Category: Life

One of these things is not like the others; one of these things does not belong.

Can you spot it?

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Beer for Soldiers

Books for Soldiers

The combination, of course, would be Late Night Philsophical Rambling Discussions for Soldiers, but leave that to them.

I don’t know why I felt the need to post this; perhaps because I spent yesterday reviving and relighting old clone (remember when we called them “clones”?) boxes, including my first foray into Windows 95, an old Packard Bell Pentium 233 (but with MMX technology, werd) which I bought to go in my first apartment in 1998.

This journal entry was written on an old 286-10 box running MS DOS 4.0 and LotusWorks. But I guess we’ll come to that by and by.

. . . .

I laid to rest an old friend today. A friend I had known for years, since the beginning of high school. A friend that was always there for me, that I could depend on for a little recreation when I needed it, to impose logic on the topsy-turvy world that adolescence too often proves to be has been placed in the box.

I do not speak of a friend placed in his or her coffin, but rather of my old Commodore 64 home computer. I prefer to think of it as a personal computer, or even a friend. We shared a lot of time together, and I began to feel affection for it, I have discovered now that I have had to put it in the closet.

We first met toward the end of my middle school career in a little hamlet in Missouri where there were few actual people to waste my time on. It was a Christmas gift from my mother, a treasure than in its prime of its technology, the creme-de-la-creme of personal computers. Its actual position in the marketplace and high standing among its users was of little concern to me. It was a COMPUTER. And it was MINE.

It is hard to trace the actual roots of my affection for it in our early relationship. We played a few games together, trivial things now that I reflect on them. But a bond was developing as I fought my way through waves of defending Russians in Rush’N’Attack and evil martial artists in Yie Ar Kung Fu. My old Commodore kept me entertained on nights when the rain rumbled upon the roof of our mobile home or when I was grounded for some minute infraction of the house rules.

Then, as the time we had known each other became measured in months and then years, I grew to learn more about it. Commodore Basic 2.0 was my second language and Spanish only my third. I learned how to program it and make it do what I wanted. It was a novel way of impressing my family, a modern version of the old after-dinner talent shows. Aunts and uncles would come into my room to see what incredible feats I could perform with my toy. We were a team, a Mutt-and-Jeff, a duo, inseparable. I was the brains and it was the brawn.

As most children (or at least those who read the Great Brain books by John D. Fitzgerald) are, apt to consider themselves bold entrepreneurs, we became partners in a series of hare-brained schemes to make ourselves rich. The abortive attempts included a weekly advertising circular, which my Commodore could not handle with any success, and a pay-per-download program service. Neither got very far, but it was not due to a lack of an effort by my faithful computer. The only way it could help me in my attempts at wealth was a secondary position in my lawn-mowing business as a sign-maker.

It helped me with school, too. I used its word-processing abilities to write papers throughout high school, printing them in low-quality dot matrix type when other students were still handing in handwritten research papers. It also saw my first stumbling attempts at novels, hidden away somewhere yet on disks for future generations to view and snicker.

Our relationship faltered as I moved on to college. My time dwindled and my needs changed. I bought a new computer that now occupies the center of my desk, the old Commodore banished to some dark corner of my new room. Our relationship did not die suddenly, for it was still present if I needed a quick game of Tetris to easy my mind or distract me from some impending paper. The usage dwindled, however, and its main function of late has been acting as a dust cover for the corner of a desk. When it came time to clean my room, I came to terms with the distance between us and finally had to make the decision to put it away.

With heavy heart I unplugged the various cords and carefully wound them. I placed the components of the Commodore in its new home gingerly, fearing I might damage its fragile innards by this simple act as opposed to the numerous falls it has suffered over the years. I looked at all the software I had acquired over the years, some games unsolved and some utilities unopened. I then sifted through the stacks of computer related printouts I had accumulated, the half-completed programs and game notes offering a testimony to its past usefulness, and almost pleading for a reprieve.

If the computer were alive, it would dread the threat of the box. I will probably never use it again. The box is a veritable coffin for computers, the bottom of the closet its graveyard. It now rests in peace with my old TIs, other relics of the early years of the computer revolution. I fear I will not use it again, only store it until such a time as I no longer care about it enough that I can throw it away.

Just plastic and silicon and little chips. The dreams and aspirations, the triumphs and tragedies of a million games and a million dreams shared. Goodbye old friend.

If it brings a tear to your eye, you’re definitely a geek. Probably reading this on a Linux box, too, you psycho.

Ever had one of your favorite undergarments rust from repeated trips through the washing machine?

What, is it just me?

Yeah, I am down with the whole cam locking thing, as I spent far too much of my evening assembling a new pressboard file cabinet. Sure, it’s a step above Sauder and it’s a nice shade of cherry (until it’s a nice shade of cherry scarred into dappled beauty of revealed pressboard), but come on, it’s the hot dog of wood with painted plastic relish.

I don’t want to dwell on the fact that Michelle Malkin has a home office done in pressboard; cripes, I was hoping to escape into the rarified world of furniture that will last to be antiques, made of real wood, and not just pine or maple. But if she cannot escape it by becoming a prized public intellectual, successful columnist, best selling author, and glamourous IMAO t-shirt model, what hope have I?

In my e-mail box today:

Perverts.

From today’s column:

The New York Times turned its attention to men’s hats last month. Hats, it said, are enjoying “an unforeseen resurgence” in popularity. The “unforeseen” is puzzling, since the media have been announcing men’s hats are back regularly for the past 40 years.

“Hats are back,” the Fresno Bee noted last year. “Hats are once again cool,” the Tulsa World wrote in 2002. In 2001, the Chattanooga Times Free Press trumpeted “hats are back.” In 2000, the Chicago Tribune suggested “the hat is making a comeback.”

“Hats,” the Minneapolis Star Tribune observed in 1999, “are back.” And on and on and on.

But hats are not back, and probably are never coming back, though the reason why is lost to general memory. Everyone has seen old photographs of crowds at baseball games, and marveled at the unbroken sea of hats. What we do not realize is that many, perhaps most, of those men hated wearing hats, which were expensive, easily lost and a bother. They all wore hats because they had to.

I say hats never went out of style.

I’ll hold him, Brock; you hat him.

I don’t know how I feel about this: Vote or Not.org:

Hi. We’re Jim Young and James Hong, better known to the users of our website HOT or NOT as just “Jim and James”. You may be wondering why the heck we’re doing this, so here’s our explanation.

We want you, and every person that is eligible, to vote. This is something we feel passionate about. We know we’re just 2 guys, but we believe that 2 guys with a good idea who are willing to work hard and put their time and money where their mouths are can make a difference… just like one person’s vote – YOUR vote – can make a difference.

In a nutshell, we’re doing this because we care, and because we can. We also like the idea of doing this because nobody else has done it before, and we like to do crazy, new things.

So register to vote if you haven’t already done so, enter to win our money, and drastically improve your chances of winning by getting your friends to register too. We hope you win. (and if you do, it’d sure be nice if you took us out to dinner with some of that cash).

— Jim and James

Not about getting people to vote; that these guys have $200,000 to give away. Envy? Oh, yeah.

Of course, if you must know how I really feel, click the above link and enter. If you win, the person who referred you gets $100,000. Since you haven’t hit the tip jar recently, it’s the least you could do for me.

Why was I the only one at the recycling facility with a W sticker on his vehicle?

The corporate world proves B.F Skinner right once again. Our local Pizza Hut charges seventy-five cents for deliveries now, a cost it just appends to the top of your coupon and the tax. It doesn’t break out the cost nor publicize it anywhere, but you’re probably paying it.

Thanks to the phone companies, wireless companies, and all other companies who have accustomed consumers to surcharges, bogus taxes, and costs of businesses so that the advertised price represents purely the profit, and everything else is extra.

• Another Monday, another 5 unsolicited credit card offers, including 3 separate campaigns from Citibank. Gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to return your business reply envelopes with the terms of your offer, but not application. I consider it my small part to keep first class postal rates down and to raise your cost per customer acquisition for these campaigns.
• A plea for money from George Bush. Look, George, I’ve given money, we’re probably going to give up time and lawnspace for the campaign, but if you want more cash, you’re going to have to send a picture of your daughters.

  For this gambit to be effective, make sure that’s addressed to Mr. Brian and not Mrs. Heather (or, as she might be again known shortly after reading this post, Miss HLI, in which case I won’t have any money to give anyway).

• An offer for AOL 9.0 Optimized, which proclaims right on the box, Block Spam and Web Pop-Ups. As someone who’s logged into AOL 9.0 on a dial-up recently, I certainly notice the oversight that new customers won’t: Web Pop-Ups doesn’t say a damn thing about the six or ten AOL offers that display whenever you try to log in or log out. Those? Still in there.

  An overly expensive dial-up ISP that delivers its own ads to enhance my (slow) browsing experience? Throwing this out unopened is too good for this small box.

A family member bought this card for the punchline, but didn’t realize that she wasn’t part of the niche market this card serves.

The cover:

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Weapons of Mass Destruction. Money.

The inside:

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Two things you won’t find inside this birthday card.

Okay, I can see some humor in that, well, more an attempt at humor, but something. And then there’s the back:

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A caricature of George W. Bush, saying “Trust me, they’re there.”

So what’s your point, “American” Greetings?

I suppose they’re trying to cater to a hip urban crowd who’s swallowed the load that Iraq didn’t have weapons of mass destruction because those that have been found were just about destruction, not about destroying Catholic worship cermonies.

I’ve never paid much attention to greeting card manufacturers, but I know that the maker’s name is listed right above the price, and I’ll buy my 149 cards from Hallmark now, thanks.

I love it when I get an allusion made by some author, whether it’s Robert B. Parker or Varifrank, who quotes:

It’s not like John Kerry hasn’t tried to run for President before, and got nowhere, not even out of the early democrat primaries. He’s been “unwept, unhonoured, and unsung” for some time, and he’s a not exactly a stunning member of the Senate, he barely makes any kind of presence.

That’s Sir Walter Scott. I can almost quote the complete couplet.

Just don’t tell my mother-in-law, the former English teacher whom I impressed at our first meeting by reciting “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”, that I know this particular quote because, in the movie Groundhog Day, Andie MacDowell’s character Rita recites it to Bill Murray’s character Phil Conners and she attributes it. Knowning how I know what I know often spoils the illusion.

(Link seen on Instapundit.)

Here are the answers to some trivia questions soon to be asked:

1. Samantha Fox
2. Bright Lights, Big City
3. David Hartmann and Joan Lunden
4. Walter Mondale, Geraldine Ferraro, Lloyd Bentsen, Dan Quayle, Jack Kemp, Joe Liebermann, John Edwards
5. Teen Wolf Too
6. Nancy McKeon
7. The Satanic Verses
8. Here’s Boomer
9. Yemen
10. Texas Instruments home computers and Jello gelatin desserts.

Feel free to think up your own and to join me in studying to ensure dominance in trivia nights ten years’ hence.

Strategy Page has a list of Marine Corps bumper stickers. Check them out.

Yes, I mean you, Mom.

In case you didn’t think I had actual friends in the real world, I have posted the photos from Atari Party 5: Fellowship of the Joystick.

Of course, this could mean I married a woman with many friends, but I don’t dwell on it. Too much.