Category: self

Introspective thought on my own behavior or actions.

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ch-ch-ch-ch-changes


Hi Tuesday. Back to work today, fresh of my latest trip on ship-sick. Felt OK, the busyness of the day working to keep my mind from dwelling on how I felt, letting me instead be washed away in the stress and decisions of my daily eight-hour farce. I suppose that means I have to go back tomorrow, so I will. Today, I went a little mad near the end there (sorry about breaking the no-cussing streak, blame Art). Let’s do this.

♫ Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes… ♫
♫ Oh, look out you rock ‘n rollers… ♫

Just within the past few days, Keaton has begun stuttering. At first, I thought this was utterly cute. She’s always done some amount of stammering or word-repetition at the beginning of her phrases, and I’d always chalked that up to her knowing she wanted to form a long string of words, but needing some extra time to process what she wanted to say and buying it through repetition. This recent stuff though, this is different. All of the sudden at my folks’ place in Oregon last week, she started getting really hung up on her ‘W’ lead-words. “Where’d the doggy go daddy?” turned into, Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-where’d the doggy go daddy?” With the ‘W’ sound repeated an almost comical amount of times. Actually, with the ‘W’ sound repeated a downright comical amount of times.

“W-w-w-w-w-wan-wan-wan-w-w-w-wan-wanna use the potty” began to replace the previously smooth and fluid “Wanna use the potty.” Again, the amount of repetition on the lead word was so prominent I figured she must be doing it on purpose as a reaction to the giggles we initially reacted with.

Within just the past forty-eight hours, though, she’s branched out from just ‘W’ words and now hangs up on all sorts of words. She draws out initial words too, like, “Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii wanna bite daddy’s cheese,” or “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmy babydoll is sleeping.” Still, I saw no reason for concern, and figured it was some sort of normal speech pattern per development. Sharaun, however, was a little more prudent, deciding she didn’t like the new Keaton-speech and doing some online research. Here’s what the sage internet has to say about toddler stuttering:

Many children go through a developmental stage of speech disfluency that’s often confused with true stuttering. This normal disfluency does disappear over time without need for treatment.

Children with true stuttering tend to repeat syllables four or more times (a-a-a-a-as opposed to once or twice for normal disfluency). They mmmmmay also occasionally prolong sounds.

Hmmm… sounds like our Keaton…

Children with stuttering show signs of reacting to their stuttering — blinking the eyes, looking to the side, raising the pitch of the voice.

Oh yeah, blinking eyes, screwing up her face, seemingly looking into space for the words: check, check, and check. Hmmm….

True stuttering is frequent — at least 3 percent of the child’s speech. While normal disfluency is especially noticeable when the child is tired, anxious, or excited, true stuttering is noticeable most of the time.

Well, as long as the internet is still an infallible source of information and a viable method of self-diagnosis, I’m convinced: Our baby may have a legitimate stuttering problem. The doctor on the internet said we should alert our pediatrician, so that’s what we’ll do.

Still, I secretly think it’s cute, and am not really too concerned. Call me naive.

♫ Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes… ♫

Tomorrow I’m dropping Sharaun and Keaton off at the airport bright and early so they can catch a flight to Florida to see Keaton’s brand new cousin, baby Hobson (blog-style congratulations to Aunt Breck and Uncle Doug). After that, I’ll be on my own for five whole days. Cast back into the shadowy realm of bachelorhood (well, minus all the wild stripper-pole parties I used to throw in my true bachelor past, ahem). On my own for meals, clean boxers, sexual gratification (nothing much new there), bedtimes and waketimes, and whether or not I have to don knickers on the weekend. My barnburning plans include the cleaning jag I’ve outlined here before, and completely eschewing the television in favor of the iPod. In some ways I’m looking forward to the time, but in reality I think I’ll start to miss my girls right-quick.

♫ Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes… ♫

Has anyone ever heard an old fable, or story, or Mother Goose or… something… about a man, or king, or maybe it was a pauper, who woke up one morning to a solid-gold reflection of himself in the mirror? Yeah, I figured not, because I just made that up. But today was my solid-gold day. I was untouchable. I walked on water. I touched souls. The heart-hardened wept open-mouthed as babes for tit.

Below please find the actual photo that sits unblinkingly on my sawmill’s badge. Note the lethargic smile, crooked nose, and fucking hair. It was taken some eight years ago now, and I’ve worn it around my neck five days a week for those long years like a sinner’s millstone. While this is, in what I hope would be anyone’s opinion and not just my own, a spectacularly awful picture of me, it’s constantly displayed on my chest in miniature contrast to my real face just a foot above it.

I like to think I see something better than that in the mirror each morning, and usually I do (changing that pitiful post-college hairstyle really opened up new avenues for me, how on earth did I ever pull tail with that gel-back?). In actuality it’s likely not that far off the mark. They got the underlying concept right.

I hate that picture. Hate.

So imagine my apoplectic joy when, this morning, smiling back at me in that reflective glass, I saw instead an Adonis of an alpha-male, chiseled face sculpted from shining polished gold. I took avenue-wide strides all the way to work, stepping from cloud to cloud and smiling down on creation from my appointed place in the Heavens. I called lightnings with my fingers, distilled the entirety of human consciousness into my hands and cast it to the wind as worthless. I was amazing.

When I got home at 6pm, the chump from the badge was back, only he was eight years older and balder. I berated him, tore him down layer by putrid layer and tried to rebuild him again in all the gilt perfection of twelve hours prior. Resisting my efforts, he slithered back into decline, rusting in real-time, biodegrading on a hook in the backyard.

It’s not over.

♫ Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes… ♫
♫ Pretty soon you’re gonna get a little older… ♫

To those of you who were lucky today and didn’t even know it – Goodnight and sweet dreams.

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my geriatric symphony


(I think I’ve stolen that image to accompany a blog before… right?)

Monday night and it’s a bit of a jostled beehive here as we’re realizing that we have to leave for Oregon tomorrow and have little time to get ready. With morning obligations, packing has to happen tonight. But… we’re not packing, neither of us. Sharaun’s working on the computer in the kitchen and I’m sitting here on the laptop. By my estimates then, we’ll be up late scrambling to get things in order. It’s a longer visit this time, five days in all staying at my folks’ place. Work at the local sawmill promises to be busy, with two meetings of import Wednesday and Thursday. I know things will go OK, because I plan to a fault… but I still obsess… I still obsess.

I have only one topic for the night, and barely got that one down to boot. Feel lucky you’re reading anything at all, OK? OK.

Tonight, unfolding myself from my nightly position on the couch (leaning sideways into the upholstered arm that holds the laptop from which I suckle my nightly diet of bits and bytes, legs tucked up into myself and knees pulled close to my chest), I arose from my gargoyled perch to a loud crack! from beneath the flesh, blood, and atrophied muscle of my shoulder. My bones. The snap, crackle, and pop of old age set into my joints. While I’m ignorant of the physiology of the phenomenon, I do know that it’s as good as a warning shot fired off my bow by USS Death. Sometimes at work, I’ll turn my head sharply and hear the same auditory harbinger of my pending demise. And I’ve even noticed that, as my foot makes its small pushes on the gas pedal, my knee will often pop in protest of the minuscule motion. It’s like God is communicating to me in some secret language of clicks and pops, telling me I’m neglecting myself… urging me with with creaking bones to get out and run a mile or jump rope.

I’m listening, Lord. I’ve tried Morse Code, I’ve tried that clicky language they speak in the Gods Must Be Crazy movies, I’ve even tried dolphin – but I can’t seem to decipher the message. Maybe I should play the lottery? Eat more greens? File for medical leave and drop off the grid as an experiment to see how long a company will pay an employee who’s MIA? Perhaps I only have a piece of the decoder, and I’ll need to augment my popping joints with the growls and grumbles of my aging gut or the scraping sound my hairbrush makes on my bare scalp in the mornings to reveal the true message. A full sonic testament to old age, my geriatric symphony played right through the instrument of my corpus.

I offer you a wet old-man kiss through well-used lips as a heartfelt “goodnight.” Wish us luck in our travels, and I’ll type to you next from Oregon.

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longjohns


Happy Thursday my friends. I worked until seven this evening, wanting so bad to just finish the review work I’ve been working on for the past week or so. And, I almost did it too. Almost. Tomorrow will be the forcing function, as I’ve setup meetings with those I’ve been writing about. I figure sitting down with them to review the the review will pretty much force me to finish the review, right? Right.

Wednesday morning, as I readied myself to travel to Oregon, I had in the back of my mind my brother’s foreboding warning from the day prior: “Dude, it’s totally freezing here. It’s snowing!”. Mindful of this, I attempted to dress for the elements. I decided this meant I would try and wear my long underwear beneath my dress pants. See, I had to dress up, as I was meeting customers from Japan, where the coat-and-tie still rule the business world. And, I’m always conscious of how thin fancypants are. They may look nice, and give the Japanese assurances that I’m all-business, but they don’t do anything to stop the icy wind from freezing my thighs.

I’ve only every worn my long underwear when camping. In fact, I bought them (underwear are plural, why?) for specifically for hiking and camping, with no intentions of wearing them in real-life situations. They are dark blue, as a matter of fact, and you couldn’t really call them conspicuous at all. So, I had a bit of a time decided just how best to both wear them and completely conceal the fact that I was wearing them. In the end, I decided on tucking them into my tan dress socks, then pulling those socks up to maximum height to avoid any sneak-peaks during crossed-legged situations or the like. In the end, I found myself in front of the long mirror in our bedroom around 4:30am, staring at my pants and socks, trying to objectively determine if a third-party observer would be able to tell I was wearing long underwear. Satisfied, I kept them on.

And man, am I glad I did. It was completely freezing in Oregon, and even with the extra layer underneath my thin-but-snazzy khakis, I was hugging myself for warmth in the three minutes outside while changing trains. I even had enough confidence to cross my legs during the meeting, no fear. I mean, they were a little “pully,” and somewhat noticeable in terms of comfort-transparency, but I think it was worth it.

Dressclothes suck for comfort anyway, right, with all their diabolical tug-and-pull interdependencies? Undershirt tucked into pants, dressshirt atop, belt cinching them both tight so that every twist and turn, every stand-up and sit-down pulls on my shoulders or somehow inexplicably at my wrists or elbows. I guess it’s just something you have to deal with, the price of being dapper, or somesuch.

And, speaking of mirrors, I noticed yesterday that, even though I’ve seen myself in the mirror thousands of times, I still catch myself walking through public places (airports, for example) mentally picking out folks and thinking, “Is that what I look like?” The portly guy with the well-kept, if unimpressively thin and sparse, beard, a decidedly unfair-trade coffee in one hand, iPod in the other. The wanna-be businessman thirty-something with a Bluetooth fixed to one ear whose laptop trails behind him in some lower-back sparing stewardess style rollerboard. That’s me, isn’t it? That’s totally what I look like. Like that dude right there, right? Awww man, it is. It’s absolutely what I look like.

Goodnight.

Posted on

read a book, fell in love


Hi people.

I’m sitting in the Portland airport right now. I have 59% battery on the laptop and approximately two hours to kill. I don’t know why I booked my flight so late, I think maybe I was using it as a “test case” to see if I could do an entirely public-transit based day-trip into the local sawmill.

Leave California around 6:30am, arrive in Portland around 8:45am. Hop the train from the airport towards work, arrive via shuttle van just shy of 10am. Work till around 4:30pm, take the shuttle van to the train, train to the airport, and clear security just before 6pm. Thing is, my flight’s not until 8:45pm. I think I did this just in case, assuming I could get on standby for the earlier flight if I broke speed records (I did, and I couldn’t, economically).

So then, here I am. Nursing the first of at least a few tall black-and-tans, pondering what to eat even though my bowels protest (I think they’re grumpy from not having a decent at-home evacuation today… 4am was just too early for them, and they do tend to get upset when they get off-schedule).

But, even though I’m weary from the rigors of travel, I count two good things which came of today: 1) I got do some much-missed reading-for-pleasure, and 2) I totally fell in love in the security line. Let’s take them in reverse order.

Cut to security line at the airport. The girl in front of me is small, slimish with crinkled-curly dirty-blonde hair. From behind, she looks plausible, but I’ll need frontal confirmation to say for sure. Suddenly, as we progressed through the ranks of the line, awaiting our turns to undress and empty our pockets as a thick, symbolic American middle-finger to Al Qaeda, my opportunity arose.

Roses and Cigarettes, as I have since fondly dubbed her, dropped her black belt on the ground – and failed to notice. As she continued to disrobe, gradually revealing her diminutive figure in what I imagined as a private audience, I stooped to retrieve the belt. “Excuse me, I think you dropped this,” I said casually to her back. As she turned, her sharp features came into view: An isosceles nose and angular jaw, not manlike, but designed. Her curly, almost crunchy looking, hair framed her face well, and she replied though thin lips, “Thank you so much, I kinda need that, huh?”

“No! No! You need neither that, nor any other clothing in my presence!,” my lustful heart wanted to cry.

“Guess so,” was the tepid response my level-headed brain formed in my mouth instead.

At least I remembered to smile my best smile while speaking, and was met with one just as warm and promising in return (and, in my head, no doubt).

Presently, I was aware of her scent as we moved: An overpowering wash of roses and cigarettes, the stink of the latter somehow imbued with the headiness of the former, combining into some sort of otherworldly aphrodisiac scent that said, “I’m delicate and feminine, but I totally do it.” It was only later, after using the restroom, that I realized the scent had been transferred, permanent-for-the-night, to my hand, presumably from my brief belt-fetching. (Yes, I do make it a habit of sniffing my hands after washing them in the restroom. It’s some compulsive thing I do to ensure my hands are truly “clean,” regardless of #1 or #2.)

Back in the present, Rosed and Cigarettes preceded me through the portal-of-ensuritude and we both began to reclaim our clothing and ore-laden effects from the rolling belts on the other side. As she redressed next to me, I sighed, overly loud, as I re-threaded my belt through the loops of my sliperry, pleatless, cuffless, khakis, in hopes she would hear. She did. Turning, in all her pale crisp-angled glory, to me and speaking, she said, “Take care,” as I walked away. “Thanks,” I replied, “you too.”

And, as I walked away towards my gate, my heart crumbled to dust at the prospect of the life I’d lost for not being with her.

Secondthingwise, I read a book today on the plain/train/shuttle. A book a friend loaned me because he said I needed to read the author’s work. He even commented as such right here on this very blogish thing. When I saw him this weekend, I borrowed one he recommended, and set about digging in today. I hadn’t intended to day-read it, but it was short and really good and I totally got sucked in. It was called A Maze of Death and it was a kind of theological/metaphysical/sci-fi mashup that I totally dug. Anyway, whenever I read something, I have this misconception that it makes me write better. I have no idea from whence this delusion comes, but I labor under it still. In fact, I wrote a ton today on the train in between fits of reading; all of it thumbed into my BlackBerry in a gush. I decided, however, after some consult, to leave over these bits for tomorrow – as having them pre-written will afford me an evening “off.” Unfortunately (right?) for you, this means you’ll have to to wait.

Speaking of the train (I was, I swear), it always amazes me how many people stumble onto public transit in the early-morning still reeking of liquor. Today, as the train hit its downtown run, at least three people wobbled on looking worse for wear and emanating the sickly-sweet aroma of a night spent in the bottle. One guy even paced the center aisle in a decidedly certifiable stomp, back and forth, back and forth, chuckling loudly to some unheard joke replaying silently for him alone, making everyone uncomfortable. These roll-your-own-smokes types seem to flock to the train, maybe as shelter from the biting cold outside on the concrete where they live. For me, to wake up smelling of booze is an awful, shameful thing. The kind of thing that will get you in deep trouble with the Lord and make your soul weep. I can’t imagine reconciling myself to a life of waking up that way. It must be terribly depressing.

I should so be writing employee reviews right now, but I’ve squandered my battery life on blogging. Tsk-tsk. Looks like tomorrow will be a late night getting things finalized. Good thing I have boxed-content ready to go, hope you don’t mind leftovers.

And, 23% battery dictates I now say: Love you all truly and deeply and madly. Goodnight.

Posted on

a provider, a protector


It’s coming up on one heck of a storm here in Sunny California. The wind was blowing the spray from my tires sideways away from the car as I drove home from work, big poofed-up plumes of frenzied droplets floating on the gusts. It’s exciting, you know, when you’re all but sure a storm is brewing and you’ve got a nice warm sheltered hideaway from within which you can hole up and observe. Makes me feel safe, and somehow wise, as if the rigid walls and roof of a house I didn’t even build were extensions of my own arms, stretching out and wrapping tight around my family to spare them from the raging elements. A provider, a protector, someone whose work paid for the place that’s keeping you dry and warm. Yeah, I like storms. And, from what “they” say, this one’s gonna be a ribbon-taker, windy, rainy, and cold.

I say bring it on. After my blustery ride home, I was greeted by an empty house. Not so bad, says I. I put the iPod on shuffle and cranked it rather loud, but had to turn it down just a tad so I could hear the horizontal rain picking up speed outside (remember, it makes me feel strong and stuff?). And, even now, as Neil Young screeches out a live version of “Old Man,” I’m excited for the inky wet environment outside the window, and my brain is turning to those stormy-night ship fantasies I’ve written about before. Reclined in my quarters, nose spiced with pitch, stomach contents sloshing at rhythm with the sea, reading some mouldered book by the shifting light of a gimbaled oil lamp on the wall…

Let’s change the subject, before I start calling myself Ishmael and start looking for wrinkled brows and a crooked jaws…

When I was in Florida, my brother-in-law and I were watching TV, and the program on was “sponsored” by the “natural male enhancement” pill, Enzyte. Now, I’ve often wondered why Enzyte is the only “penis pill” that gets advertised in mainstream media. I mean, they have commercials during prime-time TV, a NASCAR sponsorship deal, and tons of print ads in respected circulars. And these aren’t your back-of-the-magazine Mangaian Tribe wiener pill adverts, either. These are real full-page ads that look like they were designed by paid graphic artists. Anyway, during each commercial break, there was an Enzyte commercial offering a thirty-day free trail of the herbal penis-bulking formula. Soon, I was joking with my brother-in-law that I should order them, take them for a month, and blog about what happens. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. I even started thinking of funny post-accompanying graphics I could design to chart any “happenings” during my “trial.”

So, I did it.

And that, dear readers, means you should prepare yourself for a weekly Enzyte update here on sounds familiar. This way, you can accompany me while I add all sorts of unclassified and under-researched herbs and proprietary substances to my daily diet, and follow along with me as I analyze the witchcraft of the pills. Now, don’t think I haven’t realized that typing “Enzyte” this many times on my blog will be like lighting a massive signal fire to the penis-enlargement spam lobby, because, I have. But, I think there’s a chance for some funny writing here. And, c’mon people, it’s not like I actually need natural male enhancement or anything… as it’s well-established that I’m 110% OK in that arena of physical attributes. So anyway, here’s hoping it makes for some good blogging, and look for the first update soon!

Before I go, I found these two (one, the other) enthralling (to me) brief stories written by a guy about some of the crazier nights he had back in the underground after-hours clubs in an early-1980s NYC. I thought they were well-written, and very Tarantino-esque (fitting with the post Kill Bill high I’m still coming down from since seeing them again for the first time in a while). You should read the stories, they’re quite entertaining, and, whether truly non-fiction or not, pretty engrossing. And, man, that guy has really done some cool stuff… like burning down a crack house, or surviving a Blackhawk Down hail of bullets in Afghanistan. And, yeah, I think they’re true.

And, I hate to proselytize this early on, but did you guys see Obama’s “victory” speech after his Iowa caucus win last night? I thought it was brilliant. Watch it here, or read the transcript if you’re bookish like that. Thanks Iowa.

Goodnight.

Posted on

not cool eyebrows. not cool.


I should be packing right now. Had plans to be done early. Maybe sit around and write a little before going to bed early. But, the best laid… something… Things went askew when a friend dropped in and found some beers in the fridge (quite against the norm in my fridge, to be honest). He cajoled me into joining him for one, and we sat and gabbed for an hour or so. Not an hour of wasted time, by any means, but an hour I should’ve spent packing, or writing, or putting more CDs on Ebay. Alas, here it is now closing on nine o’clock and I’ve done nothing.

The kitchen is a wreck from dinner, my carry-on is still in the closet, and I’m only up to here on tonight’s blog. I leave for Oregon tomorrow. There for three-ish days for training. Up in the mountains, at some lodge in the snow. I’d be excited if I wasn’t going for a work seminar. Have a lead on some tickets to see the Shins in Portland on Wednesday night – hoping it materializes. I’ve seen them twice before and they always put on a good show. I don’t wanna pay double face-value though… I’m a discerning scalpee like that.

I had Keaton tonight, one of Sharaun’s twice-weekly volleyball games. I don’t mind, I enjoy spending time with her just us. In fact, this weekend, after I get back from up North (I should be packing right now), I’m gonna have her to myself for four whole days. My longest stretch as a single parent yet, as a matter of fact. Sharaun is going down San Diego way to volunteer her time and clean up the burned wreckage from the recent fires. So, while she’s off getting checkmarks by her name in Peter’s log, I’ll be here taking care of Keaton. Oh, I’ve got plans: We’re gonna go to the park (I’m gonna pull her in the wagon); we’re gonna go water the wheat outside (she loves that, I got her a little watering pail so she can help); we’re gonna walk down to the mailbox together (one of her favorite things to do) and I’ll let her turn the key. Yeah, it’s pretty much gonna be bombs.

Hey, eyebrows, what the stank is up with this?

C’mon. Really? You’re gonna do that to me?

Not cool, eyebrows. Not cool.

Goodnight.

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fleeting youth


Happy Friday folks. Seemed like a fast week, didn’t it? I spent my fettered time at work, working; and my unfettered time at home, having a lot of fun playing with my new iPod. Been enjoying loading loading it up with stuff I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) afford the disk-space for on my old model. So far, I’ve been working on adding a hand-picked selection of top-shelf bootlegs. Things like Dyan’s Guitars Kissing the the Contemporary Fix, Harrison’s Beware of ABKCO, and Hendrix’s Raw Winter. I’m already sitting at about ~10GB above my old ‘Pod’s capacity…

Know how I know I’m old? Check this out.

The other day, on the way to work in the morning, I stopped off at Chevron station nearby my house to gas up. I tend to stop at this particular Chevron often, as it’s close to the house and lies on my home-to-work route. While standing outside in the grey morning cold pumping petrol into the Ford, I noticed a station worker scurrying around the pump area in a hunter-orange vest with reflective green accents thrown on over his sweatshirt. He was busy picking up trash, emptying bins, and just doing a general “checkup” of the pump station area. I took notice, in part, because I realized that it wasn’t the first time I’d seen an attendant doing such a thing at that station. In fact, as I began to think on it a little more, and take a closer look around the station grounds, I began to notice that this particular Chevron station was actually quite nice: the pumps are never broken, it’s always clean and functional, the ads and posters and flats pitching carwashes and Techron and Chevron credit cards are new, clean, and relevant, etc. I started thinking about how, as gas stations go, this one was actually pretty nice.

Now, this is the part where I realize I’m old.

When I got to work around 8am, my pleasant Chevron experience was still fresh in my brain. Without really thinking, I found myself directing Firefox to the Chevron page, and looking up the e-mail address for customer feedback. And, again, before I could really stop myself, I had written a three-sentence piece of unsolicited, positive, encouraging, feedback to Chevron. Apparently, as old-age silently took over my brain and directed me in these abhorrent actions, I had also taken the time to look up the four-digit “store number” of the location I’d earlier fueled at, and called it out by name in my missive. After I “woke up” from my geriatric haze, I’d realized what I’d done and immediately logged onto MySpace, sent some text messages, and played “the choking game.” It was close, but I was just able to reclaim the coolness of my youth.

What the heck is happening to me? Writing letters to companies? That’s something my dad would do. Next I’ll be calling senators and decrying the rampant depravity of today’s youth. I am so old.

Oh, and before I go, I’d like to clear out another half-written blog by sloppily pasting in this e-mail exchange I had the other day with Ben. I thought it was funny, maybe you will too.

_____________________________________________
From: Dave
Sent: Wednesday, November 28, 2007 8:29 AM
To: Ben
Subject: I can’t believe it

So, yesterday I re-copied all the tracks off my old iPod onto my PC (mostly, to have a permanent backup). Then, I restored my new Classic to factory state, and dragged all the backed-up music onto it via iTunes. Four hours later, all the music was on my iPod. Happy, I unplugged the iPod and went to browse through Coverflow, only to be greeted with the “Choose Language” menu. OK, English.

What?! No music?!

Sure enough. There was nothing on the dang thing. I had to restore it again and re-re-copy it all over. Why do I love this flaky POS? Just because it looks sexy? Am I hypnotized into brand loyalty by those shadowy commercials?

_____________________________________________
From: Ben
Sent: Wednesday, November 28, 2007 8:39 AM
To: Dave
Subject: RE: I can’t believe it

Exactly my thoughts Dave. I had the same feeling of discontent when I purchased this, but at the same time I too am mesmerized by the slick interface. Honestly though? I have a lot invested in my iPod infrastructure. Considering both of our vehicles (Suzy’s and mine) are wired specifically for it. I’ve got cables that I’ve purchased specifically for it. We even have one of those speaker things that has a dock right on it – would be useless on another player. My iPod momentum is like an unstoppable freight train – and switching now would just be too painful. Besides, there aren’t any other players on the market with 160GB’s of space. So for now, I guess I will continue to be a loyal customer. But if this thing ever breaks, you better believe I’m going to weigh my options and start looking seriously at that Zune, or whatever else is hot at the time….

_____________________________________________
From: Dave
Sent: Wednesday, November 28, 2007 8:43 AM
To: Ben
Subject: RE: I can’t believe it

Yeah, I’m with ya. It’s in my car too, and my home stereo, and I still flat-out love the thing. Even with its DRM and “you can’t have your own music back off me” attitude, I still can’t quite hate it.

But seriously, iTunes was adding songs for four hours. I have to conclude that it was just effing with me. Four hours later and not a single file on the device. What a waste of my time. Mostly, I blame iTunes… the ‘Pod wouldn’t “eat” those songs… iTunes either never put them on, or simultaneously added and then corrupted them as it went. Stupid iTunes.

_____________________________________________
From: Ben
Sent: Wednesday, November 28, 2007 8:39 AM
To: Dave
Subject: RE: I can’t believe it

Dude… four hours is nothing. It took a full 8+ hours to transfer my tunes across my wireless network from my linux box to my laptop (which has iTunes installed) and subsequently to my iPod. I’m glad that worked the first time. And I was actually surprised that iTunes allowed me to use a networked drive.

That dang iPod. Hard to hate it.

Goodnight.