MODE | 21

No Returns

2007-01-11T21:35:00.000-06:00

So there I was, standing amidst the hangover-resistant rabble rousers of the holiday season—give me your returns, your exchanges, your pants that don't fit—you know, the new visage of the American ideal: statuesque dissatisfaction.

“Was there a problem with this orthodontist's tool set ma'am?”

“No. I only needed them to examine the molars of a horse I got as a present.”

And watching people standing in the return line at the dollar store only slides the scale down to the lowest common denominator.

It's rare that I return a gift, and I mean that honestly. Once I returned a shirt that an aunt had given me, originally thinking it was designed for the left handed, or at least the more ambidextrous among us. Now I know. Lesson learned. Shirt exchanged. Moving on.

This year I returned an “atomic” clock, severely disappointed that when it went off it failed to obliterate the perpetually baffled who occupy my zip code; McDondald's can always find new low-wage help somewhere by my estimation. Ultimately, only I was annoyed by the incessant beeping, and that just won't do. I exchanged my low-functioning WMD for another model that also operates under the Colorado-broadcast universal time structure, but it also includes a sub unit that gives me its own indoor temperature reading, the indoor relative humidity, the temperature outside my home from another sensor, a projection of the time on my bedroom wall, and a mess of other features I could probably live a long and happy life without. The store either didn't carry or didn't have anything less sophisticated in stock.

I'll grant that it doesn't play CD's, which performs me the service of removing any temptation to awake to Quiet Riot's, “Bang Your Head.” However, the manuals (yes, manuals—plural) for my alarm clock combined match the breadth and depth of one of those portable Gideon bibles, and they're just as damning with regard to what I'm supposed to do to achieve a desirable end. Yet without them, I'd be clueless as to how to sync with the atomic clock or discover that the flashing “C” is for Central Time, not Centigrade, and the flashing “P” is for Pacific Time, not PM.

Herein lies the problem: It's damn near impossible today to buy an electronic device that intuitively performs the advertised task. More to the point, to find new technology that actually simplifies life without complicating something else.

I confess I purchased my first cell phone early last year. If I let it, I could replace a number of utilitarian items I own (like the alarm clock) while comparatively making my computer mouse a '76 Buick in girth and function.

Like a modern Columbus, technology's voyage to the promised land of convenience and simplification reached the land of diminishing returns, set up camp, and called it, “progress.”

Innovation, the act of creating something new and never-before seen, has taken a backseat to integration, the less-advanced act of integrating or assimilating a previously known function or feature into another previously known device or system. Now one can buy a refrigerator with a built-in 13” LCD screen and DVD player. Yet cellphone manufacturers can't make a network with infallible connectivity.

Take Apple's new iPhone concept: A camera's cool. MP3 support is nice. Video support? Neat. Facial proximity sensitivity? Wow! But how about a cellphone that never drops a call? Too difficult? I often wonder if all these features have been added to distract consumers from the fact that even in a metropolitan area, people's phones hit zones where they can't get a strong enough signal to perform their primary function.

I won't deny that technology has made life more convenient in some ways, but there's always a trade off. After World War II, the modern world became, well, the modern world. Toasters, vacuum cleaners, washing machines, electric typewriters—all these devices designed and marketed to simplify life and give people more free time, especially the subservient American housewife. But all that happened was the bar of expectation rose higher. “Do more in less time” became “do more, period,” and like the concept of the subservient housewife, the understanding that we weren't getting more spare time out of the bargain became outmoded and all but forgotten.

I don't think I'm being an old fogy about this, as younger readers might deduce. Twenty-five years ago, Generation X (my generation) was assured of a future where by now we'd live in houses with roofs made of efficient and self-sustaining solar panels and have flying cars that we wouldn't need because technology would allow everyone to work from home. What'd we get? An energy crisis and Microsoft Windows. Thanks. I'd like my money/future back, but there are no returns or exchanges on used merchandise.

Reflection on Bill Hicks

2006-12-16T17:25:00.000-06:00

“Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. Here’s Tom with the weather.”

As you get older, one tends to focus in on fewer things—working outward from the center of what you like, what interests you, and life pretty much takes the reins over from there. Sure, your enthusiasm and commitment factors in to how far you get (all the other limiting factors notwithstanding), but it more or less becomes the path that determines just about everything else you're likely to experience: who you meet, what you do, where you do it, where you live, who your neighbors are, where you like to unwind, who you associate with, what ultimately makes you happy, and all of that.

It's all those little factors that get so little attention in the big scheme of things; not because they're not important, but because corporate America hasn't quite figured out how to make a profit by investing in the R&D of selling minutiae. It's just a helluva lot easier to market a modestly successful lifestyle where you'd get up in the morning, grab your iPod off the dock, hop into a Volkswagen, grab an extra-grande latte with 1% milk—no sugar, plug in to work for eight hours, and return to a loft apartment to clean up and splash on some CK-1 before a night of cavorting with friends over a few rounds of Budweiser Select.

And it's no coincidence that my previously developed skepticism with such manifestations of well-marketed bullshit led me to an instant appreciation for the comedian Bill Hicks the first time I heard one of his routines (to which I owe a continuing debt of thanks to Ken Action).

What most intrigued me about Hicks was the thread of philosophical truth he weaved throughout his material; a thread just strong enough to keep a Norwegian cruise liner docked in the harbor—during monsoon season. Of course most comedy is based in at least some facet of truth in the general sense, a sense of reality that enough people find insightful and amusing enough to cultivate a following from. But “Truth,” capital “T” and those universal things endemic to the human condition throughout history are the bread and butter of a select handful of comedic stalwarts who've not coincidentally managed to bridge more than one generational gap in a career. Had cancer not cut his life short, there's little doubt Hicks would have joined the likes of George Carlin or Steve Martin in longevity.

Hicks passed away in early 1994, doing relatively little in his last year, contrasted with his prior touring schedule which included numerous appearances on David Letterman. Most of his material available today was recorded in the very early 90s, leaving the world with the unpredictable irony that twelve years later his thoughts can be near flawlessly transposed from the first Bush and Iraq conflict to the second.

The timelessness of his brief work lies in his discriminating focus on everything that conspires against the evolution of humanity to a better condition for all the world's inhabitants: media, government, corporations, marketing executives, music executives, television producers—basically anyone who's telling the public what it wants or needs during the brief hours when his or her mouth isn't filled with Satan's enormous, multi-headed schlong (to borrow from the man himself).

Had Hicks made it so far into 2006, he wouldn't be at all short on the material he loved to sink his teeth into, chew on, spit out, and say what he thought of it, as I suppose he might:

“So let me get this straight. Just about EVERYONE has a cell phone now? Is everyone dealing drugs now too? That's great. I mean I think it's great that drugs are in enough demand because people finally realized the importance of opening one's mind up to new and better ways of looking at the world instead of buying into whatever shit Satan Incorporated shoved down your little... huh? What's that? People buy cell phones because they're insecure and need to feel self-important and accessible at all times? And now they're so dependent on them to where people are calling roadside assistance because they don't even know how to change a flat tire? Oh... man... that's disappointing. What the hell is wrong with you? People, people, have you learned nothing?”

Bill Hicks would have turned forty-five today.

Polarity - Thanksgiving Edition

2006-11-22T18:26:00.000-06:00

As the Thanksgiving holiday weekend descends upon us like the four horsemen of the apocalypse--okay, stop there.

You know it. I know it. Even if we claim to have a close and loving relationship with our families, you can't deny that your Psychological Terror Alert level just went ORANGE or RED status. My family is perfectly capable of having a polite discussion on the horrors of waterboarding as a form of torture after Thanksgiving dinner, without the slightest hint of irony. After experiencing a month of the US holiday shopping season, I figure at least 60% of the Guantanamo detainees would be lubricating their own genitals and praying for electrical leads. But at least we know what's coming, and we can make the necessary preparations:

"Defense mechanisms armed and ready, Lieutenant Super-Ego; Captain Id is safely in the bunker. Turn your key to the left on three..."

During these times I often wonder about the little behavioral quirks we take for granted. For example, you're talking to a friend or relative on the phone, and in the course of updating you on the goings on you get, "well, there's good news, and there's bad news." Then you get hit with the big question: "Which would you like to hear first?"

There's that weird expectation on the information giver's part and the obligation on the listener's part to go the, "tell me the bad news first" route. Deviating from this format throws off everything, because the giver has already structured in his or her mind that the good news is a sort of silver lining to the storm cloud of bad news. Giving the good news first becomes anticlimactic.

I really don't understand the motives of our collective disposition in this arena. Why do we tend to sugar coat bad news to make it seem more palatable? Do we have a driving need to see things end on a positive note or are we more satisfied with something resembling "fair and balanced" reporting? I don't know. This is all beyond my realm of expertise.

All I do know is that the one time in my life that I deviated from the accepted formula of delivery was at about this time of year, many years ago. I got a lengthy pause, followed by, "The arson unit is POSITIVE that the grease fire started in the garage."

FOXii

2006-11-20T20:43:00.000-06:00

It's been out for a while now, but I thought I'd tack on a friendly reminder because even I didn't rush to download the latest version.

When I say I've been using "The Fox" since ought-six, I don't mean this year--version 0.6. It knocked the snot out of IE back then, memory leaks and all, and it's adding polish to features that Micro$oft hasn't yet mastered in Internet Explorer 7.

No limited quantities, no waiting in queue for days outside a Best Buy, no risk of being shot or robbed: you can't lose.

Did I mention it's free? As in absolutely free, no money down, no money later, no money ever, no one will call you, and no one will try to sell you add-ons, which are also... free.

Reminds me too, even if you're holding on to v. 1.5, might I recommend AdBlock Plus (w/ thanks to 12frogs for the link to that little gem).

Surf safe. Surf sane.

Second Fiddle

2006-11-19T13:45:00.000-06:00

I think the only thing worse than a post apologizing for the lack of blogging is a self-referential post that apologizes for the lack of blogging because one's been fiddling around with one's template. But I'm writing one just the same.

It's hardly a newsflash that when it comes to CSS layout I have absolutelynoidea what I'm doing. Okay, fine--I have some idea, but there's a world of difference between knowing the right answer and knowing why it's the right answer. Those posts running together in the archives? Not, repeat, NOT the finest layout work I've done. And while I like to keep the bulk of my life occurring in a realm not-so resembling sitting in front of a monitor all day, I'd still like to hold a standard above the typical Myspace account or, say, the Sebastian Bach home page.

That being said, most of the changes are subtle and behind the scenes tidy work. Things you really shouldn't notice unless you're dedicated to Internet Explorer and wondered why anyone in their right mind would design a web page to resemble a Devo video.

Most of the functional changes are on the sidebar, which I'll be updating in the future. Tinkering aside, I plan to keep this layout for a long, long time, if not just to keep posts like this one to a bare minimum.

Now, go read something vastly more interesting from the Blog Collective so it doesn't so closely resemble my personal online bookmark vault, which, truth be told, it pretty much is.

For Those Who Plan to Fail...

2006-11-09T18:55:00.000-06:00

sketch

2006-11-03T19:23:00.000-06:00

boo(b)

2006-10-31T16:58:00.000-06:00

in 1 word

2006-10-28T11:34:00.000-05:00

IN MULTIPLE WORDS:

It's been a rough month all around. From not-unexpected health problems with elder family members to the untimely passing of an old friend to the health issues of loved ones of those closest to me.

Goofing on the president, or the need to rethink my employment situation has played second fiddle of late. At least I have until 2007 to try and figure out a way to put my car down as a dependant with special needs on my tax return.

That being said, it's welcome news that the hometown Cardinals gave a "hard nine" to the favored Detroit Tigers. This of course mandates making a few notes of observation and clarification. So (Taguchi) without further adieu...

To the assclown who first coined, "Tigers in three," and every expert, fan, and fanatic who regurgitated the phrase, suck it. Suck it long, suck it hard, just suck it. You've got the better part of four months of aftertaste left to swallow. Mint?

#10 for #10: Outstanding. You're among the best managers ever to fill out a lineup card, regardless of who chooses not to see it. Earned and deserved--Congratulations. The Hall awaits... someday.

To the past-dwelling fans who've demaned LaRussa's resignation, again and again, during his tenure: shaddup already. Whitey Herzog was a great manager, in a different era. He brought some great years to St. Louis. He also picked a day, early in the 1990 season to QUIT. Hands in the air, he quit--on the players, on the team, on the city. We have a championship. RIGHT NOW. Let go and enjoy it.

Speaking of the White Rat, Adam Wainwright strikes me as the second coming of Todd Worrell, 21 years hence. Next year he might be a starter, where he'll have to deal with comparisons to another lanky bulldog, like Orel Hershiser. Regardless, the kid can throw the ball.

On the legitimacy of an 83-win World Champion: whocares? Cardinal Nation learned two years ago that the regular season doesn't mean shit in the postseason. Pujols put up MVP numbers, again, while playing hurt and missing 20 games. Mulder went down halfway through the season with Jim Edmonds, who had a concussion for a third of it. Isringhausen closed with a bad hip before going down for surgery. No apologies, no excuses, the team pressed on, beating the best teams that stood in their path. 'Nuff said.

3.10.06 Notes (fr. NPR)

2006-10-03T22:39:00.000-05:00

After listening to US Secretary of Education Margaret Spelling on “Talk of the Nation” earlier today, I can only surmise that her appointment is solely due to a last-name association to the content of the position, as in, “Spelling's a 'portant part of being more better educated.”

At the end of her interview, she mentioned something to the effect that it's Bush's “No Child Left Behind” Act that's created opportunities for students with learning and physical disabilities, and credited the policy for opening the dialogue on the matter. I'm certain she'd be fascinated to read the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA), first passed in 1975, revised in 1997, and amended again in 2004, before defending $3.1B in federal education budget cuts.

And why bother bringing Sam Harris on the show to defend his position that religion has done more harm than good in the world, and then force him to compare apples and oranges outside his argumentation? Fact is fact. Belief is belief—not a complicated premise. “Letter to a Christian Nation” is hardly heavy reading. It's a simple, logical ontology, supported with empirical evidence and direct quotations, from the Bible, that raise good questions and support his view. Instead of a discussion of point, he's answered in absentia with hyperbole by Christian ideologues: comparing him with Nazis doesn't make him wrong. Calling his atheism a religion in itself isn't a refutation either. It's called, “changing the subject,” a.k.a. slight of hand for the slight of mind.

I know NPR runs on a tight budget, and a lot of its cash flow comes from moderate Christians who cherry-pick religious beliefs convenient to their lifestyle, but it would have been worth the splurge to have Sam Harris and, say, Jamie Whyte, in the studio together, where they would be able to keep the subject on point for more than the length of one of NPR's musical interludes.

Opening Fragment

2006-09-24T20:30:00.000-05:00

The hiatus is over, though originally I wasn't thinking that so much as retirement. I picked a peculiar time to resume blogging, i.e. that at present I don't have as much time to write as I've had in the past. Nevermind my all-to-keen sense of how little there might actually be left to say. Yet I still come across new and exciting material all the time. It's comforting to me to know there's still room to expand, grow, and learn.

In starting a new blog I've begun a handful of posts that I've never really been able to develop or see though to finish, for reasons overwhelmingly pointing to my perception of their inadequacy. One reached four pages in length, with no point or end in sight. (And my erstwhile-giv'n pseudonym, “Rambel” becomes more fitting than I'd care to admit.) It's saddening to me to know that literary academia afflicted me so. But for now, I'll live with the conceivable truth that I didn't know where to begin.

That being said, here I sit, again, with the keyboard in front of me, eager to find these new forms, and explore the myriad of themes shaping the modern world, and the world as we make it out to be. I'm ready.

Blog may not be the new journalism, but it is the stuff of space-age prose, the way Kerouac would have wanted: millions of people across the world, speaking from their hearts and minds, connecting, making dialogue, and yes, learning to accept our less-damning flaws as what makes us who we are.

It might not be perfect, and it's certainly not the answer, but it's bound to be more productive than my continued donations to fund research for a cure for stupid, which have yet to produce any discernible results.