Jeff Carlson (.com)Recent Thought[25-Sep-02] Moving into the Past My wife and I recently purchased a new house, so we're in the midst of packing up the old one. I came across some old photos today that were quite amusing. It's amazing how much we humans change over the years! Look for yourself (yes, they're both me):
[16-Sep-02] Prowlers in My Neighborhood A pair of prowlers visited my neighborhood today, specifically EA-6B Prowlers, no doubt out of Whidbey Island Naval Air Station. We've never gotten military fighter jets where I live in Renton, despite being in close proximity to Sea-Tac Airport and a main Boeing plant, which made the presence of these two the more puzzling. They circled the neighborhood (really, it seemed like our house was the center point) about six times, then flew off. A short while later, they arrived again, made two or three circles, and screamed off again. They were low enough that I could almost make out the silhouettes of the pilots with my naked eyes at one point. Naturally, I grabbed my camcorder to get a shot:
[Update:] Goddamn it. Just saw on the news that the prowlers were part of a flyby at the opening of the new Seattle Seahawks stadium. Of course, on the brink of a misguided war against Iraq and at a time of heightened national security, it makes sense that professional sports should prompt a military flyby. [08-Sep-02] Patch Carlson I'm the reason stores like Ace Hardware stay in business. First off, I'll be frank and admit that I'm not a handyman. I don't have that male gene that makes me comfortable with a hammer or drill or Skill-Saw. (But I can hold my own if necessary.) We're in the process of selling our house, which means there are a few little things that need fixing or sprucing up before it gets listed. One of those is a bit of drywall repair in my office, a mostly-rectangular hole cut into the wall where the plumber had to put in a new outside faucet (as part of the brand new copper plumbing throughout the house!). Being the dutiful home-owner, I went to Ace (which is only about a mile from the house) and bought wall repair tape, some sealing compound, and screws. After patching the hole (rather well, I might add), I discovered that I bought the wrong sealing compound (which I didn't put on), and that I already had a (larger) roll of wall repair tape from when we did some drywall repairs in the spacious family room. So it's back to Ace tomorrow to get the right compound, and take back the repair tape. One more example: after removing a tree in our front yard (you can read more and see pictures here), we recently had the stump ground, which creates a sizeable hole in the yard. We took the opportunity to grind another stump that was there when we bought the house, and some exposed roots as well, leaving three sizeable holes in the yard. Off to Ace I went, and purchased four big bags of topsoil to fill the holes. I've probably mentioned that I'm not that great at math, either. Two trips and twenty bags later, the holes were filled, much to the amusement of the woman working the cash register that day. I love being a homeowner. Really. And please, buy my house. [Addendum, 15-Sep-02] Sure enough, I just found a big tub of joint sealant compound left over from our earlier repairs, so I didn't need to buy any at all. Oh well. Maybe I'll break a lot of drywall in the new house just to use up this stuff. [12-Aug-02] Never Going Back to Money Creek Campground After a very busy summer, Kim and I got away to do some camping at a new campground I discovered: Money Creek. It's only an hour away, has good access for fly fishing, and a good campground layout. We were both tired, and Kim especially was looking forward to plenty of relaxation and sleep. Take a gander:
Needless to say, we left a day early! [31-Jul-02] Telemarketing Spiral It's 4:20 pm, a bit early for the usual rush of telemarketing calls, so I answered the phone. A woman with a nice, cheery voice identified herself as being from Qwest and said she was offering a special on caller ID and something else equally uninteresting. Then she asked, "You get a lot of telemarketing calls, right?" "Like this one?" I asked in reply. Sometimes I can be clever on the spot - sometimes. "Well," she said without missing a beat, "This deal can help get rid of all the others." I thanked her for the offer, but said I wasn't interested. She thanked me for my time, gave me a phone number I could call if I changed my mind, and we hung up. I don't like telemarketing any more than the next guy (which is why you'll now always get my machine if you call the house in the evening), but if every caller was this pleasant and efficient, I wouldn't mind as much. Speaking of communication problems, there's been a lot of interest and reaction to an article we ran in TidBITS a couple weeks ago about how your ISP may be blocking legitimate email without your knowledge. My friend Glenn forwarded a link to a similar article that references ours. [28-Jul-02] Miner Miracle I was flipping channels late last night and came across live coverage of the rescue of the Quecreek miners, who had been trapped underground for three days after accidentally breaking through to an old mine. I managed to catch the exact moment when it was announced that the rescuers had reached the miners, and that they all appeared to be alive. My God, what a relief! Not just that these men were on the verge of rescue (and it turns out they have mostly minor injuries), but that at last something positive is being reported on the news. I'm not the type to harp on news organizations and how they report the news (violence and sex sells, there's no two ways about it), but lately there's been quite a lot of bad news. Whether it's another mega corporation imploding due to illegal or at least unethical actions, or watching our fuckup president turn the U.S. into an insider-driven aggressor state, it's all been wearing me down. So now, nine men trapped 300 feet underground are brought up safely. It filled me with a flash of optimism, and I found myself inhaling deeply as if I was the one experiencing fresh air for the first time in days. Of course, I soon had to change the channel as the live coverage continued, because the commentary and interviews and reaction became so intrusive, saccharine, and pathetic that the old cynicism threatened to creep back. Instead, I choose to hold onto that optimistic flash. [15-May-02] New York City Espresso The New York Times today features a great story about finding (and mostly failing to find) good espresso in New York City. Despite my love for coffee, I only rarely go for straight espresso, being a somewhat late convert to the coffee religion. But William Grimes's writing in this article makes me yearn for a good straight shot. Back to Normal I called in the last changes for Real World Adobe GoLive 6 to the publisher on Monday, so now it's out of our hands and bring printed. Writing a 900-plus page book, even an update, is never an easy task, so it's a huge relief to have it completed. Now I'm spending more time on TidBITS, chasing down some freelance article ideas, and watching lots of movies on DVD. [25-Mar-02] Glacier Walkin' Speaking of movies, I recently put together a short video of walking on a glacier from our Alaska trip last year. You can view it here. [23-Mar-02] Unexpected Jazz I made my way to a Starbucks today (I know, a common theme in this ongoing journal) to get some work done. As a nice addition to the day, a high-school Jazz quintet set up and performed live for an hour. They're the Shorewood High School Band, and will be playing as part of Starbucks's Hot Java Cool Jazz concert, April 5 at Seattle's Benaroya Hall. Some Starbucks stores just sling coffee, but this one (in Lynnwood) appears to go out of its way to have music, poetry, and the like. Bravo! I've been gradually getting into jazz over the last few years, and I've discovered that while I like it, I really like it live. (This is also one reason why I carry my camcorder in my bag, and why I use a Mac. I shot, edited, and posted this from my table at Starbucks... the band is still playing as I write this, in fact.) Click below for a sample (30 seconds, 388K).
[17-Mar-02] Really Random Thoughts
[20-Dec-01] Xmas, Spirit I've spent the last two and a half hours crawling through nasty Seattle traffic, working my nerves into a frenzy and making me wonder if it's really only a few days before Christmas. Isn't this the time of joy and caring, of carols and candycanes? For now I've retreated to the Starbucks at University Village (it's not busy, amazingly, considering that it's the holidays and the UW is wrapping up finals). I've ordered a double-tall latte, checked my email, and am quite a bit cooler than I was earlier. So as I sit here typing with the Charlie Brown Christmas music playing in the store, I can't help but think about Christmas. Is the "Christmas spirit" something that's supposed to automatically happen during December? It's prevalent, that's for sure. I used to complain about how stores began decorating for the holidays even before Thanksgiving, but now I don't even notice anymore. So whether you like it or not, Christmas is pumped directly to you no matter where you are. I'm beginning to think that the spirit must be earned, like all things in this life that approach some level of quality. Not earned in the sense of being "good" throughout the year (do bad children really get no presents, or, like Christianity, are they all forgiven on the final eve before the day of reward?). I mean you have to be open to it, a struggle that can be especially challenging precisely because of the commericals and carols and perpetually-mangled parodies of The Night Before Christmas. I can't say that I'm particularly open to it right now, though Vince Guaraldi's great piano playing is certainly helping. But I have had moments when the spirit has caught me unawares over the last couple of weeks. I'll try again tomorrow. [11-Nov-01] Supes, Grounded A bit of television thought tonight. I know, "television" and "thought" don't seem like a compatible combination, but I've been consistently surprised at what I'm seeing on TV lately. The first important thing to mention is that I finally bought a TiVo, and like hundreds of thousands of other TiVo owners I can't imagine how I watched TV without it. Here's the gist: a TiVo is basically a small computer with a big hard drive that records television. It looks like a large VCR, and it's smart. How smart? For one thing, I don't have to sit down at any one time to watch something. It automatically records my favorite programs, which I can then catch when it's convenient for me. You can also pause live TV (when you're watching a channel, TiVo automatically records what you're watching), rewind, and -- ta da! -- fast-forward through commercials! Even more nifty-keen is that it knows the upcoming TV schedule and can search for things: let's say you want to record any movie with Phillip Seymore Hoffman in it (such as The Big Lebowski, which was on the other night). You set up a filter, and TiVo automatically grabs what it can find. (This is just a basic rundown -- see the article series we recently published in TidBITS for a full overview.) So as part of my TiVo watching, I'm able to see shows that I normally wouldn't catch because of timing or because I'm busy doing other things. One of these shows, to my great surprise, is Smallville. It's a retelling of the Superman myth, looking at Clark Kent (the future guy in blue) as he navigates high school. Great Scott, you're thinking, Carlson has gone out of his head. A teen show about Superman? Well, let me tell you, the folks creating this show are doing a damn fine job tweaking the myth. For one thing, Smallville is a pretty strange place after a freak meteor shower dropped young Clark and a ton of green radioactive rocks around the area. This allows the writers to come up with villians of the week who can be thwarted by the young lad. But what's more interesting is that Clark isn't the super-powered kid hinted at in the comics. (And to be honest, I haven't read Superman comics for years, so it wouldn't surprise me if there are echoes of Smallville in the literature.) He can't fly, though he did find himself floating once while having a good dream. He's just discovered that he can see through things. He's definitely strong and fast, but has to try to keep a lid on it. And, of course, he's bothered by Kryptonite -- which just happens to be everywhere, including on the necklace of the girl he fancies, Lana Lang. Overall, the acting is mostly good, the stars are great to look at, and Michael Rosenbaum as Lex Luthor is one of the most compelling characters on TV. [13-Oct-01] Focus, Revisited Kim and I went to a modern dance performance last night, and although neither of us was crazy about going (we were both tired, stressed, and I wasn't looking forward to driving from Renton to Seattle in bad weather), it was good that we went. We've attended a number of modern dance performances over the past few years. The choreographer in Kim loves to see how people move, and the completely non-linear, non-writing, non-rational side of me really enjoys the often abstract fusion of music and movement. In last night's show, I wasn't especially crazy about the dancing, but there was a percussionist who was mesmerizing to watch. One number was backed by a full drum kit, a few hand drums (are the big ones called bongos? I don't think so), and a woman reading poetry. I don't think this guy has actually seen any of his drums in years: they were a perfect extension of his arms. During one particularly energetic section, his eyes were focused intently on a patch of nothing near the ceiling, and his head jabbed and twisted with the percussion. That's focus, and I loved it. Perhaps from his example, I was able to come home and get several hours of focused, productive work done on my latest book (due at the end of the month!), before going to be at 2:00 am. [14-Sep-01] Numb Horror It's been three days since the horrific terrorist attack on New York and Washington, D.C., and I'm in a state of what I can only think to call a vacant mess. Since Tuesday morning, when Kim and I watched the World Trade Center burn and collapse on television, I've slipped in and out of this state. Sometimes I'm fine, other times I find myself staring at nothing, images of explosions and people jumping to their deaths flitting behind my eyes. It's 12:30 pm, and I'm sitting in a Starbucks on 4th Ave. in downtown Seattle. Across the street, the staff of a restaurant called Shuckers has assembled on the sidewalk to observe what was planned as a minute of silence throughout the city (or perhaps the nation, I don't know). In their blue shirts and chef hats, they're easy to spot. Some passersby notice and stop, but most people continue on. Traffic doesn't stop, conversations continue, the world continues to move. I know it's easy to find symbolism in nearly everything now, but I like this representation of Us, of Americans: we pause, we grieve, we continue. I didn't plan on being here right now. I'm supposed to be at a noon prayer service with Kim at the nearby First Presbyterian Church (where she is). But as we were getting out of the car, I didn't feel right. I'm numb, and don't feel a pull to join in on a prayer service... I don't want to sit in a congregation of cries and sniffles... and I can't even explain why. It's not that I'm having any beef with God - I don't typically subscribe to the notion that God, or God's existence, should be questioned whenever something bad happens. I heard a pastor on the radio say that God is crying with us, which sounds like an apt notion to me. No, I just need to deal with this horror on my own timetable. As tragic and shocking as the attacks were, I'm almost more fearful of what's to come. I've no doubt that the Bush administration is going to be hell-bent on retribution, which seems to me to be the last thing to do. We need to be more reflective about why this happened: there aren't people in the world who just hate Americans for no good reason. We get so caught up in the images we manufacture of ourselves that it comes as a shock that everyone doesn't automatically love us. I'm not saying that the people responsible for these acts shouldn't be found and brought to justice. Rather, there has to be some give and take in the bargain. Too much to think about, too much to process, and it's time to walk back to the church. But, even in this small way, I'm looking forward to moving with these people outside. [21-Aug-01] Back at It As is typical of this little journal, it's been a while since I last wrote (I've discovered that I'm not the prolific "weblogger" the likes of my officemate Glenn). In the interim, several things have happened: I finished the latest edition of the Palm book, went on the best vacation ever, and returned to find a book project in my lap. Our vacation was a cruise through Alaska. Initially I was skeptical, thinking that a "cruise" meant one of the large floating cities operated by Princess or Holland-America. Boy, was I wrong. We spent a week touring through the Alaskan interior, exploring Fairbanks, Denali national park, Anchorage, and other immeasurably beautiful spots. The second week was spent on a Cruise West ship, which held 75 guests plus crew, and explored the inside passage. Wow! To give you a glimpse of what the trip was like, here's a bit from the journal I kept on the trip: "Monday was spent in Tracy Arm, a favorite of the crew. More glaciers and icebergs, but also a wonderful surprise later in the day: humpback whales! LOTS of humpback whales. I think I counted at least two dozen sightings. And that's not just seeing a distant water plume... in a handful of cases, the whales surfaced as close as 50 feet from the boat, where they'd rise and skim the top for a moment, then drop back below. After about four or five surfacings, they'd raise their backs a bit further out of the water then dive, bringing their big back fins out of the water before going back under. Amazing, and we didn't get tired of it." The Alaska vacation was also the testing grounds for a new digital camcorder that I bought for the trip, and which performed admirably. It's a Canon ZR-20, is wonderfully compact, and takes good footage. I was able to export the video directly to my PowerBook (when I got home... the computer didn't go with me on vacation), and edit it up in iMovie. (In fact, you can view the whales by clicking this link.) Now back in Seattle, I find myself unexpectedly with a full plate. I've been tossing around a number of ideas for work, and am currently writing an article for HOW about designer Stefan Sagmeister and his year without clients. There's also the usual complement of stuff (TidBITS, a bit of computer consulting, etc.), and a few non-paying Web ideas that I'm going to pursue. However, it looks like most of my time between now and Nov. 1 will be spent writing another book for Peachpit (more on that later). [27-Jun-01] A Slice of Northwest Beauty More than one person has said to me: "Oh, you're one of those people, aren't you?" I most certainly am. It's a Wednesday morning, I'm sitting in my favorite spot at Caffe Ladro in Fremont, and it's pouring down rain outside. The door is open, so you can hear the rainfall and cars sloshing past. The grayness of the sky outside is balanced nicely by the dark blood red of the walls and the golden light cast by small lamps on the tables. I've emptied a mug of damn fine espresso, and I'm working on my PowerBook. All sorts of people walk in and get their morning coffee, so it's fun to look up and just watch them move in and out. I'm not quite sure when I switched over to the gray side. It's not that I don't like the sun - I just find that a gray rainy day is far more stimulating than clear blue skies and high-contrast shadows.
[20-May-01] Attacking Ice Cream with Plastic Spoons It's a beautiful Sunday in Seattle, and I'm parked in a Starbucks writing an article for HOW Magazine. My gaze tends to wander wildly while I'm writing, and I just looked outside where a group of three young girls are sitting at a table. They're sharing a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, but this is no orderly sharing: they're attacking that helpless dessert! Their heads are together and their shoulders are hunched like a pack of wolves who've just brought down a deer. The ice cream is clearly frozen solid, and with nothing but flimsy plastic spoons, they're not making any headway. It's a miracle that the spoons haven't yet snapped and splintered. Seeing the girls in trouble, Mom swings into action! First she starts in with a plastic spoon, but clearly that won't do much damage. So the mini-pocketknife appears, which Mom uses to start tearing apart the pint. Forget about digging in from the top: with her one-inch knife she goes straight for the sides, digging past the curved cardboard into the frozen cream. The girls are hovering, spoons at the ready, while Mom just fucking wails on that container, and at last the ice cream is divided into three somewhat even ice cream patties, which are placed into small plastic trays that have appeared. Emergency averted, and Mom once again the hero, the splattered mess is cleaned up and order is restored. Now I really want some ice cream. But you can bet I'm going nowhere near that knife. [04-May-01] Gaussian Focus I know I'm in the midst of a busy period when my brain starts launching ideas that have nothing to do with the tasks at hand. This is actually how I became a book author. I was having trouble writing an article for the late Adobe Magazine - I mean, I was really stuck, writing the same words over and over and hoping for an accidental comma or something to knock me into gear. The problem was, I couldn't stop thinking about a brief meeting a few weeks earlier at Macworld Expo with Peachpit editor Nancy Davis. Knowing that I worked with Adam Engst and TidBITS, she mentioned that if I had any ideas for books I'd like to write, I should let her know. So while trying to write the Adobe article, I actually had a handful of book ideas tumbling around in my head. But, I was on a deadline. Finally, I realized that I wasn't getting anything done at all, so I sent an email to Nancy outlining my ideas. With that accomplished, my brain eased up on me enough so that I could write the article. Within a few weeks, I had agreed to write my first book, Palm III & PalmPilot Visual QuickStart Guide. Tonight, I'm sitting on the couch, PowerBook on my lap, and writing this because I can't get it out of my head. It's been a night of good ideas: a potential magazine column I want to propose, a book idea or two, even a short film I'd like to write and direct. But I can't dwell on them too much because I've got so damn much work to do. It's 11 p.m. and I need to go make another espresso so that I can focus on the more pressing work. Focus focus focus. If there's any area in my life that needs improving... It's not as if I'm completely unable to focus on things. On the contrary, once I'm deep into something (especially something I enjoy), I have remarkable focus. But despite my best efforts to be a modern multitasking freelancer, sometimes there's so much to do that I'm paralyzed. It's frustrating as hell, because I can see what needs to be done, I even have a mental roadmap for getting there, but then I drift and find myself some time later with nothing to show for it. So here's what I'm focusing on tonight, and we'll check back to see how it went. I need to edit an article for TidBITS about Apple's attractive new iBook. I need to take screen shots from the VisorPhone that I have to return on Monday. I need to make some notes about the Palm m500 that also has to be returned Monday. I think that's pretty good, considering that it's now 11:15 pm.
[23-Apr-01] Over-commitment & Cosmology I brewed myself an espresso at 11:00 pm tonight, and realized that crunch time has begun again. After a few months where my workload has been relatively light, I'm now overcommitted. On my slate: a Web site redesign (though thankfully not alone), two reviews, one feature article, at least three TidBITS pieces (along with weekly editorial duties), ongoing Web site updating for a regular client, and two books. Pretty much all before June. And yet, I'm a bit more comfortable this way. I'll have to do more leisure-time exploration (not the vacation it sounds) later, because I don't think it's too healthy that the less I have to do, the less I'm motivated. But for now I'm getting back into my element. It feels good to be busy. But of course I can't be Mr. All Work. My long-term interest in cosmology and other things space-related continues to be reborn. Today Kim and I attended a class at University Presbyterian Church entitled "Reasons for Faith," exploring how science and religion intersect in our universe. One of my college professors, Dr. Stephen Meyer from Whitworth College, is going to be a speaker at one of the classes. There's also an upcoming conference called "Cosmos & Creator" that I may attend. I've long needed to stretch my brain toward questions of faith and origin, so this could be a good starting point. Computers are endlessly interesting, but I need to lift my head out of the silicon more often. [05-Apr-01] How NOT to Make a Banner Ad You'd think that someone at Hungry Minds (formerly IDG Books) would have looked at this banner ad and seen something amiss. But, no, it was on their home page this afternoon. [22-Mar-01] A MIRror of the News It's midnight in a hotel in Chicago and I just finished watching the space station Mir crash to earth via CNN, and I have to admit that the news network did a pretty piss-poor job of covering it. Yes, they had experts, and yes, they had computer-generated simulations. But put yourself in CNN's shoes: a multi-ton space station is going to hit the atmosphere and burn up in what is likely to be a spectacular series of fireballs streaking across the sky. Let me repeat that: FIREBALLS STREAKING ACROSS THE SKY. What would be your number one priority? Video. Where was the damn video? They had a reporter in Fiji who did an admittedly excellent job of describing what he saw over the phone. But still, was it impossible to set up a live video feed in a location where there was a high likelihood of seeing FIREBALLS STREAKING ACROSS THE SKY? Apparently so. Although the reporter did videotape it, he sounded a little bewildered at how he might actually deliver the footage to CNN HQ. Hell, I'd reserve an entire communications satellite in order to get those shots as they're happening! I'm sure that tomorrow morning we'll see the video, over and over and over. But there's still something to be said about a live video feed. If you're going to bring the world to me, then bring it to me for heaven's sake. I'm the public: show me pictures. [19-Mar-01] Burly Men Doing Burly Work
This not only meant that we had to deal with removing the tree (actually no big deal, since the second guy did that for us), but it meant dealing with the leftover wood. Although I flirted with the idea of renting a power splitter, everything was too big. So, with mauls and sledgehammers in hand, my office buddy Jeff Tolbert and I went to work on a Sunday afternoon and split the thing up. Now we've got firewood for next year! [Click the image to see the full picture.] [19-Mar-01] Titanium Bliss
[13-Feb-01] Waiting to Thin Different
[13-Feb-01] Macworld Expo What's my mental state at Macworld Expo in January? I popped in to say hi to the folks at Worlds Without Borders and ended up doing an impromptu online chat (now online). [30-Jan-01] Zairo I love it when people scorn "snail-mail" in favor of electronic mail (and yes, I'm guilty of it too). How often have you heard someone bash the United States Postal Service because of slow service, long lines, etc.? Well, I'm a believer: in the face of adversity, they deliver. When I left a coat and shirt at the hotel in San Francisco following Macworld Expo, the US Postal Service was able to deliver them to me in the box shown below. Thank goodness it had the correct zip code! ("Engst" appears because Adam Engst and I shared a room, and it was in his name.)
[04-Jan-01] Zoning To be honest, I haven't gotten much done over the past few months. Part of it is the jetwash of finishing a book like Real World Adobe GoLive 5, which weighed in at a thousand pages. As much as I'd like to think that I could finish a project and jump right on into the next one, I've found that I really need to decompress. But part of that downtime was self-imposed. I've been working at a frantic pace for four years, and it's catching up to me. I'm getting a little burned out, a lot stressed at times, and I don't see my wife as much as I'd like. So I took a break from my life. Although I still did work -- wrote a few articles, continued to do TidBITS, etc. -- I took the time to think about what I'm doing, what I want to be doing, and at the time whether I should take on another big book project that would have likely crushed me (I chose not to do it). The time "off" has been great. I've played video games, something that I haven't done in years. That may not sound too interesting, but video games have changed. I'm almost finished with Deus Ex (be careful how you say that, since more than one person has been shocked when it sounded like I played "Day of Sex"!), which is a first-person shooter without as much shooting. You don't run into a room with guns blazing (well, sometimes you do); you often have to sneak around, move among the shadows, and work your way through a fairly intricate plot. Very engrossing. I've also picked up on playing Unreal Tournament, which is a shooter in the traditional sense, guts and all. My officemate Jeff Tolbert got me hooked, because it's possible to just play for a short while without having to remember where in the story you left off. And network play is a hoot. I've also done more reading, seen more movies, and in general just led a less-hectic existence. What I haven't done is come to any grand conclusions about what I should be doing with myself, though I'm making progress. I've pitched another book idea to Peachpit, which I'm not ready to talk about yet in a public forum, but which I'm excited to pursue. And I haven't done a whole heckuva lot of work. My problem now is that I'm a bit too far out of the zone. The more I'm uninvolved, the less I want to be involved, and that's really crappy for deadlines. A couple articles seem to refuse to be written... I'm afraid that I can't spit it out anymore. Or rather, I spend too much time trying to come up with brilliant openings, then give up. I'm not afraid that I'm blocked or anything like that. I just need to prime the pump and get the water flowing again. It's going to take work and discipline, no doubt. But if I'm going to be the writer-guy that I picture in my head, it's time to stop thinking of ideas for things to write and actually get the words moving. [30-Aug-00] Booksignings You've probably read accounts by authors writing about the rigors of being on a book tour: the schedule, the appearances, the chipper morning-television hosts, the fast food. Of course none of those authors are computer book authors. I had a booksigning tonight at the Barnes & Noble in Woodinville, WA. I drove 45 minutes in rain and slow rush hour traffic, misread my directions, and overshot the B&N by a good several miles. Doubled-back, found the place, went inside. Now before I go any further, you have to understand the notion of a computer book booksigning. At normal booksignings, people want to associate a face with the author who entertained them in prose, but at a computer booksigning, people want knowledge. You're not necessarily a writer, but a live tech support person who can't get away. Okay, that's a little oversimplified, but in many cases true. Tonight, I was signing copies of the Palm book and giving a presentation about Palm devices. I'm lucky in the sense that Palms are popular, and there are a lot of people who are wondering if they should dump their paper organizer and get a handheld. I've been to a couple of booksignings where the audience numbered in the hundreds, and some with a dozen or so. The first signing I did was populated by a couple of people and family members who showed up to see what it was I spend all my time on. The last few signings I've done for the Palm book have been... um... character-building exercises. In Issaquah, I had one person show up... and he was a repeat attendee from an earlier signing! He still hadn't bought a Palm, but had some more questions. However, tonight was different. There were at least 10 people in attendance, most of whom stayed for the duration (I talked for about an hour and a half). A few had Palms or were familiar with them, a few had only heard of Palms and wanted to know more. A few people actually took notes! It was a lot of fun, and even though I'm far from being a public speaker, I think I did okay at spewing my Palm knowledge. And, for the first time on this "tour", I sold copies of the book at the signing (3)! Is it worth it? Surely my time could be better spent, such as on sleep, reading, or working on projects (in this case wrapping up Real World Adobe GoLive 5). But I have to admit that I do enjoy it. Even a little bit when it was just the one guy (who got great one-on-one customer service; I'll send the bill to Palm... if they guy every buys a handheld). [16-Jun-00] Not much thought going on except for bearing down on a current project. But two things to note on this site:
[03-May-00] I finished the Palm book at the beginning of April, and slipped away from this page. I just couldn't put any more words on a computer screen. Now I'm back. A lot has happened in a month. My grandfather died. We cleaned out his house when it sold, distributed his possessions, held a garage sale and spent too much time picking up items and listening to their memories. I started work on a new project (it's a secret, for now). I finally got things sorted out at the bank, and the roof seems to have stopped leaking for good. Now I'm exercising, if you can believe it. I'm trying to keep a handle on the projects and details swirling around my headspace. And a tiny voice occasionally asks if it really doesn't bother me that this month I turn 30. [28-Mar-00] I hit That Point today. That Point is the moment when you're working on a project and the project has completely penetrated you. In my case, according to my wife, I woke up this morning, turned to her, and asked, "Do you need anything? Screenshots?" This isn't as good as when author Bruce Frasier hit That Point while working on the first Real World Photoshop book: waking up early one morning, he was perplexed at why one of his bathroom faucets was marked Cyan. [23-Mar-00] Finish the book. Finish the book. Finish the book. Finish the book. Finish the book. Make some more coffee. Finish the book. Finish the book. Finish the book. Sleep a little. Finish the book. Finish the book. Aspirin, please. Finish the book. Finish the book. Finish the book. Yet more coffee. Finish the book. Finish the book. Why are my hands shaking? More coffee will help! Finish the book. Finish the book. Finish the book. Finish the book. Finish the book... I'm not wearing green today. Pinch me. [15-Mar-00] My Favorite Commercial I don't watch much TV. Granted, I catch more now than I have in years, but it's nothing compared to when I was a kid. There are really only a handful of shows that grab my attention now: the Aaron Sorkin duo of Sports Night and The West Wing are staples of the week, with guilty pleasures like The Pretender and Hollywood Squares thrown in. (We don't have cable or satellite TV, so I can't get lost in the Discovery Channel or find out why everyone loves The Sopranos.) As a result, I think I tend to really enjoy it more when I find something that's really good. That's also why I love good commercials. In fact, I don't remember commercials being as good as some of them are now; cutesy, sure, but not as outright clever and artistic and funny as several that appear now. For example, I still get a chuckle out of that damn Pets.com spokespuppet. The old "Mikey will eat anything" ads just don't cut it any more; sell me something by entertaining me, not by tricking me or appealing to my lowest-common-denominator instincts. (And while we're at it, will someone please: step on that annoying Taco Bell dog; refuse to ever animate Col. Sanders as a "hipper" chicken-picker-upper; and show the door to the two surly, mean older women selling reusable plastic dishes (or whatever the hell the product is)?) In contrast, there's a commercial airing now that warms me all over when I see it. If it could be entered as a short film for Oscar consideration, I'd nominate it in a second. And believe it or not, it's a car commercial. A quick word about car commercials. Of all the televised advertising bouncing around the airwaves, auto ads are, taken as a whole, the most innovative, experimental, and intriguing ones you can find. They can also often be the most predictable, boring, mindless ones as well. Most of them involve the car driving (a logical notion); for variation, the car drives through lots of beautiful places, including deep powdery snow in the winter. Realizing that this approach was getting boring, the car companies brought in the heavy-hitters of special effects, which is why car commercials are the best indicator of how advanced visual special effects are at any given moment. Cars drop out of the air, cars roll through imagined countrysides, cars gleam in the sun, cars show up on top of craggy cliffs. But for the most part, you can boil these commercials down to their essence: show the car, spotlight the car, make the car sparkle, look at the car. My Favorite Commercial succeeds because it's not about the car. For once, the car is the vehicle (yes, pun intended) for what's happening in the commercial... for the story, if you can believe that! So here it is: Volkswagen, "Pink Moon" (2.7 MB QuickTime movie).
It's a 60-second tale of budding affection, wistful contemplation, and the elusive magic of slipping into a perfect moment. By far my favorite commercial. [05-Mar-00] This is a quick thought, but it deserves mention. The universe has apparently gotten its chuckle and is now being generous: on Wednesday, a friendly guy from the roofing company showed up and fixed the roof. So far, no water (and it's been raining pretty heavy this week), so I'm going to take a risk and call the drywall guys back again to fix the big hole in the ceiling. Also, following yet another call to Washington Mutual, my personal and business accounts have been linked together under one banner, which means I can access them both from the Web. I've transferred money from one account to the other, and am waiting for a reverse-transfer to go through before I'll actually consider putting more than just the token $100 in the accounts. But, things are looking up. If you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, see my rant in Recent Thoughts. That's also where you'll find my old house as seen from space, the Valentine's Day script, and more thoughts. [02-Mar-00] I knew this existed for a while, but never had a chance to check it out. Since it's early in the morning (1 am), and I happened upon it anyway, I couldn't help it. I'm talking about looking down from space! Using Microsoft's TerraServer, I couldn't help but locate the house where I grew up. (This whole notion tonight came from reading Glenn's commentary about the houses he's lived in.)
Who would have thought that I could get on a computer and access satellite images over the Web? Wow. [24-Feb-00] Here's a thought for the day: fucking incompetence. Two events recently have tested (and continue to test) my patience: it's taken me nearly two months to set up a business account at a new bank, and I have a leak in the roof of my house. The Bank. This was my goal: move away from my current back, which doesn't have Web-based account access, to a new bank, which does. I do a lot on the Web, and when I pay my bills and manage my finances each month I always end up transferring money between my business and personal accounts using an automated phone system, one of the worst ideas of the late 20th century. So I go to the local branch of this new bank, which has been recommended to me by many people, and ask to open a new business account(It turns out that I actually need to go back again, because they need three previous bank statements and a copy of my business license, which I should have thought of or at least called about beforehand.) The man who helps me is clearly about to go to lunch, but I've interrupted, so we set up my account. After explaining what I do a few times ("No, I don't sell coffee. I'm a writer and designer."), we step through the process of opening the business account. He uses a blocky Windows interface designed for four-year-olds with big bright pictures of checkbooks and credit cards, and like so many people nowadays he seems like he's learning the software for the first time, though certainly that can't be true. I make sure to specify that I want checks printed and delivered, and I want an ATM card, because a colleague of mine went to the same bank, the same branch, and they lost or forgot to check the box that says "Order Checks". One of my other goals, besides accessing my account over the Web, is to transfer money from my business account to a new personal checking account that I set up the week before. He says he's not sure if that's possible, but it should be, and if there's a problem I should give him a call. Fine. I leave, drop off some mail, and pass him on the street on his way to lunch. He doesn't seem to recognize me. Time passes. After about two weeks, I haven't received anything so I call the bank's number for business accounts. My personal checks arrived within a couple days, so I expect the same to happen with my business materials. Well, it hadn't been 7-10 business days like I thought, so they aren't ready. Fine: my sense of time has been a bit wonky lately, so I'm not too surprised. Time passes. It's now four weeks since my visit to the bank. I call the business number again to check on the status of my checks and - surprise! - they were never ordered. Another call to the bank (not the branch), they apologize and set up a new order, and I get some small satisfaction when the woman says that the branch will pay to have the order expedited and delivered by Monday. The ATM card, however, needs to be issued by the branch, so she calls them and they say that a card was delivered, but to my home address. I never received a business account card at home, then realize that they're talking about my personal account. The woman has to scramble because she's told the person at the branch that I never received my card, and therefore it should be cancelled. Disaster averted at the last minute. Time passes. A card and pin number arrive in the mail at home. Did they cancel the original account and start over? Is this my business ATM card, delivered to the wrong address? After two calls and a frustrating conversation with a woman at the branch, who doesn't seem to understand that when I say "personal account" I mean my personal account and "business account" means my business account, says that the guy who set up my account has to deal with this, but of course he's not in until tomorrow. Fine. Then, while I'm writing the first half of this little narrative, she calls back and realizes that the guy linked the card order to the right account, just the wrong address. If I want, she can cancel this card and issue a new one with the right address; but my business account address is still the right one. No way... I'll keep my card as it is, thank you. Cancel NOTHING. I sign up for their PC banking service on the Web (of course, I have to do it separately over the Web, not in person at the branch, and of course it'll take three business days to process to approval). Time continues to pass. The Roof. I'm spending too much time on this rant, so the roof will be shorter. We had a leak in our roof, got a recommendation, and called a roofing company to come fix it. We pay $2,000 to have them resurface the affected roof (it's the roof over our family room, which was once a car port, and is therefore flat). They do this in September, and the leak is fixed. Yay! The leak reappears in December, the week before Kim's family comes to spend their first Christmas here. Of course. The popcorn-surface on the ceiling is water stained and bowed slightly. The roofers come out and fix it on Monday (leak appeared on Friday). Leak is fixed. Yay! The leak reappears with a vengeance. On February 1 I come home and see that the popcorn-surface on the ceiling is now on the floor, everything is very wet and dripping. We don't know if there's asbestos in the popcorn shit, so we spend an hour or so looking up asbestos on the Internet and find a company that will test it for us. The next morning, I take some of it in (the next day I find out it's safe). Roofer comes back and fixes the roof. A quick aside: I've dealt with one man from the roofing company throughout the ordeal, and he's very good about customers. He assures me that the repairs are covered by the warranty of the work they did, and points out to me where the workers who actually installed the surface in September didn't do a very good job. He's friendly, calls me back promptly, and all-around good to deal with. Now that the roof is fixed, we schedule some drywall guys to come tear out the damaged ceiling and make it all pretty again (as pretty as you can get with popcorn shit, which they tell me would be very expensive and complicated to remove throughout the large room; so the popcorn stays for now). But in the middle of the job, while I'm working at home and they're in the living room, they call me in to show me a problem: the wood supports have rotted from the water. The previous owner that put the roof in clearly didn't do a very good job, because the horizontal support beams that cross the ceiling don't actually go all the way across. They stop short about half an inch from the perpendicular support beam, and are nailed to 2-by-8s to span the gap. Lovely. I call my roofing guy (I think I've earned the right to call him "my" roofing guy), and he shows up within 30 minutes! He's going on vacation in a week, but will come by the next morning and fix the supports, cut out the rotted wood. Roof fixed. Yay! When the drywall guys return, I'm working at home, happy, and lead them into the family room. And I hear a drip. Sure enough, now the center of this big square hole in my ceiling is dripping. They drywall guys look at me like I'm the unluckiest homeowner-bastard they've run across in a long time, and can do nothing but leave. I call roof company, leave messages for my guy, and don't hear anything until I return from the Presidents Day weekend. Roof not fixed, but buckets working fine. Today, a new guy from the roofing company came to the house, looked it over, decided that the whole section there needs to be re-done, and re-done right. Great, I think, just fix the damn thing. It's now leaking more than ever, so another bucket has joined the first and a beautiful, anti-Martha-Stewart blue plastic tarp covers the floor there. Time passes. Hopefully, the roof will be fixed next week. But I've learned to stop saying "Yay!" The pisser of this whole thing is that the company has been doing almost everything right. They're responsive, they're curteous, they make a point of showing me what the problem is, their turnaround time is pretty good. The only little flaw is that the roof still leaks. And unfortunately, that's the only thing that matters. Sigh. [15-Feb-00] I hate that memory is so organic. It's rounded at the edges; amorphous; something vital, something slippery; it creates most of our strongest emotions and responses, but can excel at being uncooperative. On the drive home from my grandfather's house, I tried to remember one comment he made to me. Just the one. Not any of the conversation over dinner with the rest of the family, nor my uncle's commentary while we watched video footage of an excursion he made to the aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln. Those I can remember just fine, but they're not the ones I've wanted to recall for the past two hours. I've been beset by sneak-attack memories all year. Examples come easily: Watching a video tonight of my cousins' children, and remembering home movies (on film, no less) of my sister, my cousins, and I while our parents watched; now, the parents are grandparents, and my cousins have become the parents. Or receiving an email from someone I went to high school with, didn't really know all that well at the time, but remembering common experiences working on the student newspaper. And now the most recent example: having to sort through my late grandmother's possessions, deciding what to keep, what to sell, what may be interesting for those grandchildren to keep when they're older in hopes that they'll remember Vivian more than their barely-one-year-old memories might suggest (I don't remember anything from that age). All the while trying to deny (or forget) the real reason we're doing it. My grandfather is dying. Four months or so after Vivian passed away, Marshall was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The only real treatment is to minimize the pain. So, we all wait. We try to be cheery and supportive. My father, stepmother, aunt, and uncle are sorting through his things because he wants the details taken care of, and because it's something that can be done. We're faced with deciding who wants what, what gets sold, what will be taken to Goodwill. My wife, knowing that I have a soft spot for memories and traditions and recognizing what's come before, has asked me several times if there's anything I'd like to speak up for: a momento that triggers a memory of my own, or something to hand down to our children, eventually. And right now I don't want anything, except to remember Marshall's comment in the kitchen, where he and I were making small talk while everyone else was sorting. He had taken his medicine, washed it down with some sort of protein drink, and said almost offhandedly, "I don't know what's next." Everything froze for half a second, like glimpsing something unexpected and waiting for your brain to catch up with an explanation for your senses. Then Marshall put down his drink and left the room. At least, that's what my organic memory is telling me now. I'm not so sure about tomorrow. Oh, what pitiful men are we. It was an uncomfortable, familiar sight. Men. Shifting softly from foot to foot, shoulders a bit hunched, tight creases appearing in gradations from their eyebrows to their hairlines (more creases visible for some). And their eyes, drooping at the corners, pupils wide, a few well-barricaded synapse firings away from a genuine fight-or-flight response. They were at the nursery to buy flowers, but the pressure was evident. It's 4:00 pm on Valentine's Day, of course... that most stress-inducing holiday ever heaped upon men-kind. The expectations are impossibly high in the minds of most men: Valentine's Day is a holiday where it's your job to prove to your girlfriend or wife that despite your tendency to stretch "just a minute" into half an hour, or render invisible to your eyes the things you leave around the house, your love is true and she didn't make the mistake that a few of her friends (or family members) continue to assert. It's the script that's made a mess of everything. Blame it on Hallmark or popular culture or Hollywood, but Valentine's Day has a few very specific details that must be adhered to: roses, preferable red, preferably in multiples of six; dinner, either at a nice restaurant or cooked at home, and if so, different than what you've cooked before; a card, sometimes sentimental (mushy) or touching; and lots and lots of red and pink. It's this scripted play that puts wrinkles at the corners of those panic-stricken eyes, and engenders the feeling that It Must Be Done Right. And why? Romance, of course. Sex, hopefully. A kiss, whether chaste or passionate, at the very least. Those too are part of the script. These thoughts were going through my head as I poked around the nursery at 4:00, watching the other men (but being careful not to let them know I was watching; eye contact in flower shops is right there on the same level as eye contact in public restrooms). I was there to buy flowers, yes, but didn't want to blindly grab some pre-bundled red roses. The women working the store (also part of the script, a method of further upsetting the delicate chemical imbalances at work upon the customers) were friendly but tired, mustering their last reserves for the dreaded 5:00 push when thousands of men realize they've run out of time and must get something on the way home. I asked for daisies and was pointed to a white arrangement with red tulips (though with far too much greenery and a very tacky plastic "I Love You" thing sticking up through the middle). At the counter, I was asked if I wanted a red ribbon around the bundle. Sure, why not - then remembered I was going to go home and put them into water right away, so, never mind. A small, shocked expression from the woman: of course I wanted a red ribbon anyway, didn't I? Well, okay. After handing over my debit card to the cashier, the slightly shocked woman asked me if I wanted rose petals. Thinking they must be leftovers from cutting roses all day I replied again, Sure, why not? $4.95, said the cashier. Oh, then never mind. More shocked, but politely shocked, expressions. A tense moment followed, which the cashier eased by joking with the woman that she should mention the petals were for sale before offering them to the customers. But it was clear that I had disrupted things, not the woman. I was a marked man for sure: I didn't buy roses, didn't need the ribbon (but got it anyway), and didn't want the rose petals. "They're very romantic," said the cashier, apparently trying to educate me. "You scatter them on the dining room table, in the bathtub, on the bed. My husband did that once, and it was very romantic." (Yes, but just once?) Aha! Not only was I not following the script, I wasn't even playing the right game in order to get sex! The unspoken message from these women seemed to be: the romantic objective of Valentine's Day was going to elude me because I wasn't Doing It Right. I was being different (and difficult), and by showing up at 4:00 pm on Valentine's Day I was putting myself in line with the rest of the herd. In truth, my wife and I had a great dinner out the night before, so today, the holiday, was our way of being romantic for two days. She's on her way home as I write this; the flowers are arranged in a vase, against which rest two cards (a romantic, but not mushy, one and a card that just made me laugh - neither of which come from the well-picked-over Valentine section of the card aisle, by the way). I'm going to light candles, and cook a modest dinner, and maybe even bake some heart-shaped cookies if I have the time. It's going to be a nice romantic holiday, without the script.
[28-Jan-00] Fourteen years ago today, I was a high school sophomore walking the halls to my next class when I heard someone say "exploded". What? I asked. "The space shuttle just blew up!" came the reply. "Bullshit." I went to my next class, French, where my teacher was very visibly shaken - she had been in the shuttle program, and was an alternate "teacher in space" for NASA. I don't remember where she was on the list. At lunch I ran home and turned on the TV, getting my first glimpse on CNN of the double-pronged smoke cloud and the blurry, super-zoom video of the Challenger being swallowed in flame. Then repeated. Then again. And again. This was our Kennedy: the moment for which people asked, "Where were you when the Challenger exploded?" and when our dreams of space began to radically change. [Video footage, 2 MB QuickTime] [21-Jan-00] I don't know whether it's age or experience, but my mind has recently drifted to the bigger question of what I want to be doing with my life. Not in the sense that I'm thinking of a career change or anything like that; rather, am I enjoying myself enough? Am I doing the things I've wanted to do, or putting them off for some unspecified day in the future? After what seems like several years of contentedness, the last two years have introduced dying (and the spectre of dying) in my family, plus an unusual run of cancer (successfully thwarted) in several friends my age. How does one live in an age where tomorrow can never be assured? I have no answers, of course, just ponderings. If you have any musings you want to share, feel free to email me at jeff@necoffee.com. |
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I spent so much time obsessing about it, but when my Titanium PowerBook G4 finally arrived, I got too busy to write about it. So: it's beautiful, it's sleek, it's thin, it has a freakin' gorgeous screen, and it makes me feel like I'm living at least 15 minutes in the future when I use it. I'll be writing more in an upcoming TidBITS article, but suffice it to say that I love it.
Yup, I ordered one, and yup, I'm still waiting. I received an email yesterday from Apple telling me that my 
We enter the scene flying over a river glistening by moonlight, set to casually uplifting acoustic music. We see the car, a convertible Cabrio, cross a bridge, drive under some tree branches, the driver in profile. This is all very fine and standard. But then we hit the story (yes, I said story). A guy and girl are in the back seat; she's looking up at the moon and stars, but he turns to look at her while she's not looking at him. The camera shifts focus from her face to his, and in that one frame where they're both clear his expression reveals an affection that's held just beneath his surface in that twilight area between friendship and romance.
A few more scenes of the car driving (woven together by long deep dark fades between cuts), including a small storm of fat pollen (flower petals?) reached for by the front passenger, then we get to the main plot. The car pulls up to a small house/bar/restaurant where a party is going on. A few drunk people scrambling around, tottering this way and that way. The foursome in the car exchanges glances in a nonverbal consensus, the car is put into reverse (a clear shot of the word Cabrio to identify the make and model), and we drive off again into the much more appealing night.
Then the commercial ends: not with the car driving off into the moonlight, nor a smile of satisfaction by the driver, nor even a side-shot of the car to make sure you saw what they want you to buy. No, we see the girl in the back seat turn away from the moon to look at the guy, and her eyes reveal a recognition that she, too, is pressed against the border between friendship and romance, perhaps a realization that's just occurred in the moonlight.
