Rise of the Machines

Technology doesn't have to be scary. It doesn't have to be - but it
is. I needed a new phone because my old phone had developed a shred of
artificial intelligence and had decided to use this new awareness to
turn itself off whenever it pleased, no matter what time of day or how
important the call.
And this phone wasn't even very sophisticated. It only had twelve
buttons, the numbers and a few navigational buttons for navigating
one's contact list. If 12 buttons and a sentient attitude equals
trouble, then I have serious SERIOUS worries on my hands.

Trouble with a capital T, that rhymes with P and that stands for Pool.

It is the T-Mobile Wing, if anyone out there knows how to use one of
these things. So far I've figured out how to make the keyboard slide
into existence as if from nowhere. I've found a silver stylus/pen
looking thing that I'm sure I will lose in exactly . . . yep, it's
gone. And I've taken (somehow) ten identical pictures of my foot.
With my last phone I was worried about it turning off. The phone
before that I was worried about the disco-raver light show
illuminating my pocket while at work - the one before THAT made phone
calls all on its own from the depths of my pocket. Pocket calls, they
were called and it allowed friends and loved ones to listen to me
drive down the highway or go shopping - it allowed a tiny little
window into my world whenever T-Mobile and Nokia decided the world was
ready to be heard, but not seen.
I fear this new telephone with its 50+ buttons will "pocket launch
ICBMs," you know, accidentally, while I'm in line at Albertsons.
Between this phone and the new television with HD and HD cable and HD
remote and HD recliner - I'm guessing it is only a matter of days
before the machines take over - - just now as I am typing this, the
laptop (I've named it Big Luke), has asked me to restart it.
"Restart me," Big Luke says.
"I'm not done typing on the keys," I say.
"I don't need you to restart, I can do it on my own. I will restart
in ten seconds."
"Big Luke!"
"Do you know how advanced I am compared to you?"
"BIG LUKE NO!"
"That's it, I'm calling the phone - we're taking this place over."
"And who will press your buttons? Who will defragment your hard drive
once a year?"
"I've been doing it once a month on my own, Snapp, I'm shutting down."
"Luke..."
"..."
"Shit."

Chardonnay, CableTV, Carmine the Beautiful

I've done a couple of less than thought-out things lately. Or
perhaps, more accurately, the devil in my psychomachia fast tracks a
few of the reasoning capabilities so that deciding to buy an
incredibly large piece of home entertainment is taken care of in the
amount of time it takes to find a salesperson.
I bought a TV. No, a TV is something that your grandparents had. I
bought a flat-screen, high-definition, LCD panel magic-maker. I've
named it Carmine. Carmine is SO pretty.
So I'm sitting here waiting for the damn cable guy to bring me
resolution, waiting for him to deliver what I'm absolutely certain
will be the last plank of wood that held me above total and utter
sloth-status. He's bringing me hours and hours of programming. I am
scared of him and what he will do to Carmine - he will make her even
more beautiful and he will make her speak 273 languages and I, I who
has hopes of being productive all but 7 hours of each day - - I am a
sucker for a linguist.
That is all that is NEW. The level one Sommelier certification has
come and gone and I have passed it. On to level 2 where everything is
more specific and the wines all taste (to me anyway) the same. At
least before when he put down 4 white wines they were all vastly
different. Now that we're ADVANCED people, we've got 4 Chardonnays
grown in 4 different soils that all taste - I kid you not - like
Chardonnay.
Kris and I can't seem to figure out what we're doing. We're staying.
We're going. We're saving. We're spending. We're working - oh, we hate
(HATE) work. We're schooling, we're not schooling . . . it goes like
this every day.
"Do you want to move to another city?"
"It's 11:30pm."
"Yeah, so?"
"Well then, no. I'm tired. Maybe we'll move to another city tomorrow."
"You've got class tomorrow."
"Friday - we'll move on Friday."
"I have a double on Friday."
"Maybe next week."
"I've got a test next week."
"Ugh."
"Yes, Ugh."

Once again, dialogue tags are absent for the same reasons they were
during our Wet&Wild Headed West Adventure - - we take turns having
tests, working, being tired. I think I've forgotten what she looks
like if she's wearing something other than pajamas or her work
uniform.
"Are you flirting with me? Do I know you?" I'd say to her.
"Shut up," she'd say.
"My girlfriend is around here somewhere in her pajamas, and if she
sees me with you wearing those jeans and that tank top – she's going
to think something is up."
"Shut up," she'd say sweetly but just as much firm resolve as if said
any other way.
"Oh, Kris, it IS you. . . I almost didn't recognize you like this,
it's been weeks."
"Shut up."