What do the US presidential election, the summer Olympics, and leap year all have in common? They always occur in the same frequency and in the same year. (Except for leap year, which leaps itself on very rare, but predetermined instances.) Plus they're all scheduled to occur again this year. Before the world ends in December, of course.
So what might be the significance of scheduling seemingly important and generally intriguing events on the same periodic basis? Well, the easiest to pick apart is leap year, which is designed to take up the slack (or make room for it, depending on how you look at it) of approximately 1/4 (0.25) of a day that it takes for the earth to orbit the sun every year. I don't have the exact breakdown handy, but it takes the earth about 365.24... days to orbit the sun every year. After every 4 years, then, unless an extra is added to the calendar, Groundhog's Day would eventually align with the Winter Solstice, which would certainly reinforce the cosmic significance of the day.
What about the summer Olympics? Well, one could speculate that 4 years is an appropriate window of age to permit female gymnasts one lifelong chance at glory, or by contrast one chance at bitter defeat. This could also correspond with the average time required for the International Olympic Committee to pass judgment on which US City can most-deservedly host of the games in 20 years, or if a sympathetic nod should go to any remaining stable country in Asia. More than anything, I bet it is just a pain in the ass to throw a global Olympic competition every year (the quintessential benchmark for periodicity). Nobody would care about the games if they occurred every year, and the allure of celebrating them would diminish. Administratively, the cost would skyrocket and the significance would evaporate. And without public interest or support, what's the benefit? Which leads me to the US presidential election.
What if we had the chance to elect a new president every day? Would you vote? Or even once a month? Who actually has the time to understand the previous commander-in-chief's actions or to entertain a hopeful replacement's in that amount of time? Citizens choose not to vote right now, every 4 years, although that also represents apathy towards the system regardless of election frequency.
The term limit of 4 years, and corresponding re-election cycle, could possibly be arbitrary, but more than likely there is a traceable, rational origin from the Colonial days. And whether or not that origin was also arbitrary is besides the point, since the system that was established has served the country for 2.5 centuries and has not warranted any re-adjustment (not in this particular regard). A nation, like an individual, cannot waste time continually re-evaluating a past decision. Or likewise celebrating or agonizing over a poor one. Nope, those decisions, celebrations, and sob-fests should be capped at some frequency, and since we are naturally creatures of astrology, it only makes sense that our periodic game-changers should occur every 4 years.
It would just be a little more apparent if we scheduled them all for February 29th. (And yes, it is summer then, south of the equator.)
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
Direction
I bet most people, if asked, would say that they prefer to live their lives without direction from outside sources. Freely making choices, discriminately taking advice when offered, and generally not taking orders from anybody or anything.
But all that goes out the window when you're on the road. When physical and time constraints dictate, and there is an obvious lack of pre-existing knowledge, directions are an absolutely necessity. Directions in the form of interstate signs, radio alerts, and flashing emergency lights. And nowadays the customized variety in the form of GPS maps, with real-time response to traffic and location, and nearly complete databases of which avenues are truly one-way.
However, one road sign that I particularly dislike, and which modern GPS receivers do not acknowledge, is the No U-turn directive. It's not that prohibiting the action isn't warranted, it's that this often represents a time when someone is most desperate for recalibration and getting back on the right course. Not only is the helpless driver going in the wrong direction, but they are going in the worst possible wrong direction- the opposite from where they need to be going. And the only person in history who tried to use his to advantage (and still failed) was Christopher Columbus. Yes, he failed.
I get why the signs are needed. Maybe one of the traffic lanes has an extended turn arrow. Or maybe the lane isn't wide enough to permit a zero-point turn. Or maybe it is simply a case of "Hey, this is the only way for traffic to get from A-to-B and everyone does it but the locals don't want it to continue anymore". Which is fine, but you're still screwing over the non-locals and the lost drivers, especially if that really is the only good way to get from A-to-B.
And that is where the no U-turn sign falls short next to other road signs. It just plain doesn't give a shit. It's a honey badger. It's not there to help you get from A-to-B. It's there to tell you what you're not allowed to do. And the Garmins of the world don't help matters either when they recognize that you are going the wrong way yet fail to give you a reasonable set of actions to re-orient. "Recalculating". It's just another way of saying "You're on your own, now, douche-bag."
It can be a racket for police, too. I saw it routinely in my past neighborhood, near an array of parkway on-ramps and one-way streets that would make a Jackson Pollock painting look purposeful. Upon locals taking advantage of creative U-turning during rush hour, one parking lot posted 3 or 4 signs expressly prohibiting it on their property. The result: locals quickly learn that the action is no longer safe, but distressed visitors looking for salvation end up turning into police traps. Thanks locals, for not only setting us up for tickets, but still failing to provide us any reasonable alternatives.
And that is my simple wish. An alternative direction. Something with just a little more information such as "Go 1 block and use the Chick-Fil-A lot." Or "If you really, really need to, then go ahead and turn." And while we're at it, throw in No Parking signs. Basically any signage that expressly prohibits an action that is seemingly very much desired, but then fails to provide any alternative. To just say "no" to something without addressing the underlying need, well, is just irresponsible. And almost certainly a product of the "eh, deal with it yourself" mentality that puts America way behind the Japanese is terms of civil cooperation.
But until we reach that level of social responsibility, how about we just position Chick-Fil-A lots at regular intervals along the highways?
But all that goes out the window when you're on the road. When physical and time constraints dictate, and there is an obvious lack of pre-existing knowledge, directions are an absolutely necessity. Directions in the form of interstate signs, radio alerts, and flashing emergency lights. And nowadays the customized variety in the form of GPS maps, with real-time response to traffic and location, and nearly complete databases of which avenues are truly one-way.
However, one road sign that I particularly dislike, and which modern GPS receivers do not acknowledge, is the No U-turn directive. It's not that prohibiting the action isn't warranted, it's that this often represents a time when someone is most desperate for recalibration and getting back on the right course. Not only is the helpless driver going in the wrong direction, but they are going in the worst possible wrong direction- the opposite from where they need to be going. And the only person in history who tried to use his to advantage (and still failed) was Christopher Columbus. Yes, he failed.
I get why the signs are needed. Maybe one of the traffic lanes has an extended turn arrow. Or maybe the lane isn't wide enough to permit a zero-point turn. Or maybe it is simply a case of "Hey, this is the only way for traffic to get from A-to-B and everyone does it but the locals don't want it to continue anymore". Which is fine, but you're still screwing over the non-locals and the lost drivers, especially if that really is the only good way to get from A-to-B.
And that is where the no U-turn sign falls short next to other road signs. It just plain doesn't give a shit. It's a honey badger. It's not there to help you get from A-to-B. It's there to tell you what you're not allowed to do. And the Garmins of the world don't help matters either when they recognize that you are going the wrong way yet fail to give you a reasonable set of actions to re-orient. "Recalculating". It's just another way of saying "You're on your own, now, douche-bag."
It can be a racket for police, too. I saw it routinely in my past neighborhood, near an array of parkway on-ramps and one-way streets that would make a Jackson Pollock painting look purposeful. Upon locals taking advantage of creative U-turning during rush hour, one parking lot posted 3 or 4 signs expressly prohibiting it on their property. The result: locals quickly learn that the action is no longer safe, but distressed visitors looking for salvation end up turning into police traps. Thanks locals, for not only setting us up for tickets, but still failing to provide us any reasonable alternatives.
And that is my simple wish. An alternative direction. Something with just a little more information such as "Go 1 block and use the Chick-Fil-A lot." Or "If you really, really need to, then go ahead and turn." And while we're at it, throw in No Parking signs. Basically any signage that expressly prohibits an action that is seemingly very much desired, but then fails to provide any alternative. To just say "no" to something without addressing the underlying need, well, is just irresponsible. And almost certainly a product of the "eh, deal with it yourself" mentality that puts America way behind the Japanese is terms of civil cooperation.
But until we reach that level of social responsibility, how about we just position Chick-Fil-A lots at regular intervals along the highways?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Extra Medium
It's funny how stupid shit you laugh and joke about comes around to actually serve a useful purpose. What t-shirt size do you wear? Small, medium, large, XXL? How about extra medium? You know, for when you can't really get too normal, and the average medium just won't cut it?
A young, Italian office Sherpa once used this term in context once during a hallway meeting. His wisdom still graces the walkways of the misspelled Jamison street establishment. It occurred to me then, as it does now, that this term is more than mildly amusing, but extremely versatile. Applicable to t-shirts, it can also be used for specifying a steak order, sizing up a pizza, or jazzing up a description of dull medium-bodied wine.
But today in the shower, where honestly if I believe in anything it's that all great epiphanies arise there, I discovered a truly logical application of the term. One that applies to my initial approach to this blog. I was recalling how Andy Rooney commented, routinely, that he was a writer. Most biographies released near the time of his retirement and passing late last year also captured this aspect as his passion, more-so than his profession. Sure, you can argue that his fame arose not from his writings but from his on-screen ramblings, but it was his written word that led to his career advancement, and to his eventual on-air success.
Woody Allen also began his career as a writer. But upon some arguably overwhelming encouragement, he began testing his wit as a stand-up comedian. Much like Andy Rooney, both thrived on their written word but found more popular success only after testing an alternative entertainment medium. Neither truly abandoned their true passion, and in fact I just approvingly watched Midnight in Paris (film written by Allen) last week. But script or no script, graceful, sweeping shots of Paris at night can elevate any film to "must-see".
Regarding this blog, my original intent was free-form, wait, "What Would Andy Do?" format. But I also like to tinker with both my legal and pirated photo editing software and to create whatever needs to be created. That was largely the basis for creating Senior Obama's portrait (prior to posting a couple days ago- just for fun). Regardless of my goals, semi-ambitions, or any other things that get me off, I realize that a blog is more than freedom of written speech, but also freedom of visual speech. Perhaps Andy, if he lived in this age, would have likewise capitalized on the ease with which one can convincingly depict a goat piloting a hang-glider. Point is, writing is just one tool for expressionism, and one that would have been the most accessible to old Andy or Woody years ago. New tools are available and simple to use today, and these make great complements to the written word. Plus pictures more readily hook interior decorators' attention. (Again, Pinterest blog rules that world.)
So, wrapping up my shower experience, written expression complemented by photos and other media leads to an effective communication, possibly entertaining, technique aptly equating to extra medium. It perhaps isn't even a new term, and I will exercise restraint in not Googling it since that is the most devastating form of crushing originality. In 2 seconds you can find that not only were you not the first to think of something, but 185,000 other people have, as well. But this one isn't about originality. It's about versatility. And being normal. And all the things that people who comfortably wear small or XXL t-shirts wish they could claim.
That's what Andy embodies. And that's what made him so fucking extra normal and awesome.
A young, Italian office Sherpa once used this term in context once during a hallway meeting. His wisdom still graces the walkways of the misspelled Jamison street establishment. It occurred to me then, as it does now, that this term is more than mildly amusing, but extremely versatile. Applicable to t-shirts, it can also be used for specifying a steak order, sizing up a pizza, or jazzing up a description of dull medium-bodied wine.
But today in the shower, where honestly if I believe in anything it's that all great epiphanies arise there, I discovered a truly logical application of the term. One that applies to my initial approach to this blog. I was recalling how Andy Rooney commented, routinely, that he was a writer. Most biographies released near the time of his retirement and passing late last year also captured this aspect as his passion, more-so than his profession. Sure, you can argue that his fame arose not from his writings but from his on-screen ramblings, but it was his written word that led to his career advancement, and to his eventual on-air success.
Woody Allen also began his career as a writer. But upon some arguably overwhelming encouragement, he began testing his wit as a stand-up comedian. Much like Andy Rooney, both thrived on their written word but found more popular success only after testing an alternative entertainment medium. Neither truly abandoned their true passion, and in fact I just approvingly watched Midnight in Paris (film written by Allen) last week. But script or no script, graceful, sweeping shots of Paris at night can elevate any film to "must-see".
Regarding this blog, my original intent was free-form, wait, "What Would Andy Do?" format. But I also like to tinker with both my legal and pirated photo editing software and to create whatever needs to be created. That was largely the basis for creating Senior Obama's portrait (prior to posting a couple days ago- just for fun). Regardless of my goals, semi-ambitions, or any other things that get me off, I realize that a blog is more than freedom of written speech, but also freedom of visual speech. Perhaps Andy, if he lived in this age, would have likewise capitalized on the ease with which one can convincingly depict a goat piloting a hang-glider. Point is, writing is just one tool for expressionism, and one that would have been the most accessible to old Andy or Woody years ago. New tools are available and simple to use today, and these make great complements to the written word. Plus pictures more readily hook interior decorators' attention. (Again, Pinterest blog rules that world.)
So, wrapping up my shower experience, written expression complemented by photos and other media leads to an effective communication, possibly entertaining, technique aptly equating to extra medium. It perhaps isn't even a new term, and I will exercise restraint in not Googling it since that is the most devastating form of crushing originality. In 2 seconds you can find that not only were you not the first to think of something, but 185,000 other people have, as well. But this one isn't about originality. It's about versatility. And being normal. And all the things that people who comfortably wear small or XXL t-shirts wish they could claim.
That's what Andy embodies. And that's what made him so fucking extra normal and awesome.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Clutter
I won a raffle over the holiday. No, not for a car, or a Visa gift card, or a weekend sauna. No, this one was for a "free 3-hour decluttering and organizing session"! Honest. I can't possibly find any trace of that under any rock or pebble in the Land of Make Believe. But then again, that place was always fairly neat and organized.
Apparently I entered the raffle at a local craft show a couple weeks ago. It's one of those things where when you walk around and mingle with other wishful entrepreneurs, you innocently sign petitions, enter drawings, and take a free Tootsie Roll just to affirm your new camaraderie. I actually did the same thing over the summer at a Chili Fest and that one paid off with an eventual $50 gift certificate to a vegan deli. Trust me, their chili was fantastic, and I was looking forward to enjoying more of it, except the certificates made great gifts (it's not a re-gift if you won it).
I expect most people, like myself, cannot readily assign a dollar value to a free 3-hour decluttering session. But thankfully, the prize includes this valuation. In the spirit or barter, something I've always admired in principle but not so much in practice, you can equate this prize to any of the following:
So what does one do with a 3-hour decluttering session? From the sound of it, it equates to throwing shit out. This is a necessary part of everyday life anyway, and if it wasn't then our homes would be stuffed with junk mail, Coke cans, and kitty litter. But clutter implies semi-important papers and goods, things that at one time we thought would be valuable, and then they sit around, collect dust, and over time we find that they are worthless pieces of crap that need to go. I'm fine with classifying my waste as clutter, and even throwing it out on occasion on my own terms (and without any gentle coaching, free for 3 hours or otherwise). But "decluttering" just sounds like a painful, time-intensive, extraction of goods from all the valuable aspects of your life. Much like declawing a cat.
My natural response to winning to the prized decluttering session is "No thanks", but given the amount of time that has transpired since I entered the drawing, I imagine that several other winners have already passed on the opportunity. Plus, the notification email suggests other valued alternatives to claiming the decluttering session, including optionally a "free Time Awareness Session", or some other timed phone call consults. This further leads me to conclude that nobody really even wants the damn decluttering session. Instead, I bet everyone wants the $225 check, or even just half of that in equivalent cheeseburgers. But how do you say "No thanks" without ruining the new kindred craft friendship, especially if it's possible you're the last one on the winners list? I have no clue.
And so, like most other "eh, I'm not really sure what to do with this" messages, electronic or from the Land of Physicality, it will likely forever just sit around as an initially valued offer but ultimately worthless piece of crap that needs to go.
Apparently I entered the raffle at a local craft show a couple weeks ago. It's one of those things where when you walk around and mingle with other wishful entrepreneurs, you innocently sign petitions, enter drawings, and take a free Tootsie Roll just to affirm your new camaraderie. I actually did the same thing over the summer at a Chili Fest and that one paid off with an eventual $50 gift certificate to a vegan deli. Trust me, their chili was fantastic, and I was looking forward to enjoying more of it, except the certificates made great gifts (it's not a re-gift if you won it).
I expect most people, like myself, cannot readily assign a dollar value to a free 3-hour decluttering session. But thankfully, the prize includes this valuation. In the spirit or barter, something I've always admired in principle but not so much in practice, you can equate this prize to any of the following:
- 135 happy hour beers at Mahaffey's (best craft selection/deal around)
- 5 months rental of a storage locker
- about 15 chicken parmigiana dinners at Olive Garden (the OG, for short)
- 225 Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers at Wendy's
So what does one do with a 3-hour decluttering session? From the sound of it, it equates to throwing shit out. This is a necessary part of everyday life anyway, and if it wasn't then our homes would be stuffed with junk mail, Coke cans, and kitty litter. But clutter implies semi-important papers and goods, things that at one time we thought would be valuable, and then they sit around, collect dust, and over time we find that they are worthless pieces of crap that need to go. I'm fine with classifying my waste as clutter, and even throwing it out on occasion on my own terms (and without any gentle coaching, free for 3 hours or otherwise). But "decluttering" just sounds like a painful, time-intensive, extraction of goods from all the valuable aspects of your life. Much like declawing a cat.
My natural response to winning to the prized decluttering session is "No thanks", but given the amount of time that has transpired since I entered the drawing, I imagine that several other winners have already passed on the opportunity. Plus, the notification email suggests other valued alternatives to claiming the decluttering session, including optionally a "free Time Awareness Session", or some other timed phone call consults. This further leads me to conclude that nobody really even wants the damn decluttering session. Instead, I bet everyone wants the $225 check, or even just half of that in equivalent cheeseburgers. But how do you say "No thanks" without ruining the new kindred craft friendship, especially if it's possible you're the last one on the winners list? I have no clue.
And so, like most other "eh, I'm not really sure what to do with this" messages, electronic or from the Land of Physicality, it will likely forever just sit around as an initially valued offer but ultimately worthless piece of crap that needs to go.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
MexWeCan
There's a little Mexican joint in the neighborhood that pays homage to the local beer icon: Natty Boh Man. The one-eyed, handlebar-mustached, monochromatic symbol is everywhere in this town, and everyone from kids to legal drinking age adults celebrate his presence. He even watches down over the harbor in the form of a 50-ft caricature, aptly situated atop the Natty Boh Tower.
The place is called Nacho Mama's. And the name, in part, is shared by the co-owned Mama's on the Half Shell, a neighboring establishment that specializes in, well, oyster shells and their disposal. I'm not exactly sure what Mama's have to do with either of these places, other than the fact that phonetically the names ring pleasant. Plus Mama always serves up great, comforting food. Note: Both eateries are actually fronted by an Irishman, (the subsequently late) Scunny McCusker, a well-respected icon in his own right. "A big teddy bear" for the community, a local bar owner once lamented.
Nacho Mama's prides itself on standard Mexican fare, but really, how many ways can you exotically wrap 5 different ingredients? They also offer an indulging margarita that fills a makeshift hubcap, a volume probably intended for sharing. But the food takes a backseat to the all-American tribute inside: Elvis. A modest palace for a King, with paintings, statues, and everything Elvis, occasionally in a poncho, of course
So naturally, with a Mama's theme, a tribute to The King, and burritos and hubcaps served up inside, Nacho Mama's logo is... well, it's NOT a dancing tamale. And thankfully, so. Instead, it's the community persona Natty Boh Man, tastefully adorning a sombrero.
It's funny especially since I have not made lack of sense of this combination until now. Natty Boh Man has so permeated everything in this town that it is generally acceptable to see him in every storefront. But here is a place that does not actually brew the beer, just sells it, capitalizing on its popular cult status. And it works. This is a joint built on pop favorites. Simple, to the point, and fun. You wouldn't put a Natty Boh Man on a classy steak house. But like a mascot in a college town, you can certainly dress up an eclectic pizza joint with cheerleading lions. Both hubs are exactly that, gathering spots, a common ground for everyone in the community to unite, regardless of their personal differences. And what better symbol for the community than a throwback to the Bohemian blue-collar man, himself?
But back to the margaritas.
After sipping a couple of those and staring at the promotional gear behind the bar, the Nacho Mama's name morphs slightly to reference another great Bohemian/Mexican. And a new facade begins to take shape. Perhaps not a cult favorite to the extent of his one-eyed Bohemian predecessor, but clearly a popular figure.
Was it a product of hanging out in such a proud community establishment? Or from a sippy sip of tequila (I doubt it)? No, I chalk it up to one of the most successful branding campaigns of the last century. As well as a consequence of the warming political climate.
In which case we all better start adjusting to the tastes of Mexico.
The place is called Nacho Mama's. And the name, in part, is shared by the co-owned Mama's on the Half Shell, a neighboring establishment that specializes in, well, oyster shells and their disposal. I'm not exactly sure what Mama's have to do with either of these places, other than the fact that phonetically the names ring pleasant. Plus Mama always serves up great, comforting food. Note: Both eateries are actually fronted by an Irishman, (the subsequently late) Scunny McCusker, a well-respected icon in his own right. "A big teddy bear" for the community, a local bar owner once lamented.
Nacho Mama's prides itself on standard Mexican fare, but really, how many ways can you exotically wrap 5 different ingredients? They also offer an indulging margarita that fills a makeshift hubcap, a volume probably intended for sharing. But the food takes a backseat to the all-American tribute inside: Elvis. A modest palace for a King, with paintings, statues, and everything Elvis, occasionally in a poncho, of course
So naturally, with a Mama's theme, a tribute to The King, and burritos and hubcaps served up inside, Nacho Mama's logo is... well, it's NOT a dancing tamale. And thankfully, so. Instead, it's the community persona Natty Boh Man, tastefully adorning a sombrero.
It's funny especially since I have not made lack of sense of this combination until now. Natty Boh Man has so permeated everything in this town that it is generally acceptable to see him in every storefront. But here is a place that does not actually brew the beer, just sells it, capitalizing on its popular cult status. And it works. This is a joint built on pop favorites. Simple, to the point, and fun. You wouldn't put a Natty Boh Man on a classy steak house. But like a mascot in a college town, you can certainly dress up an eclectic pizza joint with cheerleading lions. Both hubs are exactly that, gathering spots, a common ground for everyone in the community to unite, regardless of their personal differences. And what better symbol for the community than a throwback to the Bohemian blue-collar man, himself?
But back to the margaritas.
After sipping a couple of those and staring at the promotional gear behind the bar, the Nacho Mama's name morphs slightly to reference another great Bohemian/Mexican. And a new facade begins to take shape. Perhaps not a cult favorite to the extent of his one-eyed Bohemian predecessor, but clearly a popular figure.
Was it a product of hanging out in such a proud community establishment? Or from a sippy sip of tequila (I doubt it)? No, I chalk it up to one of the most successful branding campaigns of the last century. As well as a consequence of the warming political climate.
In which case we all better start adjusting to the tastes of Mexico.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Karma
So, an array of topics have presented themselves since yesterday. There is the one that I will share in a moment, then there are a few others with less omnipresence. In a nutshell, the potential topics included discovering my car trunk wide open on the street this morning, admiring heavy-ass train cars as they delayed my lunch field trip, and discovering Pinterest as a far more contagious form of social blogging than writing. But none of this trumps a possible witness to a higher power, if you believe in that sort of thing.
Late yesterday, after posting the pilot Rooney fodder, I dutifully broke out my laptop and began working on one of several wishful design projects. Coincidentally, I observed NFL highlights as they occurred in real-time.
At one point my Superman step-dad, 250 miles away, called with an audio-visual equipment question. No, he doesn't possess any heroic powers, but rather he symbolizes, in my mind, what a convincing Superman alter ego really should be. Clark Kent is tall, dashing, intelligent (clearly, since he is a writer), and oh-by-the-way just a pair of glasses and a cape shy of being Kal-El. If Superman wanted to fool everyone, he should have played a street corner beggar, or better yet an elderly woman. Who would ever suspect these characters of possessing superhuman powers, let alone actually being a man? Now my step-father is neither a beggar nor a cross-dresser, but he does lack some trademark Superman qualities, more so than Clark Kent, and for those reasons I just know that I would be completely fooled if he rescued a bus full of screaming children from a collapsing bridge someday. That aside, back to reality.
Over the summer I upgraded his 27" tube TV with my 42" flatscreen. The change, nominally 15 inches on some dimension, introduced a second remote control to the entire operating sequence. Fearing his alter ego would not comprehend the added complexity, and having learned the pros of preparedness from years of experience, I drew up an instruction guide for him. It covered everything and included visuals, Granny-legible fonts, and even emergency operating instructions (basically to call me). Implementation appeared flawless. And minus a couple brief Help Desk calls I've tended since then, everything worked well and I've been able to easily resolve any remote issues, well, remotely.
Until yesterday. Like every prior viewing issue, the desired image would not appear. However, this time around, I couldn't reason what sequence of remote operations he may had introduced to cause the failure- and therefore I couldn't figure how the hell to fix it.
"Try pushing the PIP button."
"Pee... I... Peeeee?"
"Yes, it's a little round button at the bottom of the gray remote."
"Pee... I... Pee?"
"Yes, press it."
"Nnnnope, didn't work. Pee-I-Pee, right?"
And repeat, for nearly an hour.
Nothing worked. It was impossible. Nothing was going to fix this issue and get the 60's music station back up and running on this television unless I drove 4 hours and fixed it myself. And worst of all I would be expected to support continued emergency phone calls until I did so.
Then, unexpectedly, my step-dad suggested we cut the call short, without a solution. Perhaps, like me, he reached his fill of unfulfilled hope. Or maybe he saw a virtue in giving up. More logically I suspected he need to get to his uncle's in short time. In any case, this wasn't my preference as I could foresee having to relive some or all of this fruitless exercise again until I drove home and fixed the damn thing.
But, as luck, or some other force would have it, right before hanging up, the image re-appeared! Yes, with no logical or otherwise intelligible basis, the image just re-appeared. No cause-and-corrective actions. No back-pocket para-remedies like "try a cold reboot". Just fixed.
And, after some gentle coaching, so did the volume. It was simply turned down.
Now, I don't normally subscribe to superstition, or to popularly held beliefs, or to karma. But something seems off when considering that just a few hours prior yesterday I began the very first Rooney blog by bashing TV. Then I tend a freak, hour-long Sunday phone call to solve a TV viewing issue, only to find it more a test of wits, without hope. The issue, then, somehow magically solves itself.
Maybe a higher power was at work. Maybe Superman dabbles in retribution once in while on behalf of the networks. Personally, I think it was old Andy screwing with me, particularly given my comments during his time slot. Whether that equates to karma or not, I think it's fair to say we're now even.
But the timely acknowledgment of his displeasure is, as always, well-received. And respect for his voice is ever more greatly returned.
Late yesterday, after posting the pilot Rooney fodder, I dutifully broke out my laptop and began working on one of several wishful design projects. Coincidentally, I observed NFL highlights as they occurred in real-time.
At one point my Superman step-dad, 250 miles away, called with an audio-visual equipment question. No, he doesn't possess any heroic powers, but rather he symbolizes, in my mind, what a convincing Superman alter ego really should be. Clark Kent is tall, dashing, intelligent (clearly, since he is a writer), and oh-by-the-way just a pair of glasses and a cape shy of being Kal-El. If Superman wanted to fool everyone, he should have played a street corner beggar, or better yet an elderly woman. Who would ever suspect these characters of possessing superhuman powers, let alone actually being a man? Now my step-father is neither a beggar nor a cross-dresser, but he does lack some trademark Superman qualities, more so than Clark Kent, and for those reasons I just know that I would be completely fooled if he rescued a bus full of screaming children from a collapsing bridge someday. That aside, back to reality.
Over the summer I upgraded his 27" tube TV with my 42" flatscreen. The change, nominally 15 inches on some dimension, introduced a second remote control to the entire operating sequence. Fearing his alter ego would not comprehend the added complexity, and having learned the pros of preparedness from years of experience, I drew up an instruction guide for him. It covered everything and included visuals, Granny-legible fonts, and even emergency operating instructions (basically to call me). Implementation appeared flawless. And minus a couple brief Help Desk calls I've tended since then, everything worked well and I've been able to easily resolve any remote issues, well, remotely.
Until yesterday. Like every prior viewing issue, the desired image would not appear. However, this time around, I couldn't reason what sequence of remote operations he may had introduced to cause the failure- and therefore I couldn't figure how the hell to fix it.
"Try pushing the PIP button."
"Pee... I... Peeeee?"
"Yes, it's a little round button at the bottom of the gray remote."
"Pee... I... Pee?"
"Yes, press it."
"Nnnnope, didn't work. Pee-I-Pee, right?"
And repeat, for nearly an hour.
Nothing worked. It was impossible. Nothing was going to fix this issue and get the 60's music station back up and running on this television unless I drove 4 hours and fixed it myself. And worst of all I would be expected to support continued emergency phone calls until I did so.
Then, unexpectedly, my step-dad suggested we cut the call short, without a solution. Perhaps, like me, he reached his fill of unfulfilled hope. Or maybe he saw a virtue in giving up. More logically I suspected he need to get to his uncle's in short time. In any case, this wasn't my preference as I could foresee having to relive some or all of this fruitless exercise again until I drove home and fixed the damn thing.
But, as luck, or some other force would have it, right before hanging up, the image re-appeared! Yes, with no logical or otherwise intelligible basis, the image just re-appeared. No cause-and-corrective actions. No back-pocket para-remedies like "try a cold reboot". Just fixed.
And, after some gentle coaching, so did the volume. It was simply turned down.
Now, I don't normally subscribe to superstition, or to popularly held beliefs, or to karma. But something seems off when considering that just a few hours prior yesterday I began the very first Rooney blog by bashing TV. Then I tend a freak, hour-long Sunday phone call to solve a TV viewing issue, only to find it more a test of wits, without hope. The issue, then, somehow magically solves itself.
Maybe a higher power was at work. Maybe Superman dabbles in retribution once in while on behalf of the networks. Personally, I think it was old Andy screwing with me, particularly given my comments during his time slot. Whether that equates to karma or not, I think it's fair to say we're now even.
But the timely acknowledgment of his displeasure is, as always, well-received. And respect for his voice is ever more greatly returned.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Motivation
Just like anything else these days, writing a blog doesn't come easy. Sure there are free sites to use and plenty of topics to choose from. But mustering up the motivation to start one can seem daunting. Perhaps it's the fear of failure, of starting something then quitting it, that inhibits incarnations. Or maybe it's finding the absolute perfect time to begin, when the mind can freely express itself, that proves just barely elusive.
An introspective geek, I honestly have no clue why I haven't previously started (and maintained) a blog. It's crossed my mind on several occasions, especially when I've felt the need to voice my personal discourse with whatever topical headlines are "ruining the America I grew up with!" We live with relative expressive freedom, and, thanks to technology, are cursed with the ability to instantly express ourselves to the world.
Mostly I think I'm lazy. And unmotivated. Why else would someone not jump at the opportunity to speak/write freely? Even though the audience may forever be small, who cares? As long as it's fun and to-the-point then as a minimum it could be entertaining. And at worst, perhaps therapeutic (for me).
Motivation is a huge factor, as well. Which gets back to the main point of this first edition print. I just explained to my girlfriend, as I was brainstorming my blockbuster movie idea, that I was experiencing a pinnacle of motivation this beautiful, early Sunday afternoon on January 1, 2012. Not only was I fueled by the normal "can-do" Sunday spirit, but I also rode a "Resolution" high that normally comes with New Year's Day. The only drawback, which I've clearly recognized on a regular basis in the past, was the TV. Sunday football had just begun and I could no longer focus on my new-found goals for the year, let alone day. So, I turned it off, and initiated the blog.
While I can count on Chinese New Year's and the NBA-playoffs to keep me motivated and focused on getting shit done, it's the remaining down time where I expect to need a good plan to stay focused. As my old boss used to say, "People don't plan to fail, they fail to plan." (unclear of exact etymology). For me, it's fairly obvious that the TV is my biggest enemy. I could track how much time I waste in front of it, but that would only serve to quantify my wanton decay. Nope, I know I just need to turn it off more often (C'mon Man, there's still some good reasons to watch!).
So for now, riding high this tidal wave of ambition, the fascination is not so much with the origins of motivation, but recognizing where it clearly is not. And I know for a fact that I have never left a television trance and headed straight for a successful undertaking. Not once in my 30+ years of experience.
Well, this is a pretty good start for a blog, I conclude. Plus there are some big games coming on soon with huge playoff implications. I'd like to sum up this post with a shout-out to any future potential followers. Walt Whitman once declared "To be a great poet, you need a great audience." (Just don't over-think that one or it turns into the classic chicken and the egg dilemma.)
An introspective geek, I honestly have no clue why I haven't previously started (and maintained) a blog. It's crossed my mind on several occasions, especially when I've felt the need to voice my personal discourse with whatever topical headlines are "ruining the America I grew up with!" We live with relative expressive freedom, and, thanks to technology, are cursed with the ability to instantly express ourselves to the world.
Mostly I think I'm lazy. And unmotivated. Why else would someone not jump at the opportunity to speak/write freely? Even though the audience may forever be small, who cares? As long as it's fun and to-the-point then as a minimum it could be entertaining. And at worst, perhaps therapeutic (for me).
Motivation is a huge factor, as well. Which gets back to the main point of this first edition print. I just explained to my girlfriend, as I was brainstorming my blockbuster movie idea, that I was experiencing a pinnacle of motivation this beautiful, early Sunday afternoon on January 1, 2012. Not only was I fueled by the normal "can-do" Sunday spirit, but I also rode a "Resolution" high that normally comes with New Year's Day. The only drawback, which I've clearly recognized on a regular basis in the past, was the TV. Sunday football had just begun and I could no longer focus on my new-found goals for the year, let alone day. So, I turned it off, and initiated the blog.
While I can count on Chinese New Year's and the NBA-playoffs to keep me motivated and focused on getting shit done, it's the remaining down time where I expect to need a good plan to stay focused. As my old boss used to say, "People don't plan to fail, they fail to plan." (unclear of exact etymology). For me, it's fairly obvious that the TV is my biggest enemy. I could track how much time I waste in front of it, but that would only serve to quantify my wanton decay. Nope, I know I just need to turn it off more often (C'mon Man, there's still some good reasons to watch!).
So for now, riding high this tidal wave of ambition, the fascination is not so much with the origins of motivation, but recognizing where it clearly is not. And I know for a fact that I have never left a television trance and headed straight for a successful undertaking. Not once in my 30+ years of experience.
Well, this is a pretty good start for a blog, I conclude. Plus there are some big games coming on soon with huge playoff implications. I'd like to sum up this post with a shout-out to any future potential followers. Walt Whitman once declared "To be a great poet, you need a great audience." (Just don't over-think that one or it turns into the classic chicken and the egg dilemma.)
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