micahsaul

Let’s get this out of the way right off the bat: The Macbook Air is fucking incredible. It is a thing of beauty, and I would gladly own one. Please note, I said own one, not purchase one. Because, let’s face it, $1700 is a lot to pay for a computer as schizophrenic as the MBA. It’s not quite powerful enough to be your main computer, that’s clear right away. 1.6 GHz is less than the desktop I bought for $400 4 years ago. Sure, it’s a Core 2 Duo, and I realize that it’s an unfair comparison, but I get to hyperbolize a little bit. Look at the URL, bitch. On top of that, it’s only got the one USB, no optical drive, yadda yadda yadda. You’ve heard all these complaints before.

So, it’s established that this is not your main computer. And the defenders of the Air point this out as well. It’s clearly not designed to replace your MBP or your Thinkpad. No, the MacBook Air is your back-up computer. Your take-everywhere, throw-around, get-the-bare-essentials-in-a-small-package-on-the-weekend-trip-to-grandma’s computer. It’s your iPod, your internet appliance, your photo storage device. Seems to me, though, that $1700 is a shit lot more than $400, which is what I paid for my iPhone.

Now, there is a third niche that the Air could fit into. A niche that I, myself, am looking to fill. I have a Powerbook at home, a Macbook at work. I like them both, but am likely going to replace the PB with a Macbook Pro, possibly once the multi-touch trackpads make their appearance in that line. But there’s a place for a third computer. It is not my office computer, running a Mail client, three browsers, a Windows VM, Adium, TextMate, and anything else I feel like throwing at it. Nor is it my home computer, used for audio editing, Photoshop, and coding. It’s the notebook. The basic, true-to-it’s-name, notebook computer. A place for taking notes. A small, light, super portable computer which can get online and open a text editor. That is the space which the Air fills perfectly. Problem is, it’s expensive, and there’s another computer already in that space that does it a lot cheaper.

Meet the eee PC, by Asus. This is the Air’s main competitor, and it costs ~$400. Rumor has it that by the end of the year, there will be a 9″ version with a touchscreen for ~$900. Basic math suggests that 400<1700. Hell, a modded eeePC with all the extra functionality Asus left out (Draft n WiFi, Bluetooth, GPS, etc) only comes to about $800. And it’s lighter and smaller than the Air. Sure, it doesn’t have that sexy industrial design, and sure the specs are paltry compared to the Air… but you don’t need those specs. The Air doesn’t have the horsepower to replace the MacBook Pro, and it doesn’t have the media capabilities to replace the Macbook. And it looks like it doesn’t have the pricepoint to replace the eee PC. Again, I admit freely that I would love a MacBook Air. It is a sexy piece of kit, and the pictures do not do it justice. You absolutely must get your hands on one to fully appreciate what a fucking gorgeous thing this bastard is. But, it’s just not quite good enough, or cheap enough, to make it worth it. Sad, that.

Coming tomorrow: Why Axiotron’s Modbook just isn’t as cool as it should be. Also, creepy fucking Nap Pods.

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Wrote this last week for the Metaweb Company blog. Pasting it here, now:

More than just a bunch of geeks

by micahsaul

I’ll be the first to admit it. I had no idea what I was signing up for when I applied for a job at Metaweb. I was merely sending off a resume so that, were the EDD to check up on me, I could show them that I was “looking for a job” and they should keep sending me unemployment checks. When I came in for an interview, however, I knew within five minutes that this was where I wanted to be.

So, what was it that changed my mind so quickly? Simple… my then future manager saying, “Metaweb is the sort of company where you can grab a random sampling of five people, and be assured that you are not the smartest person in the room.”

See, I used to work in the video game industry, as a tester. The conversation was… not exactly stimulating. If your idea of exciting lunchtime banter went beyond, “Dude, did you see the new screenshots for Call of Duty 16: Nazi Zombie Apocalypse?! So tight!” you were pretty much out of luck. There were some people interested in talking about something meatier, but they were few and far between, and the likelihood of someone else derailing the topic with something like, “Oh that totally reminds me of that scene in Eternal Fantasy X7A where Ragnar gets the Sword of Everlasting Uberness” was disconcertingly high.

Imagine my surprise when I started work here. Intelligent conversation about a myriad of topics, not just what we’re working on. Not even just tech. And everyone is well informed, or interested in becoming so.

We’ve discussed at length the problems with the modern American educational system, and several of us have experience as teachers. We’ve talked about sprawling post-modern literature, and one of us has a masters in lit. At an average Metaweb lunch, the conversation can jump from politics, to religion, to esoteric programming languages, to music. And sure, we’ll talk about video games. Because though we’re well rounded — and though we’re far far more than it — we’re still a bunch of geeks.

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Just got back from seeing “Persepolis” at the Embarcadero. Let me start by saying that it was absolutely awesome, incredibly enjoyable, and more than a little bit emotional. I highly recommend you go see it immediately.

Ok, now I’ve got that out of the way, I can talk about why I’m not sure this movie needed to be made. I’m happy it was made, but I’m not sure it needed to be. See, “Persepolis” is based on Marjane Satrapi’s incredible graphic novel of the same name, and is about her childhood in Iran during the fall of the Shah, the rise of the Ayatollah, and the Iran-Iraq war. The graphic novel is simply illustrated, powerfully written, and succeeds in personalizing and humanizing history in a way I’d only seen once before, in “Maus”.

Satrapi also wrote and directed the movie. The animation is black and white, in the exact style of the graphic novels. And therein lies the problem. The graphic novel could have been used as the storyboards for the movie. There are scenes in the movie where everything looks exactly like it did in the comic, with the exception that the characters here are moving. Nothing seemed to be added to the story by having moving images instead of static. Film and comics are different arts, and each medium can do things that the other cannot. This was not exploited in “Persepolis”.

I know, it seems somehow wrong, a comics fan complaining that a film was indistinguishable from the comic it was based on. Wasn’t that the highlight of “300″ and “Sin City”? That watching the film felt like reading the book? For the most part, yes. But those two movies had an advantage over “Persepolis”: real people. Though scenes in “Sin City”, the movie, were identical in look and feel to scenes in “Sin City”, the comic, they had live actors in them. I may get hatemail from Pixar fanboys here, but animation will never be as effective as live action in evoking empathy. The simple act of adding a real person into the mix changes “Sin City” enough that each version is distinct. With “Persepolis”, the two versions are the same.

Now, I’m not proposing that the movie would have been better had it been live action. What I am saying is merely that I wanted more from the movie. I wanted the movie to accept the fact that it was a movie adaptation, and could tell a slightly different story, could use the medium of film to do things that a comic can not do. And don’t get me wrong, there were certainly moments… the scene in which a group of men are fleeing from a co-ed party that is broken up by the Iranian police and run along the rooftops of Tehran was incredible, and created a tension on screen that it couldn’t have possibly done on the page. And the “Eye of the Tiger” routine was one of the highlights. But I wanted more. Maybe I’m being overly greedy, but I wanted more.

All that said, watch this and tell me you don’t want to rush out and see the movie right now!

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A few of the entries from the journal I’ve been keeping:

Scuffmarks from a million shopping bags and suitcases act as the worn stone steps in our city’s church of transit. Blue, psuedo-tweed upholstered pews line the aisle, sheltering the weary traveller.
+++
The sort of man that folds his paperbacks in half… his library has scoliosis.
+++
There’s something about black tights with metallic shimmer, the indie chick’s chainmail.

Fuck, so I’m working on a story. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll post some of it. Sleep now.

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…so take the time, to make the time.

Just got back from the Black Heart Procession show. So, let’s talk drunkenly about the way things ussed to be:

There was a time, not so long ago, when I’d have hated me. See, I’ve been going to the Bottom of the Hill since I was 16 or so. Scrawny emo Micah would be up at the front of the stage, dancing his little emo heart out. And every once in a while he’d look behind him and see that guy. His nemesis. The anithesis of everything that emo Micah stood for. The 20-something year old dude, wearing a black leather jacket, sipping his beer while stainding by the bar and nodding his head slowly in time with the music. And, oh man, I hated that guy. Whay aren’t you fucking dancing?! What the hell are you doing?!

And I’ve become that guy.

I’m not even sure how it happened. As recently as a couple years ago, I’d have been fighting my way to the front of the crowd to rock the shit out to one of my favorite bands. But then, I don’t know, things changed. As much as I still love live music, it just doesn’t seem as important to be right up front anymore. I can appreciate it just fine from the back of the crowd. Maybe it has something to do with my growing misanthropy (about more will be said tomorrow, likely). But tonight, I ran into an old friend and spent half the night outside, sipping my Jameson, chainsmoking, and catching up. I missed about half the show, but do not feel at all like I missed out. Am I over shows? Am I just too old to deal with that shit anymore? I don’t know. And it does not make me happy in the least.

On the other hand, at least I’m not wearing tight black jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt that says “Sorry, I only date emo boys with broken hearts” anymore. Yeah… as much as growing old sucks, it could be a lot worse. I could still be 20.

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Ok, so they’re not actually off brands. They are neither more nor less smelly or cancerous than Marlboros or Camels. But they just don’t quite have the same cachet as those two. This is not to say, of course, that they do not say as much about their smokers. Let’s examine:

Parliament is an odd brand. Many, many people smoke Parly lights, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone smoke a regular Parliament. Not sure what exactly that means.

The important thing about Parliament Light smokers is this: They are usually cute hipster girls with good fashion, good taste in music, and they are usually quitting smoking.

Gauloises are merely one of the many French and French-Canadian brands in vogue among the pretentious elite. Another common brand in this crowd is Export A. These are the sort of people that spend all day at the local cafe, playing Japanese Chess, writing in their Moleskine notebooks, and reading sprawling post-modern literature that everyone ahs heard of but no one ahs read like Gravity’s Rainbow and Infinite Jest. Or maybe that was just me in 2002…

American Spirits… oh, where to begin? “My body is a temple. I want no unwelcome chemicals entering it.” Earth to hippy! You are fucking smoking. you are currently inhaling more chemicals than you have names for, and just because there’s none added does not make the fuckers good for you! If you like the taste of Spirits better, great! If you like the fact that it takes about five years to smoke a single American Spirit cigarette, awesome! But do not claim that you are smoking them because there are no additives. That’s like claiming organic bacon will somehow make you less fat, or natural rat poison is somehow more environmentally safe.

Menthols are for people that don’t like smoking but want to smoke. The menthol numbs the throat and makes you feel vaguely like you’ve been ass-raped in the mouth. Menthols are for frat boys, thugs, and anyone who likes to feel like they’ve been ass-raped in the mouth.

Obviously, I’m not a fan.

Cloves are also for people who don’t like smoking but want to smoke. The clove numbs the throat and makes you cough blood the next day. They are for theatre fags, goth teenagers, and your spinster aunt who is going through a mid-life crisis and goes to Death Guild to pick up theatre fags and goth teenagers. But hey, at least she’s not getting ass-raped in the mouth.

And finally, why Camel smokers should never date each other and should find a Parliament Light smoker:

As discussed in yesterday’s lecture, the Camel smoker is at heart a roamer, a wanderer, a nomad, a vagabond, call them what you will. They are rarely content to stay in one place, and almost always have a certain wanderlust to them. This does not lead to a stable relationship. When you put two of these people together, you can be sure that the relationship will be passionate, intense, and incredibly shortlived. Invariably, one or the other will feel the need to move on, sooner rather than later. The constant threat of dissolution can cause the couple to live every day like it’s their last together, which of course leads to great stories, incredible adventures, and mindblowing sex… but very soon it will be over, hearts will be broken, and even more cigarettes will be smoked.

The Parliament Light smoker, on the other hand, is groundedd. She is content to stay put, she likely has a decent job at a publishing company or a magazine or a non-profit, and, as mentioned, she is trying to quit smoking. She is not likely to hop on a Greyhound bus tomorrow for parts unknown. And this grounds the Camel smoker. The relationship is probably not as violently intense as the menage a Camel, but this is a good thing. Burning a candle on two ends and all that. The wanderlust may win out, of course, and the Camel smoker may eventually leave the Parliament Light smoker, but he will regret it for the rest of his life.

And that’s what you needed to know to write about smokers.

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…and they always fall in love with the girl that smokes Parliament Lights.

I smoke. I am occasionally embarrassed by this. I occasionally try to quit. The problem is, those little motherfuckers are delicious, and I will likely be a smoker for a while still. So, let’s talk branding.

It is rarely a good idea to include brand names in your writing. The girlfriend was talking about reading some chick-lit novel recently in which the protagonist was constantly saying things like: “This is Midnight Smoke eyeliner, by MAC. It’ll look really good with your pale skin…” etc. This is bad. For one, product placement can be really jarring if handled poorly, as is the case here. For two, it hopelessly dates the piece (as an example, how many brands in Blade Runner are still around? Pan-Am, really? I’m certainly not saying Blade Runner is a bad movie because of this, but having ads in the future for a company that has gone the way of Dinersaurs Cereal). For three, no seriously, who the fuck talks like that?!

However, I occasionally break this rule. Yes, I have been known to include name brands in my prose. But I am selective. Pringles are still reconstituted and extruded potato wafers, Pabst Blue Ribbon is cheap beer that won first place at a county fair. But my characters that smoke (meaning most of them) smoke Camels and Parly Lights and Gauloise.

Why is this? Why do I make the choice (and it is clearly a conscious one) to break my hard and fast, no brand name rule when it comes to smoking? The answer is simple: cigarette brand is characterization. What a person smokes does a lot to say what that person likes, dislikes, etc. In short, who they are.

A Couple Examples:

A Marlboro smoker sure does want to be a cowboy… only one problem: he ain’t. See, a Marlboro smoker is a Bud drinker, a Broncos fan, a McDonalds eater. There’s nothing really wrong with those things, but they’re not the cowboy thing to do. Cowboys were rebels, criminals, archetypal tricksters in the Coyote vein. Cowboys were not, are not, and never will be mainstream America. I should know. I smoke Camels.

Now, a Camel smoker just likes a good tasting cigarette that is easily available anywhere in the world. I’ve found my brand in Istanbul, Budapest, Tokyo, Amsterdam, and down the street at the corner store. Yeah, it’s mainstream. Yeah, it’s still an all-American brand. But Camel’s like the pre-2004 Red Sox. Always second best, always the outsider. That’s probably why Camel’s are smoked by all the real Cowboys I know; the hardcore kids, the bike messengers, the Southern punks, the New Orleans circus freaks… all Camel smokers.

The Camel vs. Marlboro debate is the same as the Red Sox vs. Yankees rivalry, the Mac vs. PC battle… it is a battle between two inherently disparate world views. And working that into fiction is perfectly acceptable.

COMING TOMORROW:
The lesser brands, including Parliaments, Kools, American Spirits, and the non-smoker cigarette: Cloves.

Also, why the Camel guy always falls for the Parliament girl, and should never date another Camel smoker.

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The nice thing about resolutions that just happen to fall on the new year, as opposed to New Years Resolutions, is that you can slightly change them and not feel like you’re pussing out.

Modified resolution:

Same as the previous, with the simple change that weekends in which I am traveling count as one day as opposed to two.

Christ almighty that storm…

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I am venturing south into the insanity that s this coastal storm. This is it for the blog today, we will return tomorrow to our regularly scheduled program. If I don’t die.

The Game is an insidious one.  The rules are simple:
1) Do not, under any circumstances, think about the fact that you are playing The Game.
2) If you think about The Game, you have lost The Game.
3) Try to make other people playing The Game lose, without thinking of The Game.
4) If you do lose The Game, you MUST inform any other players around you that you have done so; this does not make them lose The Game. Instead, they have 30 minutes to re-forget that they are playing The Game.
5) Now you know the rules, you are playing The Game.
6) Sucker.

We’ve been talking about The Game quite a bit recently, on our smoke breaks at work, mainly pertaining to interesting ways to cause others to lose The Game. Turns out, it’s very easy to get someone to associate a word with The Game. For example, when I hear the phrase “stuck in my head” I almost immediately lose The Game. For a friend, it’s Madagascar (merely because we suggested that Madagascar would be an excellent trigger word).

The same friend used to place an electric drill in front of a co-worker’s keyboard. Somehow, this became associated in the co-worker’s mind with The Game, and would cause him to lose almost hourly.  Auditory aids also work. We have weekly catered lunches at work, and the office manager will walk through the office ringing a large metal triangle when the food arrives. The immediate response of 50 hungry tech geeks rising from their chairs and wandering towards the kitchen is often pointed out to be incredibly Pavlovian (Pavlov, by the way, is another very common trigger-word). It didn’t take very long, of course, for one Pavlovian response to become another, and I now regularly lose The Game between 12:45 and 1:15 on Thursday afternoons.

Of course, there are many other exciting ways you can force people to lose The Game, but remember: only if you are not currently losing can you win.  Good luck.

A WORD OF CAUTION, ALBEIT A SLIGHTLY TARDY ONE:

The preceding blog post should not be read if you do not want to become involved in the most evil game ever invented. Few things are sadder then losing The Game by yourself in the shower, while taking a crap, while embroiled in a deep philosophical conversation, or mid-coitus (if the latter occurs to you, it is probably not a good idea to yell “Son of a fucking whore! I just lost The Game!” This tends to not be the sort of dirty talk your partner was looking for, and it does suggest that your mind is not entirely on the task at hand). If, however, you have already read the preceding post then The Game has you in its sticky claws and you have exactly 30 minutes to forget you are playing. If you are re-reading this post, I’d like to point out that you have now lost the game.

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