So we’re sitting on the tarmac in Vancouver, waiting for airport crews to clean off the dead birds from our runway (ewww!) when I glance over at my seatmate and see that he is reading—I swear this is true—Floor Covering Weekly (top story: “Investment Firm Buys Florida Tile”). Three things come to mind: First of all, either this man is in the floor covering business or he is trying to induce a coma. Second, I really hope he doesn’t strike up a conversation with me. Third, is there really enough news in the world of floor coverings to warrant a weekly publication?
Anyway, after a refreshing 2 hours of sleep last night and 7 hours of flying time (and half an hour of dead-bird removal waiting time) I am now in Orlando. It’s a pleasantly warm evening, there’s a light breeze blowing through the window, the palm trees outside are bathed in floodlights, and I’ve finally managed to get the mini-bar open. I feel like Bogart in Key Largo—if Bogart sat around in his underwear swilling Heineken and watching the Shopping Channel.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Friday, January 23, 2004
Abby's Magic Bookmark
It started with Little Yellow Ball.
All young children, because they are exceptionally stupid, become entranced by mundane objects as they navigate their way through what is—for them—a bewildering and wondrous world of colors, dimensions, and textures. My daughter, Abby, I can attest, has diligently spent the last few months cataloguing her universe with solemn determination. Newspapers, books, candlesticks, teddy bears, spaghetti, socks, squeaky toys, Daddy’s eyeball—each has at one point or another been seized in her lunging, doughy fist and subjected to a rigorous 3-point battery of tests:
1. Does it make noise when I shake it?
2. Does it make noise when I hit it against something else?
3. Will it fit in my mouth?
Her research has been exhaustive, and her methodology so efficient that she seldom takes more than a few moments to make a determination on these criteria and move on. Our job as parents has been simply to keep the supply of objects coming; a ten month-old, we have found, needs tactile stimuli the way a junkie needs crack. So when she fell in love with, and adopted, Little Yellow Ball, it was a breakthrough of sorts.
It happened at a house party we attended over the holidays—one of those “parents and infants” parties where the main topics of conversation are sleeping schedules and diaper absorbency. Our hosts brought out a particularly beguiling toy—a plastic cube about the size of a packing crate—that drew the children toward it like the spaceship in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It had a multiplicity of attachments, a detachable lid, and big, hand-sized buttons that summoned flashing lights and whooping sirens.
Most importantly, though, it came with an assortment of plastic, hollow, colored balls that could be dropped through holes or down sliding chutes. And among these colored balls was a little yellow ball—a little yellow ball that I would soon ingeniously name Little Yellow Ball—that inexplicably captured Abby’s fancy.
She grabbed it as it rolled along a chute, plucking it deftly out of its orbit. She shook it vigorously (see Criteria 1, above). She held it to her face and stared at it with that sort of singular intensity only an infant or a dangerous imbecile can achieve. Then she decided that this little yellow ball needed her companionship (or she needed its) and it stayed fused in her fist for the remainder of the evening. She continued to play with the other toys, but she refused to relinquish Little Yellow Ball. She held it close to her pudgy body, to protect it from marauding toddlers. She rapped it against my head when I picked her up. Every once and awhile she would stare at it again, with renewed interest and (I imagined) solicitous concern. This was one special little yellow ball. It was a traumatic moment for everyone, as you can imagine, when we had to crowbar Little Yellow Ball out of her hand when it was time to leave.
So naturally, like all foolish first-time parents, we went out the next day and spent fifty bucks on the amazing packing crate toy, unpacked it with haste, and proudly presented Abby with her very own Little Yellow Ball. Which she promptly threw at the cat and forgot about.
The lesson here (apart from discovering that I can spend over 500 words on a preamble) is that children are selfish little shits, and any money spent on them is better spent on malt liquor and hookers. And that explains why Abby’s latest infatuation is with a magic bookmark that cost us absolutely nothing.
Actually, there are three identical magic bookmarks, which we picked up on a recent trip to Village Books in Bellingham (a visit chronicled with nauseating detail on this very page). I have to say that I too was captivated by these bookmarks, which is why I helped myself to three of them. They are promotional giveaways for the new edition of the Chicago Manual of Style, and they come in a fetching red and white, with black print. And if that wasn’t sexy enough, they are made of—get this—plastic. It’s that neat kind of thin, but durable, pliable plastic—the kind that makes a satisfying wopple, wopple, wopple sound when you shake it (see Criteria 1, above). I know, I know, is that cool or what? Kim and I each keep one in our current reading and the other is in a book on our coffee table.
We keep these bookmarks close at hand because, aside from performing their page-marking duties with admirable efficiency, they also serve as the most reliable baby soother since the invention of the Children’s Tylenol “accidental” overdose. No matter how cranky Abby gets, no matter how hard she’s crying, no matter how inconsolable she seems, just hand her the magic bookmark and she instantly—instantly—becomes absorbed and gleeful. She’ll hold it in both hands and study it. Then do a single-handed shake to produce the wopple effect. She’ll try to fold it in half, and giggle when it pops back. It is so astonishingly effective in grasping and holding her attention that we are thinking of canceling the day care arrangement and just leaving her home alone with a handful of magic bookmarks.
These little synthetic rectangles have transformed our lives to such a profound degree that they are now doing more actual parenting than we are. Or at least more effective parenting. The other night, for instance, Kim and I were lying in bed reading, with Abby asleep between us. When Abby began to stir and fuss, we both, without looking up from our respective pages, instinctively withdrew our bookmarks from our books, and handed them over. A few moments of wopple wopple wopple (see Criteria 1, above), followed by a few moments of intense attempted origami, and Abby drifted off to a serene, deep sleep, still holding a magic bookmark against her nose.
So, in the spirit of bonhomie that is my personal trademark, I hereby offer a magic bookmark to any sleep-deprived, nerve-frazzled parent. That’s right, you too can have your very own powerful baby suppressant, guaranteed to placate even the most obstreperous child, for one easy payment of fifty dollars. And if you act now, I’ll even throw in a little yellow ball.
All young children, because they are exceptionally stupid, become entranced by mundane objects as they navigate their way through what is—for them—a bewildering and wondrous world of colors, dimensions, and textures. My daughter, Abby, I can attest, has diligently spent the last few months cataloguing her universe with solemn determination. Newspapers, books, candlesticks, teddy bears, spaghetti, socks, squeaky toys, Daddy’s eyeball—each has at one point or another been seized in her lunging, doughy fist and subjected to a rigorous 3-point battery of tests:
1. Does it make noise when I shake it?
2. Does it make noise when I hit it against something else?
3. Will it fit in my mouth?
Her research has been exhaustive, and her methodology so efficient that she seldom takes more than a few moments to make a determination on these criteria and move on. Our job as parents has been simply to keep the supply of objects coming; a ten month-old, we have found, needs tactile stimuli the way a junkie needs crack. So when she fell in love with, and adopted, Little Yellow Ball, it was a breakthrough of sorts.
It happened at a house party we attended over the holidays—one of those “parents and infants” parties where the main topics of conversation are sleeping schedules and diaper absorbency. Our hosts brought out a particularly beguiling toy—a plastic cube about the size of a packing crate—that drew the children toward it like the spaceship in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It had a multiplicity of attachments, a detachable lid, and big, hand-sized buttons that summoned flashing lights and whooping sirens.
Most importantly, though, it came with an assortment of plastic, hollow, colored balls that could be dropped through holes or down sliding chutes. And among these colored balls was a little yellow ball—a little yellow ball that I would soon ingeniously name Little Yellow Ball—that inexplicably captured Abby’s fancy.
She grabbed it as it rolled along a chute, plucking it deftly out of its orbit. She shook it vigorously (see Criteria 1, above). She held it to her face and stared at it with that sort of singular intensity only an infant or a dangerous imbecile can achieve. Then she decided that this little yellow ball needed her companionship (or she needed its) and it stayed fused in her fist for the remainder of the evening. She continued to play with the other toys, but she refused to relinquish Little Yellow Ball. She held it close to her pudgy body, to protect it from marauding toddlers. She rapped it against my head when I picked her up. Every once and awhile she would stare at it again, with renewed interest and (I imagined) solicitous concern. This was one special little yellow ball. It was a traumatic moment for everyone, as you can imagine, when we had to crowbar Little Yellow Ball out of her hand when it was time to leave.
So naturally, like all foolish first-time parents, we went out the next day and spent fifty bucks on the amazing packing crate toy, unpacked it with haste, and proudly presented Abby with her very own Little Yellow Ball. Which she promptly threw at the cat and forgot about.
The lesson here (apart from discovering that I can spend over 500 words on a preamble) is that children are selfish little shits, and any money spent on them is better spent on malt liquor and hookers. And that explains why Abby’s latest infatuation is with a magic bookmark that cost us absolutely nothing.
Actually, there are three identical magic bookmarks, which we picked up on a recent trip to Village Books in Bellingham (a visit chronicled with nauseating detail on this very page). I have to say that I too was captivated by these bookmarks, which is why I helped myself to three of them. They are promotional giveaways for the new edition of the Chicago Manual of Style, and they come in a fetching red and white, with black print. And if that wasn’t sexy enough, they are made of—get this—plastic. It’s that neat kind of thin, but durable, pliable plastic—the kind that makes a satisfying wopple, wopple, wopple sound when you shake it (see Criteria 1, above). I know, I know, is that cool or what? Kim and I each keep one in our current reading and the other is in a book on our coffee table.
We keep these bookmarks close at hand because, aside from performing their page-marking duties with admirable efficiency, they also serve as the most reliable baby soother since the invention of the Children’s Tylenol “accidental” overdose. No matter how cranky Abby gets, no matter how hard she’s crying, no matter how inconsolable she seems, just hand her the magic bookmark and she instantly—instantly—becomes absorbed and gleeful. She’ll hold it in both hands and study it. Then do a single-handed shake to produce the wopple effect. She’ll try to fold it in half, and giggle when it pops back. It is so astonishingly effective in grasping and holding her attention that we are thinking of canceling the day care arrangement and just leaving her home alone with a handful of magic bookmarks.
These little synthetic rectangles have transformed our lives to such a profound degree that they are now doing more actual parenting than we are. Or at least more effective parenting. The other night, for instance, Kim and I were lying in bed reading, with Abby asleep between us. When Abby began to stir and fuss, we both, without looking up from our respective pages, instinctively withdrew our bookmarks from our books, and handed them over. A few moments of wopple wopple wopple (see Criteria 1, above), followed by a few moments of intense attempted origami, and Abby drifted off to a serene, deep sleep, still holding a magic bookmark against her nose.
So, in the spirit of bonhomie that is my personal trademark, I hereby offer a magic bookmark to any sleep-deprived, nerve-frazzled parent. That’s right, you too can have your very own powerful baby suppressant, guaranteed to placate even the most obstreperous child, for one easy payment of fifty dollars. And if you act now, I’ll even throw in a little yellow ball.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Insert Title Here
Big Project at Work
--3-day PowerPoint presentation
--presented at end of month in Florida
Number One With A Bullet!
Now only capable of thinking and writing in bullet points
--and subpoints
--with corny headlines
--and exclamation marks!
A unique way of writing
--affects thinking process
--conserves prepositions/verbs
Where’s the Balance?
Working long hours and weekends
Not much of a life
--with family
--with friends
--for blogging
--personal hygiene
--Paris Hilton
[insert image of someone not having a life]
Time Flies
Often forget what day it is
--Monday?
--Tuesday?
--Wednesday?
--Thursday?
--Friday?
--Saturday?
--Sunday?
Days blend into one another
[insert image of calendar]
Quit Yer Bitching!
Lots of people work like this
--astronauts
--medical interns
--chain gang prisoners
[insert image of people working hard]
It Has Its Moments
Fun moments
--brainstorming bull sessions
--adrenaline rushes
--hallucinations from sleep deprivation
Bad moments
--the seventeenth draft
--running out of bullet point ammo
Wonderful ironic moments
--last minute rush on Time Management material
--heated arguments over Conflict Resolution material
[insert image of an iron]
The Payoff
Attending program in Orlando, Florida
--break from gloomy winter
--watching presentation being presented
--sense of accomplishment
--sense of pride
--sense of terror
--sense of getting three days off afterward to do nothing but drink beer and see Mickey
[insert image of guy getting thrown out of Disney World]
--3-day PowerPoint presentation
--presented at end of month in Florida
Number One With A Bullet!
Now only capable of thinking and writing in bullet points
--and subpoints
--with corny headlines
--and exclamation marks!
A unique way of writing
--affects thinking process
--conserves prepositions/verbs
Where’s the Balance?
Working long hours and weekends
Not much of a life
--with family
--with friends
--for blogging
--personal hygiene
--Paris Hilton
[insert image of someone not having a life]
Time Flies
Often forget what day it is
--Monday?
--Tuesday?
--Wednesday?
--Thursday?
--Friday?
--Saturday?
--Sunday?
Days blend into one another
[insert image of calendar]
Quit Yer Bitching!
Lots of people work like this
--astronauts
--medical interns
--chain gang prisoners
[insert image of people working hard]
It Has Its Moments
Fun moments
--brainstorming bull sessions
--adrenaline rushes
--hallucinations from sleep deprivation
Bad moments
--the seventeenth draft
--running out of bullet point ammo
Wonderful ironic moments
--last minute rush on Time Management material
--heated arguments over Conflict Resolution material
[insert image of an iron]
The Payoff
Attending program in Orlando, Florida
--break from gloomy winter
--watching presentation being presented
--sense of accomplishment
--sense of pride
--sense of terror
--sense of getting three days off afterward to do nothing but drink beer and see Mickey
[insert image of guy getting thrown out of Disney World]
Friday, January 02, 2004
Should Old Hard Drives Be Forgot
Well, what's a new desk, and a new chair--and a new year--without a new computer?
Our four-year-old Compaq has, for some time, been prone to sudden seizures. I can be in the middle of composing a breathtakingly sublime sentence, or opening an email, or surreptitiously sneaking Paris Hilton's name into the Google search bar, when all systems will obstinately and intractably lock up.
As a long time computer user, I have, of course, developed a repertoire of techniques for troubleshooting and solving these sorts of freeze-up situations--techniques that I will graciously share with you now.
First (you might want to take notes here), I grasp the mouse firmly with my right hand and lift it to about eye level. (Those of you who are too short might want to start out at shoulder level. That's fine.) Then I carefully, and with exacting precision, smash the fucking thing on the desk repeatedly like a masturbating monkey while spewing oaths in a red-faced, spittle-drenched fury.
If that doesn't work (and it hasn't yet, but I'll keep you posted), I pick up the keyboard and repeat the procedure. Finally, I yell for Kim (if you don't have a Kim of your own, you'll have to get one--they're available at fine stores everywhere).
"The computer's seized up again!" I'll cry, when she finally appears. I then slam the mouse down a few more times and toss it onto the desk with a theatrical air of resignation, to illustrate just how seized up it is. Then, having satisfied myself that we are all suitably aware of how comprehensively this computer has seized up, I reboot.
On Christmas Eve, the computer seized up again. No surprise there, I just followed the aforementioned protocol and expected to be up and running again. But this time it was different. This time, the machine began making distressingly plaintive gurgling noises, and the reboot didn't work--just a black screen advising me to try a "rescue" procedure. I felt panicky and ashamed. It was like having a hypochondriac friend whom you have been teasing suddenly develop a fatal tumor. Oh my god, you really were sick! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean all those things I said. Please just get better!
And so it was that we arrived, on a bluish wintry evening just after Christmas, on the doorstep of one of Kim's friends-- a friend whose husband happens to be an accomplished professional computer techie guy. We crossed the threshold bearing our sickly CPU like beseeching, supplicating peasants.
It has been said that one of the defining characteristics of modern man is that, unlike his counterparts in, say, the 19th century, whose world consisted of nothing more technologically advanced than a water pump, he does not have even a rudimentary understanding of the workings of many of the devices he uses. A farmer in the 1860s, for instance, knew the purpose of every component of his horse-drawn plow, whereas a businessman in today's world is unlikely to be able to explain how the plane he is sitting in remains aloft. In my case, if I were confined to using only the apparatus whose functionings I could explain, the technology in my world would consist primarily of toothbrushes and paper clips.
All this was brought vividly to mind as I watched Shaun descend upon our computer's innards with practiced ease and stunning alacrity, while I stood by and helpfully held a screwdriver like a gormless twit. He hooked the system up to his monitor, performed a number of operations with a swift clacking of keys, and came up with a definitive diagnosis: our hard drive was in its death throes. The patient didn't have long to live. I won't go in to the details here, largely because I don't understand them, but the upshot of it all is that he was able to devise an emergency life-support system to save our data and then--get this--he offered to procure a new hard drive for us (actually two hard drives,as it turned out) at no charge, from his place of work--some sort of computer-wonderland where entirely serviceable hard drives are evidently routinely discarded like candy wrappers.
A couple of days later our computer received a new heart, which is now performing with admirable gusto. We even got a free upgrade to Windows XP and a housecall visit because--it was discovered--Kim bent the prongs on the monitor cable during reassembly. What can I say--never mind about getting yourself a Kim, find yourself a Shaun.
Speaking of upgrades, sharp-eyed regular visitors to this page of cyber-swill may also notice that my breathtakingly sublime prose has been given a spit shine and a new hat, thanks to the deft ministrations of a bored co-worker--another crackerjack techo witch doctor. (Thanks again, A.J.!) We pilfered an hour or so of company time on Christmas Eve to have the site try on some new ensembles ("does this font make my S look big?") and I have to admit that I have since sneaked back for several peeks, like a teenage girl secretly preening before the mirror in her new hairstyle.
Not a bad way to start the new year, digitally-speaking, anyway. A sleek new web page, crispy new gigabytes out the wazoo, and ferociously resilient dual hard drives. Paris Hilton, here I come.
Our four-year-old Compaq has, for some time, been prone to sudden seizures. I can be in the middle of composing a breathtakingly sublime sentence, or opening an email, or surreptitiously sneaking Paris Hilton's name into the Google search bar, when all systems will obstinately and intractably lock up.
As a long time computer user, I have, of course, developed a repertoire of techniques for troubleshooting and solving these sorts of freeze-up situations--techniques that I will graciously share with you now.
First (you might want to take notes here), I grasp the mouse firmly with my right hand and lift it to about eye level. (Those of you who are too short might want to start out at shoulder level. That's fine.) Then I carefully, and with exacting precision, smash the fucking thing on the desk repeatedly like a masturbating monkey while spewing oaths in a red-faced, spittle-drenched fury.
If that doesn't work (and it hasn't yet, but I'll keep you posted), I pick up the keyboard and repeat the procedure. Finally, I yell for Kim (if you don't have a Kim of your own, you'll have to get one--they're available at fine stores everywhere).
"The computer's seized up again!" I'll cry, when she finally appears. I then slam the mouse down a few more times and toss it onto the desk with a theatrical air of resignation, to illustrate just how seized up it is. Then, having satisfied myself that we are all suitably aware of how comprehensively this computer has seized up, I reboot.
On Christmas Eve, the computer seized up again. No surprise there, I just followed the aforementioned protocol and expected to be up and running again. But this time it was different. This time, the machine began making distressingly plaintive gurgling noises, and the reboot didn't work--just a black screen advising me to try a "rescue" procedure. I felt panicky and ashamed. It was like having a hypochondriac friend whom you have been teasing suddenly develop a fatal tumor. Oh my god, you really were sick! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean all those things I said. Please just get better!
And so it was that we arrived, on a bluish wintry evening just after Christmas, on the doorstep of one of Kim's friends-- a friend whose husband happens to be an accomplished professional computer techie guy. We crossed the threshold bearing our sickly CPU like beseeching, supplicating peasants.
It has been said that one of the defining characteristics of modern man is that, unlike his counterparts in, say, the 19th century, whose world consisted of nothing more technologically advanced than a water pump, he does not have even a rudimentary understanding of the workings of many of the devices he uses. A farmer in the 1860s, for instance, knew the purpose of every component of his horse-drawn plow, whereas a businessman in today's world is unlikely to be able to explain how the plane he is sitting in remains aloft. In my case, if I were confined to using only the apparatus whose functionings I could explain, the technology in my world would consist primarily of toothbrushes and paper clips.
All this was brought vividly to mind as I watched Shaun descend upon our computer's innards with practiced ease and stunning alacrity, while I stood by and helpfully held a screwdriver like a gormless twit. He hooked the system up to his monitor, performed a number of operations with a swift clacking of keys, and came up with a definitive diagnosis: our hard drive was in its death throes. The patient didn't have long to live. I won't go in to the details here, largely because I don't understand them, but the upshot of it all is that he was able to devise an emergency life-support system to save our data and then--get this--he offered to procure a new hard drive for us (actually two hard drives,as it turned out) at no charge, from his place of work--some sort of computer-wonderland where entirely serviceable hard drives are evidently routinely discarded like candy wrappers.
A couple of days later our computer received a new heart, which is now performing with admirable gusto. We even got a free upgrade to Windows XP and a housecall visit because--it was discovered--Kim bent the prongs on the monitor cable during reassembly. What can I say--never mind about getting yourself a Kim, find yourself a Shaun.
Speaking of upgrades, sharp-eyed regular visitors to this page of cyber-swill may also notice that my breathtakingly sublime prose has been given a spit shine and a new hat, thanks to the deft ministrations of a bored co-worker--another crackerjack techo witch doctor. (Thanks again, A.J.!) We pilfered an hour or so of company time on Christmas Eve to have the site try on some new ensembles ("does this font make my S look big?") and I have to admit that I have since sneaked back for several peeks, like a teenage girl secretly preening before the mirror in her new hairstyle.
Not a bad way to start the new year, digitally-speaking, anyway. A sleek new web page, crispy new gigabytes out the wazoo, and ferociously resilient dual hard drives. Paris Hilton, here I come.
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