you really don't want to know

So I’ve got an iPhone.
This post has nothing to do with the iPhone, if you can believe that.

So I’ve got an iPhone. Beautiful little device. Seriously, it’s got a shiny chrome trim, it’s got a vibrant, seriously vibrant high-density display, it goes completely black when you put it to sleep, blah blah blah, you know what it looks like.

Anyway, after a little while, I got a slim rubber protective case for it, and a static-cling screen protector to keep the glass from getting scratched. Smart decision, right? Protect that investment. I even got the anti-glare screen protector, so I could reduce the annoyance of fingerprint smudges and stuff. I gots da greasy fingers.

I’ve been using my phone for a month or two with the rubber case (on and off), and I put the screen protector on about a month ago. In that time, I’ve noticed that the anti-glare texture on the screen protector has an effect on the clarity of the display. Text has a halo around it, pictures seem fuzzy, and overall the joy of using the device is just diminished. Further, the rubber case (although one of the nicest on the market) contributes to chafing scratches into the chrome surrounding trim. I dealt with it, knowing I was doing the “right thing.”

This morning, I took the screen protector off, and it was like taking off blinders. In all seriousness, every single facet of using the thing is more enjoyable than when it’s got that fucking film on it. Colors are rich, blacks are black, contrast is sharp, and I’m pretty sure input is more accurate. And I would rather risk getting scratches and dents on the thing, than to diminish my experience.

get out of my head.

http://blog.eod.com/post/20258021

I listened to This American Life’s Thanksgiving special the other day, and I couldn’t help but laugh my ass off at Sarah Vowell’s account of her family visiting for the holidays. I needed a laugh.

The holidays are particularly hard these days. My brother summed it up pretty well on the phone yesterday, saying that being around other people’s happy families just really gets him thinking about all the things he can’t have, the things that are missing, the people we’ve lost. My sister is in about the same frame of mind, but it’s even harder for her this year, since she’s currently single. Buddy’s got a girlfriend, but she lives in Alaska, so that can’t be easy. Me, I’ve got a wonderful woman to spend the holidays with, but we haven’t exactly had an easy year. I’m thankful that we’re having a quiet holiday. Plus, I’m struggling with family sorrow, just like my brother and sister.

The last time I spoke to my dad was Thanksgiving day 2005. I’ve mentioned that in previous entries, so I guess I’ll leave it at that. Suffice it to say, Thanksgiving isn’t easy. In just over a week, we’ll be at the second anniversary of his death. Day-to-day life has gotten easier over time, but the holiday season is still a sad one for the three of us.

In the spirit of the season, Liz ordered a bunch of CDs several weeks ago, one of which is Ellis Paul’s first “children’s CD.” We like him enough to be amused by the cheese. And there are a bunch of tracks on it that are really adult-enjoyable too. Anyway, the last track is You Are My Sunshine, in which he sings quietly into the microphone, and he’s accompanied by his daughter, who’s so young, it sounds like she’s still learning to speak, let alone sing. The song came on the other night, just as I was about to prepare some dinner, and I just stopped in my tracks. It was such a beautiful moment, and it brought about such a torrent of emotions that I immediately started crying, with a look on my face that must have been hard to decipher: I was smiling because it was beautiful, but I’m sure I had a furrowed brow or maybe even a grimace of pain. In the bar where the song goes “You make me happy when skies are grey,” his baby girl goes “no, blue!” and they have to agree on what color the sky is before they continue. I laughed hysterically because it was so funny, but again…kinda makes me want to call my dad.

So I get to Oakland a little early for my smog test, so I can plug in the computer to make sure I don’t have any trouble codes, and make sure readiness is set. I’ve got one trouble code (instant fail) and two of the readiness codes have been set to “fail” (you’re only allowed one failed readiness code).

So I start to panic. I’m a little early, but not very. I’m parked outside my office building, across the inlet from the Alameda smog referee station, sitting there with my laptop, frantically running through the process to manually set readiness. Step one is to clear the trouble codes, which instantly sets all readiness codes to “fail” (nerve-wracking in situations like this). Throttle-body adaptation, check. Oxygen sensor heating lambda test, pass. O2 sensor aging test, pass. Catalytic converter test…fail. Eh, I’m allowed one fail. Secondary air injection test starts, and keeps going for nearly 10 minutes. I let my foot off the brake, and the test aborts just as I hear the pump kick on, and I can’t get it to restart. Shit, there’s only 5 minutes for me to get to the testing station, and I haven’t even set evaporative emissions readiness yet. I scrap it, and drive over.

As I turn into the College of Alameda, I say “fuck it,” and pull into a faculty parking spot to try one last hail-mary. Throttle adaptation, check. O2 lambda, pass. O2 aging, pass. Gonna skip the catalyst test, cause I know it’ll fail, and if I don’t do the test, at least it won’t throw a trouble code. My hope is that the trouble code won’t be thrown during the smog test (I don’t think it will, but if they run the car between 1800-2200 rpm for a minute straight, and the catalytic converter is over 440°C, it’ll throw the code). Secondary air…pass (the trick is to set the parking brake, and let off the brake pedal to start the test). Evap emissions (moment of truth)…pass. I’m three minutes late, but probably no big deal.

I go in…my paperwork isn’t in my bag. I must have filed it by accident, FUCK! I ask the referee if I can still do the test, and he says no problem.

I sit down, wait a little bit, and they tell me their dyno isn’t working. They turn it off for five minutes, turn it back on, still no workie. They turn it off for 1/2 hour, turn it back on, still no workie. Now I sit and wait a little longer, and decide whether to reschedule for later today or after thanksgiving weekend.

I was feeling really hopeful when I got my readiness set. Totally thought I had this in the bag. I want my fucking CA license plates. Let me in there to fix your fucking dyno.

At least the ref is a good guy. He asked for my phone number, in case he gets it fixed today.

Can’t tell you how many times I’ve stumbled upon a blog entry by someone I’ve never met, nor heard of, yet they’ve taught me something about myself.

Enter Greg Knauss. This particular blog entry explains a good deal of my frustration with my current job, seems to get a pretty good grasp on why I’ve never had a desire to be a manager, and puts a pretty solid finger on why it’s taking me so long to get back into the swing of things in my career.

Subscribed. He’s also pretty damn funny.

I listened to an episode of The Brian Lehrer Show this morning, on the way to work, and they were interviewing Niall O’Dowd about the St Patrick’s day parade in NYC, as well as other Irish-American matters.

While Niall was speaking, he spelled out A.O.H., speaking of the Ancient Order of Hibernians. When he said the letter “H,” he pronounced it as “haych.”

It struck me as something familiar, and I immediately tried to remember if my dad said his H’s like that. For some reason I thought so, but I couldn’t recall to mind how or why he would say it that way. I tried to remember him saying it, and I couldn’t. For five minutes I was rolling along, not listening to the show anymore, just trying to remember my father’s voice pronouncing the letter H. At long last, I was relieved when the memory came to me, that of him spelling out our last name over the phone to someone at the phone company or some such.

The relief only lasted a few seconds before I realized I can’t remember any such idiosyncrasy belonging to my mother, who died just over 15 years ago. Sitting here now, I think I can almost recall a whisper of a ghost of her laugh. But it’s just a vapor.

I’ve got my music on shuffle, and the song listed above just came on. I had to stifle a laugh, because throughout the tune, we hear a young asian woman pretty much having an orgasm to the beat.

Everyone in the office is really casual, but I still think I turned a little pink.

I went to the dentist today (always a fun time), and they asked me if I’d like to have my teeth straightened. From the way the paperwork is authored, it appears they ask everyone, so I guess I can assume they weren’t singling me out.

They’ve got these brochures for Invisalign, that wacky-crazy new method of straightening your teeth. I picked one up and started reading it, after the technician had already given me some information about it. The two questions I was most interested in answering (which are actually listed in the FAQ on the back of the brochure) were as follows:
1. How does Invisalign work?
2. How much does Invisalign cost?

The answers listed are (and I’m paraphrasing):
1. You wear the things on your teeth, and they get straightened.
2. It depends.

Oh goodie, thanks for your help. You go to the trouble of showing photographs of example cases on the inside, each with number of months and number of straightening guards used…Would it fucking kill ya to include the ballpark price each of your example patients paid?

Also, the technician gave me a little more info about how it’s done. I could pretty much guess that they use computers and 3D modeling to come up with the guards that’ll guide your teeth around…but what I didn’t know was that they use an abrasive disc tool (read: dremel) to grind out material between your teeth so they can give your teeth room to move.

Y’know, if you’d put that in the brochure, I’m pretty sure people would more aptly consider themselves “informed.” I’m still interested in straightening my bottom teeth, but not if you’re gonna take a grinder to my shit. No fuckin’ way. I’d rather wear railroad tracks.

I was just thinking “how long until Twitter gets completely over-run with spam-bots and bullshit techno-opportunists?” I know there’s not much to fear, since I don’t have to follow anyone I don’t want to. But I’ve already had two or three spam-bots (or, at least, accounts that really seem to be automated) sign up to follow me. I got two or three follow notifications today from people who don’t know me. I know it’s totally normal, since i sometimes send @replies to some high-profile people, but it still weirds me out a little.

Anyway, the point is, my general mindset recently is that nothing nice stays nice for long. I don’t like thinking that way. It’s only in the last few years that I’ve started feeling this way.

I just read this on the blog belonging to one of my new Twitter followers. Seems like he might be of a similar opinion about his own mindset. Props. Let’s change it.

I commute on an old BMW motorcycle, vintage 1985. This is the bike that my sister, my brother and I gave to my dad to celebrate his retirement. When he died, my brother and sister felt pretty strongly that it should go to me, and I’ve tried to give it the sort of love it needs. Ride it as much as my dad would want to.

Last night, I pulled into the driveway after a late night at work. It was really dark out. It being thursday, the recycling was set outside, in front of the garage door. I parked the bike mid-way between Liz’s car and the bins, so we could walk between each.

As I went to step it onto its center stand, without warning, the bike toppled over away from me (thank GOD it went that way, the feckin’ thing’s heavy as hell). I just stood there for a second, staring at it. LIke, “what the fuck just happened?”

Apparently, the bike’s center-stand has had a good long life, and decided to kick the bucket. It snapped right in the middle of the tube, on the left side. Which makes it all the more strange that it didn’t fall onto me, since it should have come down toward me, not away. Maybe dad was lookin’ out for me.

The plastic hardcase on the right side took the most of the fall, and I don’t think the paint even got scratched on the body. The bike’s already got tons of scratches and chipped paint on it (they were present when we bought it), so it’s kinda hard to tell.

It’s sad to see something of your late father’s break. Makes me want to really restore it.
I think I’ll have to settle for some routine maintenance and a new center stand, though.