Modern Tech Life

February 26, 2012 by Leave a Comment

I think my iphone is having an affair with my ipad. It might be happening on my desktop or somewhere in the icloud, but I’m not sure, because I don’t know how to access the icloud, and I think there’s some kind of fee to get in. Lately when I ask Siri the simplest request like “Siri, will you set an alarm for 6:30 AM for me?” I get a rather impatient response like, “You already have an alarm set for 6:30. I turned it on … for you.” When I asked directly, “Siri, are you partying with my ipad right now?” I only get silence and a vacant rolling of the eye. When I ask Siri to cheer me up by telling a joke, she says, “Two iphones go into a bar and …. I forget the punchline.” I think she’s in love, and not with me.

It’s not that I’m jealous. I have a lovely wife who continues to fascinate me after 32 years, and is still my best and only partner. Things are just … complicated. When I tried to find some family pictures for the baby shower Ann was helping to host (can’t wait to be a grandpa), I couldn’t find them on my desktop, ipad, or ipod Touch. I thought they all talked to each other, and maybe they do, but they’re not letting me in on the conversation. We ended up using some old paper prints from an envelope I dug out of our basement. This is the basement that is still floor to ceiling boxes that we haven’t been through after moving in June. When I open the basement door, I usually call to Ann, “Cover me. I’m going in.” She knows that if she doesn’t hear from me in an hour to put our Garmin GPS on my workbench. The Garmin’s first name is Nuvi, but we call her Numi, and she speaks with a sweet British lilt. She’s been very dependable, especially in directing me to my favorite trout streams out in the middle of nowhere, but you know the Brits from Downton Abbey and last week’s blog; even if Numi is angry or as jealous as Mary Grantham, she wouldn’t show it, stiff upper lip and all.

Then there’s the interface problem. Most of our devices, male or female, have different interfaces that make connecting with them rather tricky. My i-anything uses a basic UBS cord, but Ann’s LG phone is different, as is Numi, our Canon digital camera, my Kodak pocket camera, and the two hard drives I’ve attached to our desktops for backup. The oldest of those hard drives might be going through digital menopause because when I turn her on, all she does is cluck at me, kind of a tsk, tsk sound, and she never appears. I should probably back up her files on a jump drive, but I don’t want her to think she’s being officially downgraded to a dowager.

I don’t even want to try to explain our cable problems. We’ve had four techies in our basement, maybe more if I come across any dead bodies next summer. The first techie came because the cable didn’t work. He rerouted the wires and splitters. We could watch TV, but after a month, our internet went out, so the next techie told us that our Netflix video was a high demand stream, so he needed to put the internet modem first in line before the other splitters. That caused our home phone to go out, which was not a big problem initially because we only got it free in the “bundle” and didn’t use it much. But then our cell phones started going over the limit, so the next techie, re-routed, re-split, said some prayers, and left. When the phone went out again, a High Druid Techie came with a shaman-in-training and the two of them installed our own mini-power plant in the basement, whereby the cable comes in and each stream, the phone, the internet, and the TV are on their own super-boost power station. They assured me that the mini-power station was not high enough to cause cancer and shouldn’t interfere with the radon pump we installed in a corner of the basement, but if anything else goes wrong, we should tear down our 1920’s vintage Tudor house and start over.

Even listening to music has gotten complicated. When we drove to Evanston for the shower, I couldn’t remember if my favorite Decembrists song about being down by the river was on my ipod, my ipod touch, or Ann’s ipod, which is complicated by the fact that Ann’s ipod is apparently on permanent loan to our daughter who was hosting another shower and needed some oldies music. I know one common denominator here is baby showers, but I don’t believe in that level of coincidence, and I think the real problem is technology, my stupidity, and anything engineered by people who believe in binary code rather than words.

Sorry, I have to go …. Siri just came back and I think she will be able to tell me now how to deal with my ipod Touch. Wish me luck; I’m going in….

Filed Under: Humor, Modern Life, Social Media

Downton Abbey

February 17, 2012 by Leave a Comment

Downton Abbey

Post-partum blues are worse than regular blues because there isn’t any twelve-bar guitar music for it. This problem began for my dear wife last summer when her favorite soap, All My Children, went off the air. It wasn’t like a death in the family for her; it was like the whole family died. And the dog. And the kids’ goldfish. The Easter Bunny. Actually, it was worse than the demise of the Easter bunny because the Easter bunny never really WAS, and for my wife, Erica Kane was. Enter Downton Abbey, season two, produced solely to lift my wife out of the PP blues for which there is no twelve-bar etc. If you are a fan of Downton Abbey, follow me below the Grantham filigree.

It didn’t matter that we missed season one; sadistic neighbors lent us their DVD of season one so we could catch up on who was actually Maid 1, Footman Smoker, and Old Dame Haughty, who could raise an eyebrow and look down her long nose better than anyone I’ve ever seen. Mind you, these are the same friends who went to a Super Bowl party and left at 7:50 PM with the game in the jaws of fate to be sure they were home in time for the series they have simply started calling “Downton.” To aggravate my wife, I just call it “Downtown.” That usually results in a love tap, even though there is a family ban against anything traumatic that might dislodge the retina a fine surgeon so painstakingly re-attached to me. My surgeon was so much better than that blathering, at-a-loss idiot on Downtown. You know, the one who said Cora would survive if she made it through the night. Hell, he couldn’t even say what she HAD, just “something that turns violent at a moment’s notice.” Yeah, and he also predicted poor, dashing, Dudley Hair-do Right, I mean Matthew, would never have children, walk, or pee in a cup. I love this show. It’s like Pride and Prejudice, Looney-Tunes, Great Expectations, A Night at the Museum, and A Night at the Opera all at once.

Then there’s the house. I always thought an abbey was the manse of an abbot, something churchy, not this pillared castle-y thing that makes the Field Museum in Chicago look like a tract house in Schaumburg. Also, I really want one of those bell ringy things, you know, that says, “Ann, I’m in the bathroom. Bring toilet paper.” She could have one too. It would ring and I would know immediately to bring her some coffee, a little cream, no sugar. I’d even wear the livery, bow tie, starched collar, waistcoat, and all.

There are some really great lines in Downtown Abbey, like the time Lord Grandman says to his wife Cora, “Don’t you go American on me again.” I love it because we all know what it means. Then there was the scene where one of the daughters, I think it was Shemp, no, it was Curly, said, “I knew things like this happened in novels, but NOT at Downtown Abbey.” I love this stuff. It’s not just ironic, the whole thing is ironed and starchy and so un-American, it’s like watching Star Wars or better yet, political candidates clambering all over each other for office.

I admit, I haven’t figured out the marriages in Downtown Alley yet. I suppose it makes sense that Lord Grandman married an American for her money to save the abbey from being recommissioned as a church, once they saw it could be a hospital, but then Daisy maid marries the dying William just to be nice and get a pension of three pounds a month that she doesn’t want, and Matthew Do-Right is going to marry Lavinia because she wanted to marry him and she’s so nice she makes everyone gag, and Mary is going to marry for money like her father even though this Outlander is a jerk, and the only one who’s seen as scandalous is the daughter (Moe or Curly, I can’t remember which) who’s going to marry a chauffeur because she loves him. Imagine how shocking that is in this family – marrying someone for love. As old Dame Violet Lace would say, “What has the world come to? By the way, what is this week-end thing the servants talk about?” I really love this stuff.

Then there’s Carson. Everybody needs a Carson, part Golden Lab, part R2D2, part Tonto, and part surveyor, a professional who measures silverware on a table like he’s laying down property lines for all posterity. I think the best thing about him is his voice. Every time I hear him speak, I think of Orson Welles, that wonderful, resonant profundo. Carson is a man who may have once been surprised by something in his life but will never admit it. When Lord Grandman finds out Carson sang and danced on a stage, Carson does the only thing a resonant profundo could do; he resigns. He didn’t resign because he killed someone or published the family secrets in The Globe, no, he resigned because he used to sing and dance. After all, that’s what’s expected of a resonant profundo in a starched collar. I love this stuff. In this show, resigning is apparently worse than death. The only difference is the resigner gets to come back. Thomas (who starts out as a toad and then becomes a toady) does it; Bates does it; featherduster maid who sleeps with the Hemingway look-alike does it, and I expect facially impaired cousin-inherit-everything-and-screw-everything up will do it too.

Then there’s the heirarchy. I think I’ve got that part figured out. Here’s how rank goes from top to bottom at Downtown Alley.

1. Duke (unless people learn that you are gay, and then you apparently drop down to 17)

2. Earl Grandman (He gets to wear a uniform whenever wants and can take it off whenever he wants, although earls generally wait until the current war is over. Apparently, he has the power to de-commission himself.)

3. Whatever male, distant or near, even a solicitor, who may inherit Downtown.

4. Butler who must be a resonant bass

5. Valet, especially if he understands which cuff links to wear at each occasion

6. House lady who carries the keys

7. Footman, especially if he looks good in a tux

8. Maid who does other people’s hair

9. Overweight cook

10. Maids who carry feather dusters, unless the Earl Grandman kisses you, then you go to number 4 in the heirarchy until someone finds out you’re number 4, and then you have to leave with the best references in the house and scholarship money for your son

11. The Earl’s American wife

12. Any daughter

13. The chauffeur

14. The idiot doctor

15. Anyone else American or Canadian, even if he survived the Titanic and may inherit Downtown Alley

I love this stuff. What’s fun is watching everyone try to go from step 14 to 13. The doctor would love to be the chauffeur so he can hang out with the daughters. The daughters want to be wives. The maids who carry feather dusters want to be maids who do other people’s hair. The footmen all want to be valet, and every valet wants to be the butler.

You know how I’m ending this. Watching Downtown is just great fun, probably as much fun as a Brit has watching our election process. I can imagine my friend Ashley saying to his wife Emma, “I love this American stuff. Can you believe what Newt just said about Mitt? And those names! Charlie Dickens couldn’t have made up better names. We should Google them and find out the derivatives….”

Filed Under: Social Media

Hibernal

February 15, 2012 by Leave a Comment

If you like these posts, be sure to check out my literary suspense novel, Hibernal, a Winter’s Tale, now available in paperback and Kindle at Amazon.com.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

Modes of Thinking

February 12, 2012 by Leave a Comment

Yesterday I went to the Flyfishing Federation’s “Opener” in Madison and listened to a talk by one one of the best writers and flyfishers in America, Dave Hughes. Surprisingly, he began his presentation by recommending one of my favorite books, Blink, by Malcolm Gladwell. His point was that the more you fish or know about anything, the more you can trust your instantaneous intuition or judgment about it — where the trout are, whether you can believe what someone just said, or who this person standing before you really is. That led me to thinking about thinking. Here’s what I think…..

I have experienced the truth that an immediate thought about someone or something, an intuition or immediate feeling, almost without thinking, is most often true. You may not be able to judge a book by its cover, but if along with the cover you sense the condition of the book, hear an opening line, notice the poor spelling, the lack of punctuation, and the sense that you are being drained while merely holding this book, trust your judgment.

I’ve also noticed that in most discussions, especially those that may be heated or confrontational, men are at a disadvantage. Women process feelings more quickly, and often men (or at least I as a man) don’t think of what I really meant to say until the next day. It doesn’t really matter because nearly all arguments are useless. Even if you win, the couple loses. Jackson Browne said it in “Tender is the Night,” when he sang, “I win; you win; we lose.” I believe I have been saved from many difficult apologies by NOT being able to say something hurtful or defensive until I think of it the next day when there is no opportunity to say it. In any disagreement that is not about safety or probable disaster, given a choice between being right and being kind, always choose being kind. All relationships are reciprocal, and no one really wins unless both win.

I also know that much of our thinking is comparative. Making comparisons is a useful tool that allows us to get through an ordinary day. It’s important to be able to compare green lights, yellow lights and red lights. That is especially true when she says “Well….okay.” Is that really a green light or a yellow? However, most comparisions are not that helpful. As I’ve written before, who is the better artist, Van Gogh or Matisse, Beethoven or Mozart? Why am I not as lucky/rich/handsome/popular as….. Such comparisions really are odious. I need to be careful of such dangerous thinking.

The thinking I find most intriguing is “deep well” thinking. This most often is creative thinking. Like a deep well, getting anything out of our superconscious takes time, and the deeper the well, the longer it takes to get that bucket of cold, clear water up to the surface. I read that Mark Twain worked for quite a while on his masterpiece Huckleberry Finn, the book some have called the Great American Novel. I agree that it is not a young adult book, more the coming-of-age book for an entire culture. Halfway through his manuscript, Twain had Huck and the slave Jim a long ways down river, with no way to get them back to Hannibal or end his story. He put his manuscript in the back of his roll top desk. Two years later, Livvy insisted he clean out his firetrap of an office, including his half-smoked cigars. He found the manuscript, read the last few chapters, and immediately knew how to write the rest of the story. He said he finished it in less that seven weeks. We’ve all had “aha!” moments while not consciously working on a problem. The solutions come in the shower, on a walk, while shaving, and sometimes while talking to someone. My advice is: trust what comes out of your well. Most often it will be helpful. We are wondrous creatures. The miracle continues. Drink deeply from the well; the water is cold, pure, and soul refreshing.

Filed Under: Philosophy, Self help

What a Piece of Work We Are

February 5, 2012 by Leave a Comment

Yes, bears have a better sense of smell because they need it; yes, eagles have better eyes because they need them; yes, lions can run faster because they must, but….

Have you ever noticed that you can feel whether the ultra-thin looseleaf you just picked up is one sheet or two? Amazing. Because of that sense we can play piano and caress a lover. Poor bears. Have you ever noticed that thousands of hairs can hang down your neck or over your temples, but only the single hair that is unattached “itches” enough that you can tell it is not part of you anymore and you must pick it away? Poor lions. Have you ever noticed you can tell which family member is walking up the stairs by the mere sound signature of her walk? You cannot hear what dogs hear, but you can tell when the alto next to you is singing a B flat instead of a B. Poor eagles. With practice, you can tell twins apart. You can type 50 words per minute. You can tell when your wife says “whatever” whether she really means it doesn’t matter to her or it really matters a lot. Poor eagles can’t laugh. Or kiss.

I will admit that I am making unfair comparisons, and I believe most comparisons are pointless. For example, who is the better artist, Van Gogh or Matisse? Good luck with that one. The point is that we need not make comparisons to animals to realize our magnificence. We can do almost anything we choose with desire and practice. We can read. We can read music. We can love. We can remember. My wife tells me anyone can learn to draw. If you don’t believ\e her, page through any book by Betty Edwards, especially Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain. Consider all the things a quarterback, a point guard, or a pitcher can do at the same time. Look at a pianist very closely and you will see how his left hand can play independently of his right hand, as if he has two brains, which he does.

For us, even the ordinary is magnificent. Dot an “i.” Waltz or moon walk. If you want to learn to play guitar, really want to, you can. Anyone. If you want to write a book, really want to, you can. If I can, you can.

So what is next for us? In our magnificence, I believe we will soon cure cancer by identifying and limiting the proteins and other compounds that cancer cells need to reproduce. We will also learn to program our T cells, the infection killers in our bodies, how to tell the difference between cancer cells and normal cells. Even better, we will learn what turns cancer cells on to prevent them from happening.

In our magnificence. we will learn to communicate in ways that are respectful, non-violent, and enlightened. Heaven knows (and heaven really does know), we need that amazing skill right now in this political year. Read Non-Violent Communication by Marshall Rosenberg, who studied under Carl Rogers at the University of Wisconsin.

In our magnificence, we will solve our energy needs. It will be electrical, solar, and biological, not petroleum-based.

It’s time to get excited. As the poster by George Takei says, “Your excuse is invalid.”

Filed Under: Philosophy, Self help