Friday, October 25, 2002

And now a tale of technological woe...

So there I am in coastal North Carolina, and I have to hop a plane and fly home to decidedly noncoastal Nashville in about 6 hours. Wanting to avoid this unpleasant reality as long as possible, I grab the bare necessities (towel, sunglasses, and, of course, cell phone) and head down to the beach. I arrive at said beach. I set down the towel. I take off the sunglasses. And I head for the water. (Those reading carefully have probably already noticed the problem here.)

I dive blissfully into the ocean, enjoying the crashing waves and salt water. I get in about chest deep when I notice a strange sensation coming from somewhere in the depths of my bathing suit. (No, not that kind of sensation, you perv!)

Always alert for sharks and other precursors to the loss of vital anatomy, I swat at it, only to realize that it is rather rectangular, and is vibrating in a rather mechanical way. Sort of like, well...

CRAP! Grab for pocket, and retrieve a very wet cell phone that is shaking like it's about to self-destruct. That would be bad, I figure, so I attempt to remove the battery from the back of the phone. Only the battery is spring loaded, and immediately flies off and disappears beneath the waves. I make a brief attempt to dive after it, only I'm still trying to hold the drowning remains of the phone above water. At this point people on the beach have noticed the strange dance I'm doing, and are probably considering calling in the coast guard for a maritime rescue.

After a minute I give up on the battery and head for shore to deposit the phone. Then I head back out to the area, and remarkably find the battery with my foot.

I retained some hope that my poor little flip-phone would come back from the dead after a few days of rest. After all, I've seen computers get doused and come back to life. (Although the salt water was sort of a new twist, I have to admit.)

For the first day or so the cell phone would vibrate in a sickly way if I reattached the battery. But now I like to think it has passed on to a better world. And I've temporarily reverted back to my previous cell phone (circa 1999) which weighs about 20 pounds and will come in handy if I ever need to take out a mugger.

So I guess I'm in the market for a new phone one of these days. (And as my pennance, I'm giving mocking the stupid things my users manage to do to their laptops. At least for a week or two.)

Page says I don't post enough. And she's right. Truth is I have a horrible case of Blogger's guilt about this. So I hereby resolve to increase the level of inane crap I post on this page. When I get around to it, anyway.

Monday, October 21, 2002

Guilty pleasure of the day: Last week, I ordered several books for my Organizational Performance class from I had a coupon for $10 off my order, but only if I spent more than $50. So naturally I had to buy a few "bonus" items. (After all, I have to do my part to support the American economic recovery.) So I threw in a copy of Home by the Dixie Chicks, and the DVD of Amelie, which I saw in the theater when it was released in the US.

So instead of flowcharting and analyzing, I spent the last few hours watching the whimsical Parisian flick. Which, I have decided, is one of my favorite movies of all time. It is just a beautiful film in every respect, and the story appeals the closet romantic in me.

So I finished the DVD, and had pretty much decided that I needed to take a trip to Paris. Then I clicked on the director's commentary while I burrowed back into my laptop. Suddenly, I heard director and Montmartre native Jean-Pierre Jeunet tell me just how bad an idea this was:

Dont come to paris. It's a nightmare for the French people. And this film is a big lie, believe me. Paris is very different. We have a lot of dog shits on the street. It rains every day. And we have a lot of traffic jam. This film is a big cheat.

(pregnant pause)

Except Montmartre . Montmartre is very nice.

And later, admiring a shot:
It's a little bit like a real set. Look at this set, it's amazing. You know, Paris is very nice.
Sorry, Jean-Pierre, I'm not buying your "Paris sucks" routine...