I am sitting in a restaurant tucked away on a quiet street in Tribeca, stabbing at overpriced Brussel sprouts with a neon green “smart fork” approximately four times the size of a regular fork. Bankers in cuff links have already gathered around the bar, their voices inching closer to maximum douche level with every Negroni, and I am trying to do my best impression of a normal human, pretending that using a comically oversize utensil to hoover vegetables into my mouth is a thing I totally do on the reg.
As I raise the fork to my mouth to deliver another Brussel sprout, it starts to violently vibrate, and I almost drop it on the table. The hostess eyes me suspiciously.
“That thing really needs to respect your journey,” my friend says from across the table as he happily cuts into his duck breast. He…
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James' World 2 
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