Word on the street is that Apple is considering designing its own car.
The vehicle has been dubbed Applemobile by the media, which report on the car as though it already exists and not as if it is merely a rumor as unsubstantiated as the burial site of Jimmy Hoffa.
I love Apple products, from the MacBook Pro I use at home to the MacBook Air I use at work, and every iteration of the iPad in between. In my opinion, the single most life-changing piece of technology, outside of the lightbulb, is the iPhone.
The Applemobile fails to excite me. For one thing, it’s rumored to be self-driving, which means that future passengers can behave even more disgracefully than they do now. Imagine a driverless car filled with pajama pant-wearing zombie housewives on their way to the mall to buy the latest installment of mommy-porn “Fifty Shades of Grey” while watching the movie version of same projected on the sun visors of their Applemobile.
Or maybe I’m confusing this with the Googlemobile.
Either way, I fear Apple will sell its car the way it sells its phones. This means that the same people who line up for days outside every Apple store when a new phone is released will also queue up for the release of the car. These flagpole sitters and tent-city refugees will hog all the cool colors, leaving nothing but a three-month backlog on basic tombstone black for those of us who have to work for a living.
And what if Apple initially releases nothing but the chassis, with everything else priced individually in the App Store? Uh, I guess I need to install the ignition, engine, and tire apps before driving this puppy home, huh?
Given Apple’s hesitance to play well with others, the car probably won’t be compatible with existing roads, in the same way that Apple products throw up error messages whenever anything Flash-enabled comes along.
Thus far, there appears to be no truth to the vicious rumor that the Applemobile bends when passengers sit in it.
Will the cars vibrate every time owners get a text message? Do the windshield wipers double as selfie sticks? Will my Apple ID also serve as my keyless ignition? If the car is lost or stolen, can I use “Find My iCar” on another vehicle to set off an alarm and lock down the glove compartment and trunk?
By the way, “stolen” has an entirely new meaning with the Applemobile. Since so much of our lives are now stored “in the Cloud,” thieves may bypass stealing the physical car in favor of just hacking into it. Celebrities who drive Applemobiles, beware: Those naked photos of yourselves that you’ve had taken just to have naked photos of yourselves are in even more jeopardy.
None of which addresses the cost to society of one more Apple-related intrusion into our lives. Doubtless we must learn to expect the same level of possessiveness and fetishism over an Apple car that we see demonstrated for the iPhone. Managers will grow accustomed to employees sneaking peaks at the cars every minute or two “just to check the time” and slipping away from their cubicles just to fondle it in their hands. Those couples in restaurants who spend the entire meal with their chins sewn to their chests while they stare at their phones and slam their thumbs against the glass screens will now be able to do the same thing in their Applemobiles.
Him: Are u warm enough?
Her: No. Can u turn up the heat?
Him: Whatcha doin?
Her: Texting u. Watcha doin?
Him: Texting u. Wanna go 2 the movies?
Her: Can’t we just watch one in the car?
The death of formal conversations aside, the number one reason why I wouldn’t want an Applemobile is this: No sooner could you afford to buy one then Apple would release a newer model — the Applemobile 6-Plus, with all the bells and whistles that you really want.
Apple is Pavlov, and we are the dogs. Salivate on cue, iLassie.
cschillig on Twitter
Originally published on Feb. 19, 2015, in The Alliance Review
Word on the street — the cosmological street — is that Pluto is on its way back to full planetary status.
Some learned eggheads at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics recently held a debate on the topic of “what a planet is.” Apparently they had already answered more burning questions, such as “what to do with a mate who squeezes toothpaste from the center of the tube” and “why some grown men like ‘My Little Pony.’”
These muckety mucks disagreed with the International Space Union, which voted eight years ago that Pluto wasn’t the largest body in its orbit and hence could not be a planet. The best Pluto could hope for, according to the ISU, was dwarf-planet status.
Harvard’s disagreement is couched in a game of semantics. A planet, sez Harvard, is “a culturally defined word that changes over time.” Basically, this means that people can call anything they want a planet as long as they can get other folks to agree with them. This is similar to the way I try to get my wife to call me “sire” in public because she can pretend it means whatever she wants (”jerk,” more than likely) and I can pretend it’s her acknowledgement of my inherent royalty.
Restoring Pluto’s planethood plays into the American myth of redemption. There Pluto was, orbiting the sun like its eight big brothers, lending its name to cartoon dogs and not bothering anybody, when wham! the ISU demotes it. It’s like the dedicated wage slave who gets sacked after 30 years of service so the boss can continue to live in his McMansion and vacation in Kauai.
Nobody asked the public’s opinion. We didn’t get to vote, and it didn’t even take a bunch of Republicans six months of legal maneuvering to change the hours at the polls. All it took was a few people with a whole bunch of letters at the end of their names to burst Pluto’s planetary bubble.
Then, out of nowhere, along comes Harvard in the bottom of the ninth with six yards to go to a first down, three strokes behind on the 18th hole, to make an incredible basket by waving its magic wand, sprinkling its pixie dust and saying, “Thou good and faithful servant, thou mayst be a planet once more.”
If Pluto were reinstituted as a planet, schoolkids would no longer need to pause awkwardly at Neptune when reciting the names of all bodies in our solar system, shuffling their feet and sticking fingers into their noses while some octogenarian screams, “What about Pluto, ya whippersnapper? Ya forgot Pluto!”
If Pluto were reinstituted as a planet, the family of Venetia Burney, who at age 11 in 1930 had the honor of suggesting the name for the newly discovered planet, could rest secure that her life’s major accomplishment was not in vain. She didn’t just name some floating rock in space — as she thought when she died in 2009 — but an actual, honest-to-goodness planet.
If Pluto were reinstituted as a planet, when the New Horizons probe passes by there in July, it won’t be sending back Kodaks of some cosmic piece of driftwood, but rather portraits of one of the solar system’s major players, suitable for framing. It’s the difference between taking selfies with your weird Uncle Jack, who collects belly-button lint and likes to touch his nose with his tongue, and having your picture taken with George Clooney or Beyonce.
Apparently, however, the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics, as august a body as it may be (even if it met in mid-September), is not the final arbiter of Pluto’s fate. That decision rests with the ISU, which is maybe too busy to deal with the Pluto problem. Instead, I imagine it has its hands full stamping out controversy from another planetary faux pas.
To wit: Why is it that no matter how we pronounce “Uranus,” it always sounds dirty?
cschillig on Twitter
Everybody wants my opinion, and everybody wants me to be “very” or “highly” satisfied.
Just the other morning, a nice woman named Brenda handed me a sticker in the drive-thru line of Dunkin’ Donuts. It said she’d love to know if she had “made my day.”
That’s a tough question to answer. Could the wave of good feelings created by a large hot tea and toasted blueberry bagel be enough to carry me through the troughs of the next 12 hours? Later that night, from the vantage point of a comfortable chair, slippers on my feet and warm pipe smoke encircling my head, would I look back over the business of the day and recognize that a 23-second transaction had changed my destiny?
In a word, no.
Yet these silly surveys persist in almost every line of business. If it’s not a clerk thrusting a receipt in my face with a 1-800 number circled at the bottom, it’s an email after the sale, asking me to rank, with “1″ being the lowest and “10″ the highest, how satisfied I was with my transaction, whether it was for a $20,000 car or a $2 loaf of bread.
And with every inquiry, there is unspoken pressure: “We want you to be very satisfied” or “Is there anything standing in the way of your being highly satisfied today?”
The answer to that last question is yes, many things are standing in the way of my highest satisfaction.
For one thing, I’m eating on the run at a fast-food joint, standing in line behind some pajama-pant-wearing mother of 14 whose kids all have what looks like Ebola running out their noses. Nobody knows what to order, despite having held up the line for what feels like hours. One of them is consistently stepping on my foot, and another is digging orangish wax out of his ear with a plastic spoon he found on the floor, effectively killing any appetite I may still have.
Or I’m in the drive-thru lane behind a diesel truck whose driver believes that everybody wants to hear the beer-drenched musical epic blaring out his speakers, even overtop the revving of his engine. He’s ordering enough food to feed a small army and flirting with the voice on the loudspeaker, calling him/her/it “honey” and “babycakes,” unaware that he’s caused a six-car nuclear meltdown behind him.
So, no, I’m not highly satisfied, very satisfied, or even just plain old satisfied.
And what if I were, indeed, only satisfied? On many surveys, “satisfied” translates to a 7 out of 10, a perfectly acceptable score. But I’m always pressured into being “very” satisfied, usually by employees with large, limpid eyes and wheedling voices whose very existences seem tied to the score that I, a complete stranger, will assign them through an automated phone call.
To me, “very” satisfied means you’ve followed me home, waxed my car, shampooed my carpets, and fed me grapes on the couch while fanning me with palm leaves. Throwing my change at me and stuffing my greasy burger into a sack is not enough to merit the modifier “very.”
Worse yet are the surveys that ask me to describe my satisfaction in words. How the heck am I supposed to do that? “The way Agnes drizzled guacamole on my cheesy potato burrito was nothing short of sublime?” “The replacement windshield, needed because some punk kid didn’t know how to catch a baseball, was artfully installed by Sidney, illuminating the interior of my car just as surely as Michelangelo’s paintings illuminate the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?” Gimme a break.
Sometimes, companies entice you to take surveys with the promise of a prize. “Just take our brief survey and you could win an iPad Mini!” and “Call this number for a chance to win $500!” are pretty common come-ons.
Of course, you have a better chance of being plucked out of your bed by aliens from Uranus than you do of winning any prize. And as soon as you indicate that you are anything other than very satisfied, your entry goes directly to the bottom circle of Dante’s Sweepstakes Hell. As a consolation, now that the company has your phone number or email address, they can sell it to other companies, who will in turn attempt to get you to buy their junk and rate their associates.
All of which is why, Brenda, I’m not going to log on to any website and rate our transaction. I smiled at you when I pulled up to the window — you might have thought I looked constipated, but trust me, it was a grin — and thanked you for your efforts. That’s the extent of our relationship. Let it be enough.
Chris Schillig hopes you are very satisfied with this column. If you are, say nothing. If you aren’t, do what you always do and direct cyber-insults to
@cschillig on Twitter.
Originally published in The Alliance Review on Sept. 4, 2014.
If you’re a kid who’s ever been told that texting will rot your brain or pop music is immoral or video games are turning you into a zombie, you need to read “Bad for You.”
If you’re a parent, teacher, minister or some other well-meaning adult who’s ever told kids that texting will rot their brains or pop music is immoral or video games are turning them into zombies, you need to read “Bad for You.”
Subtitled “Exposing the War on Fun,” the book, by Kevin C. Pyle and Scott Cunningham, looks at popular fads and new technologies throughout history and exposes some depressing similarities in the way some people respond.
For instance, the book quotes one sarcastic critic as saying that, as a result of a popular new form of entertainment, “There is now very little danger that Americans will resort to the vice of thinking.” Is he referring to heavy metal music? Xbox One? The Flappy Bird app? None of the above. Writing in the 1920s, he was expressing concerns over radio and, separately, “incredibly frightful” jazz music.
One by one, Pyle and Cunningham examine hiccups in the social psyche down through the centuries, including printing presses (a pundit in 1494 noted that paper was less permanent than parchment), telephones (which allow children talk to undesirables against their parents’ wishes), Elvis Presley (derided as “deplorable” by that paragon of virtue, Frank Sinatra), Dungeons and Dragons (believed to cause an increased risk of suicide), and Harry Potter books (feared by some to promote witchcraft).
Text-messaging is examined in depth. As a teacher who believed that goofy abbreviations and jargon used in “text speak” would somehow worm their way into students’ more formal writing, I was abashed to learn how wrong I was. According to some researchers, kids who use “textisms” often have a better understanding of spelling and grammar — and larger vocabularies, to boot.
Rather than being corrupted by “IMHO” and “ICYMI” (google ‘em), kids can easily “code switch” between different registers of language — in this case, between informal text messages and more formal school essays.
To which I can only say: OMG.
But it’s not until the end of the book that Pyle and Cunningham really win me over. In a chapter called “Bad for You: Thinking,” they examine American schools. The section covers the history of education in the U.S. and how schools were influenced by the efficiency movement or “factory model” popular during the Industrial Revolution.
One result of this model is the discovery that workers are more productive with periodic breaks, which led to the idea of recess in public schools. Today, however, recess is under fire as a waste of time, eliminated or reduced in 40 percent of American schools to allow children more time to prepare for standardized tests.
Also cut in favor of standardized-test prep is access to the arts, history, and music.
Standardized testing, which measures convergent thinking (the ability to select one correct answer), is practically a relic in today’s high-tech world. What is needed, experts argue, is more emphasis on divergent thinking (the ability to find more than one answer or solution to a problem), something that can be aided by the very activities being trimmed from the school day — including recess.
“Bad for You: Exposing the War on Fun” is written for kids but can be just as rewarding for adults. A word of warning: It’s laid out like a comic book, another form of fun that has come under fire in the past. In the first chapter, the authors look at the hysteria over comic books in the 1940s and ’50s, when a U.S. Senate subcommittee was convened to study their insidious effects and comics were burned by concerned parents.
As a comics-obsessed kid in grade school, I can remember teachers who wrinkled their noses at my preferred choice of literature, immune to my belief, even then, that comics were teaching me more vocabulary and reading skills than anything in their classrooms.
I don’t remember if my teachers ever told me that comics were rotting my brain, immoral, or turning me into a zombie. If they did, I wish that Pyle and Cunningham’s “Bad for You: Exposing the War on Fun!” had been around to set them straight.
Chris Schillig, who is still a self-diagnosed comic-book addict, can be reached at
chris.schillig@yahoo or @cschillig on Twitter.
Originally published Feb. 13, 2014, in The Alliance Review.
My in-laws had a tech-heavy Christmas, which spells D-O-O-M for me in the new year.
My mother-in-law got a laptop, my father-in-law got an iPhone, and I got a migraine. A standard policy in the family is the one who bought it services it, but like Obamacare, implementation of the policy has been somewhat suspect.
Which is a roundabout way of saying that I’m on the hook for every installation, software and hardware question, like the Geek Squad minus the black-and-white Volkswagen bug.
Now anybody who knows me will testify that I am a sad excuse for tech support. I like my little toys, but I’m also very happy to let others work out the kinks and then show me how to use them.
Any tech savvy I have comes from Googling every question, no matter how inane. “How do you take a photo of your desktop?” Google it. “What’s the best way to merge two email accounts?” Google it. “I dropped my phone in the toilet. What do I do now?” Google it. If the Web is the world’s instruction manual, Google is the index, and I thumb through it often.
But back to my in-laws. To make their new laptop worthwhile, they needed wireless Internet, and that calls for a router.
Despite the fact that I’ve been leasing the same router from my cable company since George W. was in office and have therefore paid more than $1,000 for a device that costs $40 at the corner Radio Shack (something my wife never fails to remind me each time she opens the cable bill), I was assigned to buy the hardware.
This was surprisingly easy, as was the installation. (I might do it at my own home in the next decade or two.) I plugged the router into my in-laws’ modem and voila! instant wireless service.
Just as I was thinking this whole task would take less than five minutes and that I would soon be lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling and thinking deep thoughts, I hit a significant snag with my mother-in-law. Our conversation went like this:
Me: What’s the password to your new laptop?
Mo-in-Law: I don’t know. Is it the same as my email password?
Me: I don’t know. What’s your email password?
Mo-in-Law: I don’t know. It comes up automatically when I log onto my old computer.
Me: Did you write it down anywhere?
Mo-in-Law: Hold on.
She produces a notebook filled with approximately 3,000 words and numbers, some underlined and others circled.
Me: Great. Which one?
Mo-in-Law: I don’t know. Try this one.
Me: (typing) Doesn’t work.
Mo-in-Law: Then try that one.
Reread previous two sentences approximately 3,000 times.
Me: None of these work.
Mo-in-Law: Oh, then try this.
She launches into a recitation of numbers and letters involving her birthday, mother’s maiden name, cups of flour in her favorite cake recipe and approximate hectares of land owned by British royalty. I type each into the box on her computer screen. Meanwhile, in the real world, more than 200 animals go extinct, 6.73 million passengers ride the Moscow Metro and Hershey’s makes another 60 million Kisses. No success.
Ultimately, I resort to Google, giving away my ancient Chinese secret for tech gurudom right in front of her.
The answer is ugly: Restore the entire system, which wipes out all files the user has amassed over the life of the machine.
In my mother-in-law’s case, this is approximately two hours’ worth of Facebook postings of teddy bears and kittens. Not exactly a Shakespearean tragedy, but the reboot takes over an hour, during which time I am not lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling and thinking deep thoughts.
From here on, all passwords are stored in a secret location on my phone, accessible at any hour of day or night whenever The Call comes.
It is then I realize a key difference between the Geek Squad and me: Geek Squad support has a finite lifespan, but my contract is indefinite, entered into with “I do” and terminating only when “death do us part.”
I ask Google for advice. The top response: “Marry an orphan.”
Thanks for nothing, Google.
cschillig on Twitter
Originally published Jan. 9, 2014, in The Alliance Review.
Ah, the day after Thanksgiving, when Americans exchange leftover turkey and gratitude for shoulder pads and helmets.
You’ll need both if you’re venturing onto the retail gridiron, looking for the perfect gift for that special somebody on your list or, more likely, just scooping up whatever garbage big-box retailers are pushing this season.
Such is the mania for Black Friday shopping that many readers have likely been in the game already. If you’re one of those, you’re either relaxing during halftime — and perhaps plotting your second half strategy with the help of sales flyers in this very newspaper — or sidelined by injury. (A toe crushed by a cart wielded by an overzealous septuagenarian is the most common reason to find yourself on the shopping DL list.)
With the hope that it’s not too late, here are a few Left of Center tips to keep you safe and productive during the coming three-week orgy of American capitalism.
1. Always shop with a buddy. A wingman is the most necessary accoutrement to a successful foray into the retail jungle. This person should have some experience in hand-to-hand combat to repel hordes of angry mothers after you’ve grabbed the last Tickle Me Elmo and are making a run for the register.
Experience with nunchakus and throwing stars are also a plus, allowing the wingman to hurl your credit card with ninja accuracy straight for the scanner, the magnetic strip slitting your competitors’ throats as you skate across their blood toward the successful completion of your transaction.
2. Think small. Not in terms of your shopping list or budget — which should be as large as possible to help stimulate the economy and put more Americans back to work, hallelujah! — but in terms of your vehicle. A smaller car will allow you to wedge into spaces where larger vehicles cannot, like those diagonal lines on either side of handicapped parking spaces. Or, if you drive a Smart Car, into a bicycle rack.
Of course, small cars make it difficult to drag home too much loot, but since everybody wants iPads and iPhones this year anyway, ample trunk space hardly matters. Plus, some misguided soul will probably steal all your bags as you leave the store anyway.
3. Choose your weapons carefully. A shopping cart is your greatest ally, allowing you to mow through masses of zombie shoppers just like characters on “The Walking Dead.” But a squeaky, wobbly wheel will slow you down just enough to miss the blue-light special on tacky costume jewelry in Aisle 4 or get beaten to the punch on cheap, large-screen TVs imported from Mexico that will save you $50 but cost thousands of Americans their jobs.
You may also wish to arm yourself with smaller shopping baskets, which can be strapped to both feet using the twistie ties off bread bags or the belts off sweepers, allowing you to glide across icy parking lots like a latter-day Wayne Gretzky and shave precious seconds off your commute from Walmart to Target.
4. Come armed with air fresheners and earbuds. Both will be necessary when waiting in line with your fellow shoppers.
True story: Last year I stood in line behind a gentleman whose body had a difficult time assimilating all the turkey he had eaten the day before. Periodically, he would announce, “Better look out, I’m blowin ‘em out!” At first, I thought he was referencing a really good buy, but once the pungent aroma of stale turkey farts wafted my way, I knew it wasn’t bargains he was talking about.
The earbuds won’t do anything to quell the smell, but they will keep you isolated from other shoppers and their litany of aches, pains and funny-but-not-really stories about kids and significant others.
5. Wait until Cyber Monday and buy it all online. I like to support local businesses as much as the next guy, but let’s face it, clicking a few buttons, typing in your credit card number and waiting for somebody to deliver the goodies to your porch is a whole lot better for the environment and your mental health.
Plus, it’ll give you more time at home to spend with family, where the only fowl … er, foul odors will come not from strangers, but from people you know and love.
Then again, maybe there’s something to be said for Black Friday shopping after all.
cschillig on Twitter
Originally published Nov. 29, 2013, in The Alliance Review.
Bad enough when bosses trundle out of their lairs a few times each day to berate cubicle dwellers. Soon they can do it by robot.
The Ava 500 looks like a streamlined, high-tech Tardis straight out of Doctor Who. But instead of opening a gateway to sci-fi wonderment and thrills, this giant lamp post rolls from office to office, allowing CEOs and other management types to interact with subordinates by two-way television monitor.
An article in the June 24 issue of Time Magazine explains that the Ava 500 is the mad-scientist creation of company iRobot, maker of the self-sweeping vacuum Roomba, a CD-shaped heel-nipper that is the bane of skittish felines. For an estimated $2,000 to $2,500 a month, fat cats (of the two-legged variety) can lease this mobile monster and sic it on unsuspecting worker drones.
Ava supposedly allows bosses to videoconference with employees in different cities, but you know that some status-seeking type-As with only one office in their fiefdom soon will send this office shark to terrorize workers on surreptitious stairwell smoke breaks or while selling magazines for a kid’s fundraiser in violation of the company’s no-solicitation rules. Talk about Big Brother.
No sooner will the average working-stiff Tom, Dick or Harry be settled on the porcelain throne with the sports section then the bathroom door will swing open and in will roll Ava, the boss’s face plastered on its screen.
“Dick, I know you’re in there,” Proxy Boss will intone, his remote-controlled Death Star on wheels banging on the stall door. “Dick, I need those TPS reports immediately.”
“You say you need some TP?” poor Dick will respond. “Here, let me pull some off the roll and send it out.”
According to the Time piece — which for some reason fails to speculate on the bathroom possibilities inherent in this new monstrosity — Ava 500 will operate by GPS, so bosses won’t have to direct it with a joystick. All they’ll have to do is fire off a voice command and their Gal Friday will go hunting.
I can only imagine that it won’t take long for iRobot to realize that bosses can use the GPS capabilities of their employees’ phones to track down not just the company water cooler, but specific individuals huddled around it.
(Do companies still have water coolers, or have they been eliminated as an unnecessary expense? Let ‘em suck water straight from the bathroom sink, I say.)
But why stop there? Put some snow tires on Ava and send her out into the world, seeking employees while they shop, refuel cars, sleep, or any of the myriad activities that indicate — horror of horrors — a life outside the office.
Can you imagine your boss’s face staring down at you while you sleep? Tapping the window of the family room as you watch TV? Chasing you around a backyard barbecue while you fend it off with a spatula?
In all honesty, Ava 500 is a dumb idea. Bosses already have employees on electronic leashes via email, Skype, Facetime and any number of other technological breakthroughs that allow them to work us like dogs 24/7. The only advantage of Ava is that we won’t be able to pretend we’re away from our computers or that we have a bad signal when the boss calls.
However, Ava has one design flaw that workers will be able to exploit quite handily. Her maximum speed is just 3.3 feet per second.
Like the old joke about how to outrun a bear, all you’ll need to do to escape is run 3.4 feet per second to leave Ava — and your boss’s whines, pleas and demands for immediate ego stroking — in the dust.
Score one for the proletariat.
@cschillig on Twitter
Stick-N-Find is the technology for me, the perennial loser.
I don’t mean “loser” the way most people do, to describe somebody perpetually down on his luck, although that could apply to me too.
No, I mean it in the literal sense: I am constantly misplacing stuff.
My wallet, for example, goes AWOL a lot. In the winter, it’s easier to keep track of, jammed in my coat pocket along with various receipts, pens and lint. In the summer, though, it lives a third of the time in my car, a third of the time in my back pocket and a third of the time, I guess, on Tralfamadore, the alien planet in Kurt Vonnegut’s “Slaughterhouse-Five” where earthlings are displayed in an intergalactic zoo.
With Stick-N-Find technology, I could affix a bottle-cap-sized disc to my wallet and then send a low-energy radio signal from my iPhone that would help me home in. (By the way, I’m not being an Apple elitist by name-dropping the iPhone, as it’s one of the few devices that can pick up on Stick-N-Find signals. Take that, Android users.)
The new gizmos were on display at a trade show in Barcelona, Spain, recently. My boss wouldn’t pay for me to cover it live, so I had to settle for an Associated Press story.
As soon as I read about Stick-N-Finds, I knew what they were: real-life versions of Spider-Man’s spider tracers, tiny metal arachnids that our hero sticks to suspects or on villains’ getaway vehicles so that he can find them later. Once again, life imitates art.
Currently, Stick-N-Find technology is prohibitively expensive. At $25 each, I can’t afford them for my wallet, car keys, television remote control, shoes, favorite shirt, dog leash, glasses, glasses case, stapler, tape dispenser, screwdriver and hammer. But if the price came down — say, to a dollar or two — I’d have more radio waves buzzing around my house than a 100,000-watt FM station.
With these little gizmos, I would never again search fruitlessly in a closet for my favorite tie only to find it draped around the dog’s neck two rooms away. Or locate the whereabouts of a shaving cream bottle inadvertently wedged behind two piles of clean towels.
I know Stick-N-Finds would also be great for my marriage, which is constantly under stress from the forces of misplacement. See, my wife is a loser too — otherwise, why would she marry me — compounded by her penchant for throwing away items of financial value
Many an early morning has found me Dumpster-diving in my own trash cans, separating eggshells, napkins and other refuse in a vain attempt to find an unpaid water bill or an important tax document. I pity clerks who must open return envelopes from Casa Schillig, smudged as they are with butter and grease, smelling like a troll’s unwashed armpit.
My wife’s greatest accomplishment (to date) was shredding one of my paychecks, thinking it was just a stub. I tried to tape it back together, creating a sort of Frankencheck, but the bank wouldn’t even consider it. I’m pretty sure the teller was laughing from behind her glass window.
Stick-N-Find would help me with my female Jack the Ripper by allowing me to affix homing devices to important pieces of paper and locate them inside the house (where they inevitably turn up) before I spend 20 minutes rooting through garbage.
Besides my wallet, the item I would most want to Stick-N-Find is a book, “1,100 Words You Need to Know,” a massive tome I use when teaching. That book is the literary version of Jimmy Hoffa, but unlike Jimmy, it eventually turns up — after I’ve bought a replacement. A few years ago, after a copy disappeared for months, I found it in a pile of books discarded by a colleague. Last month, after sending out an embarrassingly pleading email to fellow teachers, I found it stuffed between the pages of another, even larger, book.
A Stick-N-Find would have lopped hours off my search. Indeed, it wasn’t until I stopped looking that the darn thing showed up, which is always the way. There’s an old saying that lost items appear only when the devil is finished with them.
If that’s the case, I hope Old Scratch’s time with “1,100 Words You Need to Know” has netted him an impressive vocabulary, maybe one he uses while explaining my wallet to visitors at the zoo on Tralfamadore.
@cschillig on Twitter
Originally published March 7, 2013, in The Alliance Review.
Any student who has suffered through my class knows my policy on exclamation points: You get only two a year, so use them wisely.
Actually, the quantity and duration change every time I tell it, and savvy students — the ones who aren’t sleeping or glancing surreptitiously at cellphones every few minutes — sometimes call me out. “Didn’t you say last week that we get two exclamation points each quarter, Mr. S?” (Almost nobody can pronounce Schillig without making it sound like Austrian currency, so Mr. S is acceptable shorthand. Maybe I should change my name to Euro.)
Yes, it’s true I inform some students that they can use three exclamation points a year, some four. In a moment of unexpected largesse, I once offered up five, which is unbridled craziness.
The exact number doesn’t matter as much as the expectation that budding writers think of the exclamation point as an endangered species (something to be cherished) or a rich dessert (something to be enjoyed only occasionally). To throw in one more metaphor, if periods are common nails of the punctuation toolbox, then exclamation points are drywall screws — expensive, more difficult to use, and appropriate for only certain types of sentences and situations.
If a piece of information is so earthshaking that it will rattle the souls of all who read it, an exclamation point is warranted. “Martians Invade!” or “World Ends!” are such headlines. “Mary’s dating Tom again!” is not, in most cases — unless you’re Mary or Tom.
Short of impending, immediate violence — “I’ll kill you!” — most exclamation points are unnecessary. If you’ve written a piece well, the emotion is conveyed without the need for special punctuation, and readers are better served by deciding for themselves how much emotion a given statement deserves.
I also make it clear to students that no matter how many exclamation points I allow them, under no circumstances should the marks be used simultaneously. Even “World Ends!” doesn’t merit two exclamation points, because what do you do you write the next day? “World Returns!!”?
For the record, I must also acknowledge my own hypocrisy. While I am a card-carrying member of the Anti-Exclamation League, I am simultaneously and contradictorily a member of the slippery Emoticons Embracers Ltd. (EEL), which supports the use of smiley faces and sad faces created with punctuation. So recipients of my electronic messages are often besieged with or — but never or because I find noses to be a waste of perfectly good hyphens.
Now, granted, I never use emoticons in serious writing, where I want words alone to represent me. But email and texting are different: They’re kissing cousins to verbal communication, where audiences often derive meaning from a speaker’s facial expressions or hand gestures. Minus these, the well-placed smiley face does yeoman’s work. A reader may be offended by “You’re crazy,” but never by “You’re crazy :),” which excuses a multitude of linguistic sins.
In other words, I’m not going to risk an angry spouse by typing “What a stupid idea” in a text message when I can instead put, “What a stupid idea :)” and provide myself with an automatic JK defense, which is admissible in most courts.
(I’ve never had a chance to use it in writing, but I’m fascinated by the emoticon for Slash, the ex-guitar player of Guns N’ Roses, which looks like this: iiii];) and represents the guitarist’s signature hat and cigarette, but only if you cock your head like the RCA dog can you see it.)
Further examples of hypocrisy can be found in my hatred of all instant-message abbreviations, including LOL, B4N, IMHO, NSFW, YOLO and the above-mentioned JK.* None of these aids communication; they are shortcuts for lazy writers, an argument that could also be made for emoticons. Hence, the hypocrisy.
So to summarize my writing advice in reverse order: don’t use abbreviations, emoticons are OK unless you’re writing the Great American Novel or a formal paper, and go easy on the exclamation points, to the tune of about two a year (unless I’ve told you more at another time).
Otherwise, you will incur the wrath of an English teacher!!! Or at least one’s righteous indignation. Well, this one’s, anyway.
@cschillig on Twitter
*For the Internet illiterate, these are laugh out loud, ‘bye for now, in my honest opinion, not safe for work (an off-color joke, for example), you only live once and just kidding.
Originally published July 5, 2012, in The Alliance Review.
The world’s gone and caught the shutter bug.
Statistics are hard to come by, but humanity has captured north of 3.5 trillion photos since the dawn of the daguerreotype in 1838, according to the 1000 Memories organization, which estimates that we add 375 billion new photos annually in this, the age of digital photography. 1000 Memories also estimates that 20 percent of all digital photos will end up in the same place, Facebook, which has a collection 10,000 times larger than the Library of Congress. (These statistics are from a blog entry in September, so figures have grown since.)
Now, I have a hard time wrapping my brain around numbers much larger than three. Many people share my problem, as witnessed by the popularity of trios such as the Three Bears, Three Blind Mice, Three Little Pigs, Three Wise Men, Three Stooges, and Peter, Paul and Mary, not to mention the cherished theory that famous people die in threes. So imagining 3.5 trillion photos is daunting, although it’s dwarfed by the $15 trillion national debt, which makes my head hurt even more. But it’s believable — society’s photo mania, not the national debt — when you consider it anecdotally. My wife and I spent last week in Washington, D.C., where we were the only tourists not making love to cameras every waking moment.
Wherever we went, visitors were snapping pictures — of monuments, of each other, and of each other in front of monuments. If they had confined themselves to such photos, it would be understandable. But they didn’t. When they finished with monuments, they focused on crazy stuff, like squirrels hopping across the National Mall, or empty park benches.
Everywhere I stepped, I ruined somebody’s picture. Like some demented mime display of the stop, drop and roll creed, people in front of me plunged to the ground or Tebowed to find the perfect angle of sunlight glinting off a nearby hot dog vendor’s cart, or stepped into traffic to capture motorcycles rumbling along Constitution Avenue.
Some people obviously believe a camera slung around the neck confers immunity from injury, that it won’t hurt to be run over by a Harley Davidson as long as you get a picture of it on your way to the pavement and the emergency room.
One old man in the Museum of Natural History wouldn’t rest until he had taken a photo of his companion in front of a stuffed black bear behind glass, even though the light from his flash bounced off the display case and surely ruined the shot, and his strategic placement in the middle of the room blocked dozens of other visitors.
Look, we all have our individual quirks and obsessions, but unless these guys were naturalists who had made Ursus americanus their life’s work, they tied up museum traffic for no reason.
Back when each image cost money to develop, such unimportant pictures would die stillborn in the amateur photographer’s imagination. Readers of a certain age can remember the role the number 24 played in photography — 24 shots on a standard roll of 35-millimeter film (sometimes 27, if you were lucky). Having a finite number meant you self-edited before pressing the shutter button. If I take 24 pictures of a display case full of brochures at the hotel, then I won’t have any left for George Washington’s false teeth on display in Mount Vernon. (By the way, taking pictures of Washington’s teeth is strictly prohibited.)
Today’s photographers needn’t worry about self-editing. We fire at will as we march bravely toward 4, 5, and 6 trillion pictures, snapping more images in two minutes than the entire human race throughout the 1800s and compulsively loading them to Facebook, so our friends know we are on vacation and that our houses can be pillaged at will.
One of my favorite memories of this year’s vacation is the photographer in a subway tunnel, standing 6 inches from a poster of a watercolor painting that advertised an art show, snapping and re-snapping and complaining about glare.
A few dozen steps would have put him on the subway, where he could have gone to see the painting itself for free.
Now that’s a guy who’s sick in the head for pictures.
@cschillig on Twitter