Like most other technology, the Internet was largely the province of government, geeks and pornographers for its first few decades of existence. You had to be either remarkably forward-thinking and skilled or else uncommonly desperate to see naked ladies to be willing to deal with the yards of phone line and appalling load times associated with getting information from a computer in Iowa to the one in your den.
Then, also like most other technology, the Internet started to gain a bit of momentum. Most folks had heard of it. Some people had even used it. "You've got mail" was a clever catch phrase and not something that drove every self-respecting Webhead within earshot to go jump off the roof. When pressed, officials allowed that perhaps one day, socializing and even trade might take place over servers rather than counters. Mainstream people were hopefully anxious and cautiously optimistic in a way they hadn't been since World War II ended. It was a period I like to call the '90s.
Now the Internet has ceased to be technology and has become a necessity. At some point when we weren't looking, it moved past the espresso stage and became more like water .. it's not a luxury, it's a basic human need.
That fact was reinforced this year by a Dec. 24 article in the UK's Guardian newspaper. For years, Christmas shopping has increasingly been done online, but for the first time ever, it looks as though Internet sales are actually cutting into store's face-to-face take.
"The predicted Christmas rush for last-minute presents was decidedly muted yesterday, as shoppers appeared to have stayed away instead of making for the high streets," wrote reporter Jo Revill. "Even in London's Oxford Street, the barometer of shopping frenzy, retailers' hopes of a final spree on the last full day of trading looked feeble, as the pavements proved easy to navigate."
The bottom line is that if your business wasn't wired this year, you lost money, period. Of course, it's the rare enterprise that doesn't have at least some Internet presence these days. But 15 years ago, who would have guessed that this thing would become the cornerstone of everybody's marketing plan?
Apple's iPod is largely responsible for this. I just got my first one, and now I'm facing the very real possibility that I may never again buy a music recording that exists in the physical realm. Anything that Beethoven or Bob Dylan ever did can be broken down into a numerical sequence, filed away and then injected directly into the human ear canal. This is the first step into science fiction: Merchandise has become an abstract concept. And yet I'm strangely fine with that.
The clincher came on Christmas Eve, when I walked into my grandfather's living room and saw my parents competing in an online word game using a pair of wireless-enabled laptops. It's not that my parents aren't tech savvy, it's just that neither of them has ever been big fans of video games or the Web. I can recall a distinct lack of sympathy when I used to complain about losing at "Rise of the Triad" or "Goldeneye" back in the day. (In fact, I can recall people making me turn the game off entirely.) But now I could clearly see my dad struggling with the urge to pitch his computer across the room when someone started running up the score on him in "Bookworm." It was awesome.
But that's when I realized that I was looking at the situation the wrong way. They might as well have been playing Monopoly, for all the excitement involved. The only folks who still see the Internet as a cutting-edge phenomenon are those of us who were the right age to jump on board in the early days. For everyone else, for those older or younger than us, it's just something you use when you need it and forget about the rest of the time, like ATMs or automobiles.
The part that tickles me is that my grandpa worked in computers for much of his life and continues to follow them closely. He probably saw this Internet thing coming in about 1982 but didn't tell anybody because they wouldn't have believed him. I'd wager that he's the only 80-year-old in America who got into a debate about Bluetooth networking over Christmas dinner with his grandchildren and soundly beat them both. So whenever somebody whips out their newest electronic gadget at family gatherings, it usually takes him about five seconds to recognize the principles at work and suggest ways to make the thing work better. Maybe that's why I'm still so fired up about technology that's now commonplace .. while everybody else has moved on to the next big thing, I'm still trying to catch up to good old granddad.
......
This year I'll try not to drink so much. This year I'll try to stand up straight. This year let's live like mfarley@register-pajaronian.com never lived before. This is our year for sure.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
The truth comes out
(From the Register-Pajaronian)
When I found myself buying a matched pair of martini glasses imported from Hawaii, I knew things had finally gone too far.
For years before I moved here, I'd heard that Santa Cruz was one of those places that changed a person. Some folks seemed to believe it was a life-defining experience, like visiting the Wailing Wall or the Vatican, except with drugs. Others saw it more as an insidious liberal influence that could flare back up without warning throughout the rest of a man's life, like political malaria. Either way, people were sure I wouldn't make it six months out here without going native.
I was skeptical. In a lot of ways, I fancy myself to be of the George W. Bush school of personal development: I'll be the same guy on Wednesday as I was on Monday, no matter what happens on Tuesday. You may call it shallow, but we refer to it as "resolute." Anyway, it was going to take a lot more than moderate winters and a few girls that looked good in bathing suits to knock me off my course, whatever course that was. I was prepared to take my chances with the hippies if it meant never having to use a defroster again.
Everything started out normal. For months I ignored the panhandlers on Pacific Avenue and made fun of the Umbrella Man. I studiously avoided discussions about the University of California regents and refused to learn the clever acronyms and noble aims of activist groups. I resisted the urge to decorate my apartment as though it were a surf shack. And above all, I did not wear flip-flops or wifebeater undershirts in public. I was a pillar of Nevada values (now there's an expression you don't hear very often) being smothered by a tide of beach bunnies.
As they so often are, the first cracks in the levee were almost imperceptible. I started taking a more lackadaisical approach to shaving and went longer between haircuts than I had since "MacGyver" was on TV. I'd walk down to the water and spend 15 minutes watching the waves before I realized that I had no real reason to be there.
I sank deeper. First, I visited the Mystery Spot and brought home a souvenir sticker. Later, I got angry when I heard they were building a new Safeway on 41st Avenue. Then, to my abject horror, I caught myself whining about tourists from "over the hill." Who was this new guy, this pseudo-local yokel who thought the folks who lived 30 minutes from the beach instead of 2 were second class citizens? And yet, I couldn't keep from wondering "Why can't those yuppies go surf someplace else?"
I found clarity while Christmas shopping. Throughout my life, I've had a tendency to buy others gifts that I'd like to have myself, which explains why my sister used to get a lot of Bad Religion albums and my dad owns most of the "Calvin and Hobbes" library. I thought I had it beat, but as the woman behind the counter at Zen Trading Co. aded up the tax on a pair of tiki bar martini glasses Monday afternoon, the contrary evidence turned me pale.
What are my loved ones getting from me this year? Island-themed cocktail ware, obscure South American literature and a CD from KPIG 107.5 FM. Good lord, I've become a Santa Cruzan. Welcome me to the fold with warm embraces, brothers and sisters, for now I am truly one of you.
•••
It's Christmas time again. Time to be nice to the people you can't stand all year. I'm growing tired of all this Christmas cheer. You people scare me. Please stay away from my home. If you don't want to get beat down, just leave the presents and then leave mfarley@register-pajaronian.com alone.
When I found myself buying a matched pair of martini glasses imported from Hawaii, I knew things had finally gone too far.
For years before I moved here, I'd heard that Santa Cruz was one of those places that changed a person. Some folks seemed to believe it was a life-defining experience, like visiting the Wailing Wall or the Vatican, except with drugs. Others saw it more as an insidious liberal influence that could flare back up without warning throughout the rest of a man's life, like political malaria. Either way, people were sure I wouldn't make it six months out here without going native.
I was skeptical. In a lot of ways, I fancy myself to be of the George W. Bush school of personal development: I'll be the same guy on Wednesday as I was on Monday, no matter what happens on Tuesday. You may call it shallow, but we refer to it as "resolute." Anyway, it was going to take a lot more than moderate winters and a few girls that looked good in bathing suits to knock me off my course, whatever course that was. I was prepared to take my chances with the hippies if it meant never having to use a defroster again.
Everything started out normal. For months I ignored the panhandlers on Pacific Avenue and made fun of the Umbrella Man. I studiously avoided discussions about the University of California regents and refused to learn the clever acronyms and noble aims of activist groups. I resisted the urge to decorate my apartment as though it were a surf shack. And above all, I did not wear flip-flops or wifebeater undershirts in public. I was a pillar of Nevada values (now there's an expression you don't hear very often) being smothered by a tide of beach bunnies.
As they so often are, the first cracks in the levee were almost imperceptible. I started taking a more lackadaisical approach to shaving and went longer between haircuts than I had since "MacGyver" was on TV. I'd walk down to the water and spend 15 minutes watching the waves before I realized that I had no real reason to be there.
I sank deeper. First, I visited the Mystery Spot and brought home a souvenir sticker. Later, I got angry when I heard they were building a new Safeway on 41st Avenue. Then, to my abject horror, I caught myself whining about tourists from "over the hill." Who was this new guy, this pseudo-local yokel who thought the folks who lived 30 minutes from the beach instead of 2 were second class citizens? And yet, I couldn't keep from wondering "Why can't those yuppies go surf someplace else?"
I found clarity while Christmas shopping. Throughout my life, I've had a tendency to buy others gifts that I'd like to have myself, which explains why my sister used to get a lot of Bad Religion albums and my dad owns most of the "Calvin and Hobbes" library. I thought I had it beat, but as the woman behind the counter at Zen Trading Co. aded up the tax on a pair of tiki bar martini glasses Monday afternoon, the contrary evidence turned me pale.
What are my loved ones getting from me this year? Island-themed cocktail ware, obscure South American literature and a CD from KPIG 107.5 FM. Good lord, I've become a Santa Cruzan. Welcome me to the fold with warm embraces, brothers and sisters, for now I am truly one of you.
•••
It's Christmas time again. Time to be nice to the people you can't stand all year. I'm growing tired of all this Christmas cheer. You people scare me. Please stay away from my home. If you don't want to get beat down, just leave the presents and then leave mfarley@register-pajaronian.com alone.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Blood and guts revisited
When "Starship Troopers" came out in 1997, it was a science fiction movie. With giant bugs, interstellar warfare, shockingly beautiful protagonists of both sexes and large guns, it was a summer blockbuster that got by on flash, and that was fine. I liked it pretty well.
I saw it again on TV the other night, and it was suddenly political allegory. I don't know how I missed it before — maybe because in 1997, the idea of ill-equipped teens fighting in a large-scale desert war based on fraudulent intelligence was still pretty alien. But knowing what we know now, it's hard to see the movie as anything but a war commentary.
In the early minutes, the main character, Johnny Rico (Casper Van Dien), is trying to figure out whether he wants to join the military or go to college. The decision is a source of friction between him and his family, because there are increasing reports of skirmishes between Earthling troops and an insect-like alien race. Rico eventually joins up, largely to impress a girl who has also enlisted, but is about to quit when "the bugs" launch an audacious attack on his hometown, killing his family and many of his civilian friends.
And so the earthlings rush to war. As you watch soldiers in their late teens and early 20s get rushed through basic training before shipping out to fight an enemy they have only seen in propaganda films, it's a little strange. When it becomes obvious that Earth's leaders have plans beyond simply defending the homeland, it's downright unsettling. And when Rico's unit realizes that the body armor they've been issued is not strong enough to stop the bugs' pinchers, you start to wonder if director Paul Verhoeven wasn't just a little bit psychic.
Almost everything in this silly, gory shoot-'em-up has since come true. In the film, female soldiers are sent to the front lines along with the men, and romance blooms between firefights. As a significant percentage of the young adult population joins up, Rico begins running into ex-girlfriends and former teachers in the course of his duties. This is starting to happen today, when it seems as if half the people you meet have a relative or friend who has been overseas.
The battles in the movie are nothing short of horrific. At the time, a lot of critics bashed "Starship Troopers" for being obsessed with suffering and violence, and Verhoeven's patriotism was even called into question because he showed earthling troops accidentally killing each other in the heat of battle. Viewing the movie today, the most striking thing about the friendly fire sequences is that the military actually announces them to the public and holds someone accountable.
This is not to say that the movie is a great one. Anyone without a high tolerance for splashing alien blood would do well to steer clear, as would anyone who has an aversion to action movie clichés. But for the average citizen, "Starship Troopers" is definitely worth a second look, if only to marvel at how it took less than a decade for U.S. foreign policy to make a surreal orgy of gunplay and dismemberment look like serious political commentary.
I saw it again on TV the other night, and it was suddenly political allegory. I don't know how I missed it before — maybe because in 1997, the idea of ill-equipped teens fighting in a large-scale desert war based on fraudulent intelligence was still pretty alien. But knowing what we know now, it's hard to see the movie as anything but a war commentary.
In the early minutes, the main character, Johnny Rico (Casper Van Dien), is trying to figure out whether he wants to join the military or go to college. The decision is a source of friction between him and his family, because there are increasing reports of skirmishes between Earthling troops and an insect-like alien race. Rico eventually joins up, largely to impress a girl who has also enlisted, but is about to quit when "the bugs" launch an audacious attack on his hometown, killing his family and many of his civilian friends.
And so the earthlings rush to war. As you watch soldiers in their late teens and early 20s get rushed through basic training before shipping out to fight an enemy they have only seen in propaganda films, it's a little strange. When it becomes obvious that Earth's leaders have plans beyond simply defending the homeland, it's downright unsettling. And when Rico's unit realizes that the body armor they've been issued is not strong enough to stop the bugs' pinchers, you start to wonder if director Paul Verhoeven wasn't just a little bit psychic.
Almost everything in this silly, gory shoot-'em-up has since come true. In the film, female soldiers are sent to the front lines along with the men, and romance blooms between firefights. As a significant percentage of the young adult population joins up, Rico begins running into ex-girlfriends and former teachers in the course of his duties. This is starting to happen today, when it seems as if half the people you meet have a relative or friend who has been overseas.
The battles in the movie are nothing short of horrific. At the time, a lot of critics bashed "Starship Troopers" for being obsessed with suffering and violence, and Verhoeven's patriotism was even called into question because he showed earthling troops accidentally killing each other in the heat of battle. Viewing the movie today, the most striking thing about the friendly fire sequences is that the military actually announces them to the public and holds someone accountable.
This is not to say that the movie is a great one. Anyone without a high tolerance for splashing alien blood would do well to steer clear, as would anyone who has an aversion to action movie clichés. But for the average citizen, "Starship Troopers" is definitely worth a second look, if only to marvel at how it took less than a decade for U.S. foreign policy to make a surreal orgy of gunplay and dismemberment look like serious political commentary.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Eddie Rodriguez lives!
Rumors of officer's demise greatly exaggerated
WPD captain likely departing for a new job, but not the great beyond
By MATT FARLEY
of the register-pajaronian
While an obituary bearing his photograph appeared Thursday in the Santa Cruz Sentinel, Watsonville Police Department Capt. Edmundo Rodriguez is not dead, Capt. Kim Austin said Thursday.
"It was certainly news to him," Austin said of Rodriguez, who is on leave. "(Capt. Manny Solano) was in touch with him today and he seemed fine."
Austin said Solano contacted Rodriguez and then the newspaper as soon as he noticed the article, which displays Edmundo Rodriguez's picture alongside an obituary for Watsonville resident Edward M. Rodriguez, who died Nov. 29 at the age of 83.
"It was just a mistake, based on how similar their names are," Austin said. "We've been getting e-mails from other agencies checking to make sure that everything's OK."
Police Chief Terry Medina said he had fielded several phone calls, e-mails and voice mails regarding the obituary.
"The calls started pretty early this morning," he said. "I even got a call from the mortuary. They wanted to make sure I understood it was not their mistake."
Still, Medina shrugged the gaff off, noting that he was more concerned for the family of the real Edward M. Rodriguez.
Once it was confirmed that the photo was run in error, the jokes started. Officers and other WPD staff could be heard offering laughing condolences in the department hallways.
"It was sort of funny because he was the public information officer," one officer said. "He had more contact with the media than anybody."
Rodriguez recently became the focus of added coverage after WPD announced Nov. 29 that he is expected to leave Watsonville this month to take over as chief of the Marina Police Department.
Sentinel staffers declined to comment on the matter other than to confirm that the obituary was an error and that a correction was forthcoming.
Meanwhile, Austin said that the department was ready to forget the incident and move on.
"Basically, we're ready to let this one die," she said with a grin.
WPD captain likely departing for a new job, but not the great beyond
By MATT FARLEY
of the register-pajaronian
While an obituary bearing his photograph appeared Thursday in the Santa Cruz Sentinel, Watsonville Police Department Capt. Edmundo Rodriguez is not dead, Capt. Kim Austin said Thursday.
"It was certainly news to him," Austin said of Rodriguez, who is on leave. "(Capt. Manny Solano) was in touch with him today and he seemed fine."
Austin said Solano contacted Rodriguez and then the newspaper as soon as he noticed the article, which displays Edmundo Rodriguez's picture alongside an obituary for Watsonville resident Edward M. Rodriguez, who died Nov. 29 at the age of 83.
"It was just a mistake, based on how similar their names are," Austin said. "We've been getting e-mails from other agencies checking to make sure that everything's OK."
Police Chief Terry Medina said he had fielded several phone calls, e-mails and voice mails regarding the obituary.
"The calls started pretty early this morning," he said. "I even got a call from the mortuary. They wanted to make sure I understood it was not their mistake."
Still, Medina shrugged the gaff off, noting that he was more concerned for the family of the real Edward M. Rodriguez.
Once it was confirmed that the photo was run in error, the jokes started. Officers and other WPD staff could be heard offering laughing condolences in the department hallways.
"It was sort of funny because he was the public information officer," one officer said. "He had more contact with the media than anybody."
Rodriguez recently became the focus of added coverage after WPD announced Nov. 29 that he is expected to leave Watsonville this month to take over as chief of the Marina Police Department.
Sentinel staffers declined to comment on the matter other than to confirm that the obituary was an error and that a correction was forthcoming.
Meanwhile, Austin said that the department was ready to forget the incident and move on.
"Basically, we're ready to let this one die," she said with a grin.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Nor a drop to drink
A couple of weeks ago, the confederacy of dunces that runs my apartment complex stuck a note on my door informing me that, due to mysterious plumbing issues, the bathroom sink would be shut off "until further notice."
In the past, I have put what you might call undue strain on my relationships with landlords by freaking out about these things too soon, and it never ends well. So I decided to give it a few days and see how things shook out before I composed a response and delivered it to the front desk via high-speed brick.
As the days wore on, I started worrying about the ambiguity of the note. "Until further notice," could be a very long time, and the fact that they seemed unsure of what exactly was wrong with the plumbing made me nervous. After 10 days, I strolled by the office, just a neighbor stopping off to say hello.
"It's cooling right down, isn't it?" I said to the woman at the desk, smiling in a non-confrontational manner. "Hey, while I'm here, do you happen to know when I can expect the water to come back on over in building 137?"
She looked up from her computer, sighing so I could tell how busy she was.
"Is that the one where the vanities aren't working?" she asked. Vanities. That's what bathroom sinks are. Instruments of vanity. If I were a real man, I'd be more than happy to keep shaving in the kitchen.
"That's the one," I said. She asked me if lived upstairs and I said I did.
"Well, they probably won't have to do any jackhammering in your room, then," she said.
This was exactly why I hated landlords in the first place. I rested my palms on the desk and concentrated on keeping my voice even.
"That's encouraging," I said. "Does that mean there's going to be jackhammering someplace else?"
"Oh, my, yes," she said, eyes wide. "Lots of work to be done. I think you can expect water by Christmas, but I wouldn't invite any guests over if I were you." She followed this last with a little grin and turned back to her keyboard, the matter closed.
"So I'm brushing my teeth in the bathtub for the rest of the year? I don't think that's in my lease," I said.
"Of course not," she said, and my foolish heart leaped in my chest. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all. "The rest of the water will be off after this week. You won't be able to use the bathtub. You'll be sleeping here, and that's pretty much it."
I know how hard it is to be the hired help, because I've been hired help for all of my working life. Sometimes your boss does bad things and leaves you to tell the customers about them, and no matter how much they yell at you, there's nothing you can do for them. That was what was happening here, and I didn't want to yell at this woman and become one of the jerks I'd hated for so long. But I was not about to let this one slide.
"You can't just turn all the water off," I said, desperate now. "That's, like, why people have apartments .. so they can shower and cook. Where's your boss?"
"Oh, don't worry, he'll be in touch," she said. "He..s really taking an interest in this problem. He might even come by on Monday to talk to you guys. He appreciates your patience."
"Can I stay at his house?" I asked, but she had already gone back to her desk. I started to storm out, already plotting vengeance, when she called me back.
"Mr. Farley?"
"What?"
"Your December rent is due." She gave me a big smile. "And I'm happy to say that I've been authorized to deduct the water surcharge from your total."
So this is where we stand. Maybe my landlord will descend from the sky like a bolt of lightning on Monday and make everything right, but unless he brings Crapos, the ancient god of plumbing, with him, I have a feeling I..m about to embark on an odyssey through tenant hell. If anyone has advice on circulating petitions, I'd love to hear it. Also, though professionalism prevents me from accusing my complex by name, if you're about to sign a lease in the Santa Cruz High School neighborhood, you might want to drop me a line.
......
She says it all without a thought in her head; she says it all and she's pressed up against me. A little something just to take off the edge. A little more and mfarley@register-pajaronian.com falls off the planet entirely
In the past, I have put what you might call undue strain on my relationships with landlords by freaking out about these things too soon, and it never ends well. So I decided to give it a few days and see how things shook out before I composed a response and delivered it to the front desk via high-speed brick.
As the days wore on, I started worrying about the ambiguity of the note. "Until further notice," could be a very long time, and the fact that they seemed unsure of what exactly was wrong with the plumbing made me nervous. After 10 days, I strolled by the office, just a neighbor stopping off to say hello.
"It's cooling right down, isn't it?" I said to the woman at the desk, smiling in a non-confrontational manner. "Hey, while I'm here, do you happen to know when I can expect the water to come back on over in building 137?"
She looked up from her computer, sighing so I could tell how busy she was.
"Is that the one where the vanities aren't working?" she asked. Vanities. That's what bathroom sinks are. Instruments of vanity. If I were a real man, I'd be more than happy to keep shaving in the kitchen.
"That's the one," I said. She asked me if lived upstairs and I said I did.
"Well, they probably won't have to do any jackhammering in your room, then," she said.
This was exactly why I hated landlords in the first place. I rested my palms on the desk and concentrated on keeping my voice even.
"That's encouraging," I said. "Does that mean there's going to be jackhammering someplace else?"
"Oh, my, yes," she said, eyes wide. "Lots of work to be done. I think you can expect water by Christmas, but I wouldn't invite any guests over if I were you." She followed this last with a little grin and turned back to her keyboard, the matter closed.
"So I'm brushing my teeth in the bathtub for the rest of the year? I don't think that's in my lease," I said.
"Of course not," she said, and my foolish heart leaped in my chest. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all. "The rest of the water will be off after this week. You won't be able to use the bathtub. You'll be sleeping here, and that's pretty much it."
I know how hard it is to be the hired help, because I've been hired help for all of my working life. Sometimes your boss does bad things and leaves you to tell the customers about them, and no matter how much they yell at you, there's nothing you can do for them. That was what was happening here, and I didn't want to yell at this woman and become one of the jerks I'd hated for so long. But I was not about to let this one slide.
"You can't just turn all the water off," I said, desperate now. "That's, like, why people have apartments .. so they can shower and cook. Where's your boss?"
"Oh, don't worry, he'll be in touch," she said. "He..s really taking an interest in this problem. He might even come by on Monday to talk to you guys. He appreciates your patience."
"Can I stay at his house?" I asked, but she had already gone back to her desk. I started to storm out, already plotting vengeance, when she called me back.
"Mr. Farley?"
"What?"
"Your December rent is due." She gave me a big smile. "And I'm happy to say that I've been authorized to deduct the water surcharge from your total."
So this is where we stand. Maybe my landlord will descend from the sky like a bolt of lightning on Monday and make everything right, but unless he brings Crapos, the ancient god of plumbing, with him, I have a feeling I..m about to embark on an odyssey through tenant hell. If anyone has advice on circulating petitions, I'd love to hear it. Also, though professionalism prevents me from accusing my complex by name, if you're about to sign a lease in the Santa Cruz High School neighborhood, you might want to drop me a line.
......
She says it all without a thought in her head; she says it all and she's pressed up against me. A little something just to take off the edge. A little more and mfarley@register-pajaronian.com falls off the planet entirely
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