Next you'll tell me that man can fly!

Where's this blog been? Who knows? I'll just pretend like I just got back from the bathroom.

For someone who is so very geeky in so many ways, I have always fallen short in one department: gadgetry. While I can certainly appreciate a good gadget, I've never been an early adopter, in part because, etched deep within my bones, I have a cheapskateness that prevents me from going out and plunking down money (that I might not technically have anyway) on some new-fan-dangled whatsit. I didn't even have a mobile phone until 2004, and since then my phone has always just been, in the words of Farva from Super Troopers, "whatever's free." Furthermore, I've always regarded Smartphone-ism much like I view other religions/sects: you are free to practice, but I have no desire to join you or to discuss your beliefs.

But recently the eminently practical Mrs. Workerbot (rightly) decided that I should live in the actual 21st century, at least telephonically. To that end, she has kindly provided me, on the occasion of my recent birthday, with one of these. (She has, however, allowed me to keep the muttonchops and to continue using the exclamation "My stars and garters!")

She also got a G2 for herself, which means she no longer carries around a personal (dumb) phone and a work Blackberry -- which is a good thing. The choice of phone was motivated primarily by these facts:
1) She is a T-Mobile customer and wanted to remain one (we're on a "family plan" now! that means we're a family!),
2) I was an AT&T customer and just didn't care one way or the other, and
3) this seemed to be the best phone that T-Mob offers.
(Also, 4) We want the same phone so we can be super matchy-matchy. We're a family!)

I won't be inflicting a super-detailed Engadget-style review on anyone, nor trying to convert new followers. Let the iPhoners and the Droidites and so on continue to live and worship in peace, I say. With those disclaimers, here are my reactions.

I've had the G2 all of five days now, and so far, so good -- though I should say that my expectations are low, never having carried around a tiny computer ... in my pants. It does the things that I consider important and/or relevant to me, and the Google integration is a natural extension of my existing deep dependence on the Googs as my Cloud Brain. It does these important/relevant things well enough that I don't be angry and make smash.

Call quality: uh ... it has ... some? I hate talking on the phone so much that it doesn't really matter. Any time I'm on a call, all I can hear is a mosquito-whine voice in my head saying "You suck at talking on the phone! Why don't you see if you can sound even more awkward? Maybe stumble over a common figure of speech that normal people could enunciate clearly even while sleeping on their stomachs. Perrrrrfect." So ... sure, call quality is fine for that.

Speed of Internetting: seems good most of the time. Who knows? I never had one before. T-Mobile has some upgraded, acronym-denoted network thing that is apparently not everywhere. All I know is, when I see a little "H" on my status bar, it means "Here be faster network speeds." When I see a "G," it means "Go stand somewhere else if you want to send that e-mail." When I see "E," it means "Even unto Bethlehem will this data pass before it reaches you, but reach you it shall." I haven't seen any other letters, and I don't want to.

Heaviness: it is heavy. However, I do not anticipate musculo-skeletal impairment or disfigurement, nor exhaustion from use.

Typing: The Swype thing -- where you just move your fingers over all the letters in a word without lifting it -- is crazy fast. It successfully recognizes/guesses when you mean to type words like "perfection" and "backflips" and "hellspawn." Actually, I made that last one up. (Instant test results: it thinks I meant to type "Helen." Oh well. That's kind of cute.)

App selection: I haven't yet thought "You know what I want? An app that toasts bread," then been disappointed when there wasn't one, and shaken my fist in the air uttering curses and deprecations against all iPhone users, whiling away the idyllic hours in their toast-filled Elysium. Again, my expectations are low right now, and maybe one day I'll have a fist-shaking, where's-my-toast moment. But so far I am satisfied with the apps available to me.

Verdict: This 21st Century of yours isn't so bad. A man could get used to it. Thank you, Mrs. Workerbot. You Told Me So.

Now, regarding matters non-telephonic: tell me, have we subjugated the Hottentots, or do they yet pain the Kaiser's armies, as does a thorn in the paw of a great lion?

Mowing the Lawn, Part III

Click to embiggen:

Non Sequiter I: Evolution

by Geaf & Sam


Saxophone
a musical instrument
Sexo Foan
a musical instrument
Sex-o-phonic Horn
a musical instrument
Intercourse Blaster
a musical instrument

The Digital Cash Cow and Those Who Would Milk It to Death

Never let it be said that video game publishers are bad at finding the "Withdrawal" button on a cash machine. Large game companies, second only to the people who brought us the Sweet Valley High books, are truly superb at churning out sequels to successful titles well past the point at which there are any interesting stories left to tell in the franchise. Far be it from me to tell them not to sell a product that people will still pay money for. Hooray capitalism and all that. It's just that sometimes it feels like the beautiful new growth on the forest floor is getting smothered by all the big recycled trees -- like this year's bestselling entries, Pine 2010, Birch: Redux, and Oak 8: The Oakening.

Sam and Grookey were Arguing On The Internet recently about this very issue.

Actual Man's Work for Actual Men

(Thanks to Sam and Grookey for their contributions to this post.)

When I was a boy, neither I nor anyone I knew ever said, "When I grow up, I want to be the kind of man who excels at killing spiders." Some of us may have enjoyed killing or otherwise utilizing spiders for our own youthful purposes, but our fantasies of grown-up freedom and manhood were probably not built around dead arachnids. Secret agents, pirates, and superheroes do not kill spiders -- they are killers of men. They have adventures; they buckle swashes; they conduct daring night-time missions. That's what most of us wanted. We wanted an adult life filled with missions.

Then we grew up, and we looked around and realized that we weren't buckling any swashes. There was a distinct lack of espionage. For most of us -- those of us who are not professional daredevils -- we spend exactly zero minutes of our week jumping cars over other cars, or over any objects at all. Where did our missions go?

The Novelty Trap

Sam just wrote a couple of posts about mowing the lawn.  This happens to be one of the chores with which I have the very worst associations.  I think of hot, humid southern summers, dust & clippings blowing in my eyes, and the invariably negative judgment of my stepfather-at-the-time of anything that I did yard work-wise.  (Not perfect enough.  Do again.)

Far be it from me to dissuade Sam from his enjoyment of mowing the lawn.  But I did worry, reading his post, that he was falling into the Novelty Trap.  (Sam has gone and added an asterisk to his enjoyment of lawn-mowing!  Whatever.  I soldier on.)

Mowing the Lawn, Part II - The Epiphany

While I was mowing the lawn, as referenced in Mowing the Lawn, Part I, I had some time to think about an argument I had with my girlfriend. I thought a more detailed account would be worthwhile, so here it is.

Mowing the Lawn, Part I

It really is a strange thing to enjoy mowing the lawn - it's such a process! You begin by getting out of your chair, putting on underpants, maybe some shorts or other outer-garment (so as to not offend passersby), shoes (so you don't cut your baby-soft feet on sharp blades of grass) and a T-Shirt or "wife-beater." You may go topless if desired, but consider two things: sunburn on your pale, defenseless skin, and neighbors seeing your pasty-white glory in its near entirety. Make your choice. Then go out to your garage or shed to get out your mowing apparatus. Unless you are like Geaf and have put your hard-earned cash into an awesome, electric lawnmower which stealthily glides through the yard, you should already have a fuel container and/or a full tank in your mower. You pull it out into the yard. You start it up. You're mowing the lawn.

If not work, then what?

I had a conversation with my carpool passenger last night about the problem of defining yourself through your work.  The only reliable conversation starter we have that seems to work in any situation in which we find ourselves is "So ... what do you do?"  (Allow me to make explicit what is implicit in this conversation:  we require a plan for social interactions.)  There are two big problems with this opener.

A short exchange of very great importance

(09:38:39 AM) Sam: Work: DO NOT WANT
(09:38:50 AM) Sam: Mony: WANT
(09:38:55 AM) geaf: yes
(09:38:59 AM) geaf: that is the dilemma

A Statement of Purpose.

Most nerds never grow up. At least not entirely. Boy nerds, especially, even as we learn to speak, understand, and think as men, never seem to put away childish things. There are the collectors -- whose still-in-the-box action figures will always adorn every available surface of at least one room of their house. There are the gearheads -- a special kind of nerd whose affinity for all things gasoline-fueled seems more socially acceptable, but is no less consuming. And, of course, there are the gamers. (The older we get, the better the video games are, so why would we give them up now? Imagine the games we'll have in 10 years! And, my god, the screens they'll be displayed on!)

But life, as we're sure John Lennon would have said if he were around, is what happens while you're busy making plans for another Molten Core raid.

Eventually, for most of us, the rest of the world does intrude upon our carefully constructed Fortresses of Nerdy Solitude. We have to move away from the parental nest -- and, hey, more room for X-Men figures once we do. We have to get jobs -- and, hey, more money for after-market enhancements. And then there are the women*. Dear lord, the women*. If we're lucky, we find partners who will tolerate our nerdiness. If we're really lucky, we find partners who will indulge or share it -- but only to a point and, past that point, will remind us that there is a world outside of our nerdy obsessions that we should probably spend some time thinking about and doing things in.

So we take off our Metaverse goggles and move out into the real world beyond ourselves. We live among its people, learning their often-inscrutable ways so that we might one day rise up, overtake them and commandeer their toys. We work at their places of "business," we make "friends," and occasionally we are allowed to procreate, which is, dear reader, as terrifying a prospect for us as it must be for you after getting this far.

This blog is about the terrible pains and indescribable joys of that transition: from boys, to older, slightly taller and heavier boys, and maybe even to men, with (if we play our cards right) more money for our nerd hobbies, but probably less time to savor them. Most of us haven't reached the end of that road yet -- and we might never. But we're on our way there, and we have resolved to share some notes from the journey. We hope that these charts of our metamorphoses from nerdling larvae to full-fledged adult nerds may help others avoid some of the mistakes we made along the way, or at least appreciate the humor in some of those mistakes. We will also be providing some light reading material along the way. Expect some game reviews, discussions about technology and maybe a handful of societal examinations -- ultimately just whatever we decide to write about.

Please enjoy.*

* Or whatever