Tuesday, October 25, 2011

That's The Trouble With iPhones, You Have To Check Them Every Minute



I am following with interest the saga of former student and current friend Katie Hoffman's adventures with her new iPhone. She discovered just the other day, for example, that there is a compass in the utilities app, a piece of information like that could come in quite handy at times.

I'm thinking of my own experience with my iPhone and with all technology for that matter. My iPhone has essentially ruined my life in the same sense that our 60 inch plasma television has ruined my life.

There are all these apps to keep track of and I've discovered that you do have to watch them every minute. I used to shake my disapproving head at all the smart phone users constantly checking their devices (calling them phones is no longer adequate), being careful never to lose contact with the rest of the world for more than a few minutes at a time.

Now, I'm right there with them. There is the weather app for instance. I can flick this little icon and instantly get weather conditions in New York City (Nate and Ashley), Jackson Hole (Jenny Lake), Belize City (San Pedro), Washington, D.C. (Franny and Ken, but I'll have to change that now), St. Helena (Napa Valley), Denver (of course), and Gstad (like Dan Akyroyd in Trading Places).

Then there is my green message icon in the upper left corner. I check it at every opportunity just in case someone might be trying to get in touch with me. No one ever is. Of course, I have to check Face Book regularly for the same reason. I normally get the same result.

If I get in an argument with someone I can whip out my iPhone and Google things to prove my points. If I'm reading a book--something I do less of now that I have to devote so much time to my iPhone--I can check the definition of words with a flick of my thumb. If I am walking through the woods and hear an unfamiliar bird's song, I can open up my Audubon app and identify the new species.

I have a New York Times Crossword Puzzle app that is in constant use, especially on Mondays through Wednesdays when the puzzles are easier. I am beginning to distrust this app however. I finished a Thursday puzzle in under eleven minutes the other day and the rush of pleasure I felt when the machine played its congratulatory fanfare was immediate and intense. But when the stupid program showed my ranking compared to other players around the globe, I discovered some player from Florida (probably some retired guy with too much time on his hands) had solved the puzzle in 2:20. 2:20! I don't think I could manipulate the little keyboard fast enough to fill in the whole puzzle in that time even if I knew every word. There's something underhanded going on, but I'm going to let it pass. I don't want to get too crazy over the whole thing.

The most dangerous app of all is Scrabble.

I remember back to a simpler time. There I was in my pajamas curled up in an armchair in our living room in Estes Park. My grandmother in her housecoat sat in another chair with a cup of coffee and a Lucky Strike both curling smoke. On the table in between, the Scrabble board was laid out with tiles forming an elaborate cross-hatch. Gram took charge of the dictionary, ready to challenge every obscure word. I loved those quiet early mornings together.

Fast forward twenty years. Kathie, Chris, Nate, Franny in an infant seat, and I hunched over a Scrabble board spread out in front of our 14 inch TV at 3510 Teller in Wheat Ridge. This time I manned the dictionary and Nate, with his instinct for the jugular even in grade school, won more often than not.

I think either one of those scenes would make a great study by Norman Rockwell. The American Family At Home, Circa 1980.

Kiss all that goodbye. Franny, Ken, Kathie, and I all have Scrabble apps on our phones, so we are in a constant Scrabble marathon. That's a good thing, but the way this family Scrabble-fest manifests itself is sometimes a little too Orwellian for my tastes. I first came to this conclusion about a week ago when all four of us were upstairs watching some guy on the Food Network try to eat a ten pound burrito, or a fifteen pound omelet, or something of equal magnitude. In the little box next to Kathie's chair sat our unopened family Scrabble board, looking every bit of its 4o years. And there were the four of us, heads bent over our iPhones playing our solitary games together.

Ever on the lookout for irony, I made note of this juxtaposition. Here was one scene Norman Rockwell would never paint. I would have dwelled on this idea longer, but then Kathie made a 45 point play on the triple letter square in the bottom right-hand corner and there I was with just one vowel.

Friday, October 21, 2011

I Want to Be Gwyneth Paltrow, Tebow's Cool, Knitting Barometers, and What's Left Over

Katherine today.

I've been very busy with work, Franny's move to Denver (ahhhhhhh!!!!!!!), knitting deadlines, and all sorts of household flotsam that's too silly to explain. I've had numerous impulses to write and skipped the important note-taking step and have lost track of even the faintest glimpse of what I intended to write about and so I'm writing today in an effort to get something down before it vanishes. It's a scary proposition.

I think I'll formulate this as a list. I'd like to think I could organize my thoughts into something coherent by finding a thread that holds it all together, but it's not going to happen. I'm not sure why anybody would care, but here's some stuff on my mind of late:

1. Gwyneth Paltrow. She's perfect. She can read Shakespeare well enough to earn her an Oscar and cook light regional Italian meals and publish a cookbook full of her original recipes. She can sing country western songs and work out with Madonna. She married the lead guy in Cold Play and he's witty and humble and not the typical goregous rock star. I think I want to be Gwyneth Paltrow.

2. We had Chinese food delivered one day last week. Several days later I ate the last fortune cookie after reading my fortune: "Everything you are against, weakens you." Whoa. I actually thought about that. It's not really a fortune and I've been bummed over the last several years that fortune cookies rarely have actual fortunes anymore, but it certainly stopped me in my tracks. I think it's the only time a fortune cookie has actually made me think.

I understand that I could get a really good paragraph here about conservative politics and some sort of significant irony that's embedded in all this. I'm just not up to it. It's just too sad.
I'm trying to think of things in terms of what I'm for and not what I'm against. I'm in favor of natural fibers instead of being opposed to synthetic fibers. I'm in favor of natural foods instead of being opposed to processed and packaged foods. I'm in favor of regulating banks and corporations and reforming taxes to distribute the burdens more fairly instead of being opposed to uniform greed. I'm feeling myself getting stronger all the time.

3. I like Tim Tebow. I didn't expect to. Before I decided I wouldn't be against things anymore, I was probably against Tim Tebow. Too much religion and goody-goody stuff. Too much effort. Just too much.

As I said, I like him now. Tebow hasn't talked about religion. He's charismatic and I find it impossible not to want him to make this work out. He somehow got his fellow draft-mates to run an 18 hole golf course (sit-ups and push-ups at each hole) one night at their rookie symposium. He looks really good in the underwear he's selling. I don't know. I just want him to do well and make the Broncos fun to watch for a while.

4. Jim made a pumpkin pie yesterday. He makes wonderful pies. The pumpkin filling is laced with Scotch and the crust is really flaky and it's my favorite pie in the world. Franny had us over for dinner (Ahhhhhhh) and we brought the pie. She made a wonderful European-style fondue dinner (The Melting Pot isn't it) and it was just really nice. Her place looks great. It was a nice family time. We cook a lot in this family.

5. When my emotions are crazy and I knit rows, the rows remain the same. Self-pity does not change my knitting stitch size. Emotions do, however, affect the size of my purled stitches. I thought you'd want to know.

6. I wish FaceBook hadn't changed. I know that FB is really all about how we are changing what we do and what we think and who we are all the time. Still, I wish it hadn't changed.

7. I'll miss Jobs and the ability to make technology cool.

I think I'll stop here. I'm hungry and I'll go scrounge for something to eat. I have to have the body of a sweater knitted before my knitting class next Wednesday night and I better go upstairs and knit, knit, knit. I don't want to be in the slackers corner at knitting class.

Thanks for listening.
K.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Moneyball - Michael Lewis

I just finished Michael Lewis' latest book. It was a quick and interesting read which will surely make a good movie, but I don't see much beyond that. I enjoyed the way Lewis skewered Conventional Wisdom, baseball style. The Oakland A's approach to baseball under the guidance of general manager Billy Beane went counter to the rest of baseball, yet managed to produce more wins (BEFORE PLAYOFFS) than any other team save the Yankees.

Billy Beane did it with the league's smallest payroll and smartest approach. He discounts the conventional wisdom that applauds sacrifice bunts, stolen bases, high averages, and bodies built like Mickey Mantle and trades that all for patience at the plate, high on-base percentages, walks, and long balls. The statistical studies that he became devoted to proved the good old boy ethos of professional baseball was flat wrong about its approach to the game.

It is fun for a revolutionary type to read about conventional wisdom getting turned on its ear. It is also fun to read Lewis' great prose and fascinating anecdotes about baseball stars present, past, and future.

I am, on the other hand, glad to be done with the book so I can go on to other things more compelling.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Hot Dogs And Sex Strikes Go Hand In Hand

I read in the paper this morning about the man from Petaluma, California who was arrested for throwing a hot dog at Tiger Woods during a golf tournament. The man said that, inspired by watching the movie "Drive", he decided he had to do something "courageous and epic." That's what we have come to. Throwing a hot dog at a disgraced golf pro has become an epic and courageous act.

For proof all you have to do is manage to watch an episode of "Dancing With The Stars." I was able to do just that the other night. After sitting through an entire evening with the show, I understand why it has become so popular. It is very glitzy. The female outfits are tiny and growing tinier. There is always the chance that a stray nipple or two will pop out, thereby fueling two or three days of media blitz. The judges are alternately fatuous and downright nasty. The host seems extremely pleased with himself. And the contestants all seem to have moving human interests stories to tell.

Even though this was the first show I have watched from beginning to end, I have seen a few snippets from other episodes. In the backstage glimpses the audience is privy to, you can always count on at least one star breaking down in tears under the intense pressure of hours of rehearsal. Of course one of the reasons the star might be crying is the realization that he or she has the time for hours of rehearsal because no one else in show business will give him a job. There are lots of scenes of grateful stars shouting the praises of their pro dancer partner.

And the audience and judges get misty eyed over the whole thing. There was Chaz Bono being showcased the other night. The camera showed him sweating away during rehearsals. He laughed a little. He cried a few times. He and his partner talked about his sex change operation and the controversy over him offering young viewers a bad role model by appearing on the show. What he didn't do was anything resembling dancing.

Sitting there watching everyone in the studio react to the video as if they were part of some special moment was disconcerting. And Cher was there, standing, wiping tears from her grotesquely over-made face, as if this stuff mattered to anyone beyond this audience desperate for something to feel good about.

The whole idea of Chaz Bono's decision to have a sex change operation and then top it off by an appearance on "Dancing With The Stars" being somehow courageous grabbed me on the same level that throwing a hot dog at Tiger Woods is courageous. Personally, I think the most courageous thing about having a sex change operation is coming to grips with the fact that you will have to spend more than one night in Trinidad. But I am being flip. I just don't see what the big deal is. If you want to talk courage let's talk about the guy who was trapped on the mountain and cut his arm off with his pocket knife. Of course, he does lose points for using it as a kind of publicity stunt. If you want and need a sex change, be my guest. If you want me to think it courageous, grab a pocket knife and head for the mountains. You might want to think about selling the film rights before you leave.

So anyway, I was looking at all of this and realizing that these people are registered voters. Well, some of them. These same folks who are crying over Chaz Bono's existential choice and craning their necks to catch sight of Cher, will be asked to make informed decisions at the polls. They are the same people who pollsters call up in order to publish more contradictory results. I wonder how many of them have strong opinions based on nothing. Jobs Bill? The Affordable Health Care Act? Tea Party? Rick Perry? Michelle Bachman? Mitt Romney? Kenyan? Mormon? Socialist? Fascist? Job Producers? FLOTUS at Target? Illegal Aliens? All of this stuff pales next to Chaz' sexuality.

I read an article in The New York Review of Books a year ago focusing on the build up in Afghanistan. In the middle of reading it I finally came to the realization that one of the main reasons for the quagmire there is that we are dealing with a population overwhelmingly young, male, and illiterate. Expecting the typical Afghan to understand our presence there is like expecting a ninth grade boy to understand anything beyond his immediate urges. The best thing to do is lock them all in a large closet and wait for them to turn twenty-one.

I'm rooting for the people camping out on Wall Street and around the country. But unless they can stage some kind of contest that requires skimpy outfits and acts of media induced courage, I don't see how they will make much of a dent on our nation's consciousness. On the other hand, I did find some hope in what has happened recently in Colombia. The women in the town of Barbacoas, fed up with authorities' lack of action, announced last June that they would withhold sex from their partners until the 35 mile road connecting them to the region's capital got paved. Army engineers started the paving job yesterday.

I predict there will be a major revival in productions of Lysistrata this theater season.