High Technology

The other day I was walking into the condo, having parked my ride in the lot after going to a meeting and picking up a sandwich at the local deli. Having not eaten for awhile I was an extremely hungry guy. I cut a b-line towards the walkway that lead to my parent's front door when I saw ol'-Alice smoking a butt on her porch. 'No cause for alarm' I thought, 'It's just good ol' Alice'.

'Hey Alice.'

'Hey Jamie'

Ol' Alice lives at the front of the building, facing the parking lot and is often outside smoking a cigarette. Probably some thin, long, 1920's prohibition-type, speak easy smokes. Her constant watch over the Pelican provides old, chubby hawk-like protection. She knows all. She single-handedly ruins my chances each weekend of throwing a Pelican-wide rocker ala Jeremy Piven in PCU.

After Alice said Hello I noticed the back of an old head toward the corner of the porch and it slowly creeked around and called my name. It was the nice, little, old lady, Trudy, who lives in the condo opposite Ol' Alice's so that, together, they form guard posts on either side of the walkway into my parents casa. Like two feeble, old lionesses. Little Ol' Trudy said 'Jamie I need your help'. So I asked her how I could help. Curiosity owned me by this point and I watched my delicious sandwich fading away into the distance:

Trudy: You are a computer expert, right?

I was not. Not by IT standards and not by anyone whose graduated from using a Commodore 64. So, yes, I have a lap top. But, no, this does not make me an expert.

Wondering where this could lead I asked 'Well, what do you need?', knowing there was no chance in hell she could ask something that I couldn't solve. 'I know about computers' I rambled. For no reason, I felt it my duty to impress Ol' Trudy with the depth of my IT knowledge. I could've gone into a dissertation about how I'm not a computer expert but know a little about computers but I figured there was little chance she could ask anything to discover my fraudulent implication. And according to Einstein, position and speed are relative to the observer. So for the intent of this conversation I was a screaming comet booming across Trudy's nose as she stood motionless on the porch.

'I'm having trouble with my TV' she said.

'TV? I thought you said computers? What do you need, lady? And at what point do you make the distinction between machine and computer? Stainless steel toaster oven? Welcome to the digital age, Silver Fox.' I thought.

'I can't turn it on.' she said.

'Uh?' I was mumbling. Old lady's don't know about the red button?

'My daughter said I have to press 4 and it should work. But it's not working. I press 4 and it doesn't work. My dog jumped up and changed the channel two nights ago and now it doesn't work. I press 4 and nothing happens.'

Ignoring my hunger and having already dug myself in too deep by professing my IT street-cred to Ol' Trudy, I committed myself to solving her TV conundrum while practically insuring my entrance into heaven. And, one day I could be in the same position, curious why my Flux Capacitor had quit Fluxing, in need of some consult. So I took a walk with her into her condo bedroom, where the TV was located. I thought about how, one day, if I make it to 80 years old, this very walk could be the start of a sexy, 'old man, good time' story that I leak out to the other old dudes at the weekly Bocci Ball match. After puking in my mouth a little bit, pondering just seconds too long on this wrinkle ridden storyline, I was struck by how old my parents are NOT. They are not as old as Trudy. In her condo there we're things for which you may need an Old Bitty license to possess. There we're throngs ornate pictures, gardens of beads and a ubiquitous, musty old lady scent. There were drink glasses smaller than my parents already miniscule drink glasses. There were pictures of kids who had kids whose kids had kids that we're now trying to get pregnant. My parents had not yet hit this kind of old age. Although they had trouble working their remote controls, their house still smelled of fresh humanity. So this means my parents could have years ahead of them... many interesting years by my guess.

Another thought entered my brain. When my generation reaches their Golden Years, 'Old Lady' aesthetic taste will not be what it is today. Old people taste changes with the times and trends. Unlike an actual physical Old Lady, the 'Old Lady' style is a roving target. I theorize that Old lady houses in 2057 will probably look like much Ikea, West Elm or Pottery Barn showrooms of today. And the young whipper-snappers of tomorrow will joke about our Krelja shelves and Derstuh couches and over-sized bean bag chairs. Old lady styles will have become more complex and splintered thanks to the marketing genius of a handful of today's mass-market, contemporary furniture designers. Maybe they should work on infusing some anti-granny-stink chemical into all of their textiles while they're at it.

I realized that Trudy's cable box was already on once I took a gnader. So I assumed the problem probably lived with the TV. I flipped on the TV meanwhile Trudy was talking away about the number four and something else about her dog's collar or gold coated something... So I pressed 0 then pressed 4. Immediately the TV popped on. Trudy cheered. I explained to her why it worked (pressing 4 instead of 0-4) but she glazed over as the words drifted off into the ether. She graciously thanked me and offered that 'maybe she could do me a favor one day', just like the Godfather. I pictured a Tiny Old Lady version of Marlon Brando rubbing her cheek, mumbling those words and how she could impose her own brand of fear into the underworld.

And as I took that first bite into my delicious sandwich, I felt the presence of an angel as God granted me entrance into heaven. Being surrounded by a gaggle of gray hairs does have its benefits.

There they go. Here I am.

It is 8:02PM on Thursday evening, dinner is over, my brother and his family have split and here I sit with the parents. I see no light at the end of the tunnel. We've eaten dinner and... my dad just farted. That makes it better. Something to distract me. He drops bombs consistently through the day, night and in between. These bombs are well advertised. He's the Deutsch of fart-publicity. His bombs do not go unnoticed. Sometimes the neighbors come over to make sure everyone is OK.

Depression has hit the Pelican. It's getting rough in here and I'm not sure I can last much longer. If you've ever seen the Survivorman, I am he, but in the oddest element. It may not be the Canadian Rockies but his trip only lasts 7 days. My trip is now on 100+. Sweet Jesus that's a long time.

This started as a joke. It may end sadly. I may drown myself in a bowl of tapioca pudding left in the fridge. At least my last gulp of air will be delicious.

My dad and uncle were talking about having Ojeda (ahh-jeh-duh) at one point during the day. I've heard the term used since I was a kid by ever Italian inter and extra my family. There is never a complete explanation of Ojeda, just a general description: 'You feel like shit and it's caused by something you ate'. From this I'm guessing it could be heartburn, bloating, gas or something related. It's like asking an Italian lady how to make a recipe, you just get the general ingredients with no amounts. Then she adds two more ingredients at the end and says something like 'if you feel like using...' It's not very helpful.

I have Ojeda, I think. At every turn I am thinking about how to get revenue out of this company, our products and every sub-segment of every market. Mass, collegiate, military, specialty shops... just turn some revenue! I'd sell a limb to know a guy who knows a guy.

Enough of this cheer-fest. I'm going to slit my wrist with sand paper. Oh I can't do it. I have my high school reunion on Saturday and I wouldn't want anyone to think I was a loser.

Bear 2, Jamie 0. I hate bears.

jb

I can't hear you

The TV is so loud that I can't hear what you are saying. Huh? When the TV is on there is no quiet place in the entire condo. There is no escape. I feel like a Branch Davidian under siege. And make no bones about it, my parents like them some TV so it is constantly on. If a TV is not already on, I sometimes get ambushed. Often, when I power up tiny 19" TV in the small sun room I am blown away by the sound level... left on max from a previous session. Because the condo is in the sticks of southern Jersey, the nearest coffee shop, my sanctuary, is 10 miles away. I go there for the coffee and stay for the silence. The employees know me by name but I can't hear their names. There is a fat guy with a beard and a few teenage girls who work behind the counter. They are all mute.

I'm reading a War and Peace currently, something I've looked forward to for some time. This book is so well written that it is often referred to as the best book ever written. That's amazing. So I'll give you the best recap ever written:

We are introduced to the cast of Russian characters as Russia is defending itself from French attack lead by Napolean. Count Vasily is positioning himself and his family to gain position and cash from the recent death of Count Bulkosky. Jennie Garth just got voted in the bottom two. Rostov goes to the war front and gets his first taste of war... and likes it. But that was a stunning Polka by Mel B and her dress is fantastic. She deserves to be in the final. Prince Andrey is quickly gaining rank, after leaving his pregnant, young wife at home with his ugly sister and stern father. His military expertise is gaining notice and he will soon have audience with the Emporer himself. It takes guts to win this dance contest! Oh my gosh! Marie Osmond just fainted!

So that's how it goes, I think. I'm confused why there are so many dance scenes in the midst of a war, but hey, it's one of the greatest books ever written!

I love a good book.