It's Complicated

I'm on a First Date with my new laptop from an unnamed company that may or may not be connected to the treacherous edible icon that brought down the Garden of Eden. (I don't blame Eve, by the way. She was hungry. Besides, it's not cricket.)

Things have been going OK, but, you know, how best to dispel the awkwardness of a First Date, when it's ostensibly happening in one's living room?  I don't know if I'm talking too much and not asking about its life, its preferences, its family, whether it's more Chicago Hope or Grey's Anatomy. It shouldn't be all about me, should it? One good sign: as soon as I powered her on, she somehow automatically re-arranged my sock drawer. But, you know, I don't know if I'm ready for that level of intimacy with a slice of plastic and electronics that's, in fact, not as thick as several wheels of cheese I've known. And you should have seen how they rolled...

Lest I'm bringing some kind of International Business Machine-themed, backslashed chauvinism to this new relationship, my actual girlfriend tells me my laptop is a she, and that her name is Twiggy. Antecedent warning! Antecedent warning! Does a supermodel-thin computer encourage positive body image in its owner? Will I have to put in at least 20 minutes of cardio before she'll allow me to check e-mail? And the questions only get thornier after that--for example, should I even be dating something I own? (the laptop, not the girlfriend. Again, not very cricket.)

Is it just me? Should I mourn that I no longer have C-colon in my life? Suspiciously, this is also the year I'm supposed to get a colonoscopy. How can these two events not be connected? Have powers greater than I ordained that one kind of computing platform is a cancer upon society that needs to be excised, while wearing hip, un-self-concious clothing? And will the surgeon be wearing flip-flops like all the male employees at one of my laptop's company's recent team-building field-trips? 

The blogger reserves the right to dedicate an entire post on the subject of men wearing flip-flops on any surface other than sand... this phenomenon outstrips the laminate on my personal computing mores...

In other technology news, File under Continuing Breakdown of Civility: When I call my voicemail--idling on some computer in the ether that's no-doubt not named for a piece of fruit--it's been cutting off the very beginning of the prompt tree. As a result, the first thing I hear is, "asscode..."

Shouldn't my asscode be different from my passcode? Don't I have an obligation to keep my ass safe and secure? Now that this First Date is going on with me unshaven in my sweatpants, will my hot, newlaptop turn off her encryption to spite my ass? Wouldn't there be unimaginable problems if someone were to steal my ass, and would I be responsible for my ass if it were brainwashed by persuasive captors and committed illegal acts, not unlike Patty Hearst's unfortunate time with the Symbionese Liberation Army?

Look, the more these things turn over in my head, the confuseder I get. If this First Date ends up in a makeout session between me and my laptop, as my actual girlfriend assures me it will, I'm going to have to re-evaluate a lot of stuff on the neutrino level. They're so sexy, neutrinos....

Thanks for reading. And please remember that just because it's possible that by the end of this post, I may end up like this guy, it doesn't mean that my secret plan for unheard-of riches won't come true: designing a computer that uses Ones, Zeroes, and.... wait for it..... TWOS! Keep it under your iHat, ok?

The Wonder Of It All...

Couple of things I've learned this week:

In Canada, if you pay an extra $1.25, you get sweet-potato fries.

One would do well to spend a portion of each day unsubscribing from e-mail lists.

My kid's former elementary school's PTA has been the hardest list from which to unsubscribe. Way harder than Buy!Buy!Buy!.com

In the 1600s, they lived half as long, but their lives were twice as uncomplicated. (I'll wait.....) And if they were English, they could attend a world premier of Shakespeare's and spend an evening laughing at four near-medieval yuppies dithering about in the woods. Meanwhile, we have Charlie Sheen, who's both a tragedy and a comedy, wrapped up in a stripper  enigma.

I pretty much love it when the Yankees' radio announcers are reduced to making jokes about clichés. It shows humility.

Post-Season baseball is like when a team shows up at the Pearly Gates, and St. Peter doesn't quite believe them yet.

If you're reading this, you weren't blown up in Somalia, executed in China, or drowned in the East River yesterday.

People might get over their unresolved issues faster if they handed their shrink fistfuls of cash at the end of every session.

Check out Star Trek VI again. You could do a lot worse.

The immunologist who died from cancer days before his Nobel Prize was announced--after applying his life's work to his own body in the form of experimental treatment--seems to have spent an exemplary time on this planet. He happened to be Canadian. I wonder if he went for the sweet-potato fries. I'm hoping he did.

The Blaiser Blog Post-Season Dream Team:

Starting Pitcher

Catcher

First Base Coach

General Manager 

Outfield

Infield

Manager

Third Base Coach

Pinch Runner

Designated Hitter

Closer

Bat Boy

Bat Girl

Relief Pitcher


Thanks for indulging me. Please also try to remember that the only thing that keeps us from floating off into space, and certain death, is gravity.