Uncategorized

Fuck you, Apple, I’m STILL not going by “@me.com”

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Long, long time ago …

I bought a “.Mac” account. An easy way to create webpages, online slideshows, share files, have online storage space, download free software/updates. Didn’t use it a LOT, but it was neat when those services were rare. Oh, yeah, and I had @mac.com as my email address.

Sure, it became my junk email account immediately for online signups. But, whatever. Felt a hokey having an email address that identified me as part of a brand lifestyle. Was there ever a “@tacobellchalupa.com” email address? Again, whatever.

Then three or so years ago, Apple transitioned naming their service from “.Mac” to “Mobile Me”. Worse? email addresses would transition from “@mac.com” to “@me.com”.

Even a RAVING narcissist as myself was revolted. Sure, in theory it was part of a “Hey, sharing and caring using Apple products and our online services ain’t about US here at Apple, it’s about YOU, your life, claim it! Show the world online more about ME. I mean, er, YOU, but USE ‘me’. Hold up: what marketing numbskull wrote this hack copy?”

Now, I know demographic research into the rising generations show decreasing sense of guardedness about security, greater inclination to share with peers, propensity to seek approval of authority. Hasn’t been MY experience with Gen Y or Echo generation or whatever. Have met too many future ornery old cusses (hooray for that!) so I tend to review these PowerPoint Purveyors of generational labels with skepticism. Distrust of authority. Refusal to engage in constructive thought or genuine emotion. You know, like all Gen Xers.

Just letting you know, Apple and Google bots (and, to show sensitivity to minorities, Bing bots), that I will use “@mac.com” as long as possible. Well, okay, for junk. But it’s the PRINCIPLE, man!

Pop Culture

Not giving up on George Michael

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George Michael is a genuinely talented, witty artist and I hope he gets (has?) his shit together so he can record more music – specifically upbeat music.

In the mid-80s, my high school girlfriend had much better, broader, deeper musical taste than me and her copies of Wham!’s ‘Fantastic’ and ‘Make it Big’ album sleeves were propped against her shelves and the platters on her turntable all of the time. Their songs were catchy, but I sniffed at the covers and the videos and saw it was all fun, but I wasn’t tuned into how deliberately arch the whole Wham! enterprise was.

It wasn’t until George Michael’s ‘Faith’ album that I grokked his ambition and inspiration and keen ear and artistry. Still immaculately groomed, but crikey, what a great, hungry, assured pop album the fellow made.

More fun and great singles kept coming over the years. Could care less about his sexual pecadilloes (did he have more than just the one?) but the public intoxication and driving under the influence incidents are troubling.

Still, that he had a sustained career for many years in pop music point to a reserve of talent. He’s one of the few music artists from the 80s & 90s I’d like to hear new music from. Not re-hashes of hits, but expressions of where he’s at. Oh, and upbeat songs. His ballads and slow-tempo big-picture songs tend to be snoozers.

Here’s an acoustic performance of “Freedom 90” pulled from about 100 hours of old videotapes. This website may be a repository of these morsels. Still deliberating on what to do with this space.

Oh, and this performance is 20 years old! Eeeek! Crossing fingers for ya, ya mad Cypriot!

Parenting

Forecasting teen steam

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Oldest turned 11 today. Both kids are old and lanky enough for glimpses into how they’ll be as teenagers. Neurologically, the ability to feel empathy is at its lowest during adolescence. We all know and have lived THAT.

For years, I’ve joked that we take photos of our spawn NOW so we have something to harken back to and browse through while we’re worriedly hold vigil for their teen years late night / early morning returns. But, specifically, how horrible wil it be? Will it be mild? I look at my kids both in the moment and anticipate how I will regard the moment in the future. Trying to remember things as I will be remembering them…

What THING am I doing now that will become THAT THING they complain about to friends – on the phone or texting or chat rooms (holograms?) or in hangouts engaged in some activity they’re not supposed to be doing that will be rightfully mundane once they become of age and it is no longer illicit?

[Spawn] “Yeah, my dad totally did THAT THING again.”

[Peer] “What a drag, slick. Forget about that. Now let’s [insert proposal of resuming/initiating forbidden behavior].”

Best guess of THAT THING: critique/analysis of their pop culture consumption.

Uncategorized

Hope Hitchens & Vidal make it another year

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I have an awful feeling that two writer/media figures/heroes of mine, Gore Vidal and Christopher Hitchens, might not make it to the end of the year. Hitchens in battling severe esophageal cancer and recently lost his voice. Gore Vidal has been yellowing for some time, hasn’t emerged recently, and hasn’t moved under his own power in public for years.

To superstitiously ward this off, here’s an excerpt from an conversation between Hitchens and Anderson Cooper. CNN is rarely a place that goes deep, but I really like Cooper calling bullshit on the concept of “closure” when it comes to someone’s death, and Hitchens agreeing:

Gore Vidal was a commentator on a 3-hour documentary about Abraham Lincoln aired on the History Channel. Here he compares the severe acts of Lincoln (shutting down presses, suspension of habeas corpus) to the same acts, much less necessary, by George W. Bush.

 

Poetry, Writing

The Soul Selects Her/His Own Society

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The Soul Selects Her Own Society
by Emily Dickinson

The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
To her divine Majority —
Present no more —

Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing —
At her low Gate —
Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat —

I’ve known her — from an ample nation —
Choose One —
Then — close the Valves of her attention —
Like Stone —

 

Socializing when you don’t want to is a drag. Even when socializing isn’t a dreary duty, the people delightful, the occasion a privilege.

Yes, everyone feels that way at times.

I really enjoy writing. The concentration. But I need to be away from people I know to do it. If only there were some way to easily close the valves Dickinson writes of, then open them again at will without feeling/being an asshole.

Parenting

Twinkies sense & sensibility

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Last weekend at a school auction dinner with a comfort food theme (meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, iceberg lettuce wedge salad) the dessert options were: 1.) Pool bids among your table for a right to jockey in a “dessert dash” for a baked treat of your choice and return it to your table; 2.) A s’mores-type fudge delivered to the table; 3.) A box of 10 Twinkies.

As a kid, Twinkies were AMAZING. In teen years, I noticed that eating them was never satisfying – the dreams of a fulfilling golden-sponge cake never dreamy and never fulfilling with a bizarre burning sensation left in the throat.

In 1991, inspired by an issue of Spy magazine, I bought a box of Twinkies and: A.) Put one in a microwave for a minute (expanded slightly, smelled like burning plastic, “cream” was blackened but the cake was fine; B.) Placed a Twinkie in jar of water (swelled to 3x its size, kept its shape until I shook it then it all dissolved); C.) Left a Twinkie outside on the apartment’s patio railing for the birds (birds came and investigated, never, ever ate any – the Twinkie eventually disintegrated after a few day’s rain living an oblong ring of goo in its wake like a spontaneously exploded golden slug).

At this auction night, I ate a Twinkie. Almost ate all of it. I sucked out the “cream” and left some of the golden sponge cake flesh/rind on the table. Still gross. Spouse ate part of mine, too. Another relative at the table ate one. Took the remaining 8 home for the kids. Spouse said “I don’t think the kids have ever had Twinkies.” then mentioned to relatives “I don’t know that we’ve ever given the kids Twinkies.” Not a boast so much as giving our kids brand-name snacks is typically something we do. A statistical oddity.

Have spent the last 5 days selling the concept of eating a Twinkie to the kids as an after-snack dinner. Visions of sun-dappled moms giving their kids a treat after Wonder Bread sandwiches and Kool Aid drinks in our backyard (why aren’t the dads ever sun-dappled? They’re only shown as frustrated at the BBQ or fucking stuff up). “How about some Hostess treats?” Carefully blended selection of showbiz kids, also dun-dappled and in intense-gamboling mode yet quite sheveled: “Yay!” Small hands from all directions removing all selections from the dessert platter. Mom pleased, smiles at the camera and gives a head shake with a “I’m such a good provider.” and “Kids LOVE cramming artificial foamy lard dollops down their gullets” look in her eyes.

Our kids have declined to eat a Twinkie each day. The expiration date is approaching (contrary to myth, they do expire) and I will happily drop all 8 of these in the garbage. My little birds are ignoring Twinkies, too.

Writing

Choices, choices – video games v. art

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The last year has meant commitment to writing. Increased writing related to intermittent crankiness and rawness. In this last year, my video game playing has dropped to essentially nil. I love video games. They are mind-numbing (usually) and verrry pleasing to the reptile brain. It’s strange how I’ve not been inclined to play them unless asked by the kids. Have never installed a game on a smartphone, nor on Facebook. Have flushed hundreds, thousands of hours of my life in World of Warcraft. Recently? Nope. Doesn’t feel like it’s a testament to an improved character, simply not something my neurochemical system wants to do. Not feeling susceptible to granular rewards dosed at regular intervals. More cruelly charmless expensive dark chocolate, though, NOW! We wantssss it…

Reading, Writing

Fond of my Kindle (say it 3x, fast)

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The main thing I don’t like about the Kindle is its lack of heirloom value. “Yes, daughter. This DRM’d edition of ‘Middlemarch’ has been in our family for months and months. Is its format now obsolete? Regardless, (cough cough – consumptive hack into my greening lace handerkerchief) pass it along to your children so long as THEIR e-reader is adjoined to your account. No, wait. It should be my account to have access to it. Can we merge our accounts? Oh, FUCK IT, just put my Kindle on the photocopier and print out the book for yourself.”

Okay, and its lack of color. And its lack of a touch screen.

Otherwise, and especially for books that are current and not likely to be read by my descendents, it’s been a boon.

The ability to highlight notes and save them as text files has saved me dozens and dozens of hours of typing highlighted paper pages. Aaah.

Marvelous battery life. High contrast, no backlighting. Weird feature allowing Twitter and Facebook sharing with a few thumb gestures (easy e-erudition!) to clog up Feeds of friends with “Here’s something someone else said.”

I read faster with a Kindle, and am fairly certain I retain as much (or as little) as with a regular book.

Online dictionary. A rudimentary web browser – using it is like examining the runty spawn of a tablet and an Etch-a-Sketch. Look at it, go “Hunh. Kinda surprised it works at all.” and find it unusable after two minutes.

And walking around with eBook versions of novels that are near and dear grant a sense of power. I could look up pet phrases and be able to cite them in, like 30-45 seconds! Shake-n-Bake pretension in less than a minute! Assuming the eBook version isn’t riddled with typography errors. They often are, which might lead to my pronouncing “Slouching towards Bethel men to be born.” to grave embarrassment, point lost, dash into the bathroom until the other denizens of the salon have ceased with their clucking at my expense, embark their carriages, and return to their estates.

Having a Kindle in my possession makes each step a stomp with tremors that make the hordes of cretins tremble. That’s how it feels. Truer effect: puts even more of a lilt in my step, making it anthropologically MORE likely I will be selected out for abuse. Do your worst, bullies. My kids’ll be the boss of your kids.

Pop Culture

I quit ‘American Idol’. Brain: “Thank you!”

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I started watching ‘American Idol’ mid-way through the first season. Thought “Wow, that is a LOT of Coca-Cola logos all over the place all the time.” and “This is dorky.” and “That Brian Dunkelman guy and his ‘I’m so much BETTER than this dorkiness’ dorkiness is annoying. At least that Ryan Seacrest acts like he’s psyched to have a job.” Meh about the singers and their drama. Liked the damaged goods stripper mom about to get damaged-er Nikki McKibbin. Thought the boo-ing of Simon Cowell stupid – golly, he was the only one with constructive advice! Blah blah.

Even during the first season, I pegged that the whole process GUARANTEED I would never, ever end up buying a recording by a finalist, or even a contestant. All of the headcases, the interesting people, the oddballs, were weeded out. They are the only ones who make decent music.

Though, yes, clearly Clay Aiken looks like he’s into some dark, dark shit.

Yet, I kept watching.

It had watercooler value, providing good baseline conversations with people while out ‘n’ about. Weekly fascination with guessing at Paula Abdul’s biochemical state. Would she be slurry? Would she make shamanistic proclamations only fully apprehended weeks, months, generations hence?

And Simon Cowell. Sage observations on ‘Idol’. In his professional life: purveyor of crap. He masterminded the “No, really, is this shit serious?” opera boy band Il Divo. It is impossible to look at a photo of Il Divo and not laugh. I double-dog dare you.

If given some quiet, I can name all of the ‘American Idol’ champs. But I still have never, ever purchased a related recording. Not even William Hung’s “She Bangs”. If I hold to that for another 60 years, please note that in my obituary.

Paula “left”, replaced by a semi-dessicated groovy (but totally type-A) music industry chick who kept leaning over to the camera when she SHOULD NEVER LEAN FORWARD TO THE CAMERA unless she’s wearing something up to her neck. She had a funny moment with Bikini Chick, but otherwise, I’m glad to not have to look at her or listen to her again. Ah, I’m pretending to not know the woman’s name. I totally know her name. It’s Kara DioGuardi.

This year, I watched all the auditions and the whittling down. Then the last five weeks I’ve deleted unwatched ‘American Idol’ episodes off the DVR. And that’s, okay. Is it because any enterprise where Randy Jackson is considered the aesthetic anchor is doomed? Mebbe.

In farewell, I post two emblematic moments that stick in my head years after they happened on ‘American idol’. Katherine McPhee’s yellow dress. Kevin Couvais (aka “Chicken Little”) and his goofy shuffle across the stage to “Part Time Lover”.

Goodbye, ‘American Idol’. I wish you and your cross-promotions and product placements well. Seacrest, out.