2007/10/28 16:14
Floppy Drive
I have good news and I have bad news.
The bad news is that my hard drive bit the dust. I turned off the computer yesterday because it was running choppily, and when I turned it on again it notified me of an "unmountable boot drive." Well, I don't know what that means -- I didn't even think computers had feet. So I called my brother the tech support guru, and after putting me through the paces we learned that the one part of the whole hard drive that was absolutely necessary -- the "boot sector" -- had gone kaput. Computers -- just like women, they're obsessed with shoes to the point of critical failure.
The good news is that as a tech support guru, he has connections. This means that a new hard drive is on its way to me at no charge -- or will be shortly, anyway. Then he'll be able to talk me through setting it up and recovering the data from my current hard drive, as long as it wasn't some freak spike that fried the whole machine.
The bad news is until it arrives, I don't have a computer, unless you count the ten-year-old laptop in the closet. Which I could use, theoretically, except that it's suffering from some kind of advanced computer Alzheimer's disease. Like sometimes it forgets it has a network card or a mouse or a monitor.
The good news is my library has computers available at no charge, as long as you're willing to overlook the fact that you have to backspace every third word to correct overtyping with these arthritic keyboards.
The bad news is they aren't open at 11:30 at night when I want to look at porn.
The good news is I just renewed my subscription to National Geographic.
I'll be back in a week or so. EDIT: The good news is I got said ten-year-old laptop working, much to my surprise. The bad news is it's still ten years old. So I may be around, in fits and starts.
The bad news is that my hard drive bit the dust. I turned off the computer yesterday because it was running choppily, and when I turned it on again it notified me of an "unmountable boot drive." Well, I don't know what that means -- I didn't even think computers had feet. So I called my brother the tech support guru, and after putting me through the paces we learned that the one part of the whole hard drive that was absolutely necessary -- the "boot sector" -- had gone kaput. Computers -- just like women, they're obsessed with shoes to the point of critical failure.
The good news is that as a tech support guru, he has connections. This means that a new hard drive is on its way to me at no charge -- or will be shortly, anyway. Then he'll be able to talk me through setting it up and recovering the data from my current hard drive, as long as it wasn't some freak spike that fried the whole machine.
The bad news is until it arrives, I don't have a computer, unless you count the ten-year-old laptop in the closet. Which I could use, theoretically, except that it's suffering from some kind of advanced computer Alzheimer's disease. Like sometimes it forgets it has a network card or a mouse or a monitor.
The good news is my library has computers available at no charge, as long as you're willing to overlook the fact that you have to backspace every third word to correct overtyping with these arthritic keyboards.
The bad news is they aren't open at 11:30 at night when I want to look at porn.
The good news is I just renewed my subscription to National Geographic.
2007/10/27 14:01
When the Complaints Go Marching In
These Visa commercials have got to stop.
First of all, the insinuation that life as we know it will drag to a complete halt if you pay by any other means than your card is a complete lie. Sometimes it's the inverse. As with every time I attempt to use my bank card at Target. Those stupid feed-readers they insist on using never work, but like the conscientious consumer I am (and since I don't want them to think I'm fresh off the farm and ain't never seen one a these fancy ee-leck-tron-ick card slots) I make sure the cashier sees it reject my card three times. Then they have to swipe it on the register, and when that doesn't work ten or eleven times in a row they finally punch in my card number. But that's not all! Then they have to get out that old-school credit card machine. You know the one, with the roller and the stamper that imprints your card number onto the receipt. Most of the time they can't find it, so they end up using the side of a pen to emboss the relief of my card onto that pressure-sensitive paper. Then, finally, I can walk away with my purchases and the music starts again.
Still, for the most part I thought it was a clever device (e.g., the vast consumer machine grinds to a halt when one gear decides to write a check) and other than the conspicuous consumption portrayed it didn't significantly bother me. But then I saw this spot the other day.
(I removed the commercial because the autoplay was pissing me off. It's that one with the Saints.)
Pink shirt, tied sweater, buying tennis balls when everyone else is doing their football thing. Apparently, the message is "only fags use cash."
First of all, the insinuation that life as we know it will drag to a complete halt if you pay by any other means than your card is a complete lie. Sometimes it's the inverse. As with every time I attempt to use my bank card at Target. Those stupid feed-readers they insist on using never work, but like the conscientious consumer I am (and since I don't want them to think I'm fresh off the farm and ain't never seen one a these fancy ee-leck-tron-ick card slots) I make sure the cashier sees it reject my card three times. Then they have to swipe it on the register, and when that doesn't work ten or eleven times in a row they finally punch in my card number. But that's not all! Then they have to get out that old-school credit card machine. You know the one, with the roller and the stamper that imprints your card number onto the receipt. Most of the time they can't find it, so they end up using the side of a pen to emboss the relief of my card onto that pressure-sensitive paper. Then, finally, I can walk away with my purchases and the music starts again.
Still, for the most part I thought it was a clever device (e.g., the vast consumer machine grinds to a halt when one gear decides to write a check) and other than the conspicuous consumption portrayed it didn't significantly bother me. But then I saw this spot the other day.
(I removed the commercial because the autoplay was pissing me off. It's that one with the Saints.)
Pink shirt, tied sweater, buying tennis balls when everyone else is doing their football thing. Apparently, the message is "only fags use cash."
2007/10/20 23:09
Party Hard
As a gift to commemorate her birth, Sed's grandma sent Avery this watercolor.
It's called "Let's Have a Party," and it's currently hanging in our dining room because, face it, a row of pears is not exactly child's-bedroom couture. (It is Avery's painting, however, and we've promised Great-Grandma that she can take it with her when she leaves our house. Just want to clarify that in case we get accused of trying to claim it.)
Tonight, after dinner, Sed got to examining the painting, and asked the pressing question:
"What makes pears a party?"
"Well," I suggested, my random off-the-cuff rambling getting the better of me, "maybe she's going for the subtle homophone. 'Pear' can also be like 'pair,' like a couple, and a bunch of pairs coming together could be a swinger's group. You know, the curved ends bumping together and all that. If you get what I mean."
Sed could only stare open-mouthed as she took in the implications.
"You're never going to look at that painting the same way again, are you?"
It's called "Let's Have a Party," and it's currently hanging in our dining room because, face it, a row of pears is not exactly child's-bedroom couture. (It is Avery's painting, however, and we've promised Great-Grandma that she can take it with her when she leaves our house. Just want to clarify that in case we get accused of trying to claim it.)
Tonight, after dinner, Sed got to examining the painting, and asked the pressing question:
"What makes pears a party?"
"Well," I suggested, my random off-the-cuff rambling getting the better of me, "maybe she's going for the subtle homophone. 'Pear' can also be like 'pair,' like a couple, and a bunch of pairs coming together could be a swinger's group. You know, the curved ends bumping together and all that. If you get what I mean."
Sed could only stare open-mouthed as she took in the implications.
"You're never going to look at that painting the same way again, are you?"
Here We Go Again
Dear New Era,
Thanks for updating your fitted hats. No, seriously -- I was just mourning the fact that my Tigers hat has already shrunken to smaller than my head after less than a year, so not having to repurchase another cap again will definitely be a bonus. However, while you were improving the line, couldn't you have made it so those plastic strands didn't come jutting out from under the crown seam after the first wearing and stab me in the head?
Concerned,
Rick
Dear Invisalign,
STOP FRIGGING YELLING AT ME WITH YOUR COMMERCIAL. Your potential customers have uneven teeth, not bad hearing.
Seriously,
Rick
Dear Jagged Edge,
"Baby Makin' Project"? Really? I mean, the chicks stopped paying attention to dance R&B after they felt a little poke coming through. At that point the self-referential joke had been taken as far as it could go. Or so I thought. Unless you guys are serious, in which case, um, good luck.
Your friend,
Rick
Dear Pizza Hut,
Enough with the made-up words already. You're still inflicting "P'Zone" on us, and now you're expecting us to buy "unhunger"? Buy a stylebook.
Sincerely,
Rick
Dear Rachael Ray,
No, seriously. It's over between us.
Love,
Rick
P.S. I peed in your EVOO.
Thanks for updating your fitted hats. No, seriously -- I was just mourning the fact that my Tigers hat has already shrunken to smaller than my head after less than a year, so not having to repurchase another cap again will definitely be a bonus. However, while you were improving the line, couldn't you have made it so those plastic strands didn't come jutting out from under the crown seam after the first wearing and stab me in the head?
Concerned,
Rick
Dear Invisalign,
STOP FRIGGING YELLING AT ME WITH YOUR COMMERCIAL. Your potential customers have uneven teeth, not bad hearing.
Seriously,
Rick
Dear Jagged Edge,
"Baby Makin' Project"? Really? I mean, the chicks stopped paying attention to dance R&B after they felt a little poke coming through. At that point the self-referential joke had been taken as far as it could go. Or so I thought. Unless you guys are serious, in which case, um, good luck.
Your friend,
Rick
Dear Pizza Hut,
Enough with the made-up words already. You're still inflicting "P'Zone" on us, and now you're expecting us to buy "unhunger"? Buy a stylebook.
Sincerely,
Rick
Dear Rachael Ray,
No, seriously. It's over between us.
Love,
Rick
P.S. I peed in your EVOO.
Labels: open letters
2007/10/17 23:52
Why Are Sunsets Orange?
Avery and I have settled into the front row to watch a UCF soccer game (hey, admission is free, and it's so popular in New Mexico that she's gonna have to learn about it sometime). It's about to start when the lady behind us picks up her phone and randomly dials.
"Hey, I wanted to tell you this before it was too late," she says to her victim. "Have you seen the sky? Yeah, it's all orange and blue. God's a Gator fan."
And Avery starts crying.
I feel her pain. Who ruins a perfectly good sunset?
"Hey, I wanted to tell you this before it was too late," she says to her victim. "Have you seen the sky? Yeah, it's all orange and blue. God's a Gator fan."
And Avery starts crying.
I feel her pain. Who ruins a perfectly good sunset?
2007/10/13 22:53
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do
Dear Rachael Ray,
This may be the hardest letter I'll ever write. We've had a good run, after all -- you perform hideous media abominations and I mock you. But this just isn't working out for me anymore.
It's not you, it's me. No, strike that; it's mostly you. As your exposure, your volume, your amount of eyeliner have all gone up, your shows have become unwatchable. I used to cherish 30 Minute Meals for its savvy interpretations of simplistic yet well-rounded meals, but let's be honest -- how many times can I be expected to watch you reinvent pasta or cheeseburgers?
When you took on the $40-a-Day role, that was the beginning of the end. Looking past the questionable hyphenation (even though one of them might be better pressed into service in the previous title), it was just another show about restaurants in places I will never go. And the restaurants you chose, the dishes you sampled, the chintzy, paltry tips you left! Rachael, the show is irresponsible and unconscionable, and yet you persist.
Then came the cavalcade of Oprah/Martha clones ... Inside Dish, Tasty Travels, the syndicated talk show, the magazine. Each less watchable than the previous. It's gotten to where if I see your hideous visage on my TV screen -- even during a commercial -- I shudder and quickly change the channel. And this is why our brief, twisted tryst must end. After all, if I'm not watching your show, how can I make fun of it?
I wish I'd been there to break it to you gently, Rachael, but you aren't a media empire. You're just a backwoods supermarket buyer who found a bright spot of fame making quick and easy meals on afternoon television. We must embrace our limitations. For example, I know that about four people are reading this, and you aren't one of them. But I know of no other way to tell you it's over.
Love always,
Rick
PS. Boy, first your husband and now me. I tell ya, Rachael, I almost feel bad for you. But not as bad as I feel for your makeup artist. She has no escape but to lose her job.
This may be the hardest letter I'll ever write. We've had a good run, after all -- you perform hideous media abominations and I mock you. But this just isn't working out for me anymore.
It's not you, it's me. No, strike that; it's mostly you. As your exposure, your volume, your amount of eyeliner have all gone up, your shows have become unwatchable. I used to cherish 30 Minute Meals for its savvy interpretations of simplistic yet well-rounded meals, but let's be honest -- how many times can I be expected to watch you reinvent pasta or cheeseburgers?
When you took on the $40-a-Day role, that was the beginning of the end. Looking past the questionable hyphenation (even though one of them might be better pressed into service in the previous title), it was just another show about restaurants in places I will never go. And the restaurants you chose, the dishes you sampled, the chintzy, paltry tips you left! Rachael, the show is irresponsible and unconscionable, and yet you persist.
Then came the cavalcade of Oprah/Martha clones ... Inside Dish, Tasty Travels, the syndicated talk show, the magazine. Each less watchable than the previous. It's gotten to where if I see your hideous visage on my TV screen -- even during a commercial -- I shudder and quickly change the channel. And this is why our brief, twisted tryst must end. After all, if I'm not watching your show, how can I make fun of it?
I wish I'd been there to break it to you gently, Rachael, but you aren't a media empire. You're just a backwoods supermarket buyer who found a bright spot of fame making quick and easy meals on afternoon television. We must embrace our limitations. For example, I know that about four people are reading this, and you aren't one of them. But I know of no other way to tell you it's over.
Love always,
Rick
PS. Boy, first your husband and now me. I tell ya, Rachael, I almost feel bad for you. But not as bad as I feel for your makeup artist. She has no escape but to lose her job.
Labels: open letters
2007/10/10 22:55
Truth In Advertising
Avery and I pass this sign every day on our afternoon walk.
To be fair, this isn't technically a fabrication. Still, it is a bit disingenuous to put a picture of a Doberman pinscher on your fence when what you've got is actually a miniature pinscher. Especially when you've also got a chihuahua which happens to be more likely to attack. I guess they're trying to boost his confidence.
The cavalier, wishful inaccuracy of this sign makes me laugh, but it also nags at me. What it needs is a disclaimer, something to make clear what you're actually getting if you scale the fence at this place. Something like this.
I'd write it on there for real, but I don't need the chihuahua biting my ankles.
To be fair, this isn't technically a fabrication. Still, it is a bit disingenuous to put a picture of a Doberman pinscher on your fence when what you've got is actually a miniature pinscher. Especially when you've also got a chihuahua which happens to be more likely to attack. I guess they're trying to boost his confidence.
The cavalier, wishful inaccuracy of this sign makes me laugh, but it also nags at me. What it needs is a disclaimer, something to make clear what you're actually getting if you scale the fence at this place. Something like this.
I'd write it on there for real, but I don't need the chihuahua biting my ankles.
2007/10/05 11:58
Is This What They Call "Californication"?
So I open my newspaper this morning to find "Orlando's 101 Best," a reader poll of our favorite area restaurants, shops and attractions. Awesome, I think -- I'm always looking for new recommended local places to eat, shop, or just walk around. Maybe this will hip me to more of the local culture.
Seriously, it's like I never learn. There's still no local culture in Orlando.
Here are some of the results, which I wish I was making up.
Seriously, it's like I never learn. There's still no local culture in Orlando.
Here are some of the results, which I wish I was making up.
- Seasons 52 was named for best American, best atmosphere, best dessert and best vegetarian, and (just like it always does) it took best overall restaurant. Know who owns Seasons 52? Darden. Fourteen hundred restaurants nationwide and somehow they manage to operate the best joint in Central Florida.
- The House of Blues gets "best bar to see live music"? Do you people know what a bar is?
- Best Chinese: P.F. Chang's. Best coffee: Starbucks. Best Italian: Carrabba's, with freaking Olive Garden and Macaroni Grill as runners-up. You know, Florida is populated with expatriated New Yorkers. I thought they knew what Chinese, coffee and Italian were supposed to taste like.
- Best Happy Hour: Chili's. Wait, what?
- Publix brought home the award for best sub. I feel obligated to disclose that Publix is a goddamn supermarket.
- Barnes and Noble was named the best bookstore. This one was a gimme, though, because locals don't open bookstores knowing that Floridians can't read.
- Best Place To Find A Unique Gift: Downtown Disney. Excuse me, but how is anything you find at Disney unique?
- By the time the Epcot Food and Wine Festival nabbed "best community festival," I had already put down the paper.
2007/10/04 15:10
Pixel Perfect
That's what I get for buying a first-run untested camera, I guess.
I played with the settings on my Kodak M883 for three solid weeks, trying to find the configuration that would take crisp pictures without graininess. But I guess this model accidentally went to production without a "Don't Suck" button. So I went back to Best Buy and complained. Thirty minutes of extensive testing later (all while the girl helping me stood by impatiently), I walked out with a completely different animal.
Our new Canon Powershot is a slight step down in terms of megapixels (back at 7.2) and size (thing's bigger than the three-year-old dead one). On top of that, if I want to maintain the file system I've been using thus far for images downloaded to my computer, I have to do it manually (at least partly because the pack-in camera manager software does not, in fact, work).
All of these are minor complaints against having good-looking pictures again.
I don't need dedicating photo download software, not when Windows will let me open the camera and move image files from Explorer. The bulkiness is a hassle, but we're always carrying a diaper bag these days anyway. And as for the image size, we were pretty happy with four megapixels as long as the image was clean. What good are eight when the photo itself comes out like this?
We have important events to record here. I can't be spending half my day staring at Photoshop just so we can see them.
I played with the settings on my Kodak M883 for three solid weeks, trying to find the configuration that would take crisp pictures without graininess. But I guess this model accidentally went to production without a "Don't Suck" button. So I went back to Best Buy and complained. Thirty minutes of extensive testing later (all while the girl helping me stood by impatiently), I walked out with a completely different animal.
Our new Canon Powershot is a slight step down in terms of megapixels (back at 7.2) and size (thing's bigger than the three-year-old dead one). On top of that, if I want to maintain the file system I've been using thus far for images downloaded to my computer, I have to do it manually (at least partly because the pack-in camera manager software does not, in fact, work).
All of these are minor complaints against having good-looking pictures again.
I don't need dedicating photo download software, not when Windows will let me open the camera and move image files from Explorer. The bulkiness is a hassle, but we're always carrying a diaper bag these days anyway. And as for the image size, we were pretty happy with four megapixels as long as the image was clean. What good are eight when the photo itself comes out like this?
We have important events to record here. I can't be spending half my day staring at Photoshop just so we can see them.
