• Fun with labels

    I was picking up Adam from my in-laws’ place after work last week, and Adam had a little picture they gave him. It was a picture depicting Jesus and Mary.

    “Do you have your picture Adam?” my mother-in-law asked as we were leaving. “Yes Memere,” (that French-Canadian thing again) Adam replied.

    Later, as we were backing down the driveway, Adam asked, “why does Memere want me to have this picture so much?”

    Now keep in mind I’m sort of a lapsed Lutheran, but I try really hard to be respectful. Since l wandered off into the wilderness from church, Cheryl has been taking the kids with her and her parents to Mass.

    “Well, maybe it’s because she wants you to be a good Catholic” I replied.

    “But I don’t want to be a Catholic, I want to be a veterinarian.”

    You gotta love my little guy.

  • Irresistible forces

    samoas.pngOnce again it’s cookie season. It’s that time when a clandestine organization spreads out, from sea to shining sea, bringing seemingly innocuous treats to the masses. The organization, code name: “The Girl Scouts,” prey on an unsuspecting public with sweet faces and sweet treats.

    But there’s a dark side to their mission: addiction and control. You see, they may seem like ordinary cookies, but the truth is they’re much more. These “Girl Scouts” cast their cookies like a fishing line, waiting patiently for a hook to set. Like nicotine, heroin, or crack, the unsuspecting public are quickly helpless against the cookies, which overwhelm the senses with the first bite. From then on they’re like a column of Pringles… you can’t just eat one. Without thinking, boxes disappear almost without notice… all due to the thrall of the cookie. People find themselves wandering to the closest grocery store, looking for a dealer waiting just outside the automatic doors. There, they find tables well stocked with several varieties, but all with the same intent: to fatten the American calf.

    We all know what happens to the fatted calf, don’t we?

    Friends, I’m here today to warn you against this growing threat. I too have been a victim. The other night I fell to the Samoas’ spell. What started as an innocent bite turned into a late night binge on cocunut caramel evil.

    Don’t be like me. Resist! Pass the word. Please, for the love of Richard Simmons, don’t take that first bite.

  • Keyboards, revisited

    A while back I questioned the wisdom of the redesigned Apple keyboard, shipping with the (then and now) new iMacs.

    wired_2_20070807.jpg
    The Aluminum Apple Pro Keyboard

    If you’ve been with me for a few years and you’ve got a keen mind (allowing you to remember the most pedestrian of posts from a mediocre blogger) you may recall this post – post chemotherapy. Well since then Apple has gone all bluetooth, all the time… but the look, and more importantly – the feel – has remained the same. I picked up one of the bluetooth beauties to use my MacBook as an occasional “Media PC” in our family room.

    Well, a funny thing happened on the path of querty snobbery. Now I can’t stand typing on anything but the laptop like keyboards. Everything else feels mushy – like my fingers are pushing on keys made soft, sugary beach sand. Take my Dell keyboard at work… please! By contrast, my fingers feel like they take flight on my keyboards at home. My MacBook is a delight. The iMac keyboard (even with the 7 key pried off/broken by a fidgety kid who will remain anonymous – though the name rhymes with death) is crisp. The keys activate with little more than intention. Thoughts become words effortlessly. I love it.

    So I did something I’m not really supposed to do. I connected a personally owned peripheral to a state owned machine. Then the heavens opened and the wrath of God befell my suddenly penitent soul.

    Well, not exactly.

    By the way, I just love the warnings you get working with Windows… like: “Hey but-head! Are you sure you want to use that USB 1.x hub? Your devices would work a lot faster on a USB 2.x port. I know you wouldn’t know a USB port from your a–, so would you like me to hold your hand and show you where your superior ports are?”

    All right. You got me. That’s not a direct quote. This isn’t journalism class. However, I think I’ve captured the attitude written/read between the lines.

    In these cases I like to talk back to my computer. Yes, I know it’s not listening. Fortunately my coworkers and family are. I have quite the reputation to uphold, you know. In this case I replied, “You arrogant piece of plastic garbage, I know damn well what I’m doing. I’m just plugging in my keyboard (Apple’s keyboards often don’t live far from the small footprint of their CPU companions). Just how fracking fast would I have to type to take advantage of that extra bandwidth from USB 2.x? It may feel like my fingers are flying, but no one is that fast, so leave me alone. I know what I’m doing, damn it!”

    Whenever I swear at one of my Macs I feel bad. There are no regrets when it comes to the dark knight of personal computing. Its got it coming.