Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I was born in the U.S. in 1956. I’ve seen many changes. I never thought I’d live in a time when people would be ordering fast food from a place like McDonald’s on their phone, and it would be delivered.
Course, I didn’t expect to be typing about it on a computer in a coffee shop and sharing it with strangers, wirelessly, at that.
Didn’t think phones would be called cells, either.
8/31/2014
That’s the date on my laptop’s shipping box. I discarded it yesterday. The box, I mean. Cut it up and tossed it in recycle. The box, I mean.
Looking at that shipping date, my personal laptop is almost ten years old. Although state of art when purchased, it’s now considered a weary old piece. I should replace it but I don’t wanna. One, I’m used to its foibles. Two, it does everything which I need done. Three, waste. This machine works and I’d be forced to get rid of it and its materials, adding to the piles of consumer trash.
I don’t wanna do that. That’s why I have five old computers waiting for disposal. One is a tower bought in 1998 that I haven’t used in years. One is an old personal laptop. Two are my wife’s old Macs of different vintages. One is an old business laptop which they told me to keep when I left the company.
Getting rid of them is on my list of things to do. Pull the hard drives. Find somewhere which will scavenge whatever they can for repurposing, and responsibly dispose of the rest.
I absolutely hate this cycle. My laptop’s software has been updated as far as I can take it with its current hardware. Microsoft provides the OS. Yes, I’ve used others but I succumb to convenience. Yeah, shame on me. I’ll research what MS needs for its next OS and see if I can update my hardware to keep it working.
Ten years is just too early to get rid of something. Just look at my cars. Both are ICE. One is nine years old with 48K; the other is twenty years and 108K. Both run fine although the newer one needs rear brake maintenance. But both look good, run well, and live in a garage, so I’ll keep on keeping on with them.
Just like my ‘puter.
When people talk about computers and advances in computing, Moore’s Law often comes up. If you don’t recall what I’m talking about, here’s a reminder:
The observation that the number of transistors on computer chips doubles approximately every two years is known as Moore’s Law.
Moore’s Law is not a law of nature, but an observation of a long-term trend in how technology is changing.
The law was first described by Gordon E. Moore, the co-founder of Intel, in 1965.
h/t to OurWorldInData.org
Well, I have a corollary to Moore’s Law, called Michael’s Law. It goes, “The more in a hurry you are, the slower your computer and the Internet will be.”
Maybe my law only applies to me. Perhaps there’s some computer god assistants somewhere watching me. Seeing me hastily scramble to the computer to search for information and then flee because I’m running late, the assistants notify the God in charge. “Michael is in a hurry. He should have left three minutes ago but he needs to look up the address on his computer.”
“You know what to do.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Just like that, my computer is bogged down, no reason given, leading me to curse the machine and the internet and my service provider, and the app being used or the website I’m trying to reach. It isn’t their fault, of course.
It’s just Michael’s Law.
Glorious summer day. 70 F by ten AM. We had the back door open to let warm fresh air swept through the house, which is naturally cool. We believed this would also allow the cats to go in and out. But no. Tucker, the black and white elder statesfloof, went into the master BR and retired behind the slider blinds. Papi the inimitable ginger power, went to sleep in the living room where he could eye the open door if he cared.
Net is down at our house. Using my detective schools and DIY ‘tude, I determined the cable modem was dead. It’s been five years since it was installed, and that’s the service life for a standard modem. We went off and bought a new one. Now I can see the net verifying it was the modem, but until the system adds the cable modem in, we’re dead in the ether. We went off to a public place to do a little netting and check news, ensure none have died on us, as the homeline is over the net. Our cells are not but not all have our cell numbers. People just lose them.
Since the net was out and it was a nice day and we couldn’t do nada on the net and had already done laundry and cleaned, we went off for an afternoon of dining at the local plaza, which is where we be, I with a locally brewed cold one fronting my space. Salads and burgers are coming.
It’s Saturday, April 29, 2023. It’s now 83 F.. The sun shone light on the situation at 6 something this morning and will go until after 8. Cooler weather heading our way.
The Neurons are staying mum about why but they have The Police serenading me in the morning mental music stream with “King of Pain” from ’83. Talk about the unexplained workings of the mind — which is what was said to inspire Sting to write this tune.
Stay frosty and pos. Make way as you can for this rotation of the planet and the next. Here’s the music. Cheers
Microsoft updated his computer. He supposed it was a good thing. Needed to repair security holes, misfiring features, and add new stuff.
Took so long, though. Bricked his computer for almost half an hour. He watched as it went through the process, shut down, and then started again.
Nothing worked after he logged in but the task manager said the machine was busy. He rebooted.
Everything came up. Now the experience would really go live. What would be broken, moved, added, relocated?
Updates were usually a trying experience. It was really just more first world blues, though.
Twenty-nine minutes.
It doesn’t seem like much time.
It was how long he waited for Microsoft to update.
MS updates always seem invasive. Waiting for it to do its thing is the norm. This is helpful, he reminded himself. New features. Updated security. Bugs fixed.
But he was on a writing schedule. This was twenty-nine minutes of not writing, of sitting and stewing, impatience and irritation growing, while the computer did its thing. Icons didn’t appear on the taskbar. No notice was given about how much longer was required or what was going on. All he could do is sip coffee, tap a finger, and wait.
Eventually, it finished. When the browser finally opened after twenty-nine minutes of waiting, it displayed a message.
He wasn’t impressed. MS had to make up a twenty-nine minute deficit before their updates would start saving time.
Rant over. Back to the normally scheduled program.
“That’s it,” my wife said. “I think my computer is dying.”
K has some Apple Power Book variation bought years ago. I believe it was 2014. Uses it every day. Apple is her style. All she’s ever used as her own computer. This is her fourth.
“What’s it doing?” I asked from across the office.
“I can’t control the cursor. The touchpad isn’t working. It’s going all over the place.”
I walked over. “Show me.”
She talked me through what she was trying to do (answer an email to Jan about Jan not making it to the book club tomorrow because her husband has a new heart problem) and showed me how the cursor ‘just takes off’.
Wasn’t just taking off. It was scrolling down. “That looks like a scrolling problem,” I said. Reaching over, I pressed the down arrow. It wouldn’t go because it was pressed in and stuck. Sharper pressure released it. The scrolling stopped.
“There. Fixed.”
Tuesday found another tech irritation gaining momentum. Apps and search boxes always tried finishing his typing for him. They were often wrong and usually a distraction. Almost as bad was when he shoved his mouse aside to clear a view of what he was typing, only to have the cursor land on something else, amplifying whatever was in that box, whether he was interested or not. The pages were just messy with annoying ‘helpful’ distractions.
It began with drinking a cup of coffee. I was at a place which I knew was my home but it wasn’t a RL home. I seemed about forty years old so younger than RL but otherwise the same. Drinking the coffee, I walked along the living room’s length toward the kitchen. A hallway which led to the bedrooms and bathrooms broke off to right. The floor was carpeted with a light China blue plush carpet. I was wearing shoes and I noticed all this because my head was almost brushing the ceiling. That amused me as I’m only 5’8″.
My wife comes out of the bedroom hallways and we chat. I then go back across the living room and back. This time, my ceiling is rubbing against the ceiling enough that I’m bending my head to avoid it. I point this out to her, laughing that either I’m growing or the ceiling is being lowered. She checks it out and agrees, I seem to be taller. I muse that it must be a practical joke; how can I be getting taller? Someone — one of my nieces, nephews, or cousins — must have inserted lifts into my shoes without me noticing. But then, going to set the coffee table down, I found that I’m even taller. They can’t be putting lifts in my shoes because I’m wearing them. I must be growing. How was that possible?
The dream scene changes. I’m having dinner with former co-workers from various employers. These are all RL folk that I’ve not seen in decades. Men and women are segregated. That puzzles me and I ask why but nobody gives me a reasonable answer. Most commonly heard is, ‘because they made the food’. I’m basically sitting alone at the end of a table, with others to the right. Food is being served. I’m making fun of some of the food because it seems unusual and I’m annoyed that we’re being served like the wives are our servants, but it’s tasty food and I’m eating it, and enjoying myself.
Friends call me over to another side. I respond, heading over there. One of the wives wants me to try this special dish which she made. Her husband sets a plate in front of me. It looks like a flat hotdog bun with a hotdog splayed open lengthwise, covered by what looks like dark green ice and a thin piece of steak. I want explanations for what I’m facing. For one thing, I don’t eat hotdogs. She tells me it’s not a regular hotdog, that she actually made it herself, and that it’s very healthy. Okay, I trust her about that, but what about the green ice? I’m not given an answer.
The thing is hard to keep together, but I do so that I can try it. I’m stunned by the flavor, especially the green ice. It’s an exhilarating, cleansing flavor unlike anything I’ve ever had and not anything like I expected. For starters, it’s not cold.
I exclaim appreciation for it, which delights her. She tells me that she knew I would appreciate it. She won’t tell me anything about what it is, but I don’t mind. We joke about it could and I thank her.
Her husband calls me in to join him and other men and women in another room. It’s like a round table setting. They’re having a conversation and he wants to know, what was I good at when I was younger, and gives some background to what he means. I tell him without hesitation, “Music, computers, and art,” then I shrug. They were always effortless to me although I never pursued any of them and regret that.
Dream end.
In this day of people using their phones to do everything, he remains old-fashioned. He uses his computer.
Michael Seidel, writer 