Typing Out Loud

I look at nearly everythng in my life by one measure: is it maintenance-free? And if it’s not totally free from maintenance, how much maintenance does it require?

While I admit to not being the most get-up-and-go type of dude, my aversion to maintenance is not due to laziness. Part of it is the result of a realistic understanding of what it’s like to get old. The maintenance requirements that surround us are simply evil serpents waiting to attack us when we’re old, weak and feeble. Or before if we’re distracted by an episode of CSI.

Now, some maintenance tasks are more wicked than others. For example, maintenance that carries relatively minor inconvenience and cost, isn’t too bad. But maintenance that comes with the risk getting splinters or costs enough to make you think about the laws you could have broken with the money, that’s pure evil.

Have you ever considered all of the maintenance tasks we are supposed to do in any given month? If we did everything we’re supposed to do, we’d do nothing but maintain crap so it continues to function – but we’d never use the crap for its intended purpose.

Let’s take a look at the oil change. It’s not too expensive (except for my Hemi-powered pickup which drinks oil not in quarts but in gallons). With places like Jiffy Lube and Uncle Ed’s, it’s not very inconvenient. I can easily understand the need and importance of this chore. So it’s a part of life that I accept. Besides, the magazines at Jiffy Lube are pretty good.

Now the exterior covering on my house is a different matter. Fortunately we have a wide variety of materials for this job that don’t require maintenance. Aluminum, vinyl, brick, stucco, concrete: lots of ways to slay the maintenance dragon. Painting and caulking a house, well, that’s a nasty kind of business.

On the one hand, it’s a lot of hard work and costs large amounts of money. And when I’m 107 there’s no way I’m doing it myself. Not to mention that I will probably be grasping my last nickel and prunes will be my preferred purchase, not a gallon of Glidden.

And even if you’re Mr. DIY, be honest. You’re not going to paint and caulk around the windows. You’ll always find something more fun and interesting to do, like clean the link trap on the clothes dryer. And before you know it, you’ve got rotting window sills and cracked siding.

For a few dozen years now, my dream home has been one that is made from poured concrete using insulating concrete forms (http://www.polysteel.com). The exterior of those forms should be clad with concrete logs (http://everlogs.com). Add vinyl windows and you’ve got a house that will last, is quite, efficient and requires no exterior maintenance. Yes, you’ll probably have to replace shingles once. But with a structure like this you’re eliminating the painting and caulking. Not to mention you don’t have to deal with rot and the creepy crawlies that like to gnaw on your pine.

Every little task that you can eliminate helps. Just consider this non-exhaustive, though exhausting, list of things that we “should” be doing that we probably aren’t doing:

・ rotate tires

・ check air pressure in tires at each fill-up

・ check wiper blades at each fill-up

・ check oil at each fill-up

・ check coolant at each fill-up

・ check windshield washer fluid at each fill-up

・ check security of shoe laces at lunchtime

・ lubricate all your hinges every six months

・ clean out the aerators on all your faucets every six months

・ lubricate the wheels on your lawnmower every year

・ lubricate the chain on your bicycle every year

・ lubricate those little wheels on your garage door every six months

・ lather, rinse and repeat

・ use compressed air to blow out the fans on your computers every month (more if you have creatures without opposable thumbs living in your house)

・ apply furniture oil to your wood furniture each quarter

・ check your credit report each year

・ change batteries in smoke and radon detectors each year

・ trim your wicks

・ sweep your chimney annually

・ clean the burner on your furnace annually

・ change the oil on your power equipment (yes, the lawn mower needs an oil and filter change each year, too)

・ review your will each year

・ update your resume each year

・ floss

So call me lazy, but all this stuff is just too bogus in my book. And when I’m old I want to be able to enjoy my rocker and a good read or some heavy metal on the headphones. I don’t want to be oiling the tranny on my wheelchair.

I have just returned from a weekend in Montreal, Quebec, Canada.

I live in (near) Provo, Utah.

That’s nearly a full day of travel, by air, in each direction.

That’s right.

A weekend.

I flew up there on Friday, returned on Sunday. (Well, the 757 flew, I was merely along for the ride).

The occasion of this semi-insane travel schedule was what my sister in-law had termed her Big Fat Romanian Baptism. This because it was the occasion of her second-born’s christening.

I don’t consider myself to be a sophisticated world traveler by any stretch of the imagination. While I’ve made it to a few foreign lands, I spend most of my time on the couch in my home zip code. But when I do put my feet in motion and get my travel on, I do so with hopes of seeing new and interesting things and learning a thing or five.

The trip that I’ve just finished has been very stimulating to the thinky parts in my head. Usually those parts are consumed with mundane thoughts of kerning, point sizes, DPIs, variable scope and whether or not I left the keys in the car. But the past few days really got me thinking about myself, my history, the world, people, faith and whether or not the TSA dude left my wife in the full-body scan machine just a bit too long.

The following, potentially very-boring-to-you observations, come to me as I enjoy a frosty IPA and the quiet company of my amazing wife, Mrs. A, whose own personal journey through life amazes and humbles me on a regular basis.

IMMIGRANTS

My wife is from Romania. She immigrated to the United States about a dozen years ago and earned her citizenship. Her parents are still in Romania, but her sister and brother in-law chose Canada as their refuge from Romania. But that’s not really the beginning of the story for me when it comes to immigration. That story begins with my dad.

Most of us who live in these United States have a story of immigration somewhere behind us. That’s not unique. Experience has taught me that my story is very similar to perhaps tens of thousands of others. But my story is my story, important to me, and a part of the person I am today and will be tomorrow.

My dad was unique in a couple of ways. One is that he was 60 years old when I was born. (My mom was many decades younger then he, but that’s another book). And my dad was a child of German immigrants. He used to joke that he was born on the ship on the way over. That wasn’t technically true — he was born in Wisconsin. But he was born very soon after his parents arrived.

Dad was born in 1907. Life was just a little bit different in those days. But the part that is important to my story is that in those days there was no real effort made to integrate and assimilate immigrants. There was no language education. He went to school for a short time, but couldn’t understand what they were saying, so he simply stopped going.

Due to the severe abuse administered by his mother, dad ran from home about the time he turned 13. He simply walked away from the house and struck out on his own.

Nobody went looking for him. Life was simply too hard I guess. One less mouth to feed and worry about was a relief.

My dad became a hobo. He rode the rails, stealing rides on freight trains, living by his wits, drinking Sterno fuel in the winter to stay warm, doing odd jobs here and there. He told me that he only stole on very desperate occasions — he tried hard to find work to earn a dime.

During the years he picked up the language from the other men and boys on the trains. That was his language training. And he would tell me it’s how he learned to read people and understand them. He saw all types of men down on their luck and not finding their way. And it was his perception that in most cases these were good people who tried and failed. They weren’t bad, evil or criminal at their core. They had just been knocked down by cruel circumstance. Even by his death at age 87, he would have been considered illiterate. He could read bits and pieces, but wasn’t a reader. His skills with mathematics were impressive, however. He would amaze me with his ability to add and subtract a series of numbers in his head. His education was totally from the trial-and-error lessons of living and getting by. And a strong desire to improve himself. And his life.

When he retired he was the plant foreman at a paper company, earning a very good salary. Even during the Great Depression, he never lost his job. He credited the fact that he was a hard worker, who always did what he was asked to do, for saving him during that time of national hardship.

My growing-up years were totally framed by what it was to be an immigrant. I knew from my hard-working, honest and soft-spoken dad that being an immigrant is hard, hard, hard. Everything is foreign. People look like people, houses look like houses, food looks like food. But each is a different experience. There are subtle ways that locals assume, that foreigners must learn. Like a handshake when greeting someone versus a kiss on both cheeks. Like eating cheese with pancakes for breakfast, versus eggs and bacon. Like eating organ meats versus steaks from the best of the cow’s muscle.

The list of differences encountered when trying to integrate into a culture is long. The items on the list comprise everything from minor breezes to major craters in the road. Sometimes the differences and discoveries that an immigrant encounters are fun and exciting. More often they are difficult, humiliating and scary. And even after many years, they feel like outsiders looking in, not quite embraced by the place they want to call home.

So when I gathered with my Romanian relatives in Canada, I knew I’d be exposed to new and different customs. Particularly because at its heart was a religious ceremony and rite that is very foreign to my background. But it was more than that. So much more.

I am once again humbled and reminded of my dad after spending a few hours with some amazing people. My sister in-law and brother in-law have a story similar to my wife’s. They left a very repressive and corrupt system in Romania to find something better. The goal was simple: a place that gave them options to build something better for themselves. They expected to work hard and contribute, and they’ve done that by a great measure.

I met a man who is from Ukraine. Like my wife and her sister, he, too, was raised under Communism. His wife is from Romania. He knows several languages and spoke to me in English, seemingly without any effort. He had lived in Montreal but has recently moved to Toronto. Mind you, that’s AFTER leaving his home in Ukraine and changing countries.

This man, 40 years old and with a newborn, told me that he wasn’t happy with Montreal so he looked around and thought he’d try something else.

I complain when the traffic is backed up, when my job frustrates me or when the gas bill is higher than I expect. But here’s a guy who left his home, traveled to a foreign country where they didn’t even speak his language, and he started anew.

And then after several years of getting grounded in a new culture, he decided he wanted to change direction so he made another change. He remained in Canada, but left a society that is based on the French language, to one that primarily speaks English.

And smart! This guy was so fascinating! Very smart, friendly, conversational, approachable. Within a few minutes of meeting him and experiencing his open acceptance of me into the circle of friends, I was feeling like my little trip through life was but a trifle. It would seem logical, and understandable, if he had been timid, reserved, halting and unsure. But nothing could be further from the truth. Even in a secondary language, he was like a long lost friend.

After the formal religious ceremony, where he and his wife were the godparents, we went to a fine restaurant for dinner and dancing. He continued to make conversation with many people there and was interested in everyone’s story and experience and lives.

I met another man at the party who drives a cross-country semi truck. He, also, is from Romania and imigrated to Canada. He drives a truck from Canada to California. A hard job for any driver. But except for a slight accent, you might not know that he, too, was an immigrant.

I hope you “get” the importance here. Think about deciding one day that you’ve “had it” with whatever is going on in your own country. And not just the day-to-day frustrations of life. I’m talking about problems that are too much to live with. You must first take that mental step to determine that leaving is the answer. Then, of all the corners of the world, where? Once that is decided, then the steps required must be investigated, documented and followed.

The language you know: cast aside. The people you know, your friends, your family, the routine of your day-to-day life: gone, but for a chance! Just a chance, at something better. No guarantee that life will be better. No guarantee of success. To the odds makers in fact, everything is against you. And what are you after? Freedom. Options. Choices. Hope. Things the fortunate often take for granted.

And unlike the immigrants of my father’s generation that came to the States during a mass influx and with great fanfare, these folks are quietly showing up, taking their place and adding to the color, interest and strength of wherever they settle.

Could you do it? Would you do it? I don’t know if I could. I don’t know how bad it would need to get for me to consider it.

In some respect is makes me proud to be an American. But it’s less about being an American and more about my respect and admiration for people who DO something. They undertake incredible efforts to achieve the best life can offer them.

Maybe.

AIR TRAVEL

Almost any comedian who has been in front of at least one audience has some riff on air travel, airports and the absurdities that take place when one travels.

But in my most lofty opinion, those who devise airports, security processes and rules about how to behave in public, should spend an hour at the Pierre Elliott Trudeau airport in Montreal. I felt like I was cast in a science fiction movie with a substantial special effects budget. All that was missing was a shiny polyester jumpsuit to adorn my body.

What could make the experience so noteworthy?

For starters it was quiet. The airport is large and modern. And quiet like a library. And I’m not referring to a quiet like that in the kid’s wing of your local library. I’m thinking of something more like a university, academic facility. One of those old joints, with many feet of rocks and mortar making up the walls. That kind of quiet. Even though I tend towards exaggeration in my daily life, I am being dead serious when I tell you that my wife and I spoke to each other in hushed tones. It was quiet and, whether due to some Eau du Pinetree Mist that they pumped into the place or not, we wanted to keep it that way.

And clean, clean, clean. There weren’t fingerprints all over the surfaces (perhaps due in part to the fact that the people were so well-behaved that they weren’t pawing at the walls like they do in a Chicago or Detroit airport). The floors had no dust bunnies scurrying around. There were not any stacks of leftover reading materials nor sticky cups from fast food emporiums. It was just clean.

And the people. You could not have found a more orderly and considerate group of people if you had showed up at Emily Post’s for dinner. Young and old it didn’t matter. People waited their turn, they didn’t complain, they didn’t get all pissy because they had to take their shoes off. They just followed the rules, quietly and efficiently and even with the occasional smile. Americans, we’re a bunch of pompous arses. We are. You shan’t convince me otherwise.

I had my “papers” checked more in this airport than in any of my other travels. But it was done so quickly and efficiently (aided in most cases by the use of a handheld scanner, much like a grocery store’s pricing gun) that I barely noticed. Well, okay, I noticed because it was so unusually fast and thorough. Yet it never created a slowdown in traffic. Everyone kept moving along. And I actually had the sense that if Boogie Mann was on the loose, he wouldn’t make it past one of these capable security trolls with the scanning pistola.

And that still blows my mind. It’s a big airport. There were a lot of people. But because they were so well-behaved and because the layout of the facility and the systems were so well-planned, it never felt crowded.

Oh, the things we could learn! Now, I don’t want their socialized, wait-for-a-year-to-fix-my-heart-attack style of medical care, nor the Imperial Gallon nor the Quebecois bias. But these people from the land of the walleye fish and maple syrup surely have things to offer.

TECHNOLOGY

Like I said earlier, it has been a year since I’ve visited the angry airways. Wow, a lot has changed in a year.

A year ago I was hip and stylin’ with my Acer Aspire netbook. It’s a few years old now (I was a very early adopter), but what a nice little gadget to have when travelling. When I bought it I was thinking iPhone or netbook. I figured I’d rather have a real computer with larger screen. For travel it would be nice to watch a movie, read an ebook or do actual computer work. It has been great.

But this past weekend the preponderance of the devices was tablets. They were everywhere. And I see one huge marketing problem for the tech companies. The tablets are so small that you can’t see a logo or defining detail to know WHAT tablet device someone is using. I don’t know if I was looking at hardware from the evil fruit monger or from the boys Hewlett and Packard or from the child labor camp in downtown Slobovia. Someone should get right on that gap. I see the cool dude with the retro shades tableting away, and I want one! I just don’t know what it is.

But even though I like new tech, and I had thought of tablets in passing, after seeing them in the hands of creatures loosely characterized as humans, I am having thoughts anew.

I like the size and format. They’re thin and lightweight. But what struck me was that on all but the newest ones I saw, I could see every place the user commonly touched and dragged. The screen looked like a sandpaper test zone. I still think I’d like to take one for a spin, but unless they come down to under a hundred bucks or so, I think I’ll keep walking.

There was another type of technology that I had higher hopes for. That was the telephonic flight updates from Delta. My wife is signed up to get the updates. So throughout our journey, at seemingly the most peculiar times, the phone would ring and a message from Delta would be delivered.

The concept is, I think, a good one. If you’re a busy traveler it would be handy to know about changes in departure times, gates or the color of the blankets to be offered on an upcoming flight. And this programmer’s logic would lead me to believe that such updates would be the absolutest mostest currentest information. I don’t expect the gate printed on my boarding pass, half a day before my connection time, to be correct very often. But if Delta’s Cray in the sky calls the ringy-dingy little box in my wife’s purse, I’m thinking it’s got the details right! But once again I am proved incorrect. Wrong, in fact. It is perplexing and, to me, angering, that the phone message has the wrong gate information. In fact, the irony is ever more ironic in that we got the call while sitting in the gate area for the flight we were being called about. We sat there, like dumb lambs, looking at our aircraft and observing the sign by the door to said aircraft which clearly displayed our flight information. At the same time we listened to the little Delta lady telling us our connection was waiting for us at a totally different location.

Technology is just amazing.

As a concept.

POST TRAVEL

I like to travel. And I enjoy the planning and time just before a trip. And, except for depressing trips back home to Michigan, I usually have a grand time on the trip itself. But I surely do look forward to being home. Especially when I settle in to the seat on that last flight. I park my keister, make sure my seatbelt is fastened and my seat is in the full, upright position and I contemplate being home.

And home is freshly appreciated for the familiarity of it. No matter the warmth of my travel lodgings, nor the plushness of the hotels, my own hot shower and my own bed close the book on a chapter of travel.

And it’s in those unique periods of exhaustion that I rest and contemplate the marvel that is travel. I appreciate that I live in a country where travel is free. And even though our post-9/11 travel troubles continue to enflame my nerves, we are still free to roam hither and yon.

And I appreciate how easy the travel is. I mean, a hundred years ago the experience would have been far different. The time and money required would have been greater by many multiples. In fact, the difficulties in times past made such travel, in a practical sense, impossible.

Of course I fully appreciate that 100 years from now people will look back on episodes like my recent foray to the north lands and chuckle at my naiveté because that future traveler will simply wink and nod and be at any position in time. But life is what it is, and for that I am grateful.

Once again my status-quo has been challenged and I have peeked outside the cocoon. I’ve gotten to know new family members better, met some interesting new people, seen some new customs and methods. I appreciate the world in a deeper way as I do my humble home and my lifestyle and culture.

New.

Different.

That’s what travel is about for me. The new and different. Sometimes better, sometimes not. But the seeing, considering and taking in the lessons, that is what scratches the itch inside my soul.

I do not return things.

If I paid too much or it doesn’t fit or is somehow not right, I figure it’s my error and I go along on the trail of life with yet another lesson firmly locked away later to be forgotten.

But today my wife and I were at Bed Bath and Beyond.

Yep, I used their name.  I did!

And that’s where today’s tale originates.  But this is not a story about BB&B…it’s a more general story about how businesses view training.  It could be almost any retailer.  And in my experience, over time, it has been most retailers with whom I’ve done business.

Today’s adventure started shortly after we’d checked out.  We had purchased four items that were, we thought, clearly marked at $1.39 each.  After we’d paid and walked toward the parking lot, my wife checked the receipt thinking the total was high.  Well, it was too high.  Because each of the four items had charged to us at $1.99…a 60-cent difference per item.  Yep, that’s right, you did the math correctly:  over-charged by $2.40.  In the olden days that would have bought a gallon of gasoline.

In my single days I would have said a few bad words or kicked a pebble in the parking lot.  In my married days, my indignation over being wronged rose up with venom and I encouraged my wife to go back to the little people inside the store and make a scene.  A really big, loud scene!

Well, she didn’t want to make a scene, but she did want to go back in and check the sign to make sure we hadn’t mis-read it.  I was a little nervous about walking back through the store with our bag full of goods.  I was afraid we’d be shot as suspected shoplifters.  But my wife assured me that we didn’t need Kevlar, our receipt was protection enough.

We arrived  at the display and yes, we agreed, the sign was pretty clear that our items should have cost us $1.39…not the $1.99 that appeared on our receipt.

So off we trekked to the Customer Service counter where the sign indicated that we should  queue up to have the mistake handled.

We got in line behind a woman who was exchanging a set of bed linens — exchanging queen-sized for king-sized.   It didn’t take hours for me to determine that the employee behind the counter was a little green behind the gills.  She was polite and friendly, but seemed to flounder over the details of how to handle the woman’s transaction.

We waited, shifting our weight from foot to foot, waiting for our turn to present our case.

After a few weeks, it magically became our turn at bat.  My wife pleasantly explained that we had been overcharged, that the sign said the item was $1.39 but we had been charged $1.99.  The clerk was very confused.  She took our receipt and one of the items and read them both…including the bio-hazzard warnings and the first 11 chapters of War and Peace.  It appeared to me that she sorta, kinda, in a vague way, knew what she needed to do, but didn’t quite know what buttons to push on the computer to make it all become a living reality.

What transpired during the next many minutes was mildly painful:  for us and the clerk.  She inquired of approximately five co-workers for information on what she needed to do.  The most-helpful clerk nearby stated that she needed to push Department 009 and then pro-rate the coupon and factor in the binary rate of taxation recovery and the bogus-charge-reduction-fee and the hazardous waste disposal fee and the electrical use rebate….  Oy, what a bunch of buttons she was told to push!

Then she got stuck.  She had all kinds of help from her colleagues to tell her which of the myriad and non-sensical buttons to push and paper forms to complete, but yet she was confused.

She didn’t quite comprehend the phrase on the receipt that read:  “4 @ $1.99”.  My wife kindly explained that we had purchased four copies of the item, at $1.99 per item.

“Aha!” the gal exclaimed.  NOW it all made sense to her.  She was so proud, and who could blame her?

Her next step was to verify that we weren’t liars by calling on the two-way radio to the “Soft Goods Department” to enquire as to the per-item price that was shown on the sign.  This took multiple tries as the soft-goods person couldn’t hear her clearly, and she could hear the responses from the soft-goods person clearly, either.  At day’s long end it was determined that we were honest people and that we merely wanted our $2.40 returned to us.

But we weren’t yet on our way to an enjoyable late lunch.  No, now she had to push the buttons that would actually record the error and get us our refund.  That took many more minutes.  Oh, and we couldn’t have the debit to our debit card “fixed”…no, she had to give us cash in return.  This was because we’d used a debit card.  Presumably if we’d used shells and chickens, she could have credited our account.

All this took place in a fairly busy store, with many people in line behind us, and many “managers” milling about, helping out with one question at a time rather than stepping in to service the customer and get us all on our ways.

I’m sure by now you can appreciate that I was a little torqued off.

Where’s the training!?  I know, it’s not cost-effective to properly train employees.  But is it cost-effective NOT to train them?  This poor kid was in front of a bunch of people who were more impatient by the second.  She was doing her best to figure out the process (and she was smart and friendly and professional — I am NOT in ANY way criticizing her).  But she didn’t know what to do because, I suspect, this was her very first time dealing with a transaction of this nature.  That should never happen!  There should be some formal training before someone is dropped into the den of wolves that is the public.

I firmly believe that this poor child was hired on Tuesday and the person hiring her, after asking her to complete the W-4, put her with another employee and said “Watch and learn.”

That is simply not right.

Especially for a large, national company like this.  They should have online training.  Training should include a visual of the cash register showing how to process any transaction.  And lessons should teach how to handle returns, refunds, exchanges and split transactions.  It doesn’t serve the business, the customer nor the employee to have them wallow in confusion and frustration.  Spend a few hours to TRAIN them so that they can confidently handle the job.  I know it wasn’t Susie Salesperson’s fault — it was the fault of the system that failed to train her and prepare her for her job.

I’ll think two or five times about going back to Bed, Bath and Beyond.  Not because they overcharged us by $2.40.  But because they made us stand at the Customer Service counter for 15 minutes of our lives while the whole world continued to spin out there.  It was painful.

To me it seems so simple.  If I were to hire someone, I would not want them to represent me, my business, my metrics and my potential bonus until they understood how to use my computer system and hot to process the majority of transactions that they may see.  It’s laziness, in my opinion.  Training takes some time and it’s an investment in doing business.  Do it, people.  Train employees, give them confidence, give them the ability to put the best face on your business.  Your cashiers and customer service people are the front lines of your business.

Please don’t just put  humans out there with every inclination toward failure.  Rather, give them every tool to help them, and you, succeed.

It all seems so simple to me.

When I was a kid we got three channels on the TV.

Three channels on a good day.

Three channels if the weather was just right.

My dad was what today we call an “early adopter” of TV technology. I have photos that he took in the mid-’40s when he got his first television. The pictures are of a test pattern being broadcast from across Lake Michigan in Chicago. It was the middle of the day and the only “programming” was a test pattern. And he was thrilled to have it.

From the TV in his living room to wires through the wall to a big aerial on a pole, he was pulling in signal from across the waters.

Decades later in another house and with a different set, he had connected an aerial to our house, complete with a “rotator” that would control a motor to rotate the antenna for the best reception. Only problem was, living in the boondocks like we did, the “best” reception was not much different from the “bad” reception.

From our home in rural Michigan I yearned for TV from Grand Rapids. We could pick up, though weakly, the NBC station in G.R. But the ABC station only visited our living room on those rare occasions when sun, moon and karma aligned.

All that said, we did have TV. I still got my TV and developed my addiction early. Whether it was The Muppet Show, Space 1999 or Ironside, I yearned for whatever the magical box had to offer.

I have memories of going with my dad to Radio Shack to test tubes and get replacements. I always hoped that replacing just the right tube would bring a clearer picture, brighter colors and less interference.

It was not to be.

My aunt and uncle who live in Grand Rapids had early cable television. Even though the only thing their household was interested in on TV was sports, I would look forward to the crystal picture they’d get. I didn’t care about the food, pool table or other activities going on as long as I could have access to the cable tuner (which was a metal box with a lever that slid left and right to select channels – all of which was connected to the wall with a big, heavy cable).

When it was time to get my own apartment, the top requirement on the list was access to cable. Cable. It’s a very generic word but in our culture has come to mean a service and technology of delivering high quality television programming. It’s such a simple word but I still very much remember the excitement that built as moving day approached.

I was working for low wages at a newspaper, going to college part-time and making a car payment. But after having signed a deal for about the cheapest apartment in town, I went to Montgomery Ward to buy myself a TV. I was still living with my parents then and took it home where my dad and I admired it. It was connected to nothing and still had Styrofoam clinging to it, but was admired the possibilities that it had to offer.

On moving day I couldn’t wait to finish unloading crap into the apartment. Everything was hastily brought in but the primary thing to unpack and set up was the TV and the cable.

It was like stepping into some other form of reality. From the perfect picture and sound to the variety of new and interesting programs, life took on new meaning on that day.

Years passed and I later added satellite TV to my life. I started with DirectTV and later ended up with DishNetwork. Yep, I’m one of those junkies that has a $100+ monthly bill for programming. In fact the package I subscribe to is called “The Everything Pack.” So, apart from the porn and NFL channels, I get it all.

Tonight we turned the TV off because there was “nothing on.” That of course isn’t strictly true. There are thousands of options at this very moment, but nothing that interests us. Or that is fresh and new.

And we’ve got a digital video recorder (DVR) with many dozens of hours of programs on it. But none of those are a fit for our current mood.

So, yeah, like The Boss says, “57 (or 100s) of channels and nothing on.”

They now offer streaming services that allow you to order up programs on demand. But so far that has held little appeal for me. I want new stuff. I don’t want a rerun or a movie. I want a good 30-minute episode of “something good.” So until they invent the type of artificial intelligence that knows what mood I’m in and what type of action/drama/comedy/adventure escape my mind desires, I’m still stuck.

So decades have passed and technology has taken great leaps, but am I really any more ahead now than back when The Waltons was ending and I found nothing else on the aerial? Maybe not…but I still want my MTV.

Legalize all drugs.

There, I said it.

I’ve wanted to say that for a long time.

We’ve been fighting drugs for, well, seems like forever.  We haven’t won.

We have various forms of incidental crime related to illegal drugs.  Of course those who CHOOSE to use these dangerous drugs face a variety of ill effects on their health and life.

I’d be willing to bet, however,  that more people get personally tripped up by abusing a LEGAL drug like alcohol.  Maybe we should try making alcohol illegal, too and save all those alcohol abusers.  Oh, wait, yeah, Prohibition….

I’m not going to vent today about legalizing drugs, though I think we should do so (we’ve had NyQuil for years now, what’s a little cocaine?).  My overall gripe today is with the government protecting us from ourselves.  It tries to protect us from what it perceives as the evils we might willfully or accidentally cause to rain down upon our poor selves.

I frequently hear about laws that irk me but one that recently passed in California really got my goat (fortunately for me, I didn’t have a goat to begin with).

Even though the headline, San Francisco bans Happy Meals, in the November 2, 2010 edition of the  Los Angeles Times, is not entirely accurate, the truth is that San Francisco has made a law to change the way we eat.

In summary the law says that if a restaurant wants to give away a toy with a meal, it must adhere to certain food content rules.  For example, if the meal doesn’t include fruit, then ankle-biters in that town won’t get some cross-promoted movie-based action figure to lose between the seats of the minivan.

The city council in San Francisco states that they want to improve the health of kids; keep them from becoming obese.  That’s probably not a bad goal.  But is it a problem government should try to fix? Isn’t it the job of parents to not fatten their children so that they become mistaken for some holiday bird, sans feathers?  I know that’s a big leap of logic.  Especially considering that I observe most parents yacking on their phones whilst their short people cavort in piles of razor blades.

Having a toy with a meal that isn’t primarily twigs and berries is not going to be some magic bullet against obesity.  I don’t believe even one child will be steered away from obesity because of this new law.

In a free society I think it is required that the citizens take responsibility for themselves and their actions.  If you stick your hand under a running lawn mower to clear wet grass and you lose a digit or five, that is entirely your fault.  Not the fault of the people who made the machine.  Not the fault of the government.  Not the fault of Bubba at the hardware store.  Not the fault of your dog.  Your fault.  And because you did something stupid does not mean we need a law requiring blade-stop devices on all lawnmowers.

I’ve often wondered how much that law has cost us.  Anyone who purchased a mower since the law went into effect had to pay extra to protect the masses.  And the country has lost the great convenience of being able to stop pushing the mower, go move a rock out of the way, and immediately come back to mowing.  Now I’m more likely to take my chances over the rock, perhaps busting out neighbor McCrotchet’s window in the process.  I’m more worried that I won’t be able to re-start the machine after the anti-finger-amputation-safety-device has killed the engine.

And of course there’s the example, also from the Golden Arches, of the hot coffee that burned a woman when it spilled on her.  Perhaps the lasting impact of this one is more trivial, but I sometimes chuckle, sometimes roll my eyes, when I see the warning “CONTENTS MAY BE HOT” on disposable beverage-ware.   But it’s rather sickening that such an episode took place, that courts, and judges and law firms allowed and encouraged it.  Now you can’t put out a beverage cup without warnings.   How far are we from a warning like “CONTENTS MAY BE YUMMY”, lest some errant consumer suffer a heart attack  due to immense palette pleasure.

This morning my wife and I were backing out of the garage, on our way to get groceries.  We waited in the driveway several seconds to make sure the bright sun didn’t fool the infrared safety sensors, causing the door to re-open.  This got me all peeved and annoyed anew.

Decades ago in my time upon this planet, I had a new house and new garage door opener.  This was before the government decided that it was a bad thing for children and other small animals to be severed by rogue garage doors…and thus made laws to make them safe for stupid people.  Back then I could start the door on its dance of opening or closing and press the button again, causing the door to stop in its tracks (that was a pun).

That made it nice to leave the door open a little bit for light or ventiliation, without having the door completely open for neighbors to see what debauchery was underway in my garage.

But now I don’t have the luxury of stopping the garage door partway.  Nor can I assume the door will close when I tell it to because the sun may be telling that safety beam that some rugrat is napping in the path of my garage guillotine.  And 37.9% of the time I have to go stand like a dork to block the sun so that I can get the door to close.

But this childless family has been so thoroughly and graciously protected by their government.  We can walk to and fro freely, without fear of being sliced into new shapes by the Genie overhead.

It just seems so totally absurd to me, yet it continues.  And the Happy Meal law is just the most amazing joke…but I’m not laughing.

In this wreckless writer’s view, if you do something dumb and stupid and something bad happens to you as a result, that’s unfortunate.  It’s sad.  I might cringe at the news, feel sorry for you or shed a tear.  But that doesn’t mean the government should step in and make a law to prevent it from ever happening again.  People will hurt themselves.  It happens.  Life is dangerous.

I can spend my entire life being protected from the evil Happy Meal only to die at the hand astronomic debris falling from the sky.  Either way I’m messed up.

So my dear government, of the people, by the people and for the people, pull back the reigns.  “Govern” less.  Do as little as possible.  Perhaps all government should follow the motto of physicians and “First, do no harm….”

Where did I put my C3PO toy…?

I love me some books.

Yes, I’m bookish.

I read about a book a week.

Almost exclusively it’s fiction.

It’s a pretty expensive pastime.  I almost never give it a thought because I absolutely enjoy reading and relaxing at night.  And I look forward to regular trips to Barnes and Noble to browse, drink a coffee and take in the atmosphere.  It makes me happy.

But it’s pricey and I’ve got a library just a couple of miles from my new house.  I’ve driven by a few times and it really looked like a kid-focused library.  And if you know me much at all, you know Aaron and kids are like oil and water…with a little TNT thrown in.

But I checked out the website for the library and they had a nice rotating banner showing the new books that had just arrived.  They were all adult-oriented books, including the latest from Clive Cussler, an author I often enjoy.

So after work yesterday I went to check it out.

The parking area was pretty full, but I was lucky to find a spot.

The library sits nearly in the center of an open, grassy square near the center of town, across from City Hall.  There is a water feature, a few small trees and some planting beds.

The building, made of tan-colored brick, sits squat and low to the ground and has a flat roof.  The plaque on the side of the building indicates it was built in 1965.  It fits that time period.  But it looks, in terms of condition, like it was completed just a few years ago.

When I walked in my ears were assaulted with the sounds of crying, loud children.  Little feet, many with those irritating sneakers that have the flashing lights in them, were charging about.  Parents, standing nearby, in the modern tradition, were clueless and mindless to the chaos created by their seed.

My confidence was boosted by the belief that I could take most of them in a fair fight, I pressed through the milling short creatures and entered the facility.

What a nice place.  Again, it looks like it has been very well cared for.  There is a skylight in the center of the building with plenty of oak woodwork all around.  And the place is clean, uncluttered and just felt nice.

It’s a small town. It’s a small library.  But nice.

All of the “children’s” stuff is downstairs.  I didn’t learn that through the help of any signage.  No, I found it out by accident by actually going down the stairs.  To the children’s section.

Yeah.

I can only imagine what onlookers imagined as they saw this odd-looking, 43-year-old bald guy reach the bottom of the stairs and all but soar back the way he came.  It was a close call.

So back on the main level I milled about for a little bit to make a determination if this was a library that I could use.  I found books by familiar authors, a nice little collection of DVDs and magazines and such.  Plus I had already learned that by being a library patron, I could access a lot of nifty-looking sources online.  So I took a place in the queue at the counter to get my library card and associated privileges therewith bestowed.

“How may I help you?” the lady behind the counter inquired.

“I’d like to get a library card.” I replied.

“Have you ever had a card with us before?” She asked.

“No, I’ve recently moved here.” I said.

“Have you, or anyone in your family, filled out the paperwork already?” She queried.

“No.” I said.

“Are you sure?” She asked.

“I’m sure.” I said.

“Okay, I just hate to see someone fill it out twice.”  She said.  “Okay, we’ll need a picture I.D. with your current Spanish Fork address and some other identification.” She said.

I handed her my driver’s license and asked “Do you need something else besides a driver’s license?”  I wondered what else they would possibly need.

“We need something with your address on it, like a magazine subscription or something.” She responded, taking my driver’s license in her hand.

My tired mind started to process the new data.  I had a government-issued I.D. that proved I was a resident of the city.  That wasn’t quite enough.  However, if I had a copy of my latest issue of Guns and Ammo or American Woodworker, that would clinch the deal.  I hesitated a second longer, pondering why they don’t have a list of addresses and taxpayers from which to check potential patron privileges.

“Oh, this is probably fine,” she said, making a sudden determination that I was not a bad guy (or at least not too bad a guy).  “Please fill out this application.” And she handed me a paper form…she kept my driver’s license under one of the feet of her computer keyboard.

The form asked for some pretty hard-hitting information that the library needs in order to bestow upon me the privilege of borrowing books and whatnot.  The complete list of fields included:

Last Name
First Name
Street Address
City
State
Zip Code
Date of Birth
Phone Number

As you might imagine, it took me quite some time to enter all of that information.  It would have been faster if she hadn’t taken possession of my driver’s license…from which I could have copied this information,  except for my phone number.  Information  vetted by the State of Utah.

Um, yeah.  I had to write it all out on this piece of paper.  The exact same information that was on my driver’s license.  On the driver’s license that was being held down by an HP keyboard.

Once I was done scribbling she returned my driver’s license and proceeded to enter the information from the paper form into the computer.  In the time it took me to hand-write all the information on the paper, in my finest printing, she could have entered the information directly from my driver’s license.  OR turned the keyboard to me and had me type it in myself.

But then perhaps the most comic part arrived.  After she has entered my information, she tossed the paper upon which I had so carefully entered my vital information into the recycle bin!  That form had a useful (and I’d debate the “useful” aspect) life of about 90 seconds.

The lady behind the counter then gave me a few pieces of paper to take with.  One was a bookmark that has all of the fines printed on it.  Very subtle.

The other dead tree product was a small, orange square of paper that told me that I now had massive online privileges and I just needed to go to a web address, enter my 14-digit library card number and use my last name, all lowercase, as my password, to access all the glories therein.

I thanked the lady for her help and turned to look for a book to bring home.  Unfortunately it was minutes until closing time and I didn’t find anything that pushed my buttons, so I left with my paws empty.

Upon getting settled in the cozy confines of my residence I went to the library’s website in order to prowl around.    The login screen repeated the information from the orange paper square:  “Enter your 14-digit library card number below.  Use your last name, in all lowercase, as your password.”

I did that.

I did that again.

And again.

One more time.

Let’s try nine times.

Each time it said that my login or password was not recognized.

Grrr….

So I called the library on that telephonic device which I dislike so much.

“Spanish Fork library, how may I help you?” A woman inquired.

“I got a new library card last night and I’m trying to access the online page, but it says my login or password are incorrect.” I replied.

“Oh, I’m sorry.  What’s your name?” She asked.

I recited my name, spelling my first and last name a few times (apparently she was totally uninterested in my 14 digits).

“Here we go…you didn’t sign up for online access.  Would you like to?” She asked.

“Yes, please.” I said, wondering what kind of operation this was.  Everything up until that point indicated that online access was free and automatic just for being a patron of the library.

“Okay, Mr. Kuehn, you’re all set up.  Your logon is your last name and your password is 1234.  Is there anything else I can help you with?” She asked.

“That’s it, thank you.” I said.

Whew, I don’t have to enter that blasted 14-digit code.

Like a giddy child with a new puppy, I went to the website to try it out.

Hurrah, I’m in!!!

Oh my, so many cool databases to explore!  Let’s see, maybe I’ll look for “woodworking plans” and see what kind of free stuff I can get….

That was 27 minutes ago.

Infinite grains of sand continue to drop through the little spinning hourglass.

If you need me, I’ll be at Barnes and Noble.

I recently attended my first Consumer Electronics Show (CES).

Several years ago I had a consulting gig at the Las Vegas Review-Journal newspaper and my hotel was right next to the CES.  Each night I saw see people pour in to the hotel lobby with bags of swag.  The swag was el-primo:  USB drives, mugs, music players, tiny pocket cameras and BMWs.

I made it my mission to find a way to attend that glorious giveaway event someday.

The CES is only open to people “in the bidness.”   I’ve worked in newspapers my entire life (in print production and I.T.) and probably could have scammed my way in by pretending to be a technology reporter.  I don’t have the nerve to pull off something like that.

Now that I sit behind a desk at a software company, it was easier to get credentials to attend the show.  I applied last summer and was approved.  The anticipation and excitement bubbled until show day.

I attended with my buddy and co-worker, Blaine.  We were most interested in looking at digital photography gear and ways to embed GPS coordinates in photos that newspaper journalists shoot.  The systems that we sell can then use that GPS data to create maps and help researchers find data specific to a location.

We wanted to see cool new stuff.

Oh, and by the way, we wanted swag.  Lots of it.  We drove to Las Vegas from Provo, Utah in Blaine’s Camry.  We went with the bare essentials in order to have plenty of room for the giveaways that undoubtedly would be thrown at us.  We stopped just short of removing the back seat.

On show day we started at the hearty $29 breakfast buffet at our hotel.  We stoked our furnaces with piles of their very excellent hash browns.  Then we got on the shuttle to the show.

I’ll cut to the chase.  At least one chase.  There was no swag.

I know, I know.  It’s the economy.  But this is THE biggest show for technology, gadgets and fun stuff in the world!  If not here, then where?  And what better way to drum up business, build enthusiasm, brand or product awareness than to give away cool stuff?

So you’re selling website design?  Give me a 200 GB USB drive with sample websites on it!  Give me a big fancy mug!  Give me a music player loaded with your jingle or a podcast or something!!  Give me a camera with your logo on it!  Give me stuff!   I have come for stuff!

So, after about nine hours on the floors of two of the 36 buildings with CES content on hand, I came away with three ink pens.  One doesn’t write.  I also have several bags.  Bags like you get at the grocery store to reduce the number of regular plastic grocery bags that end up along the roadside or wrapped around bird beaks.

Several of the bags shed the ink used to print the logo on the bag.   That created a real mess in my suitcase.

Yes, I joke about wanting free stuff, but the real message here is that I left with nothing to show my cronies back at the office.  I saw 14,325 vendors and I don’t remember #349 because they weren’t’ giving away anything to help me remember their product or message.

But the misses don’t end there.  I totally understand that a business could spend huge sums on giveaways and most of them would not yield any benefits.  I’m sad, but I get it.

However, this is the biggest show for the industry.  The heavy hitters and newbies are there for this one chance to make an impact and build sales momentum for the coming year.  And in so many, many instances, they totally botched it.

WHO ARE YOU?

Many vendors had very elaborate displays with great graphics, blinding lights, booming music and sexy models prowling around.  Okay, I see you, but who are you?  I see your name on the $50,000 banner…but what does “Superdohicky” do?

Display after display left me thinking “Okay, here you are, but what do you do?”  “What do you sell?”  “Do I want to step in or keep walking?”

So much money and effort apparently went into the production of booths, why didn’t they include something that would tell a passerby what product or service is offered there?

I was interested in anything about digital imaging.  If you sell retrofit home wiring systems, I’m not the least bit interested in you.  And you don’t want me in your booth because you’ll be wasting time and effort on a dude who is going to throw you zero business.

Another impact of not having a good visual message is that the salespeople on the floor feel compelled to latch on to every warm body to try to TELL them why they should be interested in them.

“Do you wish you could do your job better?” one sales kid asked of every ear canal in range.  Well sure, the obvious answer is that most of us probably wish we could do our jobs better.  But what an ineffective, slow and plodding way to try to get people into your booth!!  Imagine if they just added the words “We Do Process Analysis To Improve Your Workflow” to their signage!

Since I’m after digital imaging I’m going to walk right by and I won’t waste my time or yours.  On the other hand, Freddie is frustrated by all the steps it takes to make his widgets, so he’d be interested in hiring a third set of eyes to review his processes and maybe shave off some hours in his manufacturing process.  He’s the guy you want, not me.  A few words would have made these types of displays far more effective.

DO YOU WORK HERE?

Maybe I’ve said it before, but CES is the biggest thing in the world for these people.  They plan all year (at least you’d think they would).  They put a lot of eggs in this basket.  You’d think they’d carefully select the people they put out in public.  No, I’m not saying that people with horns, three eyes or antennae should be banned from the show.  But those chosen to work the show should be coached, prepped and ready!

This usually was not the case.

I like radios.  I have several old radios and have spent years looking for the perfect floor model from the 1930s.  I’m also an amateur woodworker.  So when I saw the Pure radio display of cool tabletop radios made with lots of wood, I was interested.  No, I’m not going to buy 10,000 units for my chain of electronics stores.  But I might want one for my desk at work.  But you don’t know that yet.  And you really shouldn’t care — a sale, interest, consumer enthusiasm, word of mouth:  all of it should be like gold to you!

So I started to fondle and drool over the radios.  They’re very cool.  They look retro.  They’re well-made.  They have built-in rechargeable batteries.  They have jacks for external players.  They have a USB port.  So I was ready to buy!!  I was very interested.

I wanted to hear it play.  Doh!  It wasn’t plugged in!  The battery wasn’t charged!  They must have had 50 radios on display but most of them weren’t even set up to work.

A sales dude came over and started to tell me all the great features about the radio in my hands.  He told me all the same stuff that was on the printed placard beside the radio.  But of course I wanted to know how much the thing costs.

“What’s the price on this one?”  I asked.

“Ummmmm….” the dude responded.  He actually looked panicked.  You’d think I had just yelled “Fire!”

“Let me see if I can find a price sheet somewhere.” He said and scurried off.

Excuse me?  You don’t know how much it sells for?  Isn’t that why you’re here…to sell stuff?

He walked around, conferred with associates and pointed at me like I had  just insulted his mother.

I hung around for about five more minutes while various Pure People huddled and pointed.

To this day I don’t know how much it costs.  Or where to buy it.

By contrast, I stopped at a teeny, tiny booth.  One of those tucked around on the back side of a row.  The CES low rent district.

This guy was selling radios very similar to what Pure had on display.  I have to think Pure’s booth costs six figures.  This guy was by himself and had set his products up on folding tables.   Maybe he financed his entire display by collecting empty soda cans littered around the nearest state park.  But his radios looked just as cool as Pure’s.

I generally think twice or five times before entering the tiny booths because you’re really trapped.  They can put the sales spiel on you or start asking probing questions about you, your business, your Dun and Bradstreet listing and your shoe size.  Often the only way to leave is to be downright anti-social and walk away.

But that’s not how this was.  This guy, I think he was from India, was on his game.  Here’s about how it went:

Radio Dude:  “Hello.  I have here a line of very high quality tabletop radios.  We use beautiful woods for the case, internal antennas and have great sound quality.  Inside is a rechargeable battery that lasts about 10 hours.  We support USB and auxiliary connections.”

Quick.  To the point.  Told me what he had.  My choice to stay or move on.

I stayed.

I went to a radio and turned it on.  It worked.  In fact, every radio he had was plugged in.  Even those that were turned off were pre-tuned to an actual station.  They were ready to try.  The radio sounded great.  It was heavy.  It was solid.

Radio Dude:  “If you have any questions, please just ask.”

He didn’t hound me.  He was there if I needed him.  He had good signs that told me all the details about each model…except price.

Me:  “What’s the price on this one?” I asked, thinking the good experience was about to fall apart.

Radio Dude:  “Are you interested in bulk wholesale pricing or individual pricing?”

Me:  “I’m not a reseller, I’m just interested for myself.”

Radio Dude:  “The one you’re looking at is listed at $279.  The range of our models goes from $225 to $500.”  He reached behind his table and pulled out a small card.  “This web address will show you a list of current resellers where you can buy one.”

Perfection!

The guy was nice, knew his product, and didn’t try to “sell” me.  The big Pure kids could have learned a lot from him.

DO NOT LIE TO ME

You shouldn’t lie.  It’s a bad thing.  It’s naughty.  If I had a five-year-old, he’d know better.

But it’s especially bad when you lie to me about your competitor’s product when I can walk down the aisle and see your competitor’s product and instantly know you’re a weasel

This happened when we stopped at the booth of a company that makes hard-sided foam-filled cases for schlepping fragile gear around the world.   These cases are made for shipping cameras, computers and the like.

We liked this particular vendor it had many cases out on display and were happy to let us play with them.  They also had these clever spring-loaded latches that looked really cool.

The representative told us that “no other manufacturer” had “any kind of latch” like it.  He added that “all other manufacturers” used latches that could be bumped open.  Wow, we were impressed.  We sure didn’t want our case being “bumped open” to let our netbooks, cameras and Ming vases fall out onto the pavement.

Then we asked about a handle and wheels, which the case in question did not have.  He said that “nobody puts handles and wheels on these very large cases” because they just don’t hold up.

Still, the case was very impressive and we took a flyer and thought about stopping back to buy a case for our workplace needs.

But lo and behold, not 30 minutes later, we were at the booth of one his competitors.  Not only did they have latches that were all but identical to his, but they had pull-out handles and wheels.

Now maybe the guy just didn’t know his market (though he should), but I think he was telling tales in an attempt to get us to give him business on the spot.  At best he should have said “I’m not aware of any other company out there doing this.”  But to say with such authority that he was alone in the marketplace, essentially without competition, was a really ugly way to do business.

HANDS ON

One of the benefits of a big show like this is to touch and feel.  I’ve been to tons of car shows, gun shows and woodworking shows in my time.  They let you touch, try, feel and see.

I have an expensive scrollsaw in my shop that I bought years ago at a woodworking show in Ann Arbor, Michigan.  The DeWalt booth had a bunch of them set up, with piles of wood on hand, so you could actually MAKE THINGS!  I fell in love with the saw.  It was so much better than the Ryobi I already had that I bought it on the spot and hauled it out to my truck!  Seeing it on static display in a store, or written about in magazines would not have made a sale.  It was three times the price of my old saw.  But USING it made me NEED it!

At the CES I was stunned by how many items were under glass and protected lest anyone might actually want to use it/

You may remember that I was interested in digital imaging and photography gear.   I own Canon equipment, so I gravitated toward their display.  I thought maybe they’d be giving away tiny, pocket cameras.  Or maybe they were giving away memory cards or cleaning kits or SOMETHING.

Not only did they have no swag but the cameras were under glass!  Only the very cheap consumer cameras were “out.”  And not very many of them.  And they had no power.  You couldn’t see how images displayed.  You couldn’t take a shot or two.  You couldn’t try out the controls.

What was the point!?  Maybe I’m trying to decide whether I want to get Canon or Nikon and what better place to COMPARE?

Such a wasted opportunity.

By contrast Kodak was loaded for bear in this regard.  They had multiple kiosks with seemingly every camera they make on display.  Plugged in.  In working order.  With a Kodak Person at each kiosk to explain, help and answer questions.  In fact, I spent some time with the very cool Kodak Zi8 video camera.  The lady at the kiosk explained how it worked, compared features to the other market leader Flip (without bad-mouthing that Flip was a garbage camera made by child labor in a torture camp in some Asian swamp).  Just facts.  And I was able to take movies and see them and really give the device a test.

If you’re going to try to sell something this is the place to let me touch it and use it and try it.

There weren’t very many computer vendors in the buildings we visited, but those that were didn’t even have their computers turned on.  And those that were had a password on the screensaver.

Do they expect to sell based only on the pretty case?  I want to try the keyboard, see what the display looks like, and see how responsive it is.  But so many vendors didn’t allow this.

COMMUNICATION

The CES is an international show.  It’s held in America.  I’m an American snob I suppose, I do know that not “everyone” speaks English.  But I would suggest at a show like this that English is the predominant language spoken.  And maybe Spanish.  Maybe some of the languages from Japan, China, Vietnam.

But when I stop at your booth because you have a very cool looking box on display, with flashing lights and buttons that just beg to be pushed and I ask “What is it?” your Booth Boy should not say “Rugged!” with a thick unidentifiable accent.

I thought of course he didn’t understand me.  So I asked again, more slowly, “What is this, what does it do?”

“Rugged!”

Another Booth Boy walked over and I figured this one must speak English so he’s coming over to help out his friend.

“What is this, what does it do?” I repeat.

“We case metal.” he says.

Uh, yeah, okay.

Bye.

THE HIGHLIGHT

Clearly the highlight of our visit to CES was the Eye-Fi booth.  Photography is my biggest hobby.  And the software company where I work sells content-management databases for newspapers.  We’re all about saving, finding, routing, manipulating and displaying pictures.

I was particularly interested in the Eye-Fi product that automatically transmits pictures from a camera to your computer and/or the web.  And it can embed GPS data.  It’s absolute magic.

Before the show I’d done some research but simply didn’t believe it could work.  It would have been easier to get me to buy into the idea of a functional Invisibility Cloak than it would be to convince me that I could take a picture and have it move from camera to web without me doing anything.

But the Eye-Fi people were masters of the CES in my opinion.  We stepped up to the display and even if we didn’t already know about them, their display clearly communicated what they were up to.  There were quite a few people standing around with their jaw hinges in the full-open position.  Clearly something very cool was going on.

One of the Eye-Fi People was sort of saying to nobody in particular what they do…and if you’d like to give it a try for yourself, please step right up.

I stepped.

I met Berend Ozceri, a Systems Architect at Eye-Fi.  He had a digital camera and a laptop.  He took my picture while he was explaining what their product did.  While he was talking, my ugly mug appeared on the website that was open on his computer.

His basic spiel answered all of the obvious questions one might have about the product and left me as one of the jaw-dropped ones who couldn’t believe what they just saw.

He then handed the camera to me and said “Give it a try.”

Excuse me!  You’re going to let me actually try it?  Use it?  See how it works?  What if it does something bad and embarrasses you?

He didn’t care.

He wasn’t embarrassed.  It worked.  I took pictures and they flew through the ethers and showed up on his computer.

So then I started to ask the hard questions.  I got technical.  I explained the business I’m in and how we’d be interested in sports photographers for newspapers being able to shoot a football game on deadline and have their shots immediately available to a newsroom for print production while at the same time be on the newspaper’s website immediately.

He was un-phased.   He jumped right in with enthusiasm about the product, explained various workflows that would answer the need.

I asked more questions and he was totally honest when I asked about features that didn’t exist.  He told me what they planned to do in future versions and was honest about things they did NOT plan to do.  I trusted this guy.  He wasn’t blowing smoke.

I made it clear that apart from buying a single card for my own hobbyist shooting, I wasn’t going to buy anything.  I told him the best I could do was maybe demonstrate, recommend or suggest the technology to our newspaper customers.

That didn’t matter to Berend.  He stuck with me.  He didn’t get distracted by other potential customers.  He had engaged with me and he was going to make sure I had taken all the pictures I wanted, asked all my “What if?” questions and was now a walking and talking expert on Eye-Fi technology.

When I was done he handed me his card and said “Email or call me with any other questions that might come up.  If I can’t help you directly, I’ll get you the help you need.”

Clearly this guy believed in his product (which is easy to do because it’s so freakin’ brilliant).  He knew his product and he was expert at helping someone understand it.

At the same time, he wasn’t trying to get me to write a big check on the spot.  Though if I worked for a big-box store, I’d be buying tons of these things and selling them just like Berend was demonstrating them.  (And, shhh, I wouldn’t be selling them for $149, either.  I’d double the price still sell bucket loads).

And Eye-Fi  understood that I wanted to touch it!  I wanted to use it!  I wanted to see behind the smoke and mirrors and look up the sleeve.

This should have been the rule rather than the exception.  But I’m so glad I found these folks because they have a great product and understood how to interact with people.

I won’t go to CES again.

Even if I had walked out with one of those cool $500 radios made with aircraft-style dials and deluxe wooden cabinets.

I literally can get the same information by searching online or visiting BestBuy.

I’m no marketing genius, I’m just a guy.  But if any CES vendors want me to review your display ideas and presentation plans for CES 2011 I’m available.  My consultation rates are very reasonable.  I’m sure I have a price list around here somewhere….

I came into the world towards the end of all the hype about how computers and other technology would remove the mundane and tedious from our lives.  We would be left with a small amount of work to do and an abundance of time for leisure.

Oh, and we’d become a paperless society, too, because we’d get and share all the world’s information on “tubes.”  I stopped holding my breath on that one in 1987.

But where’s my leisure?  I want my leisure!

I know, I know…I spend more time sitting on my big cheeks than most people.  And I puzzle over those around me who are in constant motion and all the time busy, busy, busy.  But as a society, where’s all this leisure “they” said we would have?

I was just pondering activities that people used to do in the early 1970s and how Progress has dramatically shortened the amount of time required for those tasks.  Progress has in many cases totally eliminated the need to do many tasks.

ATMs and debit cards might be good examples.  I remember trips with my dad when he’d go to the bank for cash.  We’d drive from home to the bank which was a 20-minute drive, each way.  (Oh, and we’d make the trip in a Ford truck with a 390 cubic-inch V8 that, with a good Michigan tailwind, would get a stunning 10 miles to the 75¢ gallon of leaded gasoline).  Once at the bank we’d find a place to park.  Then we’d get out.  Then we’d walk into the bank.  We’d go to the glass-topped table to fill out a withdrawal slip.  Then we’d get in line.  We’d wait a little bit.  Then we’d get to the teller who would do some stuff behind the window and then give dad his money.

It seems so archaic and backwards now!   Today’s world has all but eliminated the need to even have cash.  Now with a debit card we have access to all of our money all the time — we don’t have to anticipate or guess what we’ll need.  So that entire 50-minute ritual no longer needs to be undertaken.  It’s gone.  Poof!

So let’s say we did that once a week:  that’s 50 minutes of time available for…?  For what?   Leisure?

Well, I suppose.  In reality I think other “work” sneaks in and eats up that time.  It’s subtle and takes place over time and we don’t even realize we’ve saved time on one hand while the other hand is creating more work that craves its own time.

Leisure seems to be a dirty word.  We look down our noses with some envy, but mostly disdain, at those countries where workers get what we perceive to be huge amounts of paid time off.  How can they compete, we wonder?  They must not be very smart or ambitious.  But we envy them and their time.

But if some magical new administration made it so for us, would we leisure-ize the time or just fill it with more busy-ness?

Some Type-A personalities thrive on being busy and filling every minute with work.  That’s just the way they’re wired I suppose.  I’m more of a slow and plodding person I guess.  I love my job and get very geeked up over a tech challenge that gets the juices flowing.  But I also look forward to those quiet hours at night when I watch some TV, read a book and am at leisure.

I don’t think leisure time, whether it be a few hours at night or a few weeks a year to travel, bake bread, take pictures or get back to nature, is a bad thing.  No matter how much we might love (or hate) our jobs and the day-to-day “work” required to stay alive and not be eaten by wolves, it is a necessary evil I think.  I mean, in the Garden of Eden do we ever hear about Adam going off to work or Eve toiling for hours picking up Adam’s socks?

Gotta go now, need to move laundry from the washer to the dryer….

The media has a new top-line story to chew on following the shooting spree at Ft. Hood yesterday.  It’s a big story, there’s no doubt about that.  Because of where the shooting took place, the ethnic background of the suspect, his faith and a country focused on war, there’s a lot to try to understand.

It’s obvious to think that it must have been terrifying for the people involved.  They likely will be scarred by the experience in a way very different from whatever may happen to them in wartime combat.

There will be investigations, studies, finger-pointing, analysis, what-ifs, blame, calls for action.  This is what happens after situations like this.  Unfortunately we know that because crap like this has happened before and I suspect will in the future.

But while I’ve listened to the reporting on the incident I’ve had thoughts that maybe aren’t so obvious.

What must it have been like to hear the gunfire?  It’s a military base, populated at the time by people who shoot guns.  Granted, when you’re at a graduation ceremony you probably don’t expect to hear gunfire.  But I have to think loud noises are not uncommon to soldiers.  If you were in a formal situation at a place like that would you have thought “Something is wrong.  I must run out of this ceremony, with all of these people watching, and go see what’s happening?”  I know I would have stood frozen wondering “Is that gunfire or some other loud noise?”  “Is someone taking care of the situation?”  “If I run out of here now and it’s some other ceremony or equipment noise or something else, I’m going to look really stupid and will have ruined this for everyone.”  I can tell you that my first (and second through fifth) thought would certainly not have been to run out into the fray to investigate.

What if you had been one of the people being shot at?  Again, keep in mind where you are.  You’re at a military base.  You may even know the shooter, or at least recognize him from the chow line, the parking lot or any number of other places.  I would have doubted myself.  I would have thought “He’s not really shooting at people.  Those must be blanks.  This must be an exercise or a test.”  If I had those kinds of thoughts I probably wouldn’t be afraid, I’d be surprised and curious.  But I’d still not be acting in the best interest of my own safety nor of those around me who needed help.  I have to think it was surreal.  Until the reality took hold after, well, after how long?

In my job I have access to a wealth of wire service images and video from around the world.  I have seen an awful lot of photos taken right after the incident.  The thing that really struck me  was the number of images of cellular phones.  Phones gripped by terrified hands, held up to faces soaked in tears.  Most captions indicated that the person in the photo was trying to make contact with someone on the base.  Can you imagine the fear of the unknown at that point?  Think about not knowing where someone you care about is.  Are they alive, dead, injured or maimed for life?  Were they a long distance from the mayhem and don’t even know what’s going on?  Were they off-base on an errand and perfectly safe?  Why can’t I get in contact with…?

What if you’re the family watching it on TV and not even having a number to call; waiting for someone to reach out with information? It’s the fear of the unknown, thinking the absolute worst and thinking various degrees of horrific outcomes.  I know it must have been terror on the minds of those people holding those phones, but I also am smart enough to know that while I can empathize with them, I cannot truly feel that kind of pain and fear.

Now imagine you’re a survivor.  You need to go back to your routine.  You’ll be processing the experience for quite some time, but you still have your life to live, your work to do and in the case of some, a war to fight.   Think of those who tended to the wounded and dying.  Think of the officer who shot the suspect.  How do they get up in the morning?  How do they drive to work?  How do they get groceries?  How do they talk with their friends and loved ones?

The memory, the thoughts, the “Why not me?” questions move to the front of the mind, you push them back, they re-surface, you push them down again.  They won’t go away.  They’ll be with you forever, always knocking.

I don’t think about the shooter, his motivation, what will happen to him, what his history is.  I don’t care about the shooter, he’s nothing. My thoughts are of the hundreds of people involved and the ways in which this devastates and will continue to hurt them for a lifetime.

Forty years ago today (October 29, 1969) the first electronic connection was made over ARPANET, the foundation and predecessor of today’s internet.

On that date the intention was for one programmer in one city to make a connection to a computer at a different location. It was accomplished by sending the message/command “login.”

Not very exotic nor sexy I assure you. But I was listening to NPR on the way home tonight and they were talking to the gents who shared that first transmission forty years ago. It brought to mind yet another thing that bugs your ole Uncle Aaron: the misuse of the word “login” or “logon.”

My first logon experience was at Western Michigan University where I connected to the DEC/VAX mainframe for my BASIC programming course. I remember the 100-year-old building that housed one of the computer labs (the following year it was leveled to make way for the new library complex). I remember dozens of very loud, foundation-rattling, tractor-fed, 9-pin dot-matrix printers. I also remember the filthy keyboard (with missing and mis-labeled keys) and the bright-amber display that almost immediately induced a headache.

I couldn’t do any computing task without successfully logging in. And that was a task in itself. Once logged in I was equally lost as to what to do next.

So I remember the dark old days when logging in meant something! In MY day I had to LOG IN to a computer before I could ask the computer the age-old question of ‘what is the sum of two and two?’.

Of course, many of us log in to company computers and networks now. We are accustomed to the “first-initial-last-name” or “firstnameDOTlastname” drill. And most losers out there probably understand that going through the logon process is what grants them access to the amazing secrets inside that mysterious box. Yes, I’m talking about Solitaire.

So what has got Uncle Aaron’s sneakers full of bubble gum? The fact that so many adverts suggest that potential customers “log on” to such-and-such a website.

“If you want to make stock trades for thirty-seven cents, log on today to www.WeWillCheatYou.com.”

When was the last time you ever “logged on” to a website?!?! You “navigate” to a website. Maybe you “go to” a website. But you do NOT “log on.” You aren’t asked for your name, rank and blood type. You aren’t asked for a secret code like “rover” or “betty” in order to see the latest video of cats diving for goldfish.

Now maybe after you visit a website you might be asked to provide user credentials in order to access your banking account, your charge card details or your fantasy poker league. But you do NOT log on to a website.

So all of you Madison Avenue types who are hanging on to my every keystroke, please stop doing this. Invite people to “visit” your very fine website…but don’t ask them to logon. They don’t know the difference, but I do and that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?

Logging off now….