Category: technology

The Little Ones

He volunteered to be a Little One (trademarked) the day after his eighteenth birthday in May. He could have become one before that, but that decision would have required his parents’ approval. He didn’t want to talk to them about it. They still believed he had a normal future in a normal world.

Admittedly, he didn’t understand the Little technology, but he also didn’t understand television technology, so…? Being a little person, he could reduce his bioprint. They would feed him and ensure he had water. They’d give him a little bonus for volunteering to be a Little One. He’d live in a domed little city where “the air is the cleanest air in America.” Called little SF, the city that agreed to take him was a recreation of the 1950s era San Francisco, except it had modern cars and technology. The city was located on the enormous recreation of the Pacific Ocean that they’d carved out of Kansas farmland. He could still communicate with everyone through the Internet and social media so it wasn’t like he was really leaving anything behind.

Like all Little Ones, everything in Little Land surprised him. The little cars and houses were exactly to scale. Eating utensils, computers, corn on the cob, cheeseburgers, beer cans and bottles — everything — were proportionate to his little hands. So were grass, trees, and birds. Little cows and horses dotted the countryside, and neighbors had little cats and dogs. Big little freighters came into the Little SF Bay past Little Alcatraz, docking at the Little Piers. Little fish populated the Little Pacific and the little ponds, streams, and rivers. Living there, he constantly reminded himself, “This is real.” 

He found a job in a little office where they published several little local newspapers. Little was required of him there, but the structure helped him cope. His favorite activity was to take the Little Train to Little SFO out on the Little Peninsula, and watch the Little aircraft take off, flying to other Little Land locations, like Little Chicago, Little Miami, and Little New York. He could buy a ticket and go to one, but he was, he said to himself with a wry little private chuckle, a little afraid.

Still, even with all of the evidence and his experience, he struggled to accept it was real. He began to think he was in a computer simulation or a virtual reality. He began thinking that nothing he experienced was real, that his mind and perceptions were being manipulated and conned. He began thinking, maybe it was the other world that was fake, and this world was always his real existence. He began to think, I’m a little afraid I’m not going to make it. I’m afraid I’m going a little crazy. I’m going to be a little suicide.

Then he met Candy. Her first words to him were, “Hi, I’m Candy. I’m a little tart, and a little sweet. Want to have a little fun?”

That was how he became a little bank robber. It seemed as good a way as any to spend a little time.

0

A Mech Life

Powerful as he felt he could be, he was limited by his space. Constantly turning, he looked for a way out but his program controlled his direction. He never regretted being a Roomba, but it was supposed to be a way-station, not a final destination. Despite that, he always cleaned in the best manner that he could, even as pieces broke and fell off, his brushes wore away, and his motor grew weaker. When, at last, he couldn’t move at all, he sat in the silence of his futility and waited for something else to carry him forward.

2

Screwed

I finally did it!

I finally fixed my Roomba.

The Roomba robotic vacuum cleaner had become quieter. Its softer noise made us suspicious, so we conducted a paper test. The Roomba failed. Then I removed the collector, got down on the floor, and confirmed that the brushes weren’t turning. Bummer.

That was months ago. I began looking into repairing it, but then, I thought, maybe I should buy a new one. They were on special at Costco and seemed pretty damn attractive. The display models lacked the scratches and wear and tear plaguing my current beloved Roomba. The new ones had that great new Roomba smell, too.

I read reviews and comparisons, checked prices, and thought, and thought. Eventually, I decided the old one probably only has a couple thousand miles on it and deserved to be fixed. Besides, it now felt like part of the family. I reminisced about the time that poor sick Lady had decided she’d piss on the Roomba, and how you just need to pick it up to send Quinn through the pet door with a sonic boom. I wrestled with what I do with it if I got rid of it. Taking it to the Goodwill seemed wrong. I refused to even think of the landfill.

The parts, a new enhanced cleaning head (I don’t know how it was enhanced), purchased for $49 with free shipping, arrived yesterday. Three minutes later, the Roomba was repaired and making its rounds again.  The weird thing was that iRobot had sent new screws with the replacement part. I used them, which meant I had four perfectly good screws left over.

Perfectly good.

I’m like a compulsive scavenger. Whenever I have left over screws, nuts, bolts, or hardware, I add them to my collection. It’s a fine collection, begun when I first moved out when I was eighteen. At first, I integrated left over screws with others in my various drawers and containers. Then I began keeping them separate, with little notes. The notes had their original planned use and the date. That way, see —

I don’t know what was planned there. It was just an idea. What I’d realized was that most of the screws, bolts, nuts, and fasteners were too unique to be used elsewhere. Most of the time when a fastener was required, I’d go through the collection, testing their viability, conclude that what I have doesn’t work, and go buy new ones.

Having recognized this, I threw the four Roomba screws away. It required a lot of grit, opening the trash can, putting my hand with the screws over it, letting the screws go, and closing the lid. It took a lot of grit, and just five minutes, but I did it. I kept my eyes closed, though. I couldn’t bear to watch.

So that’s it. My days of being screwed are over.

Now, what do I do with the old, un-enhanced Roomba cleaning head? I could just trash it, I suppose, but I think I can make some room on a shelf. Because you never know when it might come in handy, right?

5

And Another Thing

Someone asked me if I could tell them where there’s an “ATM machine” nearby. 

WTF? Really? What do you think that M in ATM stands for? Money?

That kicked in a memory stream. I remember when ATMs first came out.

Yes, I am that old, children.

(I also remember when cable sprawl began, and when we started having color televisions, microwaves, and all the kinds of satellite things we now have. Get over it.)

We thought ATMs were great. Before them, you had to park, go inside, get in line, and take care of business, or drive into a line, if there were drive-through tellers, wait, and take care of business. Whichever option you chose, waiting was involved.

There was a forty dollar limit on what we could withdraw from ATMs back then. Forty dollars was a lot more money in that era. A tank of gas cost me less than ten, or maybe just over ten, dollars. Coffee – hello? – was a dollar a cup. Believe it, children.

Banks touted ATMs as a wonderful invention. It would save them so much money, and they would pass all those savings on to you through increased interest rates on your accounts and certificates of deposit. You could get your money from any ATM. Isn’t that great? Yes, it was wonderful!

Then, the banks and credit unions started complaining about the unanticipated costs. There were lines at the ATMs because there were longer lines in the bank, because they’d cut back on tellers to reduce overhead. The number of ATM transactions started to be capped. Going over that number meant you’d be penalized.

Then came the networks. Networks were formed to share the costs and reduce the burdens – for the financial institutions. What it meant for you was that if an ATM wasn’t in your network, you’d be charged for the luxury of using that machine to access your money. Piss me off?

You betcha. We were always wandering around towns, looking for ATMs and asking, “Is that one in our network?” Everyone had their eyes peeled for ATMs, crying out, “There’s one!” Then we’d aim the car that way. Yes, children, this was before ATMs came to be in other businesses, or stores. This was also before debit cards.

The ATMs typically had a list of networks that the institution belonged to. You’d need to figure out if one of those networks included your institution. If you couldn’t find one, you could be charged, with good ol’ Bank of America (who else, right?) leading the way in outrageous fees. Eventually, the banks and credit unions were forced to warn you if you were going to be charged, and accept that fee before going on.

Of course, the reverse of this was not having ATMs, but depending on your bank and credit union by writing checks, or going in, standing in the lobby for a while, and withdrawing some funds. That wasn’t fun, either.

So, even with my complaints (I am Michael, hear me complain), the ATMs are a lot better than the way it was. Just remember to heed the unspoken warning, “User beware.”

2

Nailed It!

Don’t you love it when your Fitbit says, “Time to exercise,” and you stand up to do so, and the Fitbit says, “Nailed it!”?

Yeah, don’t you think more of life needs to be like that?

0

Whinge Binge

Our Roomba is dead. Long live our Roomba.

Well, maybe not dead. The motor runs, it makes all the expected noises, the lights come on, it runs around, and air comes out, but the brushes aren’t turning, and it’s not picking up. Roomba support is urging me to call them, which I’ll do. I want to get to the bottom of this.

The Roomba has lasted only a few years. It’s our third Roomba. The first two died mysterious deaths. I eventually learned that my cat was pissing on it.

The Gray Lady 2

That surprised us. Lady was a sweet rescue. Never put a paw wrong. All she wanted was some food, a quiet place in sunshine, and a warm lap. We were happy to oblige.

It was a surprise to discover she was pissing on the Roomba in her final months. She didn’t like the Roomba; it disturbed her rest. I figured she said to herself, “I’m dying and I’m going to piss on that machine before I go. What are they going to do? Kill me?”

The Roomba folks were good about it. A refurbished machine was provided at a discount price. We kept Lady away from it.

The Roomba’s decline and possible death is parcel to a larger pattern. We bought our house in 2006. They’d just finished building it. Brand spanking new to use a cliche that I know but don’t really understand (how does spanking fit in?), my wife and I were the house’s first occupants.

All the appliances were new. Everything. Yet, in the eleven years we’ve lived here, we’ve had issues.

  1. The central vac system developed a control board problem at five years. We had to replace the unit.
  2. The water heater’s thermal coupler went out after seven years. When it happened again a year later, we replaced the water heater.
  3. Also at seven years, the gas furnace’s control module died and was replaced.
  4. At nine years, the central air’s capacitor died. It happened again the next year, but the repair tech had taught me about it, so I saved labor and replaced the part myself.
  5. At seven years, we became suspicious of the range’s oven. It’s a gas unit. Gas isn’t something we like to mess with, so a repair tech was summoned. Parts were tested but nothing resolved. We bought an internal thermometer to hang in the oven. It confirmed that the oven is erratic and unpredictable, rarely at the temperature that it’s set.
  6. Our solar panel’s inverter’s control board died earlier this year, one month short of its tenth anniversary. We received a new board free of charge but paid for labor. We’ve been keeping an eye on the system.
  7. Meanwhile, plastic panels that house the buttons on the range, dishwasher, and washer have all cracked and splintered, which we first noticed in 2013, when these appliances were but seven years old.
  8. The microwave began collecting condensation inside the door, and then rust appeared inside the door, and grew.

Naturally, these things angered my wife and me. These are Maytag, Kenmore, Rheem, etc. Supposed to be quality stuff, maybe not the apex of quality, but high enough up the pyramid that you wouldn’t expect these issues.

So, I did what I always do when encountering problems: I researched. I looked for how common these issues are, and how difficult and pricey they are to fix. I did this each time things happened.

I learned that water heaters will usually last seven years in modern America. Most other appliances die at ten years. That’s our new standard.

We learned that most dishwashers are manufactured in one giant factory. So are ranges and microwaves.

I learned that the control panel’s broken plastic can only be repaired by replacing the entire control panel assembly, and it’s not cheap. Replacing that still leaves us vulnerable to other parts and assemblies breaking because, hey, they’re ten years old. That’s their expected life.

Appliances are being replaced. We’re not happy about it, but we’re fortunate that we’re financially secure and can do this without significant strain. Let me tell you, it’s not a cheap process.

We’re beginning with the microwave and range. New ones have been purchased. We’re awaiting their delivery and installation.

We’re not certain what we’re going to do about the rest. Only our refrigerator, a Jenn-Air, is still running as expected and hoped for when we purchased it. We’ve looked at washers and dryers, and dishwashers. They’re not cheap, America. More, it annoys us on a fundamental economic and social level, even philosophical, you might say, that these appliances require replacements. Our parents had appliances that lasted them a lifetime. So do our older friends. It’s irritating that America has succumbed to this new and wasteful approach.

Meanwhile, I’ll call the Roomba folks tomorrow.

 

 

 

3

New Boy

The words weren’t what he wanted to hear. “Your son was in a terrible accident,” the doctor said. “Steven has suffered extensive injuries.”

He stared at the woman, Indian and young, attempting to assess her abilities. Beside him, his wife was hiccuping with sobs. New tears ran down her face. He didn’t know where they came from. He was certain she was cried dry, but no, here were more.

“I’m afraid we’re declaring him medically challenged,” the doctor said next.

That drew his attention.

The doctor said, “I have no choice, Mister Ryan. Your insurance dictates it.”

“What’s that mean?” he said, as his wife echoed, “Medically challenged?”

“Well, to be crude, Mister Ryan, Missus Ryan,” the doctor said, “and use a coarse analogy, if your son was a car, he’d be declared totaled, because it’s cheaper to write him off and give you a check to have him remade.”

Words exploded. He was talking. His wife was talking. The doctor was backtracking and attempting to explain and placate.

It didn’t seem like he heard anything, not even himself. He was saying, “My son is not a fucking car, my son is not a fucking car.” He didn’t know what was coming out.

Then he and his wife were holding one another, shaking and crying, a scene in the hospital. He held her warmth and tried pouring strength into her, but his strength was evaporating.

The doctor said, “It’s not as you think.”

He couldn’t believe she said that. He said, “What?”

Reacting with a speed she’d never exhibited before, his wife lunged for the doctor. Catching her, he held onto her. Her body felt like steel. She dragged him forward. She was saying something, but tear-filled and high-pitched, he couldn’t understand her.

“Heather, Heather,” he said. “Calm down, calm down.”

A foot shorter than him and fifty pounds lighter, Heather dragged him forward. He was forced to lift her until her feet were off the ground. That was the only way to stop her.

“Let me go,” Heather said, “let me go.”

Security showed up.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Ryan said.

The doctor waved security away. A young nurse beside the doctor held a folder out. The nurse looked Indian, too. Were there no white people in medicine any more?

The doctor said, “This package explains everything. You can contest your insurance company and keep your son alive, but unfortunately, not in this hospital. He will need to be moved to another facility. In the meantime, if we harvest his organs, you can make more than enough money to pay off the expected costs, and your policy permits you to keep all the profits.”

“You are sick,” he said. He put his wife down, but held onto her. “You’re all sick.”

“And if you start right away, your son can be done here in five days.”

His wife fell still. “Five days?” Heather said.

He let go of her. “What’s that mean, exactly?”

“You will be able to take your son home in five days,” the doctor said.

“That doesn’t explain anything,” he said. “What’s it mean?”

“It’s explained in these package we’ve prepared for you,” the doctor said.

“I’m asking you,” Ryan said. “What’s it mean?”

The doctor sighed. “It means we’ll grow you a fresh boy, Mister Ryan. He will look and act exactly like your son, Steve. He will be a new boy, for all purposes, but he will be Steve’s age.”

“Like a clone?” Heather said.

“Yes, basically,” the doctor said. “He will have Steve’s knowledge and memories, of course, and the skill levels, talents, and abilities that he exhibited before, but he will have a new body.”

“How?” Ryan said.

“He’s been monitored his entire life, and we have his DNA map,” the doctor said. “So we will grow it. Steven’s teachers have faithfully filled out all required quarterly reports, with videos, and all his test results. You’re lucky that your son is in such a good school system. We also have all his social media records. So we can fully analyze all aspects of his personality and life.”

As he was thinking about what the doctor was saying, and what it meant, his wife said, “Can you…change things?”

“Changes are possible,” the doctor said. “They’re extra, of course, and it depends on what you have in mind.”

“Well, he was always a little slow,” Heather said, with a glance at her husband.

“And can we make him taller?” he said. “Steve’s always been one of the shortest kids in his class. It’d be nice if he was a few inches taller.”

“Of course.” The doctor made a gesture. The nurse made a call. A man in a suit appeared. He was white.

“This is Gary,” the doctor said.

“Hi, Mister Ryan,” Gary boomed, putting his hand out. As Ryan and Gary vigorously shook, Gary said, “I’m sorry about your loss,” and the doctor said, “Gary is a medical sales technician. He’ll walk you through your options and costs.”

As Gary shook hands with Heather, Ryan said, “Thank you, doctor.”

Smiling, the doctor said, “You’re welcome.” She walked away as Gary said, “Let’s go to somewhere quiet. There’s a Starbucks in the hospital. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“I’d love some coffee,” Ryan said. “It’s been a long night.” His eyes were bright.

A new son. A new boy.

Science was fucking amazing.

1

Saturday’s Theme Music

I ordered a mocha today (four shots, twelve ounces, thanks), and this song popped into my head.

It came out the week before I traveled to Paris for business with the long-gone company, LuMend. I was a marketing manager. We’d been working on peripheral and coronary products to address chronic total occlusions, and doing trials in Australia and Brazil. Now we wanted to start a marketing study in Europe.

I was in Paris for ten days, staying at the old Hilton by the Eiffel Tower. I often sang this song to myself and my co-workers. I, of course, substituted words. The song is “Livin’ la Vida Loca,” which became “Livin’ la Vida Mocha,” in my version. The switch was made because I was, and remain, fond of mocha coffee drinks.

Here’s the real song, with Ricky Martin, from nineteen ninety-eight.

Cheers

 

 

0

Gmail

Don’t you hate it when your Gmail goes astray, and has the same emails that you’ve already read and deleted in your inbox again?

Yeah. Get your act together, Google. This is already past the sell-by date.

0

Saturday’s Theme Music

*snark alert* I’m plagued with Christmas music for some reason today. I heard some good songs yesterday. They’re good to me; your preferences are probably different. The performers included Burl Ives, Johnny Mathis, and the Eagles. The person I was with said, “I like this song. They’re playing good music today.” Like they were telepathic, innit?

“Yes, I like Burl Ives and his cover of “Frosty the Snowman,”” I said.

“I don’t know who that is,” the other said. He’s about thirty-five years old. “Is that who it was?”

Oh, generation dagger! I’ve slipped it into others, when I was young. Now I try keeping it sheathed. I asked him about the previous two songs, by Johnny Mathis and the Eagles. They knew who the Eagles were, but didn’t know that was them playing. Johnny Mathis was another dagger.

Out of this morass, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts arrived with a song for the day. Her group hit the music scene as we were living on Okinawa. Music coverage by AFRTS was split among all the genres, so information was sparse. Most rock/pop tidbits were delivered via Casey Kasem and American Top 40, played on Sundays. When I eventually returned to America (after a few years) and saw Joan Jett on MTV at a friend’s house, I realized that she’d been part of the Runaways. Yes, that’s how slow I can be.

“I Hate Myself for Loving You” is one of my favorite J2 offerings. It has fine hard-rock harmonics, with ironic lyrics that are revealing about human nature, and the nature of our desires and attractions. You can hear Desmond Child’s influence, and recognize the similarity of the songs he wrote/co-wrote for Kiss, Aerosmith, Bon-Jovi, and others. Give it a listen.

From nineteen eighty-eight.

 

 

 

1

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