Monday, December 13, 2004

Ah, the joys of buying a computer. Time was, you moseyed into an electronics store and only found two televisions for sale. You could get the one on the right, lovingly crafted by red-blooded Americans, or, in a nearly inconceivable act of sedition, you could purchase the one made by Chinamen.

Things are different, now that we live in the Digital Age. For one thing, the thirst for exotic technology burns unchecked. People aren’t content with televisions that merely run on electricity and elvish magic. They need liquid crystal displays, they want honest-to-goodness plasma to ebb seductively before their very eyes, and pretty soon they’ll demand liquid magma to power their home entertainment systems. I will have to kill you if you divulge that last bit, since it is an industry secret.

Computer shopping is a wholly different beast. I assume you’ve seen a computer, as we’re having a conversation right now, but have you ever spent your hard-earned cash on one? If you’re technologically savvy, then bless your heart and get out of here. On the other hand, if selecting a PC is a certifiable event, you’d do well to consider the different people who might help you along the way.

Circuit Citied

Let’s imagine a scene that unfolds more often than it should. Winter. It’s the holidays. Advertised specials everywhere. Jack and Jill haven’t exactly read up on computers, yet they’ve promised themselves to leave their local electronics superstore with a brand new box.

“We’ll be out in 30 minutes,” says Jack as they step through the sliding doors.

“Remember, dear, we’ve got a plan and we’re sticking to it. Don’t get snookered into buying the super deluxe model, like you did last year with the toaster.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” he replies. “I think about it every time I eat a goddamn bagel.”

A salesperson, having smelled the ignorant consumer pheromones from three aisles away, senses his commission is near.

“Heya, folks! Looking for a computer?” asks the blue-shirted man.

“Yes,” Jack says quickly.

“NO,” Jill chimes in immediately.

“Fantastic!” shouts the salesguy. “Do you two know what you want?”

“Absolutely,” says Jill confidently. “We need a screen, one of those keyboard thingies, and an optical m–“

“Rat,” interjects Jack helpfully. “We need an optical rat, preferably a cordless one.”

The salesguy plays along and chuckles contentedly.

“Yeah, those are going hot this season. So you want a cordless rat and–“

“Lots of memory,” interrupts Jill. “In fact, we’re set on getting a gig–“

“A giggle of RAM. Actually, make that 2.5 giggles of RAM,” Jack proudly offers.

“I’d round it up to an even 3.0 giggles,” suggests the salesguy fiendishly, “and I’m already giggling myself.”

Jill shakes her had sadly.

Bob Vila, Home Edition

At this precise moment, deep in a very moist basement, AMD_Fr33k shouts passionately at his overclocked monitor.

AMD_Fr33k:

omfg, i did it!!!! i jacked my monitor’s rr to 200 Hz.

i8thermalpaste:

bullshit, that’s unpossible. i oc’ed mine to 110, ran burn-in for a week, and the fucking thing EXPLODED.

AMD_Fr33k:

mine’s a sony.

i8thermalpaste:

oh. :o&

tHiNkDiFfErEnT:

All you ppl need iMacs. SWITCH, I say, SWITCH as if your lives depended on it!

i8thermalpaste:

shut up, u stupid wanker! shove ur imac up ur cornhole and DIE. DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE.

AMD_Fr33k:

just ignore him, dood. he’s retarded if he likes macs.

i8thermalpaste:

ur right. oh! i finally built my new box, totally modded the case. it’s all brick.

AMD_Fr33k:

awesome! i made my first box out of straw, but it burst into flames. made my second one out of sticks, same thing.

tHiNkDiFfErEnT:

Does your brick come in LIME GREEN COLOR? My iMac is lime green.

AMD_Fr33k:

speaking of idiots, i bet some poor morons are buying a computer at circuit city now. off the shelf. can’t believe i used to do that. :shudders:

i8thermalpaste:

ya, what a bunch of losers.

tHiNkDiFfErEnT:

Have you been to the Apple Store?

Tune in Tomorrow

In an unprecedented turn of events, we will continue our in-depth look at computerology tomorrow. Our discussions usually last only a brief while, and I’m almost positive your attention started wavering at paragraph three. I know I stopped reading after the first paragraph.

Thursday, December 9, 2004

Linking to SmileyCentral would break a cardinal rule of Internet etiquette, gentle reader, because one of you may accidentally install the software and invite adware galore into your computer. I’d like to explain this better, make it more vivid for you, but there’s simply no real-life analogue. I suppose the closest thing would be a rousing game of Duck, Duck, Syphilis, which I’m not going to describe in detail.

Why was I thinking about this site in the first place? A client actually bragged to my co-worker that, indeed, she was hot stuff because she works with SmileyCentral. Mon Dieu, not THE SmileyCentral, luminous Shangri-la of all things emoticon. Only in the online world can people make these claims with straight faces.

A pack of a bazillion animated faces is about as fun to me as trying to cram a kitten into a disk drive, but there are other amusements to discover, don’t you fret. A link you may want to click is this one. I stopped instant messaging months and months ago, so I don’t know how well the service works. It looks safe, though. Give it a try.

Wednesday, December 8, 2004

We usually flit from topic to topic, gentle reader, like a bipolar–make that tripolar–chameleon soldered to a hummingbird, and that’s going to change tonight. I’m positive we’ll return to our barbaric ways tomorrow, this is a guarantee, so let’s try to take advantage of thematic consistency for a single evening.

Yesterday’s discussion settled on our fondest college memories, and today’s conversation will deal with a terrible byproduct of education: nightmarish flashbacks. I’d call these dreams, as they tend to occur when you’re sleeping, except doing so would discount the moments when you’re awake and agitated by imaginary due dates.

There’s the main symptom, in case you were wondering. An unsettling feeling wraps around you, urgently advising you that your 15-page paper never materialized, even though class started five minutes ago. This affects people young and old, elementary and post-collegiate, and my own dream involves a German class I perennially miss.

Knowing you, you’re probably sitting in my office with hat in hand, hoping beyond reason for some kind of poultice to ease your troubled mind. Well, too bad! You’d better look elsewhere. I would like to tell you, however, about a theory I concocted as a child about dreams.

It seems to me you can exert some control over your dreams, almost like Tivoing your brain, by thinking briefly about a topic of your choice. Do you remember the last horror movie you saw? Ironically enough, you may have replayed certain gory scenes over and over again in your mind’s eye, yet you had a peaceful night’s sleep anyway. Try musing about a scene quickly, instantly, and stop. I’m talking about a millisecond’s worth of thought, no more than a blip in your unconsciousness, followed by normal brain activity.

I’ve obviously never tested this theory by, you know, shoving a pipette up its premise or anything. Hey, here’s an idea! You could be a guinea pig. You may suffer from debilitating side effects, them’s the costs of science, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.