Long ago, during the time of the Fonz and corded telephones, cobbling together a car was a rite of passage, a firm imprimatur that, indeed, you were a man’s man. That was then. We’re in the glorious Age of Geek now, an era where Blackberries and other gadgets hold us in wireless captivity, and the rules have changed a little. You can still build a car, sure, but building a computer may very well get you a commensurate amount of Nerd Cred.
Tonight’s discussion, in fact, is being beamed from a new box I built with parts that were bequeathed to me, and this baby is about twice as fast as the previous one, which only puts us three generations behind current technology. There’s a certain pride to be had from taking a pile of circuitry and, with naught but a screwdriver, producing a real working, whirring piece of electronics.
You won’t find me sitting in some basement, however, holding forth on the benefits of RAID over SCSI or whatever. It’s the scrappy ethos that appeals to me, and if the computer activates when I hit the power button, then heavens be praised. Decades from now, when the grandkids are gathered around me as I float and expound from my LevChair, I’ll point to this ancient machinery with my Fissionite arm. Look there, I’ll say, at what your grandpappy dun’ built all those years ago. She may not seem like much on the outside, but she’s a real beaut. Purrs real smooth. But mainly because I crammed a cat into it.
Somewhere around 2,000 to 3,000 feet it occurred to me, as I peered through the meager airplane window, that urban planning doesn’t call for shapes in the traditional sense. I always thought buildings were laid out in some kind of, I don’t know, grid or something, but organizing the sprawl is apparently an entirely right-brained pursuit. One neighborhood was shaped into a decazoid, while an adjoining community resembled what can be best described as a rectahedron.
At about 10,000 feet I figured the plane, were its wings to detach suddenly, would basically look like a missile–destination: Earth–and the long drop to a hard stop would be a novel new way of disembarking. Then, at 20,000 feet, I– Oh, a bag of peanuts! And a beverage of my choice? At 20,000 feet I was duly placated, and urban planners were promptly freed to do whatever they pleased. Want to stack houses on top of each other? Approved.
When the plane finally landed, there came a startling realization: it’s not the altitude that disagrees with me, it’s the mode of transportation that makes me queasy. Heights are fine. Velocity is even better. Being strapped to a metal canister a few miles above ground, however, is not the preferred method of locomotion. But a pair of rocket-propelled pants? Infinitely more appealing. I’m not talking about sustained flight here, so much as trousers that could propel you in miles-long arcs, one jump at a time. Imagine the opportunities! We could call them LeeFlys, or maybe Flungarees, and really the only danger would be dying of embarrassment.
There was a brief stretch where we were so close to the sweet spot I’m hoping to achieve, a golden mean of three discussions weekly, and we’ll continue to move toward this. But whenever the cogs of industry creak slowly back to life, they always seem to grind down soon thereafter.
We’ll continue to push for this, though, and we’ll keep pushing until the cogs wear smooth and this operation sings. Let’s reconvene on the 28th.