This week I got to visit some pretty fantastic recording studios in DUMBO Brooklyn and write about them for SonicScoop.

I also had an amusing alert go off on my phone. When I was twenty-five, I set a calendar reminder for February 23rd, 2012 – my thirtieth birthday. As I sat down to dinner, it beeped out at me and read: “Have Life Figured Out.”

A friend later asked, “Well?” All I can say is that if I have figured one thing out, it’s that I shouldn’t even try to answer that question.

When people tell you they’ve had a life-altering sandwich, you should believe them. You should also hurry up and try it yourself, because you never know how long it’s going to last.

This is New York. 90-year-old bakeries close down because they can’t meet the $5,500 monthly rent for a 450 sq foot storefront; Fantastic restaurants get busy, slide downhill and get closed by the Health Department; And incredibly friendly deli owners known for making some of the best sandwiches in the city get arrested for moonlighting as loan sharks.

So it’s with some urgency that I’d like to thank Zito’s of Brooklyn for giving me one of the top 12 sandwich eating experiences of my natural-born life. They’re a fairly recent addition to Park Slope, Brooklyn, they come free of baggage, and they make at least one unforgettable sandwich.

Zito’s Porchetta Sandwich isn’t on the their regular menu, and it isn’t available all the time. When it is, it takes the form of decadent, buttery slabs of grilled pork loin, wrapped in pork belly and then covered in a liberal dose of pepperonata and some of the best broccoli rabe I’ve had recently. It’s a fantastic sandwich, sloppy and well-balanced at the same time. You could make two meals out of it if you wanted to, although I eviscerated mine in mere minutes with a draft of Sixpoint Bengali Tiger IPA.

The porchetta has heat, but not too much, and the cooks at Zito’s use a cut of pork loin that’s somehow hearty and delicate at once. They only carry enough of it to make 50-100 sandwiches each week, but I had no problem getting a great one past 8 o’clock on a Saturday night. At $11, it costs a bit more than any sandwich I’d usually recommend. But it’s also worth every penny, and easily trumps every other sandwich on their menu.

Make it over to Zito’s storefront on 7th Avenue sometime. You’ll enjoy it. And if you miss it, well hey – remember that New Yorkers are also resilient. While I’d never suggest you wait on trying a potentially life-changing sandwich, it’s only fair to remember that of the previous 3 examples of heart-rending sandwichmaggedon the ultimate outcomes weren’t so bad:

Vesuvio Bakery’s new owners have kept the old storefront, and make fairly decent food; Atlas Cafe only closed temporarily and still has good days as well as bad; and luckily for Williamsburg residents, the people at Graham Ave Meats and Deli are still making unfathomably-good “Godfather” and “Italiano Cubano” sandwiches following owner Mike Virtuoso’s 2011 guilty plea on one count of extortion.

Old habits die hard, I guess. Let’s hope Virtuoso sticks to the sandwiches. They’re affordable, fantastic and (assuming you don’t bring up the recent legal troubles) are always served with a smile.

But let’s also hope that you try one of Zito’s porchetta sandwiches the next time you’re in Park Slope. If you can get one, the taste is a sure thing — and it comes with a clean conscience.

This week I have a new article out about the making of The Magnetic Fields’ new album, Love at the Bottom of the Sea. If you’re a fan of the band, there’s a documentary out called Strange Powers, and it’s now streaming on Netflix. (Trailer below.)

Last week, I got to talk to Chairlift (who have a new record out) and Gillian Rivers, who has written, arranged and performed string parts for TV on the Radio, MGMT, !!!, and Yeah Yeah Yeahs (on their one album that’s actually good.) Both are worth a read.

Earlier this week, an attorney friend invited me to the New York Tech Meetup at NYU’s Skirball center. It’s the largest of the New York Meetups, and it borders on being the largest Meetup in the nation.

(Apparently San Franciscans like technology and meetups even more than New Yorkers. They are after all, the seat of the Federation of Planets in Star Trek. But more on that in a minute.)

There, I met some very friendly people who spoke a very different language from me at times. They have their own vernacular, and to my ears one of the most cold and alien-sounding words I kept encountering was “content.” You’ll hear it floating around a lot wherever tech meets art and media.

“Content” is essentially a catch-all term for the things human beings care about most: Books, music, information, films, stories, recipes, TV shows, human interaction, that kind of thing. You know, the stuff that the majority of people are hoping to find whenever they type a word into Google. That’s “content.”

I understand that language evolves, and if this word is going to be a dominant one, then I’d like suggest we start referring to the products the technology sector creates as “Containers”. Because, with a few exceptions, that seems to be what all the fuss is about: Digital containers. New delivery mechanisms for the same old stuff. Byte-sized barrels for art, information, and design.

There are two basic business models for this huge new “container” business. These containers can either be frictionless and essentially free to the user (like YouTube and Facebook) or the containers can be fairly expensive themselves (like an iPad.)

There are some products that borrow strategies from both of those models (like the Amazon Fire) and there’s even a big, healthy market for containers within the containers (called Apps.)

But the “content” itself ? All that stuff that people are using all these containers to contain? Not so much.

People who sell containers like for the contents to be free. In the ink-and-paper era, many publishers would have loved to pay authors $0. In fact, in the beginning, a lot of them did just that.

We’ve seen this very same dynamic every time a new medium has been introduced: At first, the container-makers are resistant to paying the people who make the “contents” even though the contents are usually the biggest selling-point. They also offer compelling arguments as to how they’re working in the interest of human progress by reducing friction between ideas and between people.

There’s some validity to arguments like these, and some artists will usually agree wholeheartedly at first. That is, until the economic realities set in. Then, they get together and lobby for change, spurring the creation of powerful new legal reform.

This has happened each and every time we’ve introduced a new medium: It’s happened with books, with film, with radio and with recorded music. Along with the medium there has been a period of non-payment to artists, followed by a period of fair payment thanks to new regulations and new enforcement.

(I’ve heard arguments from the tech sector as to why this kind of change shouldn’t come from group advocacy and legal reform, but I’ve yet to hear of an example of when it hasn’t.

I have however, heard plenty of suggestions that artists, writers, musicians and journalists should effectively become marketers and merchandisers instead. To me, that’s not the same thing.)

The tech sector has it pretty easy right now, so if they’re holding on hard to a narrow perspective that’s worked for them, that’s understandable.

The truth is that today the technologists are at the point where the book and film and music industries were at their peak: the bloated stage. Everyone has a product, and everyone’s investing. A derivative idea, a few lines of code and a few good connections are all you need to attract a lowly sum of $1.5 million for investment.

In a world like that, it doesn’t matter too much if you product doesn’t make money. What matters is that you’ve given your investors a shot at the roulette wheel, that you’ve given them a feeling of glamour and of inclusion. Just as it was with the old media ventures, most new technology products won’t be financial successes, but a few big wins help float an entire sub-industry of vaporware.

I’m not arguing that these kinds of dynamics shouldn’t occur. For better and worse, they do. I’m only suggesting that we’re over-investing in one side of the equation (the containers) and that it has to (and will) snap back.

The biggest advancement the tech sector has made in the past decade has been to bring their innovations to a startling level of efficiency in which they’ve essentially created Star Trek’s replicator, but for digital content.

To be honest, I’d love for all art and media to be free. But until we live in a Star Trek–style futurtopia where all food, housing and medical care is free thanks to general all-purpose replicators, not all art and media can be free.

For one, it’s  unsustainable for only our artists and reporters and thinkers to be the ones giving freely. And for two? As we get ever-closer to our threshold for an over-abundance of free and lousy media, art that we appreciate enough to invest in becomes even more valuable.

There’s 3rd factor at play as well. When we lost the old publishers, we lost something else along with them. We lost many of our best curators and our editors, our patrons and our refiners of taste and of talent.

I’m sure that in a Star Trek economy, we would find a place for them too. Someone must have cared about usefully regulating those machines. We’re seeing that start to happen again now. Just like it’s happened many times before.

Trust Me, I’m A Scientist has always been open to outside contributors. But in the last 3 days, I’ve gotten more queries from prospective writers than I have in the past 6 months. That’s because in this month’s issue, I did something we all forget to do sometimes. I asked.

It sounds obvious — And that’s precisely why people don’t do it often enough.

I sometimes get approached by new writers who have a great story idea, but are unsure of whether they can pull it off. That’s usually because their story requires an interview with a well-known artist, inventor, thinker or businessperson.

I’ve done a good handful of these kinds of interviews over the past few years, and my instincts about it have become pretty simple. All I can really say is: “Well, have you asked?”

Sure, some people are harder to reach than others. But when you have a good excuse (like writing for a magazine with a decent circulation) some very busy people are often more receptive than you might imagine.

I’d offer similar advice to musicians planning to record a new album: Is there a producer or engineer whose work you really admire? Reach out. They’re not going to magically end up working on your music otherwise.

If you can find a direct connection to your subject through a mutual acquaintance, that’s always best. (Start asking around now.) But if you don’t have one, finding personal contact info or a management company to reach out through is rarely as tough as you might think. (Just ask Google.) High school student Shirley Blaney asked back in 1953. She got one of the last-ever interviews with JD Salinger.

Asking isn’t just good for your professional life. I can’t imagine a decent relationship where two people walk around nervous about asking honest questions of each other (although it seems that’s how things turn out too much of the time.)

I say we should practice this thing right now. Here, I’ll go first:

“Dear reader, would you like to write for Trust Me, I’m A Scientist? Do you need help recording or mixing an album or an audiobook? How about designing or building a studio? Just ask.”

Today we launched the new February issue of Trust Me, I’m A Scientist, the music magazine for music-makers.

I’m especially excited about this one because it’s our first issue with new associate editor Blake Madden.

(Blake is a musician who writes plays in the fantastic Seattle synthrock outfit Hotels. He’s also the author of a novel and a writer of articles including the TMimaS profile of Joy Division producer Martin Hannett.)

In the February issue we:

• Offer up some of our favorite books on music,

• Profile director/composer John Carpenter,

• Tell the story of the indie rock label Frenchkiss Records,

• Do a roundup of the Auratone, Avantone and Behritone studio monitors,

• Review the Adam A5x studio monitor,

• Explore SOPA and PIPA,

• Tour South Brooklyn’s Systems Two Recording Studio.

We’re also looking for new contributing writers, so if you make music and have a stories to tell, reach out!

Went to a show at Carnegie Hall last night. The main hall, Stern Auditorium. Maria had 4 students on stage. It’s a phenomenal space, and insanely well-funded.

I’m not usually big on pomp and opulence, but I have to admit that there’s something seductive about that room. It made me want to tell the world: “Music is church. Get some.”

But I don’t think you need all trappings to remember that. You just need something different than usual. A knock on the head. If you spent all your days in Carnegie hall you would probably only find that by visiting a dirt-floor tent in Mississippi or Sudan.

Whatever you’re doing, it’s good to mix it up, and to remember that music is church.

“Pretentious” is one of those words you don’t hear a lot once you reach adulthood. It’s always popular with the young folks, but by certain age people seem to stop using it very much.

Maybe some day we’ll find the hidden Holden Caulfield gene, and scientists will explain that there are dedicated neural circuits called phoneyites which turn on at a certain stage in development, only to deactivate once maturity is finally reached.

On the one hand, it’s a real shame because “pretentious” is a fantastically declarative-sounding insult, and unlike other teen favorites such “poseur”, it still packs a punch when adults hear it directed at them.

On the other hand, it’s not unfortunate at all. That’s because today (just like back then), people misuse the word “pretentious” all the damn time. And misusing the word “pretentious” is probably one of the most pretentious things a person can do.

How To Get It Wrong

Most often, I hear people use the word “pretentious” as a catch-all like “jerk” or today’s apex of American insults, “d—–bag.” (Which I think has caught on for sounding both abominably crass and incredibly silly at the same time.)

However, in reality, “pretentious” does not simply mean “jerk, but like, when it’s a smart person.” Even if that is how it seems to get used most of the time.

Merriam Webster has a pretty good handle on the original definition: “ Making usually unjustified or excessive claims (as of value or standing).” Another online dictionary pegs it as: “Claiming or demanding a position of distinction or merit, especially when unjustified.” That works too.

Some lesser (dare I say pretentious) dictionaries have been adding an extra definition recently, to the effect of “ostentatious” or “showy.” With this tack, the dictionary writers are just being pushovers, essentially saying: “Okay, fine. If you people are going to keep on using it that way, we’ll put it in there. At the very bottom, alright?”

(This is extra-sad because “ostentatious” and “showy” don’t make for great insults at all. If you had ever had the opportunity to yell at Freddy Mercury from a passing car and said: “Hey! You look really ostentatious in that full body leotard with the chest cut out,” he probably would have taken it as a compliment. And deservedly so.)

To all that, I say “phooey.” (Phoo·ey fü-ee Actually a word. Look it up.)

Often enough, things that smart people call “pretentious” are actually “arrogant” or “annoying”, while the things that really dumb people refer to as “pretentious” are merely “smart” or “interesting.” (It’s important to remember that to idiots of excessively high self-opinion, they’re all pretty much the same thing.)

But we already have enough general, all-purpose insults, and we don’t need to turn pretentious into yet another one, especially when it already has such a great specific meaning. If you ever get lost, just know that the key to using “pretentious” right is remembering the whole pretending part. Luckily, it’s right there in the word to guide you.

Using It Correctly

So, what is pretentious?

Just about any story Ernest Hemingway has ever told about himself? Pretentious. (Seriously, the guy straight-up lied about major points in his life, like the extent of his war service, and then milked those fibs for credit.)

However, using Ernest Hemingway as a valid example in a conversation about pretension? That’s not pretentious, as he is one of the best-known authors in the history of the universe, and because no one expects to get a gold star for having heard of him.

What about having a definitive-sounding opinion about Ernest Hemingway if you haven’t actually read one of his books? Yes, that would definitely be pretentious.

I often hear people refer to hip, expensive or conspicuous new fashions as “pretentious.” I guess that’s okay if we accept the new definition that some dictionaries are pushing, but in my book, that still doesn’t cut it.

A scrawny 22-year old with a mustache that he can’t quite pull off doesn’t have a “pretentious mustache.” That same 22-year old could easily be pretentious, but it would have to be for his words, actions and expectations, not the success or failure of his flavor-saver. There are so many other words for people with questionable taste that I wonder why we insist on sullying up a perfectly good word with all sorts of extra connotations.

With the classic definition, the only way a fashion could be called pretentious is if it’s meant to say something specific about the wearer that is in fact untrue.  So: non-corrective eyeglasses. Those are pretentious. Yes, I think we can all agree they’re one of the most pretentious things on earth.

But, if you’ve got ’em, I say go ahead and wear ’em. It’s doubtful any adult will ever call you out on it. There are too many rules and frankly, it’s just so hard to get it right.

As a culture, we put a lot of emphasis on the successes of precocious young talents. This is especially true in the arts.

I’ve known many ambitious, talented young people who have tracked their development against the Glenn Goulds, the Mozarts, the Truman Capotes and the Kurt Cobains. This is rarely a good idea.

We’ve built a near-mythology around our youngest and most visibly gifted. And like many mythologies, our cult of the young genius tells us more about our hopes and dreams and misperceptions than it does about the way our world actually works.

Of course, young prodigies do exist, and people in their twenties sometimes do become wildly successful. But the reason we’re aware of them isn’t their ubiquitousness. We’re inundated with their stories specifically because of how rare they are.

What’s most frustrating is that this scarcity isn’t due to a lack of raw material. In reality, most talent is interrupted on its way to genius. The famed biologist Stephen Jay Gould had something when he said:

“I am somehow less interested in the weight and convolutions of Einstein’s brain than in the near certainty that people of equal talent have lived and died in cotton fields and sweatshops.”

Fortunately, you’re free and it’s never too late to do something memorable.

Leonard Cohen released his first album at 33. Sheryl Crow’s first came at 31. Neither Roald Dahl nor J.R.R Tolkien had written anything you’re familiar with until they were past 40.

And if a little schadenfreude helps: Although Beethoven wrote his first piano sonanta when he was 25, I can testify that it’s not particularly good. If he had stopped composing after that, you never would have heard of him. (Although in fairness, it’s probably is better than the sonata you haven’t written yet. So: Chop Chop!)

But none of that really matters either. Stop comparing yourself. Just stay focused. Do what you need to do to. A bit of it every day. No excuses.