Laptop computers are nothing new, and yet they are the device which attaches with a frequently more prolific wi-fi umbilical cord to the world.
It's interesting, if one thinks briefly of the history of information. How the scribes in Egyptian days created language (after the carving of stone) and the data was carried thither and yon over trade routes and through castles and over massive land holdings in order to determine how many cows, concubines, and corn the monarch might have.
Now we have laptops, complete with their own energy source, and with the proper location the ability to connect instantly to just about any possible type of information one can imagine.
These culture boxes are, according to the psychological argument, the end of personal interaction. This is actually quite a contradiction. Think about it, with computers and internet access and email and instant messaging and sites like My Space propogating peoples pictures and thoughts and bands and pets; how is this the end of personal interaction?
There has never been more personal action.
It's a culture unto itself, this internet phenomenon. Do you have your box?
Monday, November 28, 2005
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Everything Is Slightly Unbearable
There come days when nothing is as it should be, when everybody and everything is in your way.
Waiting in line at the gas station is a deplorable waste of time. You sit there, idling, or with your engine turned off, and finally the old farmer guy with his giant F250 informs you five minutes later that he's still got to fill his second tank.
You drive around the building to wait in the other line. Suddenly the truck in front of the F250 pulls away, leaving a spot you could back into, had the jackass behind you not pulled so damn close he might as well be attached to your trailer hitch.
The man in front of you with the Cadillac finishes pumping. Stoked, you think. But no, he is one of the three people on the planet who still pay cash, and he's physically debilitated--maybe even diabetic. Instead of first moving his car, he leaves it as is and ambles over to the paymart. The day wears on, all the more exacerbating due to the lack of sunglasses over your eyes. Everything is impossibly bright.
Finally Old Man Gimp pulls away, narrowly sliding by the kid with his brand new GMC Sierra, who winces as the man drives by, walking over to check if the old man has enough room. Puss.
The gas finally pumped, (and realizing you had less than half a gallon left) you seek to exit away from the main light, only to be bombarded by oncoming traffic on the "sneaky" way out. Carefully, you assess every driver's head as you navigate the lot, realizing that not one of them has any spatial knowledge of anything beyond the front window of the car.
Waiting in line at the gas station is a deplorable waste of time. You sit there, idling, or with your engine turned off, and finally the old farmer guy with his giant F250 informs you five minutes later that he's still got to fill his second tank.
You drive around the building to wait in the other line. Suddenly the truck in front of the F250 pulls away, leaving a spot you could back into, had the jackass behind you not pulled so damn close he might as well be attached to your trailer hitch.
The man in front of you with the Cadillac finishes pumping. Stoked, you think. But no, he is one of the three people on the planet who still pay cash, and he's physically debilitated--maybe even diabetic. Instead of first moving his car, he leaves it as is and ambles over to the paymart. The day wears on, all the more exacerbating due to the lack of sunglasses over your eyes. Everything is impossibly bright.
Finally Old Man Gimp pulls away, narrowly sliding by the kid with his brand new GMC Sierra, who winces as the man drives by, walking over to check if the old man has enough room. Puss.
The gas finally pumped, (and realizing you had less than half a gallon left) you seek to exit away from the main light, only to be bombarded by oncoming traffic on the "sneaky" way out. Carefully, you assess every driver's head as you navigate the lot, realizing that not one of them has any spatial knowledge of anything beyond the front window of the car.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
The Big O!
This from the New York Times:
Oh, Oprah, 20 Years of Talk, Causes and Self-Improvement
"Ms. Winfrey has released a six-disc DVD collection of her greatest moments - a maudlin, self-congratulatory video memoir that is entirely deserved and mesmerizing to watch.
The whole extravaganza is embarrassingly lavish and over the top, and not nearly enough."
I don't know. Oprah appeals to women, and to Dr. Phil. She is easily the modern world's Johnny Carson. The four times I had to sit through her shows I was with women who were on the rag. Oprah is undeniably rag material. This does not make her less important, nor is it meant to belittle those ladies who feel comforted by Oprah in their time of bleed, but I can't stand watching the woman for more than four minutes.
This may be an abitrary time thrown out by me, with no psychological underpinnings other than it makes for a nice round number for the sake of a narrative, but it is a very close estimate to the amount of time it takes me to want to run from the television.
Oprah is a force, there is no doubt, but she is also self-important. The fact that she is the living embodiment of a rags to riches story verges on saccharine. I only hope I can write a novel before she retires that she deems worthy of the Oprah book club.
I'm torn between a deep revulsion of the woman and a profound respect. A friend of mine used to call her the whale, back when she was a colored woman. Now that she's homogenized herself, I might even consider her sexy, as long as I don't have to spend more than four minutes with her.
Oh, Oprah, 20 Years of Talk, Causes and Self-Improvement
"Ms. Winfrey has released a six-disc DVD collection of her greatest moments - a maudlin, self-congratulatory video memoir that is entirely deserved and mesmerizing to watch.
The whole extravaganza is embarrassingly lavish and over the top, and not nearly enough."
I don't know. Oprah appeals to women, and to Dr. Phil. She is easily the modern world's Johnny Carson. The four times I had to sit through her shows I was with women who were on the rag. Oprah is undeniably rag material. This does not make her less important, nor is it meant to belittle those ladies who feel comforted by Oprah in their time of bleed, but I can't stand watching the woman for more than four minutes.
This may be an abitrary time thrown out by me, with no psychological underpinnings other than it makes for a nice round number for the sake of a narrative, but it is a very close estimate to the amount of time it takes me to want to run from the television.
Oprah is a force, there is no doubt, but she is also self-important. The fact that she is the living embodiment of a rags to riches story verges on saccharine. I only hope I can write a novel before she retires that she deems worthy of the Oprah book club.
I'm torn between a deep revulsion of the woman and a profound respect. A friend of mine used to call her the whale, back when she was a colored woman. Now that she's homogenized herself, I might even consider her sexy, as long as I don't have to spend more than four minutes with her.
Three Holes
An ad campaign by Pentel (pentel.com) claims their new pen, the impulse, is a vehicle for the best use of three holes since ... the bowling ball. Clever sexual innuendo there.
Additionally, the ad finally ends with an animated line drawing of a person grooving in excited, sexual exhortations, with the pen hung around their neck as a lanyard--thus the use of one of the three holes. The dancing gyrator is mildly ripped off from Apple's iPod silhouette campaign.
Anyway, I've always liked pens, and in general utensils created for scribing, but I never knew just how incredibly perverted a pen could be. I might get one simply to spend hours with my newfound collection of holes. Think of the possibilities.
As of this posting, even Google didn't have an image of the pen. Apparently Pentel is hoping to keep the pen in your hands only.
Additionally, the ad finally ends with an animated line drawing of a person grooving in excited, sexual exhortations, with the pen hung around their neck as a lanyard--thus the use of one of the three holes. The dancing gyrator is mildly ripped off from Apple's iPod silhouette campaign.
Anyway, I've always liked pens, and in general utensils created for scribing, but I never knew just how incredibly perverted a pen could be. I might get one simply to spend hours with my newfound collection of holes. Think of the possibilities.
As of this posting, even Google didn't have an image of the pen. Apparently Pentel is hoping to keep the pen in your hands only.
Helping Hands
There is a non-profit organization based in Boston, Massachusetts called Helping Hands (helpinghandsmonkeys.org)which provides highly trained capuchin monkeys for handicapped people. This is awesome. At the same time I want to laugh. Monkeys are so badass and clever it must bring a tear to the eyes of the 'patients' every time their monkey turns on the light or picks up that dropped paper or brings them a glass of water.
I hope if I'm ever unfortunate enough to need assistance that I will be the lucky recipient of a capuchin monkey. I would call him Chico.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Paying for Content
Trying to Wean Internet Users From Free
The New York Times is trying to make up for declines in its traditional revenue by charging for portions of its Web site.
I find this slightly amusing. The NY Times has a portion of its online content as subscriber only. Recently, under this new pay content, demarcated by a nifty orange "T", is an article on just that subject--namely, how the NY Times is trying to charge for content.
The catch is that as interesting as the article looks, one can only read it if one is already a subscriber. Thus, paying to read an article about paying to read articles.
Is that ironic? I'm not sure. Dave Eggers (who apparently used to be a regular writer for salon.com) had some "author's notes" in the back of his book "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius". In the notes, which are written in about a five point font, just big enough to cause chronic squinting, he goes on about the overuse of the "ironic" situations one might confront. I don't even want to try to encapsulate the breathtaking spin he put on ironic, but he offers alternative words for almost any situation that people would feel inclined to call ironic, but would be better served by those alternative words.
It makes you realize how much of a cliche "ironic" truly is. So, is an article about paying to read that is accessible only by those who have already paid ironic? Maybe, but more likely it's genius marketing ploy.
The New York Times is trying to make up for declines in its traditional revenue by charging for portions of its Web site.
I find this slightly amusing. The NY Times has a portion of its online content as subscriber only. Recently, under this new pay content, demarcated by a nifty orange "T", is an article on just that subject--namely, how the NY Times is trying to charge for content.
The catch is that as interesting as the article looks, one can only read it if one is already a subscriber. Thus, paying to read an article about paying to read articles.
Is that ironic? I'm not sure. Dave Eggers (who apparently used to be a regular writer for salon.com) had some "author's notes" in the back of his book "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius". In the notes, which are written in about a five point font, just big enough to cause chronic squinting, he goes on about the overuse of the "ironic" situations one might confront. I don't even want to try to encapsulate the breathtaking spin he put on ironic, but he offers alternative words for almost any situation that people would feel inclined to call ironic, but would be better served by those alternative words.
It makes you realize how much of a cliche "ironic" truly is. So, is an article about paying to read that is accessible only by those who have already paid ironic? Maybe, but more likely it's genius marketing ploy.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Blog Unknown
Hmm. It seems strange that a blog program created by Google, (namely, the one you're reading), has a spellcheck that offers alternatives to the word 'blog' precisely because it doesn't recognize the term.
Alternatives for 'blog': bloc, Bloch, blows, bloke, blocky
Alternatives for 'blog': bloc, Bloch, blows, bloke, blocky
Junk Mail
It seems junk mail is as prevalent as belly button lint these days. The junk is so 'there' that my internet service even has a junk mail attached to every regular mail I get. (Although technically this is a virus on the server side, which they have yet to address.)
My favorite junk mails are those that have the literary drivel at the bottom of the message. Gibberish designed to get past the spam blockers. For every message I block, another three arrive, seeking to sell me watches, Viagra, real estate, stocks, or offering closeout wholesale prices on old software.
My other favorites are those clever mails that borrow from somebody else's email, and send you a message claiming the undiscovered fun of sharing pictures or text messaging with your friends. I mistakenly went on one of those one time, put in my first name, and the site immediately filled in the rest of the blanks with all of my information, then froze and disappeared. I later checked with the person who I thought had sent the original message, but they claimed to have done no such thing.
Now I look on my blog, which no one reads but me, to discover I have a comment on a post I left back in June. Joy! I thought. Someone read my genius. But no, the comment was junk. One of those stock offerings where it starts at 25 cents, and they claim it'll go up to $1.25 overnight.
Didn't anyone see Boiler Room? Are there people out there who are duped by these solicited scams? Are they making money off of these phenomenal stocks?
Another junk mail I've been getting is supposedly from Paypal and eBay. Each of those sites sends a realistic message claiming my account is about to dry up, or somebody has messed with my identity and I'd better go quick and give them all my information again, just so they can confirm that I actually am who I say I am. The catch lies in the final warning of the message:
If you do not respond within 48 Hours! you risk the chance of losing your account.
They almost got me with that. But when I failed to respond within the dangerous 48 hour limit, I got another message with that very same warning. I've received them regularly every few days, each with that harried 48 Hour! boosting fear at the bottom of the message.
I'm still here. And they're still out to get me.
My favorite junk mails are those that have the literary drivel at the bottom of the message. Gibberish designed to get past the spam blockers. For every message I block, another three arrive, seeking to sell me watches, Viagra, real estate, stocks, or offering closeout wholesale prices on old software.
My other favorites are those clever mails that borrow from somebody else's email, and send you a message claiming the undiscovered fun of sharing pictures or text messaging with your friends. I mistakenly went on one of those one time, put in my first name, and the site immediately filled in the rest of the blanks with all of my information, then froze and disappeared. I later checked with the person who I thought had sent the original message, but they claimed to have done no such thing.
Now I look on my blog, which no one reads but me, to discover I have a comment on a post I left back in June. Joy! I thought. Someone read my genius. But no, the comment was junk. One of those stock offerings where it starts at 25 cents, and they claim it'll go up to $1.25 overnight.
Didn't anyone see Boiler Room? Are there people out there who are duped by these solicited scams? Are they making money off of these phenomenal stocks?
Another junk mail I've been getting is supposedly from Paypal and eBay. Each of those sites sends a realistic message claiming my account is about to dry up, or somebody has messed with my identity and I'd better go quick and give them all my information again, just so they can confirm that I actually am who I say I am. The catch lies in the final warning of the message:
If you do not respond within 48 Hours! you risk the chance of losing your account.
They almost got me with that. But when I failed to respond within the dangerous 48 hour limit, I got another message with that very same warning. I've received them regularly every few days, each with that harried 48 Hour! boosting fear at the bottom of the message.
I'm still here. And they're still out to get me.
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