“How do you set the alarm on a Fitbit?” he said.
She said, “Tell it that you’re going to replace it with an Apple watch.”
“What?”
“That’ll alarm it.”
Old Times
When you connect to the Internet, do you sometimes make the noises that your old modem made, just for old times’ sake?
Why yes, I do.
Clicking
Don’t you hate it when you click on a button or link on a webpage, and nothing happens, so you click, and click, and click, and then dozens of pages suddenly explode open?
You don’t? Well, la-di-da. Good for you.
Bot-tender
I followed my robot vacuum around today. Using it for spot-cleaning, I’d move it, turn it on, and then stand over it like a football coach on OTAs. “Move left,” I’d tell it. “Get that fur. Come on, pick it up, pick it up. That’s it. Good job.”
Doing this presented me with a feeling that I was cleaning, but I also felt empowered. I controlled the bot.
Maybe, too, I was seeing the future. Robots and automation are taking over more jobs each day, with plans for greater shifts on the near-horizon. But bots and automation might require intervention and guidance, as my Roomba does. We may have a new job category opening, bot-tender.
It could be the hot new thing, but I don’t think it’ll pay much.
Sizzle
Have you noticed that the world is sizzling more?
No, this isn’t a climate change post about the world’s increasing average temperatures, melting and disappearing glaciers, rising sea levels, and more frequent and violent storms. We can’t do anything about that, so let’s not talk about it.
I’m talking about marketing sizzle. We can’t do anything about it, either, but many people are already talking about climate change. Not many are talking about the marketing sizzle.
The sizzle comes from that expression, “You don’t sell the steak, you sell the sizzle.” Most companies are selling sizzle. We called it vaporware in the software business. It’s the stuff they tell you is so frigging miraculous that you won’t believe you ever did without it, the stuff that rarely lives up to the promise.
Television shows are big on selling the sizzle. “It’s the most mind-blowing episode ever! You won’t want to miss it!” They’re not usually the most mind-blowing episodes ever to me. I can usually get up during the show, go make a sandwich, feed the cats, and answer the phone, come back and find that I’ve missed nothing of substance, only a little sizzle.
Television is a sizzle pioneer, but all the companies are catching on that they’ve got to sell the sizzle. “Look how fast our car is,” many commercials claim, showing people grinning from ear-to-ear as they race through a city like Jason Bourne escaping his government buddies. “Look how much fun it is to drive! Look how free this people feel.” Weird how there’s no other cars in that city.
Beer and soda commercials aren’t slouches when it comes to selling sizzle. They now love to show healthy, athletic people surfing, singing, playing guitars, mountain climbing, or hiking. Then they stop to have a good old cold soda or brew. None of these people have problems. None are diabetic or overweight. The commercial’s slug rarely address the people, though. They speak of the beverage. “The world’s most refreshing beer.”
They state it without evidence. That’s the way it goes. Sizzle doesn’t need evidence. Just fire it up and let the hungry masses know about it, and they will come and buy, like, “The fastest broadband service ever seen.”
The government is proud about how these companies sell sizzle. They don’t want to do anything to reign in the sizzle. These companies are doing the world a public service. If it wasn’t for the sizzle, we’d be worried about things that don’t sizzle, like the wealth imbalance, corrupt politicians, investigating Russians, rebooting our routers against hackers, rising white supremacy movement, white and male privilege, the contamination of our food supplies, the growing plastic islands in our seas, increasing war and tensions in the middle East, our dwindling fresh water supplies, rising cancer rates, the Italian government and EU economy, or police officers attacking people over parking situations, escalating events in fear of phones.
It’s much better to think about the sizzle.
A New Bag
Here’s an unsolicited product testimonial.
I bought a new laptop bag at the end of April. It was about time. I go through laptop bags about every five years. The one I was using had a shoulder strap. I use a large HP laptop. Because it doesn’t have a long battery charge, I carry a power brick and cords with me. I walk one to three miles before and after my writing sessions. Carrying that weight had become comfortable. It was especially so in the summer’s smoky heat, when temperatures popped into the high nineties to over a hundred, and the valley trapped wildfire smoke that drifted down from the mountains.
Besides that, my laptop bag had worn through in a few places. I’d paid fifty dollars for the leather and vinyl creation, more than twice what I’d paid for the fabric bag it replaced.
I’d decided that I needed a back pack variation. I found an Eagle Creek convertible laptop backpack that was large enough for my HP. This one was available for one hundred fifty-nine dollars, over three times what I’d paid for the other one. But, I use it every day, and I needed a more comfortable way to transport my laptop. So I pried open the wallet and put out the cash.
I’m pleased that I did. I’ve used it for a month and it’s much easier to strap that thing onto my back and hike around town. It feels surprisingly light.
I also have a large, wheeled laptop bag that I employ for flying. I decided I’d use the new Eagle Creek bag for my travels to see how it worked.
Again, I was pleased that I did. The Eagle Creek bag has multiple zipped compartments that helped me organize my books, boarding passes, gum, glasses, etc., along with the laptop and its accessories. The new bag fit under the airline seat with ease. It was small enough that I could pull it out from under the seat and put it up against the edge of my seat and have the legroom available during the flight.
All in all, a worthwhile purchase. It looks sturdy and durable. I’ll see if it lasts five years.
Minor Rant #143
We began having Internet connectivity issues in the beginning of May. It was intermittent, and service typically returned in a few minutes.
We were planning a trip, and busy with those details, so I didn’t call it in. On the day before we left, the outage was a few hours in the morning. Logging in at a coffee shop, I sent my ISP, Ashland Home Net (AHN) an email through their support website. They said someone would get in touch with me.
They didn’t.
Returning after our vacation last week, we found our connectivity worse. Calling in meant waiting by the phone for return calls and staying home so they can come by and check our systems. But, last Friday, I called it in.
Yes, they could see that we were online but our signal was very weak. This would need to be called into the city IT.
The City of Ashland supports several local ISPs. They do so through a community-owned entity called Ashland Fiber Network (AFN). The city’s support helps reduce the cost, right, and provides an alternative to the big commercialized entities that dominate the field, like Charter, Century Link, Comcast (which all might now be the same company). I use Ashland Home Net to buy local and help defray that cost.
Friday our connection went out in the morning and returned in the afternoon, apparently on its own. I called AHN for an update before they closed for the day. The agent said a ticket had been opened with the city. The city would call us. They would come by.
They didn’t.
Our connectivity came and went through the evening.
Saturday found another outage that lasted several hours. Support was called. Messages were left. Nothing was heard back.
Sunday…the same.
Monday.
Internet connectivity was good in the morning. I returned from writing and walking at about 2 PM. My wife said the connection had dropped at noon. I called it in. The same agent that I spoke with on Friday told me, yes, a ticket with the city had been opened. The city will be calling me.
The hours passed…
I called them each hour to remind them my net was still down and that I hadn’t heard from the city. We heard back from an Ashland Home Net at 5:40 PM. Yes, a ticket had been opened with the city. Unfortunately, they were closed for the day. Nothing could be done.
Our connection returned at 6:53, and then left a hour hour later.
It came back again at 8:50, but dropped at 10:20, and didn’t come back.
We had a connection the next morning, Tuesday. Since I didn’t hear from Ashland Home Net or the city, I called AHN to see what was going on. The agent said the city was backed up. They would get hold of me, but it would probably be another twenty-four hours.
“Really?” I said. “It’s already been ninety-six hours.”
“What?”
“We opened the ticket on Friday.”
“Your records show that the ticket was opened on Monday.”
“No.” I had my notes and referred to them.
“Oh, you’re right,” the agent said. “Okay, I’ll call the city now, and I’ll call you back.”
He did. “The city is sending someone out now.”
The city did. I saw their truck out there. I saw their agent. He went to the side of our house. I waited for him to come to the door.
He didn’t.
I waited for the city to call.
They didn’t.
Our connection was up and remained up, and it has since then. We’ve never heard anything back from the city or Ashland Home Net.
I’m going to give them a call when I get home today. I want to know what the problem was, or is, if it still exists, and what’s been done, or will be done about it.
Then I think I’ll check out other ISPs.
Just in case. Because right now, I’m not too damn pleased with Ashland Home Net, Ashland Fiber Network, and the City of Ashland.
How
Just before his grandmother died, she told him stories about her grandmother. Her grandmother had gone across America in a covered wagon, traveling from the Appalachian Mountains to Seattle. It’d been a long and bumpy journey. She didn’t remember how long it took. She didn’t like it there, so she took the train back. It was hot. Black smoke and cinders filled the car whenever they opened the windows for a breeze, so they kept the windows closed and dripped with sweat.
His father heard the story and and remembered his father telling him about driving a Chevy station wagon across the United States. They’d started in Indiana, where it was raining, and drove across the flat plains of corn to the towering Rocky Mountains and up them, and down into California. It took five days to reach San Francisco. They stayed in motels every night. There was a swimming pool at one. Gas was less than two dollars a gallon.
His father’s brother remembered flying from San Francisco to Washington, and how it took almost a day to get there. He remembered looking out the window and watching the ground roll past as the engines roared and the plane climbed into the sky. He remembered the clunk of the wheels going up into the aircraft’s belly, and the change in the engines’ whine, and the wisps of clouds slipping past the windows. They’d had to be at the airport a few hours early, and then they stood in line to check their bags, and stood in lines to go through security, and stood in line to get on the plane, and stood in line to get off and get their bags.
He’d asked each of them, what’d you do when you traveled like that? Well, they said, we sang, and ate, and talked, played games, read books, watched television, listened to music, slept, looked at the scenery, and met people.
He remembered all these things in the time it took him to teleport from his home to the teleport center and out the other end at the moon colony. His last thought before he glanced out at Earth and went into his meeting was, what he would tell his children in his old age, and how they would be doing what he was doing now?
The First Major Injury
It might just be me, but I think it’s pretty damn impressive that the volcano in Hawaii has been getting more and more jiggy, but it’s only today after two weeks, that the first major injury was reported.
I don’t envy the victim. Sitting on his third floor balcony, lava splatter hit him on his leg and shattered it below the knee. That’s how it’s been reported.
I appreciate technology more with this eruption. It’s amazing to see those explosions and flows, something that I can see from my home’s safety in Oregon as the volcano blows thousands of miles away. Jaw-dropping is the term I often hear when the footage is described. I, with my limited imagination, think, stunning and powerful.
Salazin – Seven
My conversation with Salazin brought creeping memories of conversations with Dad. I played the part of Salazin, then, bearing good news. Dad was the skeptic.
It was about his new truck. I’d made my first million, thanks to Salazin. Dad was retired from the military, paying the mortgage, working two jobs, and driving a Chevy pick-up that leaned to the left when it was going straight. The engine sounded okay, but its interior was squalid. Dings and scratches pockmarked its blue and white body. It seemed like it always needed new tires, too.
So, hey, wouldn’t it be nice of me to buy Dad a new, loaded truck?
Do y’a think?
Proud and excited, I went to his house and was there when the new Dodge truck was delivered. “Come on, Dad,” I said when the truck pulled up. “I bought you something.”
Mom was looking out the window and talking about, who was that? Realization struck her. Her blue eyes went wide.
Dad isn’t dumb. Hearing the noise, he’d probably begun to guess what was going on. He was reading his Sports Illustrated. He didn’t move.
“Dad?” I said.
“In a minute,” he said without looking up.
Mom gave him a look. Then she looked looked at me with a weary head shake of frowns and an eye-roll.
“Your son brought you a gift,” Mom said.
Dad kept reading.
Mom said to me, “Let’s go outside.”
We went out. She asked questions. Her reaction pleased me. “He’ll really like it,” she said as she walked around the truck. She didn’t sound convinced. “He might not show it, but he’s really proud and impressed by what you accomplished.”
Sure. Dad was suspicious about my wealth. He didn’t buy the story of Salazin’s stock picks at all. He was certain I was doing something illegal like selling drugs, I guess.
I’d also bought a vehicle for Mom, a Cadillac. She was still driving this ginormous Olds Tornado. Red with a white Landau roof, I swear the front end was in a different time zone from the rear. It got terrible gas mileage and bounced along the highway in search of new shocks.
Her Cadillac was arriving now. “Here’s your car, Mom,” I said.
Gasping and smiling, she turned and hugged and kissed me, saying, “Thank you, thank you, but you didn’t have to do that,” as Dad finally emerged from the house.
Magazine in hand, he stood on the porch looking at the scene. He looked like he was chewing something. He looked at the Caddy first. Then he looked at the truck.
“It’s American,” I said, to point it out. Because of Grandpa Diehl and World War Two, Dad didn’t like buying anything from the Japanese, Italians, and Germans, especially a “big ticket” item like a truck or car.
“Who’s that for?” he asked, looking at the Caddy.
“It’s for me,” Mom said. “Look what your son bought me. And he bought you a truck. Come and look at it.”
“I’ll look at it later,” Dad said. “Thanks.”
He turned and returned to the house.
I felt crushed. As Mom tried softening the blow wtih soft touches and words, I said, “It’s a good fucking thing I didn’t buy you a new house, like I was going to.”
She said, “I like this house.”
She looked at her blue and brick ranch house. “I wouldn’t mind a new house.”
Smiling at me, she said, “But we’d better talk about it a while, first, okay?”
I didn’t answer. I never did buy them a new house, but I bought Mom a new townhouse after Dad died.
Michael Seidel, writer 