1. Ok, this is hilarious.
2. A little perspective on $700 Billion (HT: Marginal Revolution).
3. Obama vs. McCain: the fan edit.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
The River Is Wider Than A Mile
Bad news has a way of finding you, or maybe you have a way of finding it. If you're not careful, it can crawl under your skin, and slowly devour you from inside. There's always enough bad news to go around, or so it seems, and it's sometimes easier to latch onto and recognize and welcome into your home than good news; it's a familiar face that you've somehow grown attached to. Good news, now, that's a different thing. Good news walks with just a little too much spring it its step, and smiles just a little too wide, so that you always suspect that it's up to something, or maybe after something that you don't have enough of anyways. And besides, where has it been all this time? Bad news may make you miserable, but at least it doesn't make you nervous.
Fortunately, despite the bad news and sometimes because of it, there's music. Music won't make the bad news go away and it isn't supposed to, it's just one of those coping mechanisms for the human condition that helps remind you that there's actually some bold, defiant beauty in a world that keeps trying to convince you of how ugly it is. Don't let it fool you.
The funny thing is that while I'm writing this, I'm not thinking about Brahms' concertos, or gospel choirs singing some Moses Hogan arrangement about my home being over Jordan, though those are wonderful things indeed. No, I'm a low-brow plebeian from the Great American Middle West, and right now I'm just talking about popular music.
The 8th installment of Bob Dylan's "Bootleg Series" is being released in less than a week, and you can listen to the whole thing online here. It's incredibly good. I can't wait to have it in my car's CD player. No, I don't have an especially impressive sound system or anything in my 10-year-old Accord, I just do my best music listening in there. The Bootleg Series Volume 8 (entitled Tell Tale Signs) is a collection of various studio outtakes and live recordings spanning from 1989 to 2006, a period in which Dylan has made six albums that are among his best work, including two with producer extraordinaire Daniel Lanois. I'm incredibly grateful to Columbia for continuing to release these collections; the stuff Bob Dylan throws away is better than what most people ever make. They do serve as something of an indictment of Dylan (or his people) though, because several of the tracks he's nearly left in obscurity over the years are among his best recorded work. Christmas is only five days away!
Also on the fast-approaching horizon are new albums from the british klavierpop trio Keane, Las Vegas' own The Killers, and country rocker Lucinda Williams. I've been a fan of Keane since their debut record in 2004, and they have yet to make a record that isn't both great and quite different than what came before it. Of course, this is only their third record. The same goes for The Killers, who are probably one of the most ambitious acts out there right now. If their third album (fourth, if you count last year's B-sides collection) fails, it won't be because they weren't trying hard enough. The lead-off single for the new record can be heard on the band's official site. Williams probably lacks the appeal of both of those bands, but at her best is very good indeed.
I also understand that Mates of State and Calexico both have released records this year that I have yet to hear. I'm going to have to start selling crack if I want to buy all of this stuff.
Happy fall, and happy landings!
Fortunately, despite the bad news and sometimes because of it, there's music. Music won't make the bad news go away and it isn't supposed to, it's just one of those coping mechanisms for the human condition that helps remind you that there's actually some bold, defiant beauty in a world that keeps trying to convince you of how ugly it is. Don't let it fool you.
The funny thing is that while I'm writing this, I'm not thinking about Brahms' concertos, or gospel choirs singing some Moses Hogan arrangement about my home being over Jordan, though those are wonderful things indeed. No, I'm a low-brow plebeian from the Great American Middle West, and right now I'm just talking about popular music.
The 8th installment of Bob Dylan's "Bootleg Series" is being released in less than a week, and you can listen to the whole thing online here. It's incredibly good. I can't wait to have it in my car's CD player. No, I don't have an especially impressive sound system or anything in my 10-year-old Accord, I just do my best music listening in there. The Bootleg Series Volume 8 (entitled Tell Tale Signs) is a collection of various studio outtakes and live recordings spanning from 1989 to 2006, a period in which Dylan has made six albums that are among his best work, including two with producer extraordinaire Daniel Lanois. I'm incredibly grateful to Columbia for continuing to release these collections; the stuff Bob Dylan throws away is better than what most people ever make. They do serve as something of an indictment of Dylan (or his people) though, because several of the tracks he's nearly left in obscurity over the years are among his best recorded work. Christmas is only five days away!
Also on the fast-approaching horizon are new albums from the british klavierpop trio Keane, Las Vegas' own The Killers, and country rocker Lucinda Williams. I've been a fan of Keane since their debut record in 2004, and they have yet to make a record that isn't both great and quite different than what came before it. Of course, this is only their third record. The same goes for The Killers, who are probably one of the most ambitious acts out there right now. If their third album (fourth, if you count last year's B-sides collection) fails, it won't be because they weren't trying hard enough. The lead-off single for the new record can be heard on the band's official site. Williams probably lacks the appeal of both of those bands, but at her best is very good indeed.
I also understand that Mates of State and Calexico both have released records this year that I have yet to hear. I'm going to have to start selling crack if I want to buy all of this stuff.
Happy fall, and happy landings!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Keep In The Vote (A Continuing Series)
Is that cartoon anthropomorphic patriotic gas pump shooting itself in the head with its own nozzle, or is it just hanging it back up? I don't know.
You see, Josh K. is voting (presumably for the first time, having just registered) for Barack Obama because gas prices are high. Either that, or because his wages are low. It could be either one, really. Josh, dude, I'm going to say this right now, because I care:
That is a really stupid reason to vote for a presidential candidate, because they aren't going to do anything to help your current situation.
They can't. Only you can, Josh. You see, gas prices aren't high because of who's president; they're high because of two things we call supply and demand. These two things are pretty complicated, Josh, but they end up having little to do with who the President of the United States is or is not. Supply and demand are also (and this is crazy) responsible for the fact that you only make about $7.00 an hour. Maybe I'll explain that in a later post.
Me, I'm going to vote for Cynthia McKinney, because the most important issue to me this election is that we colonize Mars by 2012. Wait a second... I just realized that McKinney isn't going to do anything about that, if she gets elected. Why would I vote for a candidate who's not going to do anything about the issues I care about? I wouldn't. You would, Josh K. That's more of a Josh K. thing to do.
The point, Josh, is this: Don't vote. In fact, I just heard that there's this, like, sick new skate park opening down on Madison on November 4. You should check it out, brah.
**Update**
Yesterday morning I heard the radio commercial version of the above ad banner, complete with Josh K's actual voice (and several others) telling me of his stupid reason for voting. It was incredible. Not one sound bite of some idiot saying "I'm voting because..." contained anything less than a complete fool believing (and repeating) a bald-faced lie. Most of them seemed to be implying that if McCain is elected, health care will suddenly become unavailable, World War III will break out, and all of our jobs will be put on a boat and sent to, like, far'ners. You know, brown-skinned folks who don't talk no aenglish. I have no sympathy or respect for either party when its members routinely attempt to appeal to their audience's xenophobia. My radio nearly suffered a most horrible and unwarranted bludgeoning. I hate politics so much.
I'm now considering a door-to-door grassroots campaign to tell people not to vote. Keep in the vote!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Stand Back, Everyone! I'm Going To Write About Politics!
...But only because my last few posts have reassured me that almost nobody's reading this thing, and also because I don't want to think about the financial sector buyouts right now. I will warn you now that this post will be rather jumbled, Sam, because (to steal from Kurt Vonnegut) there is nothing intelligent to say about politics. Not this year, anyhow. I'm just going to brain dump here, so feel free to redirect your browser over to Youtube to watch a home video of a Jack Russel Terrier doing backflips anytime you want out. I don't mind a bit. Now, the first thing I should say is that I don't like politics one bit. No sir. You yourself probably don't like car accidents one bit, but if you see one you'll probably crane your neck to see if there's any blood on the pavement (or whatever it is you're looking for), and you're a very kind and wonderful person. Human nature's a heluva thing that way. As I said, I don't like politics, but in some hideously morbid way, it (they?) fascinate(s) me. I guess it's because I like people. On a personal level, if I meet someone, I'll probably like them, or at least find them interesting. On a large scale, as the writhing, unwashed hordes, people are morbidly fascinating.
A casual observer might think that because we have them relatively often, people are rather fond of wars. I don't like to think that's the case. I rather suspect that alcoholics don't especially like having distilled beverages be the focal point of their existence. In any case, ostensibly because we don't particularly like wars, we invented democracy to decide who gets to form the government instead war, which is the default system. In fact, we had to have a war just to get the whole democratic republic thing going on the right foot. This system isn't perfect and has arguably led to a not insignificant number of wars on its own, but it's still probably better than just having wars all the time.
And so, instead of bashing one another over the heads with clubs to see what kind of government we'll have, every few years we put a two groups of middle-aged lawyers on television who will verbally claw at one another like teenage girls for about a year, and then on the first Tuesday of November we decide which of them we hate the least, and they get to be our Fearless Leaders. Let's go to numbered points to talk about Election 2008 in more specific detail:
1. Barack Obama, Son of Promise, Child of Hope, is probably going to be our next president. This election will probably continue to be nasty and catty up until the very end, with both platforms and their constituents accusing the other of being the real cause of Apartheid and the Holocaust, but I'll be very surprised indeed if he doesn't come out of this on top. At this point (and I know the polls are pretty close) he'd pretty much have to be caught on tape eating a baby. The very nature of the debate has been framed as "Obama (Who Is The Promised Messiah) or Not Obama," and that doesn't bode well for Not Obama.
2. I myself will not be voting for him. You don't and shouldn't care who I'm voting for, but I'm just saying. If you're not wondering why I'll be voting against the man (yes, I will be voting), then feel free to hit up that Youtube video of the acrobatic pooch. I'm sure it's out there. If you are wondering why, I'll tell you:
a) He is The Messiah. His entire campaign has been based on a personality cult. Paradoxically, I don't think anyone has any idea (or cares) who the hell he actually is. For myself, I'll stick with my policy of being skeptical of messiahs who are trying to become one of the most powerful people on earth.
b) My vote against him will merely serve to counter one vote cast by an ill-informed voter who, like most humans, is far too easily swayed by the ability to look good and speak well on the teevee.
c) I intensely dislike the level of muckraking that goes on during an election, but Barry O. Hasn't actually explained away a single objection that people have raised agaist his person, like that whole snafu with his pastor of many years being a raving lunatic. He has, like a good politician, sidestepped and dodged and changed the subject, which brings me to:
d) He is just an ordinary politician. Yes, he happens to be African-American. I don't care. He is neither post-racial nor post-partisan. He is a middle-aged, Ivy League-eduacated lawyer turned U.S. Senator running for President. This should sound familiar. He does not represent "change" in any meaningful way. This may be alright, since I rather doubt that people actually want any meaningful kind of change. People usually don't.
3. I like Sara Palin. I don't especially care at this point what she stands for (she isn't going to win). She scores points with me on two main fronts: first, she's pretty damned good-looking for a mid-forties mother of five, and second she has the uncanny power to drive liberals through the roof. The sheer level of hatred emiting from the left towards Palin has been incredible to behold. It has defied all semblance of reason. I derive a sick pleasure from seeing people with whom I idealogically disagree screaming like teething babies until they're blue in the face. I enjoy that.
4. I've never much cared for John McCain, mostly because he's been a U.S. Congressman or Senator for longer than I've been alive, and "lawmaker" is not a profession which inspires my admiration. He's a career politician, and that probably means he sold his soul to someone along the way. It turns out that his voting record over that period of time has been pretty consistently ok on the one or two issues I primarily care about, but it doesn't matter much: he won't win. From what I can tell, Republicans have been pretty unfair to him over the years, as he's held to most of the party's supposed principles better than the party itself has. Then again there was that whole McCain-Fiengold thing, which is dumb. Whatever. Like I said, he's a career politician, and that probably means he sold his soul to someone along the way. He's got my vote, but that represents a lack of options more than it does a choice. I'm not in love with the guy by any means.
5. I don't like either political party, or the fact that they are my only two realistic choices. Every issue has been bundled to so many other issues thatI think some people actually believe that they have to take their party's stance on everything. A vote for lower taxes or (maybe) more restrictions on abortion is also a vote for war with Iran and oil drilling in Alaska. You want nationalized health insurance and less free trade? Hope you like killing babies, too! This is fun! You're probably aware of my own set of issues (at least the political ones I favor), so I won't go into them at this time.
6. I have said this before, but for the love of God and Country, if you are not already registered to vote and didn't just turn eighteen, don't vote. Just don't. You didn't care enough about national politics to get involved before the College Democrats approached you on the 'quad and told you about just how, like, critical this election is for our country, or you saw a popular singer do a commercial on MTV, and you don't deserve the franchise. Watch this election from your living room in horror, then watch all of the winners renege on all of their promises, and in two years take what you've learned and think about becoming politically active.
7. Great googaly moogaly, I just want this election to be over. This is worse than Hockey's interminable playoffs. It's on every channel. I went to a freaking rock concert, and (I kid you not) the drummer had Obama's pretentious-arsed logo painted on his bass drum. That, and the fact that he wasn't very good, nearly killed rock music for me. I mean, how incredibly lame do you have to be as a musician to actively campaign for a political candidate? That's right: Springsteen lame. Pearl Jam lame. That's incredible.
We either need to shorten the Election season, or else have the race for national office be decided by a Beach Volleyball tournament. It would be a heck of a lot more entertaining, and I don't think we'd end up with a lower caliber of leader, honestly.
A casual observer might think that because we have them relatively often, people are rather fond of wars. I don't like to think that's the case. I rather suspect that alcoholics don't especially like having distilled beverages be the focal point of their existence. In any case, ostensibly because we don't particularly like wars, we invented democracy to decide who gets to form the government instead war, which is the default system. In fact, we had to have a war just to get the whole democratic republic thing going on the right foot. This system isn't perfect and has arguably led to a not insignificant number of wars on its own, but it's still probably better than just having wars all the time.
And so, instead of bashing one another over the heads with clubs to see what kind of government we'll have, every few years we put a two groups of middle-aged lawyers on television who will verbally claw at one another like teenage girls for about a year, and then on the first Tuesday of November we decide which of them we hate the least, and they get to be our Fearless Leaders. Let's go to numbered points to talk about Election 2008 in more specific detail:
1. Barack Obama, Son of Promise, Child of Hope, is probably going to be our next president. This election will probably continue to be nasty and catty up until the very end, with both platforms and their constituents accusing the other of being the real cause of Apartheid and the Holocaust, but I'll be very surprised indeed if he doesn't come out of this on top. At this point (and I know the polls are pretty close) he'd pretty much have to be caught on tape eating a baby. The very nature of the debate has been framed as "Obama (Who Is The Promised Messiah) or Not Obama," and that doesn't bode well for Not Obama.
2. I myself will not be voting for him. You don't and shouldn't care who I'm voting for, but I'm just saying. If you're not wondering why I'll be voting against the man (yes, I will be voting), then feel free to hit up that Youtube video of the acrobatic pooch. I'm sure it's out there. If you are wondering why, I'll tell you:
a) He is The Messiah. His entire campaign has been based on a personality cult. Paradoxically, I don't think anyone has any idea (or cares) who the hell he actually is. For myself, I'll stick with my policy of being skeptical of messiahs who are trying to become one of the most powerful people on earth.
b) My vote against him will merely serve to counter one vote cast by an ill-informed voter who, like most humans, is far too easily swayed by the ability to look good and speak well on the teevee.
c) I intensely dislike the level of muckraking that goes on during an election, but Barry O. Hasn't actually explained away a single objection that people have raised agaist his person, like that whole snafu with his pastor of many years being a raving lunatic. He has, like a good politician, sidestepped and dodged and changed the subject, which brings me to:
d) He is just an ordinary politician. Yes, he happens to be African-American. I don't care. He is neither post-racial nor post-partisan. He is a middle-aged, Ivy League-eduacated lawyer turned U.S. Senator running for President. This should sound familiar. He does not represent "change" in any meaningful way. This may be alright, since I rather doubt that people actually want any meaningful kind of change. People usually don't.
3. I like Sara Palin. I don't especially care at this point what she stands for (she isn't going to win). She scores points with me on two main fronts: first, she's pretty damned good-looking for a mid-forties mother of five, and second she has the uncanny power to drive liberals through the roof. The sheer level of hatred emiting from the left towards Palin has been incredible to behold. It has defied all semblance of reason. I derive a sick pleasure from seeing people with whom I idealogically disagree screaming like teething babies until they're blue in the face. I enjoy that.
4. I've never much cared for John McCain, mostly because he's been a U.S. Congressman or Senator for longer than I've been alive, and "lawmaker" is not a profession which inspires my admiration. He's a career politician, and that probably means he sold his soul to someone along the way. It turns out that his voting record over that period of time has been pretty consistently ok on the one or two issues I primarily care about, but it doesn't matter much: he won't win. From what I can tell, Republicans have been pretty unfair to him over the years, as he's held to most of the party's supposed principles better than the party itself has. Then again there was that whole McCain-Fiengold thing, which is dumb. Whatever. Like I said, he's a career politician, and that probably means he sold his soul to someone along the way. He's got my vote, but that represents a lack of options more than it does a choice. I'm not in love with the guy by any means.
5. I don't like either political party, or the fact that they are my only two realistic choices. Every issue has been bundled to so many other issues thatI think some people actually believe that they have to take their party's stance on everything. A vote for lower taxes or (maybe) more restrictions on abortion is also a vote for war with Iran and oil drilling in Alaska. You want nationalized health insurance and less free trade? Hope you like killing babies, too! This is fun! You're probably aware of my own set of issues (at least the political ones I favor), so I won't go into them at this time.
6. I have said this before, but for the love of God and Country, if you are not already registered to vote and didn't just turn eighteen, don't vote. Just don't. You didn't care enough about national politics to get involved before the College Democrats approached you on the 'quad and told you about just how, like, critical this election is for our country, or you saw a popular singer do a commercial on MTV, and you don't deserve the franchise. Watch this election from your living room in horror, then watch all of the winners renege on all of their promises, and in two years take what you've learned and think about becoming politically active.
7. Great googaly moogaly, I just want this election to be over. This is worse than Hockey's interminable playoffs. It's on every channel. I went to a freaking rock concert, and (I kid you not) the drummer had Obama's pretentious-arsed logo painted on his bass drum. That, and the fact that he wasn't very good, nearly killed rock music for me. I mean, how incredibly lame do you have to be as a musician to actively campaign for a political candidate? That's right: Springsteen lame. Pearl Jam lame. That's incredible.
We either need to shorten the Election season, or else have the race for national office be decided by a Beach Volleyball tournament. It would be a heck of a lot more entertaining, and I don't think we'd end up with a lower caliber of leader, honestly.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Untitled
A few years ago my brother Neil and I met a grizzled, toothless man on a side street in Dingle, in County Kerry. His long beard and hair were extremely unkempt, and he was visibly inebriated. I couldn't guess his age, but it seemed to me that he had grown old prematurely. Naturally, I expected him to ask us for money, but he didn't. Instead, as he looked up at me though bloodshot, watery eyes which conveyed perhaps the deepest sadness I've ever seen written across human features, he offered me the following advice:
"Son," he said, "don't drink."
That brief meeting has stuck with me since then, sometimes returning to my conscious thoughts at odd moments, as it did this this morning as I drove in to work, listening to the radio. I couldn't tell you exactly why it did, but please don't think I'm trivializing that man's sufferings or his sage advice when I offer you the following, as someone who knows:
Son, don't listen to the news.
"Son," he said, "don't drink."
That brief meeting has stuck with me since then, sometimes returning to my conscious thoughts at odd moments, as it did this this morning as I drove in to work, listening to the radio. I couldn't tell you exactly why it did, but please don't think I'm trivializing that man's sufferings or his sage advice when I offer you the following, as someone who knows:
Son, don't listen to the news.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Another Update: I Should've Known Better
Ok, sorry about the Neil Diamond bit. All of that was really to say that after a few months' hiatus (I had good reasons, I swear) I'm back to blogging at the ol' Republic. So, I guess I'm just letting you know that if you're still out there, I'm out here too. Anything in particular you want me to write about? Drop me a line or leave a comment. I'll probably oblige, goodness knows I have nothing else to say.
An Update: He Should've Known Better.
Darn it all, Neil. Years in the music business, years making enduring and beloved hits, and then you stumble like an amateur into Columbus, Ohio. What did you think was going to happen? Honestly, Neil, I could've warned you. I've been there. I've walked its desolate streets, and choked on its unsavory atmosphere. Once I even thought of returning there, but fate stayed me, and steered my path towards more wholesome environs. If only you'd called me. You never do return my calls, Neil. Not even last Christmas, when I sent you that marble bust of yourself that I painstakingly sculpted myself, after learning how to sculpt just so that I could make it. Didn't you like it, Neil? It wasn't perfect, Lord knows I know that, but it was as good as I could make it. I never could capture your eyes though, Neil, not in marble. Such deep, knowing eyes. Neil's eyes. Neil Diamond's eyes.
Call me, Neil.
Call me, Neil.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
And Just Like That, The World Ended
I probably shouldn't be blogging right now. I admit that my main (and originally only) reason for being at my computer right now is to buy child-sized bow ties for the ring bearers (three) in my upcoming wedding. The thing is, I got distracted. This might have something to do with the fact that I'm moving, and figured that it's better to just finish off that bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, rather than have to pack it and move it to my apartment. I know, I'm a freaking genius. Anyhoo, I flipped a few channels on telly to discover that Spike TV is currently airing the special edition (you know, the only one George Lucas will admit is extant) of Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, also known over at the People's Republic of D.Cous. (which is the fictional country/blog your browser is currently displaying, for reasons unknown) as one of the finest films ever made. You're probably aware of my opinion of the special editions: The remastered sound and picture, not to mention the widescreen format, are an incredible improvement over previous VHS versions of the films available. The added digital effects? They have always been worse than the now 30-year-old special effects that used actual physical models, and now they also look worse than contemporary digital effects, which still look worse than the 30-year-old techniques utilized for the original films. Also added were a few moments of footage originally cut from the film, right before the rebels attack the Death Star, where Luke reconnects with his old pal, Biggs (you know, Biggs). It's actually pretty sad, since they're both so excited to be rebel pilots just like they've always dreamed of, and the final words spoken by Biggs before they board their respective X-Wings is "They'll never stop us!"
And then, ten minutes later, Biggs, while shouting the word "Wait!" gets killed by Darth Vader. So sad.
As I said, I got a little distracted. It was in this state of distraction (relax-I also found my initial query) that one of the blogs I sometimes read directed me to this video.
Holy freaking crap, am I right? I have to admit that this actually makes me feel sort of important, since I now know exactly when and how the world will end. I feel sort of like Chuck Heston in Planet of the Apes, realizing too late that mankind's inventiveness proved to be its undoing.
On September 26, 2008, it's gonna feel pretty *@#$%&*#* real to you too! Anyone not wearing two million sunblock is gonna have a really bad day, get it?
As an aside (as if I had a main thrust from which to deviate here), another possible sign of the coming apocalypse is the fact that my spell checker in Firefox did not flag the word "blogging" as any kind of mistake. Apparently, the popular abbreviation for "Nerdy World Wide Web of Information Superhighways Diary/Captain's Log" is now a verb in the English language.
I now believe that I have referenced so much popular science fiction in a single blog post that I have probably broken the Inter-webs. I apologize.
And then, ten minutes later, Biggs, while shouting the word "Wait!" gets killed by Darth Vader. So sad.
As I said, I got a little distracted. It was in this state of distraction (relax-I also found my initial query) that one of the blogs I sometimes read directed me to this video.
Holy freaking crap, am I right? I have to admit that this actually makes me feel sort of important, since I now know exactly when and how the world will end. I feel sort of like Chuck Heston in Planet of the Apes, realizing too late that mankind's inventiveness proved to be its undoing.
On September 26, 2008, it's gonna feel pretty *@#$%&*#* real to you too! Anyone not wearing two million sunblock is gonna have a really bad day, get it?
As an aside (as if I had a main thrust from which to deviate here), another possible sign of the coming apocalypse is the fact that my spell checker in Firefox did not flag the word "blogging" as any kind of mistake. Apparently, the popular abbreviation for "Nerdy World Wide Web of Information Superhighways Diary/Captain's Log" is now a verb in the English language.
I now believe that I have referenced so much popular science fiction in a single blog post that I have probably broken the Inter-webs. I apologize.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
For The Interested...
Lindsey created some attractive (at least on her) Ever Whatcha Need t-shirts, available from Cafe Press! I wore mine for the first time on Saturday, befuddling my friends to no end. Know someone who needs more befuddlement in their life? Ever Whatcha Need t-shirts are the perfect gift! Why wait?
I should point out that I receive no money for the sale of these things, and don't really expect you to buy them, since they're kind of an obscure inside joke.
I should point out that I receive no money for the sale of these things, and don't really expect you to buy them, since they're kind of an obscure inside joke.
When I Rule The World
The thirteenth item, and any subsequent items brought to the express checkout lane, will not be sold to you. It doesn't matter what that item is, or how important it is to you, relative to the first twelve items scanned. The machine will not accept it. The grocer (who, when I rule the world, shall be a robot) will politely inform you that he or she is very sorry, but this is the "12 items or fewer" isle, and they cannot sell you any more than that. You'll have to go get in line in one of those other isles.
Despite its apparent charm, and its being programmed to speak with a British accent (current grocery store scanning robots, with their obnoxious Star Trek computer voice, will be no more), the robot will not change its mind based on the fact that you are a charming elderly woman, who in no way will remind it of its robot grandmother (who I guess might be very much like the Star Trek computer-voiced checkout machines of today).
You will then be sent on your way, perhaps with a pamphlet explaining the importance of the grocery store maintaining its credibility with regards to the express checkout isle, and that had the robot sold you the 13th through 25th items as you had wanted it to, this would have been horribly unfair to the people in line behind you, who were adhering to the store's policies regarding the express checkout lane.
Won't that be nice?
Despite its apparent charm, and its being programmed to speak with a British accent (current grocery store scanning robots, with their obnoxious Star Trek computer voice, will be no more), the robot will not change its mind based on the fact that you are a charming elderly woman, who in no way will remind it of its robot grandmother (who I guess might be very much like the Star Trek computer-voiced checkout machines of today).
You will then be sent on your way, perhaps with a pamphlet explaining the importance of the grocery store maintaining its credibility with regards to the express checkout isle, and that had the robot sold you the 13th through 25th items as you had wanted it to, this would have been horribly unfair to the people in line behind you, who were adhering to the store's policies regarding the express checkout lane.
Won't that be nice?
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Oh Yes. For The Record...
Remember how Waffle House sells only one kind of waffle, with no fruit and no whipped cream? Remember how their "hot maple syrup" is two travel packs of syrup in a cup of hot water? Remember that Waffle House's website was advertising for a bicycle race called the "Tour de Georgia"? Yeah? Well. With just a little negotiation (and no additional charge) with a very nice waitress named Britney at the International House of Pancakes, I got this:
No, your eyes are not deceived. Those are blueberry pancakes with strawberry topping, and whipped cream. They tasted like the triumph of freedom over tyranny, like everything that is right and good in this crazy world of ours, like manna from Heaven.
Bless you, IHOP. BLIHOP (don't ask). We probably paid a little more at the IHOP, but it wasn't really a significant difference, and unlike Waffle House, they took credit cards. Also of note is the fact that IHOP's website advertises something called the Tour de French Toast. Take that, Tour de Georgia!
No, your eyes are not deceived. Those are blueberry pancakes with strawberry topping, and whipped cream. They tasted like the triumph of freedom over tyranny, like everything that is right and good in this crazy world of ours, like manna from Heaven.
Bless you, IHOP. BLIHOP (don't ask). We probably paid a little more at the IHOP, but it wasn't really a significant difference, and unlike Waffle House, they took credit cards. Also of note is the fact that IHOP's website advertises something called the Tour de French Toast. Take that, Tour de Georgia!
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
A Fine How Do You Do
Sheesh. What kind of person promises to give his reader an insightful travelogue of a quintessential American city, and then instead takes an overlong hiatus from blogging? What's that? That was me? Oh. Never mind.
Given that my trip to New Orleans (No Wall-ins!) is no longer fresh in my memory, and given that I'd like to use this space to muse upon other things (oh just you wait), I'll be cruelly brief in my assessment of the place, for which I can only apologize. All that I can really say about the place is that if you like to go places, you should try New Orleans. It's like a whiskey-breathed ballerina; it's both beautiful and a little dirty at the same time, and I've never been to anyplace quite like it. It felt to me like a distilled version of the United States, packing a wallop and leaving a bitter aftertaste, but when all is said and done you'd like another shot, please. Bad simile? Probably. The place gave me a weird kind of feeling everywhere I went, some strange juxtaposition of conquistadors and carpet baggers, fur trappers, slick salesmen and jazz musicians, riverboat gamblers playing Thomas Jefferson and Lafayette for fools while Clifton Chenier sits back and chuckles to himself, and Tennessee Williams calls everybody names. I'm probably getting it all wrong, if it's possible to do so in a place like that. Part of me likes to think that anything you can say about New Orleans would be true as soon as you said it, but not before. I ate breaded shrimp on a submarine sandwich down there, and it was just about the best sandwich I've ever eaten. Whatever I leave out of my willy-nilly description of the place, that sandwich seems like an important enough detail to leave in.
Visiting my family was wonderful, and it's really what made a three day trip worthwhile. Lindsey and I stood as godparents for my brother's son, Pascal, which was a wonderful experience and a great honor. I got to spend some time talking and hanging out with my two brothers and my sister-in-law, which even with the miracles of modern communication is too rare an occurrence. My nephews are both delightful. The youngest (Pascal) amused himself for the most part by sleeping and eating, but he was decent enough to give me a good looking-over before giving his honest assessment of me (he cried). The oldest (Gui) was eager to include Linds, Reen, and me in whatever he was doing, which for the most part consisted of keeping the streets of New Orleans safe from poisonous caterpillars. He's a keeper.
That's just about all I have time to write, though I wish I'd gotten to it while it was still fresh in my mind. I'll leave you with some pictures:
A house with no visible front door. Picturesque, no?
Magazine Street, from the porch of the old bus barn, which is now a Whole Foods Market.
Another caterpillar prepares to meet its fate. He would knock them off of trees and houses with a stick (they're poisonous to touch), and then step on them.
I'm not sure which of us took this picture, but I like it. It's that shot in National Geographic with the caption: "Each year, ten thousand people play pool in New Orleans, which has helped the tourism industry, but there's a darker side to the story as well." It will probably then talk about someone who owns a billiards bar that nobody comes to anymore. 
Neil takes aim in pool. I think he won the game.
More pool.
Katie's first Irish Car Bomb. Lindsey is very excited.
Liam, in his signature pose.
Neil, in his.
Liam et fils, regardant un grenuille. French = artistic title.
Then we spotted Hilary Clinton. Ooooh! Topical. Current. Win.
Gui, in what he called his "castle tree" (for reasons which should be fairly obvious).
The Champagne of Beers. I'd forgotten how much champagne tastes just like dirty water.
Park and house exterior, daytime.
Neil and Reens spotting their first alligator, in a totally not-posed-for picture.
Gui and Maureen
A sidewalk, or something like one. Note the absence of pavement.
Pascal's patented uneasy look. He loved Lindsey.
Reen is either standing on a step, or is as tall as Neil and I. You decide.
Maureen, Gui, Lindsey, and Neil. I thought this was a nice group shot.
My brother Neil, enjoying a cup of coffee.
Guillame hamming it up (as usual). Very cute.
That's his prized caterpillar killing stick, perilously close to my face.
He had that mischievous glint in his eye pretty much the whole time.
This is the doorway of Neil's "shotgun" apartment. The composition of this shot looked way better to me in my mind's eye.
Just a house that I thought looked neat.
Pascal. Cute, ain't he?
Given that my trip to New Orleans (No Wall-ins!) is no longer fresh in my memory, and given that I'd like to use this space to muse upon other things (oh just you wait), I'll be cruelly brief in my assessment of the place, for which I can only apologize. All that I can really say about the place is that if you like to go places, you should try New Orleans. It's like a whiskey-breathed ballerina; it's both beautiful and a little dirty at the same time, and I've never been to anyplace quite like it. It felt to me like a distilled version of the United States, packing a wallop and leaving a bitter aftertaste, but when all is said and done you'd like another shot, please. Bad simile? Probably. The place gave me a weird kind of feeling everywhere I went, some strange juxtaposition of conquistadors and carpet baggers, fur trappers, slick salesmen and jazz musicians, riverboat gamblers playing Thomas Jefferson and Lafayette for fools while Clifton Chenier sits back and chuckles to himself, and Tennessee Williams calls everybody names. I'm probably getting it all wrong, if it's possible to do so in a place like that. Part of me likes to think that anything you can say about New Orleans would be true as soon as you said it, but not before. I ate breaded shrimp on a submarine sandwich down there, and it was just about the best sandwich I've ever eaten. Whatever I leave out of my willy-nilly description of the place, that sandwich seems like an important enough detail to leave in.
Visiting my family was wonderful, and it's really what made a three day trip worthwhile. Lindsey and I stood as godparents for my brother's son, Pascal, which was a wonderful experience and a great honor. I got to spend some time talking and hanging out with my two brothers and my sister-in-law, which even with the miracles of modern communication is too rare an occurrence. My nephews are both delightful. The youngest (Pascal) amused himself for the most part by sleeping and eating, but he was decent enough to give me a good looking-over before giving his honest assessment of me (he cried). The oldest (Gui) was eager to include Linds, Reen, and me in whatever he was doing, which for the most part consisted of keeping the streets of New Orleans safe from poisonous caterpillars. He's a keeper.
That's just about all I have time to write, though I wish I'd gotten to it while it was still fresh in my mind. I'll leave you with some pictures:
A house with no visible front door. Picturesque, no?
Magazine Street, from the porch of the old bus barn, which is now a Whole Foods Market.
Another caterpillar prepares to meet its fate. He would knock them off of trees and houses with a stick (they're poisonous to touch), and then step on them.
I'm not sure which of us took this picture, but I like it. It's that shot in National Geographic with the caption: "Each year, ten thousand people play pool in New Orleans, which has helped the tourism industry, but there's a darker side to the story as well." It will probably then talk about someone who owns a billiards bar that nobody comes to anymore. 
Neil takes aim in pool. I think he won the game.
More pool.
Katie's first Irish Car Bomb. Lindsey is very excited.
Liam, in his signature pose.
Neil, in his.
Liam et fils, regardant un grenuille. French = artistic title.
Then we spotted Hilary Clinton. Ooooh! Topical. Current. Win.
Gui, in what he called his "castle tree" (for reasons which should be fairly obvious).
The Champagne of Beers. I'd forgotten how much champagne tastes just like dirty water.
Park and house exterior, daytime.
Neil and Reens spotting their first alligator, in a totally not-posed-for picture.
Gui and Maureen
A sidewalk, or something like one. Note the absence of pavement.
Pascal's patented uneasy look. He loved Lindsey.
Reen is either standing on a step, or is as tall as Neil and I. You decide.
Maureen, Gui, Lindsey, and Neil. I thought this was a nice group shot.
My brother Neil, enjoying a cup of coffee.
Guillame hamming it up (as usual). Very cute.
That's his prized caterpillar killing stick, perilously close to my face.
He had that mischievous glint in his eye pretty much the whole time.
This is the doorway of Neil's "shotgun" apartment. The composition of this shot looked way better to me in my mind's eye.
Just a house that I thought looked neat.
Pascal. Cute, ain't he?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
In Which Our Hero Goes On A Road Trip
Hello friends! Over this past weekend I took a long-awaited road trip from southeast Michigan to New Orleans, Louisiana, with my sister and my fiancée (for the record, they are two different people). It was a bit of a marathon trip, leaving Friday night at about 23:30, and arriving back at 7:30 on Tuesday morning, a round trip of just over 2,000 miles. It was a lot of fun, and I hope to post about my impressions of the City of New Orleans itself soon (as that is apparently what one does with a blog), but first I'm going to break with convention and let you all in on the official (and requisite) inside joke of the road trip. As is often the case with road trips, we had already stumbled upon various inside jokes which had some potential to be the Official Road Trip Inside Joke, but we just weren't sure.
Certainly,Waffle House is almost funny enough to be The Joke in and of itself, but it's so ubiquitous that it felt too old hat. Speaking of hats, the official Waffle House site is selling hats to benefit something called the Tour de Georgia. They also have a testimonials page. For Waffle House. We stopped for an early morning breakfast at a Waffle House, and it was just as ghetto as I remember it being. It turns out that they only serve one variety of waffle, and they sell exactly zero fruit toppings for said waffle. Call me crazy, but I expected a little better. Not only is the word "waffle" in their name, it's the first word in their name. Just look at that sign:
If you only read one of those words, it's probably going to be "waffle." If Burger King sold only plain hamburgers, with pickles and ketchup and no cheese, I don't think they'd be doing so hot. By the way, if you ever happen to go to a Waffle House (and come on, it's gonna happen), ask to have your maple syrup heated up. We did. Much to our surprise, they didn't take the little syrup pitcher thing off of the table, but instead walked away, only to return a few seconds later with two cups. Each cup was full of warm water, with two travel packets of maple syrup floating in it. That, my friends, is Klassy with a capital K. Perhaps even funnier/scarier than Waffle House's apparent success is the existence of imitators (click for to make bigger):
Waffle House, meet Omelet Shoppe. Omelet Shoppe, Waffle House.
But what am I talking about here? I was going to tell you about the Official Inside Joke of the trip. It was only a short while after passing the Omelet Shoppe that we pulled into the town of Bessemer, Alabama, looking to make a short stop for supplies, and there it was. We knew as soon as we saw it, despite having not slept the night before, that we were witnessing something special. It was Destiny that had led us to that exit, to that small town whose most distinctive features were a large iron pipe foundry, and someplace called Red's "Ok" Barbershop (we at the P.R.D.C. can neither encourage nor discourage your patronage of said establishment).
Then, it happened. My memory of that moment is both vivid and unclear. It was a sunny day. April 19th, 2008. My sister was driving. Lindsey was asleep in the back seat and I was in the passenger seat, camera in hand, aimlessly photographing the passing scenery. We were stopped at a red light, wondering aloud why a town of this size wouldn't have a Wal Mart. I turned to look out my side window and there it was, gleaming in the noontide sun. I was transfixed. I felt a rush of pure euphoria, as if the answer to every question I'd ever asked as I stared into a starlit sky were immediately answered, and that every answer led to a thousand more questions. I don't know what happened next. Before I knew it, the traffic light had changed, and we had moved on. I found myself once again on a wide thoroughfare in Bessemer, Alabama. Everything seemed the same as it had been a moment before, but somehow I knew that it wasn't, and that it never again would be. I looked down at the camera in my still-shaking hands. Somehow, without my being aware of it, I had taken a picture, a picture that contained within its four corners a glimpse into the infinite:
EVER WHATCHA NEED! EVER FREAKING WHATCHA NEED! A phrase so beautiful that language itself had to be destroyed for its creation to take place. I have spent hours since that fateful moment trying to figure out how to use that phrase in an actual sentence or conversation. It cannot be done. Ever Whatcha Need defies context. I'm going to have a t-shirt made of that, and I'll wear it everywhere, spreading hope and joy and confusion wherever I go. I'm going to make a poster board containing only that phrase, and I'll hold it up at sporting events. If they ever invent a specifically Catholic sport, I can spell it out as Ever WhaTcha Need, and they'll show it on Catholic cable television. I'm going to name my firstborn child Lambert "Ever Whatcha Need" Cous (Lambert's a good name, right?).
Ok, whew. That's all for now. Stay tuned for my upcoming post on the City of New Orleans, as well as an exciting comparison of Waffle House and the International House of Pancakes.
Certainly,Waffle House is almost funny enough to be The Joke in and of itself, but it's so ubiquitous that it felt too old hat. Speaking of hats, the official Waffle House site is selling hats to benefit something called the Tour de Georgia. They also have a testimonials page. For Waffle House. We stopped for an early morning breakfast at a Waffle House, and it was just as ghetto as I remember it being. It turns out that they only serve one variety of waffle, and they sell exactly zero fruit toppings for said waffle. Call me crazy, but I expected a little better. Not only is the word "waffle" in their name, it's the first word in their name. Just look at that sign:
If you only read one of those words, it's probably going to be "waffle." If Burger King sold only plain hamburgers, with pickles and ketchup and no cheese, I don't think they'd be doing so hot. By the way, if you ever happen to go to a Waffle House (and come on, it's gonna happen), ask to have your maple syrup heated up. We did. Much to our surprise, they didn't take the little syrup pitcher thing off of the table, but instead walked away, only to return a few seconds later with two cups. Each cup was full of warm water, with two travel packets of maple syrup floating in it. That, my friends, is Klassy with a capital K. Perhaps even funnier/scarier than Waffle House's apparent success is the existence of imitators (click for to make bigger):
Waffle House, meet Omelet Shoppe. Omelet Shoppe, Waffle House.But what am I talking about here? I was going to tell you about the Official Inside Joke of the trip. It was only a short while after passing the Omelet Shoppe that we pulled into the town of Bessemer, Alabama, looking to make a short stop for supplies, and there it was. We knew as soon as we saw it, despite having not slept the night before, that we were witnessing something special. It was Destiny that had led us to that exit, to that small town whose most distinctive features were a large iron pipe foundry, and someplace called Red's "Ok" Barbershop (we at the P.R.D.C. can neither encourage nor discourage your patronage of said establishment).
Then, it happened. My memory of that moment is both vivid and unclear. It was a sunny day. April 19th, 2008. My sister was driving. Lindsey was asleep in the back seat and I was in the passenger seat, camera in hand, aimlessly photographing the passing scenery. We were stopped at a red light, wondering aloud why a town of this size wouldn't have a Wal Mart. I turned to look out my side window and there it was, gleaming in the noontide sun. I was transfixed. I felt a rush of pure euphoria, as if the answer to every question I'd ever asked as I stared into a starlit sky were immediately answered, and that every answer led to a thousand more questions. I don't know what happened next. Before I knew it, the traffic light had changed, and we had moved on. I found myself once again on a wide thoroughfare in Bessemer, Alabama. Everything seemed the same as it had been a moment before, but somehow I knew that it wasn't, and that it never again would be. I looked down at the camera in my still-shaking hands. Somehow, without my being aware of it, I had taken a picture, a picture that contained within its four corners a glimpse into the infinite:
EVER WHATCHA NEED! EVER FREAKING WHATCHA NEED! A phrase so beautiful that language itself had to be destroyed for its creation to take place. I have spent hours since that fateful moment trying to figure out how to use that phrase in an actual sentence or conversation. It cannot be done. Ever Whatcha Need defies context. I'm going to have a t-shirt made of that, and I'll wear it everywhere, spreading hope and joy and confusion wherever I go. I'm going to make a poster board containing only that phrase, and I'll hold it up at sporting events. If they ever invent a specifically Catholic sport, I can spell it out as Ever WhaTcha Need, and they'll show it on Catholic cable television. I'm going to name my firstborn child Lambert "Ever Whatcha Need" Cous (Lambert's a good name, right?).Ok, whew. That's all for now. Stay tuned for my upcoming post on the City of New Orleans, as well as an exciting comparison of Waffle House and the International House of Pancakes.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Quote of the Week (Another Short Post):
"[It] finds its rightful home in the subtlety of a fine and rich analysis, one which is not afraid to pronounce - and sometimes to withhold - judgment where mere affirmation might be found wanting. It allows the writer to link ideas without breaking a train of thought; by contrast, over-simplified communication and bald, efficient discourse whose simplistic style is the best guarantee of being widely understood is naturally wary of [it]."
"It," of course, is the point-virgule, or semicolon. My PG-13 rated (for language; the author is British) source comes with a hat tip to the ever-excellent Marginal Revolution.
Not everyone is so fond of semicolons, though. From the same source, Kurt Vonnegut had this to say about them:
"They are transvestite hermaphrodites, standing for absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college."
For my part, you may have noticed that I very seldom use them, though I often use a comma where a semicolon ought to be.
"It," of course, is the point-virgule, or semicolon. My PG-13 rated (for language; the author is British) source comes with a hat tip to the ever-excellent Marginal Revolution.
Not everyone is so fond of semicolons, though. From the same source, Kurt Vonnegut had this to say about them:
"They are transvestite hermaphrodites, standing for absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college."
For my part, you may have noticed that I very seldom use them, though I often use a comma where a semicolon ought to be.
Where, now?
When Jessop was a member of the sect, it was centered in Colorado City, Ariz., on the Utah border.Come on, that's just plain confusing.
Source.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
How Can I Tell It's 2008?
I can tell because I just saw a television commercial for green-friendly chips. That's right, chips that are good for the environment. You can now be smug about the chips you eat, people. It is a new era in which we live.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Apparently, today is Opposite Day.
Paradoxically, when you really think about it, it also sort of isn't Opposite Day. Let us ponder this.
I don't know if I should, like, tell you this, man, but I just had a good experience at the mall. To use the parlance of our times: I know, right? As you are no doubt aware, oh loyal friend that you are, I hate shopping with a passion, and hate malls even more. At this point, I worry for the security of the universe as we know it. Here's how it all went down:
For starters, I was there for work. We need a raffle prize for a business expo thing this week, at which we have a booth. Hence my presence at the mall, on purpose, on a weekday morning. My first clue that something was amiss came almost immediately upon my entering the mall, when my ears were assaulted by the incessant, bubble-gum teenage pop of... Mozart. That's right, this guy. I thought about turning back, then and there. Something was not right. On the other hand, I reasoned to myself, what is not right here is that something is right, in a place where it should be very wrong. Taking heart in that revelation, I swiftly made my way past the jewelry store and the advertisements for whatever's new on the Style Network, to the kiosk that has a map of the mall on it. Blast. My objective is practically on the other side of the mall. How was I supposed to know where to park? I moved at as rapid a pace as was unlikely to be called "running," noting along the way that Abercrombie & Fitch still blast techno and saturate the air in the vicinity of their store with their distinctive musk. I can't abide those clothing retailers. Disgusting creatures! I passed them quickly enough, and once the repetitive dance beat had faded to background noise noticed that ol' Wolfgang was still coming through the main PA. Thank God. Finally, I reached my objective: the Apple Store.
As an aside, I am in no way an Apple fanboy, though I have known some scary ones in my day. I respect Apple for noticing that people who want an aesthetically pleasing computer (women, and some men) were an under-served portion of the market. I sort of like Steve Jobs as a persona. I don't think I'd like him as a person, but he's a smart dude, and I like how he gets behind his product. The way I see it, their products have two main selling points:
1. I'm not sure why, but people who buy their stuff seem to think it gives them license to be smug about it, as if their computer/mp3 player/whatever isn't made from wires and plastic like those other ones, but is somehow carved from a single gem found only on the moon, and harvested by dwarfs riding Pegasus-Unicorn hybrids. This is the main thrust of Apple's ad campaign, so I at least know where they get this idea.
2. They're soooo cute! I personally think that iPods look like they're supposed to be taken as a suppository, but my authority on the relative cuteness of things (and no, she refuses to comment on my own appearance) informs me that to women, an iPod looks how a big hug from a Care Bear would feel. I'm not kidding.
Anyhoo, to return to my story, I found myself in the Apple Store. It was weird. The space was wide open, with a row of high wooden tables going down the center of the room, and display tables along the walls. For a relatively small retail space, it felt quite sparse and roomy, with the interior designed to look something like a spaceship. I was actually able to wander around for a good couple of minutes, eying the wares and all, before a sales rep approached me, to ask if I was being helped, and exactly what kind of clone army I was looking for. I told him what I wanted, and he slowly backed out of the room while bowing, only turning his back on me when he reached the door. He was very polite. A few seconds later he returned, bearing a small (and cute!) box, containing an iPod roughly the size of my toenail. "Ok, I'll take it." I said, glancing around the room for a cash register. There wasn't one. Just more product displays. "Oh, you can check out right here," he said, scanning the iPod's barcode with his Tricorder, and taking my credit card. He produced a bag out of nowhere (seriously, maybe it came out of his sleeve? I don't know), and put the iPod in it while walking me to the front of the store. When we got there, he reached for the underside of a table and produced my receipt. I half expected him to reach behind my ear and pull out another iPod Shuffle. The man was a conjurer, a master of the art--nay, the science--of prestidigitation. He said goodbye to me in the traditional way of his people: "Thank you, come again!"
I strolled out of the store, iPod in hand, and made my way for the exit, humming along with the Mozart. I stopped at the Crackbucks booth on the way out for a tall Americano, just to convince myself that not being miserable whilst in the mall was not some fever-induced hallucination. "Would you like an extra shot of espresso in your coffee? I just poured it and I'll have to throw it away otherwise" said a suspiciously gregarious barista. Before I could contemplate what his ulterior motives might be, I found myself saying "yes, I would." Next thing I knew I was back in my car, merchandise in hand, sipping an extra-strong coffee.
Cous: 2
Monday: 0
Incidentally, I now want one of those iPod Shuffles of my own. I guess they win.
I don't know if I should, like, tell you this, man, but I just had a good experience at the mall. To use the parlance of our times: I know, right? As you are no doubt aware, oh loyal friend that you are, I hate shopping with a passion, and hate malls even more. At this point, I worry for the security of the universe as we know it. Here's how it all went down:
For starters, I was there for work. We need a raffle prize for a business expo thing this week, at which we have a booth. Hence my presence at the mall, on purpose, on a weekday morning. My first clue that something was amiss came almost immediately upon my entering the mall, when my ears were assaulted by the incessant, bubble-gum teenage pop of... Mozart. That's right, this guy. I thought about turning back, then and there. Something was not right. On the other hand, I reasoned to myself, what is not right here is that something is right, in a place where it should be very wrong. Taking heart in that revelation, I swiftly made my way past the jewelry store and the advertisements for whatever's new on the Style Network, to the kiosk that has a map of the mall on it. Blast. My objective is practically on the other side of the mall. How was I supposed to know where to park? I moved at as rapid a pace as was unlikely to be called "running," noting along the way that Abercrombie & Fitch still blast techno and saturate the air in the vicinity of their store with their distinctive musk. I can't abide those clothing retailers. Disgusting creatures! I passed them quickly enough, and once the repetitive dance beat had faded to background noise noticed that ol' Wolfgang was still coming through the main PA. Thank God. Finally, I reached my objective: the Apple Store.
As an aside, I am in no way an Apple fanboy, though I have known some scary ones in my day. I respect Apple for noticing that people who want an aesthetically pleasing computer (women, and some men) were an under-served portion of the market. I sort of like Steve Jobs as a persona. I don't think I'd like him as a person, but he's a smart dude, and I like how he gets behind his product. The way I see it, their products have two main selling points:
1. I'm not sure why, but people who buy their stuff seem to think it gives them license to be smug about it, as if their computer/mp3 player/whatever isn't made from wires and plastic like those other ones, but is somehow carved from a single gem found only on the moon, and harvested by dwarfs riding Pegasus-Unicorn hybrids. This is the main thrust of Apple's ad campaign, so I at least know where they get this idea.
2. They're soooo cute! I personally think that iPods look like they're supposed to be taken as a suppository, but my authority on the relative cuteness of things (and no, she refuses to comment on my own appearance) informs me that to women, an iPod looks how a big hug from a Care Bear would feel. I'm not kidding.
Anyhoo, to return to my story, I found myself in the Apple Store. It was weird. The space was wide open, with a row of high wooden tables going down the center of the room, and display tables along the walls. For a relatively small retail space, it felt quite sparse and roomy, with the interior designed to look something like a spaceship. I was actually able to wander around for a good couple of minutes, eying the wares and all, before a sales rep approached me, to ask if I was being helped, and exactly what kind of clone army I was looking for. I told him what I wanted, and he slowly backed out of the room while bowing, only turning his back on me when he reached the door. He was very polite. A few seconds later he returned, bearing a small (and cute!) box, containing an iPod roughly the size of my toenail. "Ok, I'll take it." I said, glancing around the room for a cash register. There wasn't one. Just more product displays. "Oh, you can check out right here," he said, scanning the iPod's barcode with his Tricorder, and taking my credit card. He produced a bag out of nowhere (seriously, maybe it came out of his sleeve? I don't know), and put the iPod in it while walking me to the front of the store. When we got there, he reached for the underside of a table and produced my receipt. I half expected him to reach behind my ear and pull out another iPod Shuffle. The man was a conjurer, a master of the art--nay, the science--of prestidigitation. He said goodbye to me in the traditional way of his people: "Thank you, come again!"
I strolled out of the store, iPod in hand, and made my way for the exit, humming along with the Mozart. I stopped at the Crackbucks booth on the way out for a tall Americano, just to convince myself that not being miserable whilst in the mall was not some fever-induced hallucination. "Would you like an extra shot of espresso in your coffee? I just poured it and I'll have to throw it away otherwise" said a suspiciously gregarious barista. Before I could contemplate what his ulterior motives might be, I found myself saying "yes, I would." Next thing I knew I was back in my car, merchandise in hand, sipping an extra-strong coffee.
Cous: 2
Monday: 0
Incidentally, I now want one of those iPod Shuffles of my own. I guess they win.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Spirits in the material world
The story you're about to hear is true. Only certain details have been changed, to protect the mental capacity of the author.
*Bling!*
Computer: "Hello, and welcome! Thank you for calling Hewlett-Packard. Para supporto en espanol, blahdibladibla. Let's get started! [sounding helpful and concerned] I need to ask you a few questions. When you hear what you need, just tell me. Remember, you need to speak up so I can hear you, puny human."
Cous: "I would like to ask a question about my plotter-"
Computer (interrupting): "That is not an option. Please repeat one of the following options: to buy stuff, say 'buy stuff,' or try 'marketing' or 'replacement parts' or 'technical support.'"
Cous: "Technical support."
Computer: "Okay! Technical support! Please repeat the name of your product when you hear it, and don't worry about interrupting me."
Cous: "Alright, as long as you don't mind-"
Computer (interrupting): "That is not an option! Please say one of the following: printers, computers, personal electronics, cameras, prune juicers..."
*Long pause*
Computer: "To hear more products, say 'more products,' dummy."
Cous: "More products."
Computer: "Alright! More products! I'd wet myself I'm so excited, if only I had the capacity to do so! Please repeat one of the following: software, robots, rock, paper, scissors, Pantene Pro-V..."
Cous: "Printers."
Computer: "That is not an option!"
At this point, Cous is forced to hang up, because his phone-holding hand has to prevent his other hand from strangling him, a la Dr. Strangelove.
The chances of this reaching the right people are negligible, but please. Please, I beg of you. If you design telephone support systems, do not EVER make them voice-prompt operated. It does not make the computer resemble a human being, except that I begin to think that it is capable of hatred on a superhuman level.
If I am communicating with a machine, I am perfectly happy to do so by pushing buttons. What I am not interested in doing is repeating its own phrases back to it, like a dog which has been commanded to "speak." When you have invented a computer which can actually respond to questions, get back to me, but when it is only capable of recognizing the same twelve phrases it spits at me, and then you subject your paying customers to interaction with this unutterably obnoxious machine, I refuse to call this anything but an insult to my personhood and an affront to the very concept of speech.
**end rant**
*Bling!*
Computer: "Hello, and welcome! Thank you for calling Hewlett-Packard. Para supporto en espanol, blahdibladibla. Let's get started! [sounding helpful and concerned] I need to ask you a few questions. When you hear what you need, just tell me. Remember, you need to speak up so I can hear you, puny human."
Cous: "I would like to ask a question about my plotter-"
Computer (interrupting): "That is not an option. Please repeat one of the following options: to buy stuff, say 'buy stuff,' or try 'marketing' or 'replacement parts' or 'technical support.'"
Cous: "Technical support."
Computer: "Okay! Technical support! Please repeat the name of your product when you hear it, and don't worry about interrupting me."
Cous: "Alright, as long as you don't mind-"
Computer (interrupting): "That is not an option! Please say one of the following: printers, computers, personal electronics, cameras, prune juicers..."
*Long pause*
Computer: "To hear more products, say 'more products,' dummy."
Cous: "More products."
Computer: "Alright! More products! I'd wet myself I'm so excited, if only I had the capacity to do so! Please repeat one of the following: software, robots, rock, paper, scissors, Pantene Pro-V..."
Cous: "Printers."
Computer: "That is not an option!"
At this point, Cous is forced to hang up, because his phone-holding hand has to prevent his other hand from strangling him, a la Dr. Strangelove.
The chances of this reaching the right people are negligible, but please. Please, I beg of you. If you design telephone support systems, do not EVER make them voice-prompt operated. It does not make the computer resemble a human being, except that I begin to think that it is capable of hatred on a superhuman level.
If I am communicating with a machine, I am perfectly happy to do so by pushing buttons. What I am not interested in doing is repeating its own phrases back to it, like a dog which has been commanded to "speak." When you have invented a computer which can actually respond to questions, get back to me, but when it is only capable of recognizing the same twelve phrases it spits at me, and then you subject your paying customers to interaction with this unutterably obnoxious machine, I refuse to call this anything but an insult to my personhood and an affront to the very concept of speech.
**end rant**
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Ashes To Ashes...
... to Ash? Ah, never mind. It's Ash Wednesday today for those of you who weren't aware, the first day of Lent. But what am I talking about? Of course you already know what day it is (and isn't).
As Cecelia was kind enough to point out, Feminine Mind Control Day is only a week away, followed on the fifteenth (as facebook has informed me) by National "That's What She Said" Day, a made-up internet holiday enjoyed by double entendre enthusiasts everywhere. I have to admit that short of completing Plan 50-WD ahead of schedule (highly unlikely at the current rate at which funds are coming in around here), I have no idea how to celebrate FMC Day this year. It is, to the best of my memory, the first FMC Day since the start of our relationship (whenever that was) that Lindsey and I are likely to be in the same town for holiday. We have no established tradition here. Of course on its surface it's a fairly stupid holiday anyways, but that's what makes it so clever. Here is one day of the year where no matter how much she rolls her eyes (and she will), I get to give her some mushy card, gift, and flowers, and there's nothing she can do about it. That is the power of FMC Day. The only problem is that I'm stumped. What do I do?
Comments, as always, are welcome.
As Cecelia was kind enough to point out, Feminine Mind Control Day is only a week away, followed on the fifteenth (as facebook has informed me) by National "That's What She Said" Day, a made-up internet holiday enjoyed by double entendre enthusiasts everywhere. I have to admit that short of completing Plan 50-WD ahead of schedule (highly unlikely at the current rate at which funds are coming in around here), I have no idea how to celebrate FMC Day this year. It is, to the best of my memory, the first FMC Day since the start of our relationship (whenever that was) that Lindsey and I are likely to be in the same town for holiday. We have no established tradition here. Of course on its surface it's a fairly stupid holiday anyways, but that's what makes it so clever. Here is one day of the year where no matter how much she rolls her eyes (and she will), I get to give her some mushy card, gift, and flowers, and there's nothing she can do about it. That is the power of FMC Day. The only problem is that I'm stumped. What do I do?
Comments, as always, are welcome.
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