,” they reply. No one seems impressed.

Yet I still don’t get it. This phone does everything I need. Plays games, has Shazam, and a little tool I like to call The World Wide Web. Plus, it fits in my pocket as comfortably as a matchbook. What I’m learning though, is that flip phones are simply unfashionable. And the problem is, unlike leopard print tights, I don’t expect them to be making a comeback.

I have always considered myself “in fashion.” I match the belt with the shoes, own cuff links and a fancy watch. I even know when to pop my collar and when to don a fedora. But now, after repeated jokes, and a Hannibal Buress Stand-up, I am starting to question my mobile device of choice.

Perhaps I am too self conscious, but I was recently riding the subway in New York City with my trusty mobile device agape, my nose buried deep in a game of Solitaire, and I felt people eyeing me. Sure, my argyle socks matched the stitching in my blazer, but that wasn’t it. The guy beside me was on his phone playing Tony Hawks’s ProSaker 4, the gal with him was talking to Siri, and the dapper fellah in the middle was checking his heart rate. My phone can’t do that.

What it can do, is make a resounding clap when it shuts, like a single-hand applause for a job well done. Still not impressed? It has a cool sticker on it too. And as I’ve learned, it gives people something to talk (or laugh) about. If I were a salesman for this out-dated mobile device, my tagline would be, “Blackberry Flip, now that’s original!”

But I had further doubt when I recently visited my parents. My dad, who wears glasses bigger than Elvis Costello and may sport socks with his sandals, pointed at his new Samsung Galaxy with youthful excitement.

He typed our home address in Google maps. “Now look,” he said . Then he zoomed into the street until it showed a photo of our house.

“Isn’t that neat!?!?” He was thrilled like he just discovered a secret passageway in the house. “Can your phone do that?”

“No Dad, it can’t.”