Angie got a phone today
So, after deciding rightly not to go to Wild Waves water park with a sick family — Angie and I had a half daddy/daughter day and got her a phone.
We got the Motorola Rival in “purplish.”
We thought about other phones, but she wanted one that “did something” … a phrase she’d been using for some time that I finally figured out today. She meant she wanted a phone that flipped or slid or clicked or something — she doesn’t necessarily care so much about the added applications (she cares about some of them, yes) — she first and foremost wanted it to well … DO something.
My vote was for this one because I believe she will be a texter. We got it down to two phones. I flipped a coin and when it was decided, I asked her immediately — “are you happy or sad that it went that way?” She was happy, so we knew we had the right phone. If she’d been disappointed, we’d have gotten the other one 
Of course — once we had it registered, she made her first phone call to her best friend, Gabby. They talked for 31 minutes (and I took the opportunity to show her how to read how many minutes she was using up, gotta start ‘em early).
We walked around for a while, got an Orange Julius and headed home. When we got home, I texted her that I’d had a good time.
Later in the evening — I reminded her that I’m a Wizard by trade and if she wanted any ringtones (shoutout to Hillary), I could put them on her phone for her. After about 50 entire nanoseconds of delay, she said, “The Mario Theme” … which we happen to have in iTunes because she wanted it on her iPod a while back.
So — after a little fussing with iTunes, and then Audacity, a sound editing package — I basically got the first 15 seconds of Mario onto her phone as a ringtone… then I called her to confirm the sound.
The smile on her face when it worked was probably the best part of the day for me.
Mob, do my bidding
I was standing in the ferry line yesterday, during rush hour, and decided to do a little headcount.
I realized that there was a small crowd of about 200 people, just standing there, waiting for the little light to go ding and allow us to all go through the little metal turnstiles. Even though the boat had docked and the only thing beyond the turnstiles was two plastic traffic cones, the entire crowd was standing still because that’s what you’re supposed to do.
I got into a frame of mind to look at the folks, do a little people watching. It was kind of fun to see the various body types, heights, weights, seeming intellects — all standing in the same direction like an army of civilized zombies.
…an army of civilized zombies…
I then got to thinking about how great it would be if I had a little machine, perhaps the size of an iPhone, or better yet — an app on my iPhone — maybe call it iZombie.
What this app would do is take over the minds of these zombie mobs — and allow me to have them do my will. Just think of the things we could get accomplished if we had iZombie.
Of course, my first beta test would be to have that particular zombie mob just leap over the turnstiles and move onto the boat. No violence, no taking over the bridge — just a huge crowd of people who, as a mass, decide to go onto the ship now and take their seats — what could anybody do? Odds are pretty good that after a little fuss — the ferry would just leave and maybe there’d be a short story in the paper about the crowd that got away.
Well, once I had my iZombie tested, I’d go into all sorts of places and get my mobs to do fantastic things to make the world a better place.
I could go to ballgames. I’d take over the stadium — and when a strong hitter for the other team was up at bat, I’d just have the entire mob stand up, all at once and go completely silent — of course the first time it would freak out the pitcher on our team — but after a few rounds — I expect our team would realize the zombie master was on their side and we’d always win! I could make the wave seem like child’s play — we’d write out words in the ripple — we’d all move down to the edge of the field and yell “woogie woogie”, and then go back to our seats in an orderly fashion. We’d all get up at once and turn our backs on the field. My favorite would be when, just as the ball was leaving the pitcher’s hand, the entire stadium yells in unison, “Miss!” I don’t think anybody’d want to play us anymore.
After the game, of course, I’d have to deal with the zombies as they head out into traffic and onto the sidewalks. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I’d likely keep from the strong temptation of having them do the “parting of the Red Sea” bit so I could cut through quickly — since any official would notice it was me walking, like Moses, through the opening. Then again — if the cops chased me — I could also do the “closing of the Red Sea” bit as well … worked on the Egyptians…
Later, I’d head by Hemp Fest — which is a ripe place to gather crowds of zombies. The great thing about that is I wouldn’t even need to waste batteries running iZombie — I could just drive around in circles yelling “free chocolate covered potato chips around that corner” until I’d gathered enough zombies.
Then I’d go to Pike Place market … I’d have the zombies all line up around the fish market chanting “drop it, drop it” until the fish throwers couldn’t take it anymore and left. I’d use the abandoned fish to feed sushi to my mob — since you can’t ever be too careful with the care and feeding of a good zombie mob.
Having had my fill of tormenting retailers — I’d take my zombie mob to the movies. We’d all just crowd in, stand at concession and I’d have my mob jump up and down yelling “we’re popcorn, we’re popcorn” … we’d do that to gather the attention of the zombies working behind the counter … Then, once the movie staff was ready, I’d have them all stand completely still — and have them sing “Give us popcorn and soda for free” to the tune of God Bless America. Addled, I expect the concession and ticket zombies would just be absorbed. Of course, I’d be right in there too — getting my popcorn and pretending I’m a zombie… and then the iZombie mob would take me to my free movie.
The hardest part of course would be dealing with the press. Eventually they’d come along and figure out that something strange was happening in Seattle — that the zombies were clumping — that a new economy was evolving. If I was lucky enough — we’d attract national attention — which of course … would create a press mob, which I could then capture and make do my bidding.
I think the first thing I’d have the press do is report that Seattle had discovered a way to generate gold out of sea air and sand … that would likely attract a sufficiently massive number of zombies from all around the country, packing the streets… and my master plan would be underway.
First, I’d gather a small clump of zombies, maybe five hundred to a thousand — and I’d have them go to the nearest AT&T store and pack it full so nobody could move.I’d leave them there, and fill a new store every hour; going from store to store (being carried on the shoulders of small groups of zombie masses, of course) packing them and chanting “AT&T is run by zombies”.
Finally, I’d gather a few thousand zombies and head to the AT&T center in Carillon Point. Once there, the zombies would march around the building, silently. I’d have one zombie monitoring the news on CNN.com on her iPhone — and I’d be off, leaving them in auto-loop with my one zombie monitoring for my signal.
So now I’d need my first major zombie army … about 100,000 zombies. I’d head downtown, which is now full of gold-seeking American zombies, and I’d have them pack the streets tight, stopping traffic. They’d chant “zombie power” over and over while standing completely still (except for the fake zombies who all wear tie-dye and play hackysack on the outskirts of my mob — we can just ignore them, they’re always harmless).
With the city locked chock-o-block with zombies, I’d stand on the roof of my own home and have my press zombies post a brief article that heightened RF in the air, turned all the way up, would overcome the zombie epidemic. They would all write the same story in all their papers, news shows, and blogs — about the relationship between Radio Frequencies and zombification.
CNN of course would pick up the story and it would go to the front page — where my remote zombie (the one with the iPhone) would read it and immediately command my AT&T chant zombies to chant that AT&T must not raise tower signal in Seattle, as they circle the AT&T building in a tight pack.
AT&T would of course turn the towers up out of fear — and presto — I now have enough signal from my iPhone to capture millions of zombies and take over the entire state …
…but instead, I’d just turn off iZombie and make a phonecall — because now my iPhone would work.
That’s what I’d do if I could make these zombies respond to me … then maybe I’d head to Washington, D.C. … I hear they have a lot of powerful zombies there.
A parable of a tree
The Lord gave me a Word today –
“A man planted a tree and went away.
While he was gone, as the tree grew, other people came and painted the tree, and carved their names into it, and made it look strange, and not like a tree.
But when Spring came, every year, the tree bore fruit just the same, despite it’s strange exterior.
Was this tree not obeying its Master, in spite of what others would do?”
Bear the fruit that God has planned for you to bear, regardless of what others think or tell you.
You belong to God and He has a plan for you.
Stupid people thinking — a review of Inglorious Basterds
Let me be brief — I didn’t like Inglorious Basterds.
Aside from the fact that it failed to keep me suspended in the story — what I loathed the most was watching the audience of Americans giggle when scalps are cut off of dead men, or when swastikas are carved (ever so graphically in a Tarantino “style” I like to call “don’t tell anybody I’m a closet S&M sufferer”) into people’s heads before being set free. Nice touch that.
The laughter of my neighbors as a man is bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat was especially galling.
But so what — my opinion doesn’t matter until I open my blog with the right name. Until then — I’m just a man with some values who doesn’t like to see suffering sold as humor.
That’s not my point.
My point is that I went over to Rotten Tomatoes to understand why they’d given it an 86%… and I got a chance to see who’s minding the store.
Aside from the pathetic attempts at intellectualism that is reviews like The Flick Chick (I’m especially impressed with her use of not only the word “pastiche”, but also “trope” — well done, little mind) … there’s an evident lack of understanding globally as to what constitutes good film.
Did anybody happen to see the ironic commentary that Tarantino was making (yes, Quentin, I think you’re a pig — but you’re not an idiot pig) regarding a theater full of Nazis cheering repetitive displays of gratuitous violence? That was the (help me out here “Flick Chick”, I need a big word) denouement of the story — the interposition of symbolic vectors converging to present the artificial catharsis of an otherwise under-represented sub-class through … oh shut up.
It’s a movie written by a violence lover about angry people who carve up other people — but they’re wearing the white hats, so the ignorant masses cheer.
It’s a movie written by a violence lover about Americans cutting people up so the real Americans in the audience can cheer.
It’s a movie about Americans celebrating violence.
It’s a movie about Americans.
By the way, the Nazis were the ones in the theater cheering… wait — which theater?
Wait — shhhhh… listen to this part…
So what is the etiquette for sharing music with friends? Maybe what I really mean is, what is the etiquette for grownups? I understand that kids run around sharing ear grease while they tether themselves in pairs to iPods with the same set of headphones — but aside from that ABC sort of body goo swapping — how do you share a song, one-on-one, without feeling like you’re suddenly trapped in a room with someone you used to like while a song you will never like plays on forever?
For example, earlier today, I sat down with some friends, and the topic of a song came up. I happened to be able to pull it up on my iPhone (after buying it, losing it, then wandering around for five minutes trying to find it — thank you Apple) … anyway …
So I pulled up the song, which had been suggested by one friend for the other, and we started listening together on the phone’s speaker, which was satisfactory for hearing lyrics. Of course, we did what most normal people do when you’re listening to a single song together as a form of conversation — we sat awkwardly, arms crossed, kind of trying not to look into each other’s eyes. I found that looking off in the distance through the window was helpful, as well as pretending I was just the iPhone operator — that made it seem like I had something to do — and I didn’t actually have much of a stake in this particular song because I was neither the suggestor, nor the recipient. I was just the Apple-ready DJ.
Perhaps it was the fact that there were three of us — or maybe the fact that we weren’t really talking about the song — but that situation wasn’t bad at all — we basically enjoyed ourselves.
But I assure you — the one-on-one song share is a completely different creature.
I think the first thing that makes it so difficult for normal people to share a song is that it’s so very, very intimate. Music represents your soul, it indicates what you secretly eat, and who you really voted for when nobody was looking — it’s your auditory underwear … and while you may think it’s beautiful lingerie — I might think it’s a stanky pair of old tighty whities — or even worse — I may just not want to see your lingerie at all, you know?
When that semi-drunk buddy comes up and tells you that he wants you to listen to this incredible bit of music, it’s a little bit like asking you to head down to the gym just so you two can take a shower together. Under some rare circumstances, you could possibly numb yourself to such a shared shower nudity (perhaps if you had just played a few rounds of squash together, or signed up for the military) — but not when the invitation is specifically for that purpose. Offering to share a song with me when we’re alone is like asking me to take my clothes off — or at least watch you take yours off – while pretending that it’s ok … like undoing your pants in the living room in order to tuck in your shirt. Sharing music one-on-one is not ok.
Now, not all shared music circumstances are too much. Of course we rule out clubs, concerts, and dances, because those are really just massive rutting fests of musical orgy anyway, aren’t they? Or, let’s say I walk in on you, and you’re listening to some interesting song — that’s ok too… as long as we can pretend you’re not naked — we can just ignore it and discuss other things while your intimacy just plays on (and on and on) in the background … but God help you if you suddenly reach out and turn up the volume and turn with a smile and ask me what I think of this song.
I’ll be forced to admit that you’re in the musical buff, and maybe I think you’re kinda ugly naked… or are you expecting me to strip down too and enjoy the song with you — when did I ask for that? I was just going to ask you a question … is this college? Are you doing bong hits? Why do I have to be subjected to this? Go away with your naked music!
However, this is not to imply that you can’t suggest music to me. I’ll be the first to admit that listening to suggested music in the intimacy of my own solitude is fine. Go ahead and send me a song on Facebook, or email me the name of an album, and I’m totally OK with that. Granted, I may discover that I think you’re mentally damaged and that you listen to music that sounds like raccoons being ground up inside a truck engine … but at least I can be invisible while that’s happening — I don’t have to let it all hang out with you in the room.
Even if I like the song, forcing me to listen to it alone with you will never be ok.
Let’s say I even like you and want to make you know it by listening with you. What am I supposed to do at that point? Do we suddenly break out into harmonic interlude, dancing like Fred and Ginger over the furniture while fountains appear from stage left and men with tophats come rolling in singing the refrain? No. We still just stand there, arms crossed, but now we’re both smiling at the same time. The awkward pain is still there, it might even be magnified because we actually do care about each other — but what we’re really doing is just waiting for the song to be over so we can both escape from this agony because neither of us is in a musical and neither of us even really knows how to dance.
I think, in life, there are things that are intended to be left in the background — never given focus — and when they receive focus, it’s always a mistake. Like a handshake, for example. Imagine if you walk into my office, and I suddenly leap up and say, “Hey! Check out this handshake!”, and proceed to grab at you. What are you supposed to do besides either flee, or endure and give a positive response? Can you say, “Well, Malcolm, that’s not really the kind of handshake I like — I prefer a softer grip”? I think not. If that handshake lasted about 4 minutes, you’d know how I feel about your offer to play a song for me.
But back to me and my friends — we were enjoying the song together, actually not feeling awkward much (though there was a lot of hot and heavy arm folding going on, I must admit — though I never noticed it because I was busy staring out the window, avoiding eye contact). We were listening to the song, which was actually intended to be slightly humorous (or angry — hard to tell with those Lilith Fair Grrrllls)… and we got to that moment.
This is usually the climactic point of the entire shared auditory nudity experience. The Moment.
Unless you’re some freaked out long-hair music lover who wants to force their dinner guests to listen to the entire second act of Der Ring des Nibelungen in preparation for after-dinner discourse (and if you are, stay away from me, forever), you’re likely just having me listen for a specific part of the song, be it a funny lyric, a cool guitar riff (more on that later), or some deep epiphany (please don’t do that, ever).
So there was my little group of friends, and we’d reached the Moment, which was the refrain, and actually quite funny — and that enabled us to not be overly exposed because we were laughing at the song, instead of enjoying it (and as we all know, when in doubt in an awkward situation — find something to deride and laugh at — thus hiding your own personal angst). But then, none of us had the nerve to stop the song.
I felt like maybe I should, since I was the defacto DJ — but I wasn’t familiar with the song, so maybe there was more. I don’t know what my friends were thinking (the suggestor and the recipient) — but they both seemed willing to listen more — so I let it go on (and on and on and on) … and it eventually did what I feared … it reached the refrain again.
It’s really difficult if the Moment is a refrain — because then you’re going to hear it again — and maybe a third time … so the entire experience becomes somewhat like having a joke told to you by someone who needs to wear a protective helmet — the song tells you the joke, then a few minutes later, it tells it to you again, and then usually finishes with a big final telling of it at the end of the song … kind of like the mentally challenged brother in There’s Something About Mary (“franks and beans … franks and beans…”).
In this particular case, we were fine (and non-naked) because we had other things to discuss … we did what good people do — we talked over it… laughed at the song, and put the music where it belonged — in the background. No unnecessary intimacy here, thank you very much — we could just talk.
Which brings me to the greatest faux-pas that the musically naked impose upon us normal folks. The intrepid demand that we “shhhh” and listen. This, to me, is the ultimate form of musical violation.
Now we’re at it, aren’t we? It’s as if, now that you’ve got me here, and you’ve gotten us stripped down to our embarrassing underclothes — you put your hands on me. This is no longer an awkward shower, this is dangerous. Now you’re forcing me to enter into the dance with you. Who are you? When did I tell you that I somehow wanted to sit here and …
…watch you enjoy the music. That’s the worst of all. Now you’ve musically fondled me by saying “shhhh” — I feel dirty — the mentally challenged helmet head in the background keeps ramming into my naked back saying the same joke refrain over and over (“franks and beans, franks and beans…”) — and I finally make the mistake and look at your face — and I get to see your sublime expression as you go to your “special place” with the music because … shhhh… this is it — right here… (“franks and beans — franks and beans…”)…
At that point, there’s nothing left to do but lay back and think of England.
I won’t get out without hearing the entire song — and all I can hope is that The Moment isn’t going to arrive in the form of the most terrifying musical imposition known to man … the dreaded guitar solo.
This is the ultimate violation of self in the act of forced music appreciation… the guitar solo.
I have a friend who posts references to guitar solos on his Facebook — usually they are YouTube videos. This is a completely acceptable — because I can enjoy it alone — and perhaps even just turn it off if I don’t care anymore.
But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the sweaty shower friend, who has now cornered me with a shhhhh, has decided I can’t leave until I’ve received the entire thing … and is ready to jam out to the dreaded guitar solo … now he’s not only touching me in this musical odyssey into the netherworld … he’s going to … reach down… and…
…play air guitar.
Air guitar — the essence of the most brutal forced song experience there is … the one in which you just have to wonder whether this person is on drugs, mentally damaged (“franks and beans, franks and beans”) — or just so poorly raised that he (and yes, it’s usually a he) doesn’t realize how dirty you feel … how much you just want it to be over … how much you never want to see him, hear from him, or ever discuss music with him again. Ever.
Well — my advice to you at this point, if you ever find yourself trapped like this — is to ooh and ahhh in all the right places … or he’ll just want to “discuss” it all afterwards to see if it it was good for you too… let him believe that you’re enjoying his self-flagellations, gyrations and jiggling … just appreciate it out loud as best you can … say things like, “that’s amazing” and “how can anybody be this good?” over and over until he stops.
When it’s over — run as fast as you can — get out of there … plead tone-deafness … tell him you already have a musical friend … explain that you need to get to your music lovers anonymous meeting … anything … just don’t let him offer to play the entire album.
If this has ever happened to you — I’m sorry … so sorry that I want to send you a song suggestion … because … shhhh — it’ll make you feel better… shhhh…
Wandering in the Ether
My folks sent me some old (old) books from around the time I left for Seattle. They’ve been in boxes for just about 15 years now, and many of them have been damaged by water — which kind of bums me out.
Many of the books are mildewed and ruined, including notebooks. One in particular is the journal I kept from the time I was 15 to the time I was 19 — which would be the craziest years of my life.
I’m REALLY ambivalent about whether to keep it or not. It’s really beat up with water damage — but I can scan each page and recover it to computer. But looking at the pages brings back a LOT of weird memories. It’s like diving back into my teenaged years — that’s a bit much.
Part of me thinks that maybe I should just destroy it, burn it up — but then Kathy thinks that I might want to keep it for my memoirs in the future or something.
It’s kind of funny — it’s this rotted little spiral notebook, barely readable — but it represents a major portion of my self-development, deterioration into chaos — and phoenix-like return (or at least the first movements of the ashes, the actual recovery doesn’t get covered, but stirrings of hope are pretty evident).
Amazingly, the last page has a brief poem that is very teenaged — but has an interesting denouement for me:
Love
Life
and
Laughter
are
The
Three
Gifts
of
Happiness.
Clearly a statement of hope, which is nice. But Spiritually speaking — an even greater moment of Hope is evident between that battle-scarred boy and this man; you see, when we bought this house, which we truly consider home, the people before us had painted the kitchen and family room quite playfully… they’d written the words “Love — Live — Laughter” on the walls everywhere.
I think I’ll keep the book.
Spoiler Safe Review of “District 9″
The movie “District 9″ has sympathetic aliens. It is good. The butler did it. Oops, sorry, I promised no spoilers.
Violence: 1,000,000% (all you gun nuts will love this movie)
Squalor: 500,000% (all you film majors will love this movie)
Lefty political bleeding heart commentary by unrealistic proxy: 2,000,000% (all you hippies will love this movie)
Great, original plotline: infinity (all you educated people will enjoy this movie)
Extra bonus gratuitous violence: 500,000% more at no extra charge (you moms should likely keep the little ones away)
Sex vector: nasty non-nudity with humor
Go see it! It’s all American GOOD FUN!
I have become one with the Kool-Aid
It’s official, I have moved my real phone number over to the iPhone. There were a few near misses on communications in Friday that made me realize it was time to join or leave.
I also realized that I’d been unintentionally enjoying the artificial silence of not having my normal phone number reach me, which was causing me to miss turns at work.
In any event, I’m officially on the iPhone now, and since I am a man of extremes and convictions, I hereby deem it the best solution in the universe (which actually isn’t saying much).
I don’t think I’ll stop letting the world know it’s flaws, but now that we’re married, I might extol some of it’s virtues.
For example, I can now see who has left me voicemail messages without dialing in (we call that “Visual Voicemail” here in iPhone land), so I don’t have to waste a lot of time actually listening to people before I ignore them and delete their messages. Somehow, that’s got to make the world a better place, no?
I think I may learn to like the iPhone, it’s designed by lazy, talented, self-involved people who care about the value of form WITH function, just like me. Power to the bored elitists! More money for my toys! I think I can probably download an app that tracks world starvation on Google Maps, so I know what areas to avoid while I find the nearest latte stand and order my Netflix. I don’t even need to interact with the poor, they don’t have cell coverage in their area for the iPhone, I’m guessing. I’d probably NEVER get 3G in Darfur!
I’m so proud of being a member of the technorati “in crowd”, it makes me a better (and more beautiful) person. Thank you Forbidden Fr– I mean, Apple.
My truck doesn’t care about my iPhone
I drive a long-bed Ford F150 truck. It’s a pickup, it’s got a tire that has a slow leak, a long dent along the side, and most small people can’t get into it without huffing and puffing. It can go 4-wheel drive because I’m an American. It generally grows a sort of green lichen on it because I’m in the Pacific Northwest. My truck doesn’t have a bluetooth interface to its Bose stereo system, but it’s not so dumb that it doesn’t have a CD player. When I climb into it with my iPhone, it just turns a disinterested eye over its shoulder like a tired elephant and flicks its tail to acknowledge me — it doesn’t even register that the thing in my pocket is awesome, hip, and beautiful. It just burps and offers me a circular cupholder as the most reasonable place to put the thing.
My truck doesn’t even connect to the Internet at all. It just drives