Archive for January, 2010


Eat, you are skinny
Are you getting enough rest?
Why don’t you move home

Conan bows out

Conan O’Brien left the late show in style – playing guitar on a rendition of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird with Will Ferrell, Beck, Ben Harper, and others.

I hope this doesn’t mean the end of Triumph the Insult Comic Dog.

I will remember today

I went for drinks, a lot of beer.  It was a hard day.  I got home and went into the elevator; a lady stepped in too. Her perfume smelled good.  It was late at night, perhaps awkward to start conversation. I wanted to ask her where she had been, what she was doing, why did she wear this perfume? Instead, as neighbors do, we stood in the elevator silently. I fiddled with my phone and tried to download e-mail. Connections never work in an elevator.

Nexus One (big yawn)

I don’t understand all the hype over Google’s new phone, the Nexus One.

Nexus One

These days with phones like the HTC HD2 and the iPhone, if a touchscreen device doesn’t support multi-touch, I feel like it’s a has-been already.

The Nexus One and HD2 are both made by HTC.  The Nexus One seems like a “little kid” version of the HD2.

Both are trumped by the iPhone’s huge application library.

Pure hardware: HD2

Most useful applications: iPhone

Neither here nor there: Nexus One

Once again, Fake Steve Jobs calls things the way they are:

“All this stuff about not being evil? And being open, and transparent? All this crap about how they (Google) think everyone should just share all the information in the world? Yeah. Except you don’t see them sharing their search algorithms, do you? You don’t see them sharing the stuff they’ve done to Linux in their data center.”


In January and February I’m going to be traveling a lot. A friend of mine passed me a poem which I thought was appropriate.

At the gate, I sit in a row of blue seats
with the possible company of my death,
this sprawling miscellany of people –
carry-on bags and paperbacks –

that could be gathered in a flash
into a band of pilgrims on the last open road.
Not that I think
if our plane crumpled into a mountain

we would all ascend together,
holding hands like a ring of sky divers,
into a sudden gasp of brightness,
or that there would be some common spot

for us to reunite to jubilize the moment,
some spaceless, pillarless Greece
where we could, at the count of three,
toss our ashes into the sunny air.

It’s just that the way that man has his briefcase
so carefully arranged,
the way that girl is cooling her tea,
and the flow of the comb that woman

passes through her daughter’s hair…
and when you consider the altitude,
the secret parts of the engines,
and all the hard water and the deep canyons below…

well, I just think it would be good if one of us
maybe stood up and said a few words,
or, so as not to involve the police,
at least quietly wrote something down.

“Passengers” by Billy Collins