Bouncing Babies

The first personal computer in my family was an MS-DOS-based machine, though it wasn’t very “personal.”  I don’t know what the brand was, or if it even had a “brand” in the normal sense of the word.  In the time that it loitered in my home (probably several years), all I ever really extracted from that humming box of chips and wires was a game called Bouncing Babies, which challenged the player to rescue purple pixel babies tumbling out of the windows of a burning apartment building.  I controlled a trampoline wielded by firemen at ground level, and the goal was to catch the falling babies and bounce them to the safety of an ambulance.  Kind of like Pong or Breakout, but with imperiled infants.

Oh, I also learned the neat trick that if you typed “DIR” into the DOS prompt and pressed Enter, you could bring up a directory of all the files on the computer.

That was it.  That was all I ever learned to do on that machine.

I think I was in 6th or 7th grade, and around the same time, I was playing Oregon Trail in computer class at school on an Apple IIe.  Here was a computer that was almost as old as I was, the best that public school funds could procure for my technological edification, and I got just as much or more out of it as I did on my newish home computer, supposedly a cutting-edge device.

But let’s be real here.  I had a Nintendo.  What were bouncing babies and death by dysentery compared to Mario and Final Fantasy?  Heck, even the Atari 2600 outclassed the foolishness of playing games on a keyboard.  If this was what personal computing was, I could pass.

Of course, no one ever taught me how to use DOS, or even the Apple IIe.  And I suppose that was the point.

In those neophyte days, I remember being reassured by a family friend, who worked in the software industry, that the computer was just a passive, slavish machine.  It can only do what you tell it to do, so I shouldn’t feel intimidated by it.  And yet, unless you were a software engineer, there was no intuitive way to know how to tell the machine to do anything.  It should have been obvious to everyone that the easier it was to tell a computer how to do things, the more enjoyable and useful a computer could be.

Throughout my life, I have come late to computer technology, internet innovations, even (especially?) viral phenomena.  I sent my first email in 1997, just before entering college.  I bemoaned the inexorable drift away from handwritten missives.  As I warmed to the idea and practice of email, I still insisted on writing a date at the top of every email I sent, as though it were a formal letter.  Yes, I wrote the date.  Even though the date and even the time were automatically stamped.  Every email.  Oh, and back then, I wrote the term as “e-mail,” with the hyphen.  I wasn’t the only one, but maybe I was the only one who did it on principle, instead of succumbing to the slurred, lazy, and (in my mind) inaccurate “email.”

In college, I found out from friends about downloading music online.  That’s right, mp3s, the term that for a few years replaced “songs” in the lexicon of cyberspace (do people still say “cyberspace”?).  We would go to a website called Scour, download their downloading program, and then search for any random song we could think of.  This was well before any talk of legality or piracy.  Nor did we worry about viruses and Trojan horses.  We were like boys stumbling upon a stash of fireworks, or hillbillies discovering oil.

And yet I remember saying it was “a fad.”  I had the curmudgeon’s gift of grouse; Andy Rooney would be proud (I mean, he would be if he weren’t such a curmudgeon who hated everything that was born after the Battle of the Bulge).  I couldn’t deny the thrill of downloading “Secret Agent Man” by Johnny Rivers on a whim and listening to the 128kbps mp3 file on my computer’s tinny speakers (satisfyingly retro, hissy like a vinyl record on a turntable, or better, a wax cylinder on a phonograph – ask Andy Rooney for details).  But I started to get tired of simply sitting in front of a computer searching for songs all night long.  Eventually, I ran out of songs to look for.  My mind couldn’t contain that many names.  I couldn’t see how other people wouldn’t get tired of this activity.  And then there were some songs I desperately wanted to acquire, but that were nowhere to be found (“Halah” by Mazzy Star; yes, it was the late 90s).  What would I do then?

* * *

Just as I came very late to the internet and technology game, I came very late to an appreciation of what Steve Jobs was.  When the announcement was made in August that Jobs was stepping down as CEO of Apple, I knew that his death was imminent.  A man like this doesn’t step down, doesn’t let go of the bouncing baby he had fathered and rescued from the flames, unless he knows it’s the end.  I said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he dies tomorrow.”

And then for the first time, I realized that he represented something very important.  He was an artist of technology, one of the very few of his kind.  As expensive as his products were, as overbearing as his acolytes were, as publicly dismissive as the man could be toward legitimate criticism of his work and ways, it was clear that he believed in the world he created.  I used to think that he was getting fat off of duping the public into buying things they didn’t need, but I think the truth is more complicated.

He got rich by giving people things they didn’t realize they wanted.  He didn’t ask them what they wanted; he told them what to want.  To the extent that he was wrong, we could call him a tyrant or megalomaniac.  But to the extent that he was right, wouldn’t we have to acknowledge that he had shades of a philosopher-king?

* * *

Years ago, my brother won an iPod.  This was a 15-gig device, very early generation.  A Mac-aholic could probably tell you which version it is.  It was the first Apple product that anyone in my family owned.  My brother never really used it, but for a while, I used it every day, listening to all those old college-acquired mp3s at the office.  But I had my reservations.  I cursed the iPod for its frictionless casing, which put me in constant fear of having it slip through my fingers.  I lambasted it for occasionally bugging out and freezing, as if it were a Windows-based system.  I scorned the pretentious white cable that eventually malfunctioned and left me unable to connect the iPod to my computer.  I lingered in my grumblings that a portable music player was nice, but really just a luxury, as all of these overhyped Apple products were.  I didn’t like this little machine, and I didn’t like the iTunes software that served it.  And yet I used it every day, and I never seriously believed that any competing system would operate better.

But after a few years of use, I put the iPod down, and have rarely used it since.  Whether you want to create more or consume more, technology is supposed to make that process easier, faster, better.  The reason I eventually put down the iPod was because I realized it wasn’t making my life better.  I loved music, but having it on all the time while my mind was trying to engage my workday tasks, or driving, or other things that held my attention hostage, I think I started to associate music, even good music, with the parts of my life that I would rather have spent doing something else.  This, along with the overwhelming availability of music, whether through paid or unpaid channels, had desensitized me to the experience of listening.  I was acquiring music, new and old, to “see if it was any good,” but I wasn’t actually listening to it.

I had become the passive, slavish machine.

That’s one of the central ironies of Steve Jobs’s creations and of his legacy.  As much as his life sets an example of doggedly pursuing your own excellence, and as genuinely inspirational as his Stanford commencement address was as a message of perseverance and non-conformity, he created things that, though they arguably had a moral aesthetic, were strictly amoral in use.  They could be tools of liberation or subjugation, depending on the strength of will of the user.  Thus, we see that the hammer-throwing blond girl and the pasty-faced drones of the iconic Mac Super Bowl commercial are siblings, bouncing babies born of society’s equal capacity for self-exaltation and self-annihilation.

* * *

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life." - Steve Jobs

The Walk

I don't see time begin and end. In my head, the twin towers are still alive.

- Philippe Petit, tightrope artist

The Most Interesting Thing I Saw at Comic-Con

Comic-Con. Also known as The Con. Super C. The C Cup . . . squared.

If you spend most of your time beating the streets outside of the Convention Center, it may surprise you to know that there are actually comics at Comic-Con. Tons of them, in fact. Aisle upon aisle of tables piled high with nothing but old Archies, Avengers, and maybe even a few copies of Bruce Wayne, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. It may further surprise you to hear that the most interesting thing at the big show isn’t necessarily catching a fleeting glimpse of Lyndsy Fonseca as security(?) dudes yell repeatedly in your ear, “one picture only!” and “keep moving!” Nor is it the sackload of swag I collected, most of it Twilight-related, including a pin adorned with a photo of Edward vampire.

Nor is it even this.

In fact, the most interesting thing at Comic-Con may actually have been . . . this:

Yes, a comic. Haven’t heard of this one, you say? Neither had I. I don’t know what it is that captivated me about young, racially pure Hansi. Maybe it’s the Pippi Longstocking braids, or the subtle warmth of those baby blues. Or maybe it’s the fact that she freakin’ loved the swastika. Whatever it was, I needed to know more. Fortunately for me, our lover of the crooked cross is the subject of much adoration on the Internet. Feel free to read all about her sordid history here, here, and here, and you are welcome to read the entire volume here, but be warned: the allure of our golden-tressed heroine, much like the allure of Nazi propaganda, is inexorable, and you may find yourself becoming . . . Some Jerk: The Dude who Loved the Hansi!

Still Hansi-curious? Here’s a small taste:

Yes, I know. You’re wondering, where can I find $600 before Czardoz does? I suggest you start by checking your sofa cushions. I’ll be running to the bank . . . to rob it!

Seed of doubt, kernel of truth

As a sequel to my previous post, “Curse all seeds!” I’m happy to report that the Slate Explainer has answered “a version” of my seedless watermelon question . . . here. My thanks to the Explainer!

For reference, my original question was: Why does so-called seedless watermelon have seeds? Specifically, the little white “seedlets.”

The Explainer only answers my question directly in the Bonus Explainer at the end of the article, and then only briefly, but I won’t fault them for that. It’s kind of a thrill to get a published response at all, and they offer a detailed answer to the question they are more interested in: what is the difference between seed types/colors in watermelons?

Regrettably, I have never specifically wondered about the difference between white seeds and black seeds in a “regular” watermelon. So for me, the entertainment value of this question is about on the level of, say, how common is premarital sex at BYU? Or, what is the congressional gym like?

I was more interested in the socio-economic ramifications of what I considered a biological oddity.* People buy seedless fruit for the perceived masticatory convenience. So why market an item as “seedless” when it has some seed-like elements, even if they are only “hard seed coats”? Honestly, does it make much difference to my mouth whether I have to spit out mature seeds or empty seed coats?

I’ve been told, “why don’t you just swallow them?” Well, that’s not really the point, is it? For people who don’t care either way, it’s easy to recommend a “grin and bear it” mentality. And if I were some soft, dandyish type who was born with a silver ladle up my petard, accustomed to suckling on the teat of an overfed nursemaid, I could see this as a valid point. But I’m not bemoaning a world that allows people to be victimized by the arduous chore of watermelon-eating. I’m just annoyed by the lack of clarity, consistency, transparency, whatever you want to call it.

Maybe I’m the only one who’s bothered by it. And I admit that my intellectual curiosity about this far outstrips my gustatory qualms about seedless watermelon.

But no, I’m still not swallowing.

_______

* I’ve also enjoyed reading about the genetics behind growing a seedless watermelon, which is the triploid (three sets of chromosomes) hybrid of a diploid plant and a tetraploid plant.

Curse all seeds!

Dear Slate Explainer,

I’ve been enjoying my fair share of watermelon during this hot summer. Perhaps to the dismay of the watermelon seed spitting champs of Luling, Texas (as well as greenhorn porch-swingers and curb jockeys all over the South), I always buy seedless watermelon. However, it has always bothered me that there are all those little white seeds or “seedlets” in there, as well as the occasional “normal” black seed.

Why does so-called seedless watermelon have seeds? Seedless oranges and grapes generally have no seeds whatsoever. I buy seedless fruit because I don’t have the patience for the oral gymnastics of sifting through seeds. What gives?

Thanks.

Czardoz Contra World

* * *

A few days ago, I emailed a version of the above to the Slate Explainer, a column that answers questions “about today’s news.” Not directly factual questions about specific events, which would be boring, but rather, thematically germane questions, the kinds of quandaries that particular events get you thinking about. So you would likely find a question about choreographing fireworks displays during the Fourth of July, or a question about lethal doses of radiation during the Fukushima nuclear tragedy in Japan, or even a question about the various spellings of Gadhafi (Qaddafi?) during the apex of Libyan revolution coverage.

I especially enjoy questions that address cultural touchstones, things that everyone has some experience with, for example: what happens if you eat the silica gel that’s packed in with your ramen packages and Blu-ray players? And I can’t help reveling in questions with some lurid fascination, like: would your dog eat your dead body? Or, what does whale taste like?

So, do you think they’ll answer my question on the website? I hope so, because I certainly think it has more entertainment value and intellectual breadth than, say, whether someone can really make you go to rehab, or how the NFL’s collective bargaining agreement compares to that in the other major sports.

Is it petty of me to say that I am terminally annoyed with the white seedlets in seedless watermelon, from both mouthfeel and nomenclatural standpoints? The former point is obvious; the latter, well, in a marketplace that has established the meaning of “seedless” to mean “without seeds” for other fruits, isn’t it somewhat fraudulent for the watermelon to gallivant through the produce section under the same banner? Wouldn’t it be more honest to call it a “white seed” watermelon as opposed to a “normal” or “black seed” watermelon? Actually, who’s to say what’s normal? I wasn’t aware until researching this issue that the familiar yellow Cavendish banana is actually a “seedless” fruit, produced through vegetative reproduction rather than sexual reproduction. They seem pretty normal to me!

In an era where the bioengineering of food is commonplace, where inaccurate and misleading labels are as old as Rhode Island and the Indians of Christopher Columbus, and where getting a raw deal is considered business as usual, perhaps we’ve lost our innocence on numerous fronts. It’s a loss I can bear, but in the absence of innocence, I should like very much to retain my sense of outrage.

* * *

UPDATE!

During the course of writing this post, I received an email response from Daniel Engber, Explainer editor, who told me that they “might answer some version of it tomorrow.” Cross your fingers!

Ode to my father

For Father’s Day, I thought I would do something I’ve never done before: share a few anecdotes about my father, in homage to a man I’ve long underappreciated and have had difficulty connecting with. Here are a few of the moments I’ll never forget about my father.

* * *

Once upon a time, during a visit to Oakland, it was suggested to my father, my brother, and me that we see the local Mormon temple, which was reputed to be quite aesthetically pleasing. Once there, we walked the grounds, and somehow got roped into taking a “tour,” their version of a tour involving very little architecture or landscaping, and quite a bit of religious propaganda, most notably in the form of a short movie about the Mormon “experience.”

After the movie, our guide, a smile-happy young woman, asked us what we thought of what we had just seen. Though I gather the questions were directed at all of us, she specifically looked at my father, and he took the lead in answering.

“I thought it was very nice,” he said, “that you believe in a father who takes care of you.”

Our guide nodded approvingly. Then she made the mistake of asking my father, “What do you believe in?”

My father looked at her with the placid expression that he had maintained throughout the film and conversation, and said, “Nothing.”

Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder beside him in the theater-style seats, I tried desperately not to laugh out loud. I could feel coming upon me a crack of smile the size of the Grand Canyon, and it was only a combination of jaw-clenching, lip-biting, and hand-over-mouth that saved me from an epic guffaw. The man had said he believed in “nothing,” as if it were the blandest comment in the world.

Our young lady looked slightly bewildered, and I’m sure she didn’t want to respond in any fervent way, for fear that something was lost in translation. In a way, I think something was lost, because although I know my father was honestly expressing that he has no religious beliefs, I don’t think he realized the idiomatic impact of his blunt statement.

Embroiled as our societies are in various destructive culture wars and ideological arm-wrestling matches, I’d like to think that one day, I’ll be able to say with a straight face and clear conscience, “I believe in nothing.”

That was the last time we visited a Mormon temple together, but hopefully, not the last.

* * *

On a family daytrip to Davis, California (the reasons for the trip would bore you as much as Davis bores most sane people), I asked to be dropped off for the afternoon to see an old college friend who was now attending UC Davis. I met up with her, just the two of us, and we talked, laughed, and drove around while the rest of my family pursued their own Davis delights.

When my family retrieved me, my mother asked me, “Did you have enough time together?”

My father interrupted in a good-humored way and said, “When it comes to the people you care about, when is it ever ‘enough’ time?”

When it comes to life lessons, I was never particularly receptive to the ones my father tried strongly and directly to instill in me. But once in a while, he would utter an offhand remark that reached right into the most humane and sympathetic part of me.

* * *

My favorite memory of my father comes from my grade school days.

When I was a boy of about six, just starting to walk that one long block to school on my own, my father would walk me out of the house and up to the street curb, and then let me cross the street by myself. At the opposite side of the street, it was my habit to look back at my father, and invariably, he would move his hands up to his head and make a gesture of finger-combing his hair. He was telling me to smooth down my disheveled jungle of hair. I would try my best as I walked the rest of the way to school. Looking back now, I wonder why he didn’t just put a comb in my pocket. I also wonder why the best memories are always the simplest.

Though I don’t tell him nearly enough, and though his attempts to give me advice might strike me as imperious and officious now, I hope he realizes that I appreciate his concern. And no matter how well I've learned to tame my hair, I hope my father will continue to look out for me as he did back then.

* * *

Note [The following will perhaps be of only minimal interest, and only to my long-time readers.]:

I wrote and edited the above post all in one day, and so it is in very real terms a first draft, as opposed to almost all my other posts, which are heavily scrutinized and modified before I publish them. Not to say that there is any treasure hunt of typos or grammatical boners to be found. Rather, it is only remarkable to the degree that anyone cares about the “voice” of my posts, which perhaps is less clear in this one than in my more carefully written posts. If I ever get around to revising this post, I may put the new version alongside the above version as a useful comparison study. For myself, I mean, because I’m sure no one else cares!

Gotta Catch His Ball!

Though the above photograph is about as blurry and confused as a Psyduck, the viewer should be able to discern the unmistakable image of a tiny boy dressed in what could only be interpreted as an Ash Ketchum costume, with a canary yellow balloon trailing behind him as a fanciful representation of Pikachu. Look carefully. See the red and white hat peeking out from behind the bus door. See the blue backpack and blue shoes, the overall air of shrimpy insolence. Revolting, isn’t it? This may not be a perfectly accoutered Ash (see below), but the imagination involved makes it stand out from mere verisimilitude.

I stalked this mother and child parade for about the length of a street block, trying to capture the money shot while eluding their notice. Astonishingly, the sight of a grown man bounding after a little runt and snapping pictures has the tendency to cause ignorant passersby to mistake said man for a child snatcher. My aversion to being featured on yet another episode of To Catch a Predator forced me to take a timidly defensive posture, like, I don’t know, a Metapod? (He only knows how to “harden,” hahahaha! Disgusting.) Shackled as I was by our suspicious American culture, this photo, shot with my ancient Nokia cell phone’s 2-megapixel camera from a great distance, obscured and fuzzy as it is, was the best and only one I could get.

As the old adage goes, the best camera is the one you have with you. I would have liked to have been wielding my Pentax DSLR with a super-telephoto lens attached at the moment that I stumbled on the lad. But, like a Pokémon trainer who comes upon a rare Pokémon but has no master ball . . . uh . . . and then he has to use his other ball . . . um . . . and his type is weak against some other type . . . er . . . I’m not good with these Poké-nalogies.

What other franchise could I try . . .

Like Elliot Salem and Tyson Rios bro-ing it up in Army of Two, you use the tools you have. If you don’t have a guitar to celebrate surviving a hairy back-to-front tandem parachuting gauntlet, you muscle out some air guitar and make funny noises with your mouth. Don’t have a girl to hug after dishing out a nasty decap? Just walk up slowly behind your partner, grip him tenderly but snugly around the waist (back to front, natch), and lift him gently off the ground until you can feel his manly weight upon you. Then lower him like a child cradled in your loins, his warmth commingling with yours. And hush, no words now, lest you disturb the sanctity of this moment.

Ugh, what depravity. I guess pedophilia is still worse, right? Right???