I recently purchased a Handspring Treo 180 (black and white version), which -- as many of you probably already know -- is a PDA/phone combo. The PDA OS is Palm, and the phone runs on the GSM network (I connect via Voicestream / T-mobile in San Francisco). The new color Treo 300 runs on Sprint's CDMA network.
I've been extremely happy with my Treo. While it's definitely more bulky than the wonderfully-pocketsized Ericsson phone I used to have, I'm now actually carrying around a Palm Pilot and phone religiously. And with the Outlook sync, it's amazingly handy having ALL of my contact numbers in my phone without having to laboriously type them in.
Plus, it's got 16 megs of memory. Not expandable, but... dang, that's still good sized, IMHO :-)
The PDA/Phone integration is mildly quirky, but I'd still give it an A- overall.
Other grades:
- Ergonomics: A-
- Fit (hand): A
- Fit (pocket): B- (pretty thin, but wide)
- Screen: B (small but clear)
- Construction: B (feels just a touch flimsy... but solid metal would have weighed too much)
- Reception: B- (noticeably less consistent than my old phone)
- Sound quality: A (great clarity natively, with earbud, and with speakerphone)
My service with Voicestream has been mixed.
RIGHT when I first signed up they had a 4 day outage!
My coverage and connection-quality has been very good since, though, and you absolutely cannot beat their plans. 1000 weekday minutes and unlimited weekends, plus free long distance, free roaming, and 50 text messages for $39? Very cool! And they have 24hour customer service over the phone.
I originally purchased the phone for $149 (after rebate) with Amazon.com, but strangely, it's gone back up to $249 after rebate now. I still think it'd be a worthwhile buy.
Friday, August 30, 2002
Flower in San Francisco Golden Gate Park
(Click on photo to see larger version)I'm in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park almost every Sunday to enjoy swing dancing with friends outdoors via the weekly "Lindy in the Park" celebration.
However, I had rarely stopped to appreciate the botanical gardens practically next door until my parents and sister came to visit one Sunday. The photo here is one of many shots I took, highlighting both the beauty and strangeness of the flowers I discovered.
More 9/11 idiocy
But restrictions on so-called general aviation aircraft over New York from Sept. 11-13 were still being considered. Small private plane owners and pilots were lobbying against the proposal, said Warren Morningstar, spokesman for the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association.
The three-day flight ban over New York would prohibit news helicopters, corporate jets and small planes carrying packages and hospital patients from flying from 17 airports, he said.[emphasis mine]
- AP story concerning proposed 9/11 restrictions that our administration admits were recommended despite no evidence of additional terrorist threats in NY
This article also notes that our brain-cell challenged friends in the White House were previously proposing a 3 day ban on all traffic from foreign airlines in and around NYC. This, of course, despite the fact that it was U.S.-owned airlines that were involved in the original attack.
Each day I think that our current administration can't possibly do anything stupider. But then they once again provide sad fodder for late night television comics and seriously pissed local and international officials.
Thursday, August 29, 2002
So... you think *YOU* have bad luck?
Two years ago, I found myself sitting unexpectedly (and uncommonly) next to a fascinating and friendly woman ("Kara") on a flight to Costa Rica.
This evening, I found myself trying not to sneeze on her.
The genuinely pleasant dinner with her aside, I've not been having the best of luck lately.
Late last week, I was away for Kara's birthday party while I was (ironically) playing Aggravation with my parents in Southern California. I also missed a hot tub party, a huge and highly lauded Lindy Hop / blues party with a live pianist (the dead ones just can't swing), several other dance events, a scavenger hunt, and more.
Tuesday night at Broadway Studios (for swing night), I forgot to put my dancing sneakers on, and then wondered for three hours why I wasn't quite "in best form." Mind you, I've been dancing hundreds of hours over the last year, and before this week, had never been quite so absentminded in this way. It's kind of like walking into your workplace in pajamas. Your less observant colleagues may not notice, but you'll feel downright funny. Especially if you can't figure out why 'til you're on your way home.
Additionally, I was decidedly a huge dork because I failed to introduce myself to a woman competing at Broadway, whom I had chatted extensively with over IM during the past week. She's busy preparing for the contest, I told myself, so I can't bother her now. She's resting after the contest. She's bummed about not winning the contest. Oh, wait, gobs of top Lindy guys are asking her to dance constantly, I can't interrupt. Then she went home. And the next day, I got a puzzled IM from her asking why I never bothered to show up, despite my promise to be there and introduce myself. Ouch.
Wednesday morning, I discovered that I had apparently been cursed by the prior evening's performance of the opera "The Nose," since my own personal schnoz had become quite unruly. Sniffling literally and figuratively, I ditched my kickboxing class and felt annoyed and guilty.
This morning, I felt more sick and pondered whether to cancel on my long lost airplane friend. Determined to be strong -- and understandably reluctant to last-minutely cancel plans with a busy woman like this -- I did the next best thing: I drugged myself. Cough expectorant, decongestant, zinc tablets, extra vitamins, and a hella strong antihistimine.
Running late (of course), I still couldn't help but notice the alarming state of my formerly white car. It looked like a Gateway cow-spot box that had baked in the desert sun, complete with evil birds contributing to the auxilliary "paint" job.
Timing be damned, it was clear that I had to do something, and I was relieved when I noticed only three cars in front of me at the nearby gas station autowash. I hadn't taken into account, however, that two out of these three would contain complete nitwits.
The first lady didn't quite have the pre-pay concept down. She figured, I'm guessing, that she could run her car through the automated car wash thingy and pay afterwards. I don't know. All I can attest to is the fact that she was repeatedly punching in likely random codes into the keypad there, hoping that she'd somehow hit the magic 5 digit jackpot to activate the car wash. Having failed to accomplish this after seemingly an eternity and probably noticing the increasingly pissed off mob of people waiting behind her, she then resigned herself to sticking quarters into the machine to pay the $4 fee. She, however, had only $3.25.
How do I know this? She got out of her car and began panhandling the rest. I kidd you not.
Secure in my assumption that the next two drivers could not be half as stupid as this woman, I was unsurprised but thankful that the next car zoomed right through. He had a code, and knew how to use it. Amen!
The fellow after him, however, was perhaps a relative of the first bozette. He had trouble grasping the necessity of aligning one's left tires with the moving trackway so as to have the car guided along through the wash and then (thankfully) out the exit, wonderously making room for OTHER people to get their cars washed. Including other people who were already running late for meeting a friend in Berkeley across the bridge.
But, as I suggested, he DIDN'T quite get the picture. So he punched in his code, hit the start button, and waited. And waited. And no doubt wondered, gee, why wasn't his car moving?
I shouted helpful instructions to him the best I could without shouting things that would not be considered "instructive" in a car wash sense. He then succeeded in getting ONE of his wheels along the track, albeit at a 45 degree angle. His car was dragged along for a few inches, but no more.
"MORONS LIKE YOU SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED OUT IN PUBLIC UNSUPERVISED!" I screamed.
Okay, so I instead yelled in a more friendly way for him to try again, back up, and get both tires on the track. Miraculously, he eventually did so.
A few moments later I was in the car wash and out of the car wash. Yet my windshield still had big funny spots on it. Halfway down the street I realized, OH NO, these were spots INSIDE the car! I spit in a kleenex, doing my best to professionally buff the spots away, but what I ended up with were huge colorfully messy streaks instead. I gave up. If this woman judged me solely by the cleanliness of my car, then she was not worth having as a friend, I defiantly reassured myself.
I wish I had thought of that before going to the carwash, though.
The trip to Kara's apartment wasn't any smoother.
I was plagued with mondo traffic getting across the bridge, and MapBlast directions that cheerfully instructed me to turn right when I needed to turn left. I got lost, and shamelessly called Kara for help. Clearly she was not going to like me for my sense of directionality or my (non)possession of paper maps, either.
I had barely eaten all day, and so by the time I finally met up with Kara, I was starving. Luckily, she and I walked quickly to a restaurant and found a table. When she ordered a before-dinner beer, I reflexively ordered a drink for myself... a nice glass of white wine. Mmm.
An hour later, I harshly recalled that big scary looking warning on the antihistimine bottle: "DO NOT TAKE ANTIDEPRESSANTS OR ALCOHOL WITH THIS DRUG." Let's just say I blathered dumbly even more than usual. I think the only remaining quality she can admire in me now is my dashingly handsome looks. Er, or maybe my vivid sense of imagination.
So here I am, past midnight blogging, still not tired, but still sick. And also praying that my friend has a good sense of humor, especially if she reads this entry :-)
I also wouldn't mind some better luck coming my way.
This evening, I found myself trying not to sneeze on her.
The genuinely pleasant dinner with her aside, I've not been having the best of luck lately.
Late last week, I was away for Kara's birthday party while I was (ironically) playing Aggravation with my parents in Southern California. I also missed a hot tub party, a huge and highly lauded Lindy Hop / blues party with a live pianist (the dead ones just can't swing), several other dance events, a scavenger hunt, and more.
Tuesday night at Broadway Studios (for swing night), I forgot to put my dancing sneakers on, and then wondered for three hours why I wasn't quite "in best form." Mind you, I've been dancing hundreds of hours over the last year, and before this week, had never been quite so absentminded in this way. It's kind of like walking into your workplace in pajamas. Your less observant colleagues may not notice, but you'll feel downright funny. Especially if you can't figure out why 'til you're on your way home.
Additionally, I was decidedly a huge dork because I failed to introduce myself to a woman competing at Broadway, whom I had chatted extensively with over IM during the past week. She's busy preparing for the contest, I told myself, so I can't bother her now. She's resting after the contest. She's bummed about not winning the contest. Oh, wait, gobs of top Lindy guys are asking her to dance constantly, I can't interrupt. Then she went home. And the next day, I got a puzzled IM from her asking why I never bothered to show up, despite my promise to be there and introduce myself. Ouch.
Wednesday morning, I discovered that I had apparently been cursed by the prior evening's performance of the opera "The Nose," since my own personal schnoz had become quite unruly. Sniffling literally and figuratively, I ditched my kickboxing class and felt annoyed and guilty.
This morning, I felt more sick and pondered whether to cancel on my long lost airplane friend. Determined to be strong -- and understandably reluctant to last-minutely cancel plans with a busy woman like this -- I did the next best thing: I drugged myself. Cough expectorant, decongestant, zinc tablets, extra vitamins, and a hella strong antihistimine.
Running late (of course), I still couldn't help but notice the alarming state of my formerly white car. It looked like a Gateway cow-spot box that had baked in the desert sun, complete with evil birds contributing to the auxilliary "paint" job.
Timing be damned, it was clear that I had to do something, and I was relieved when I noticed only three cars in front of me at the nearby gas station autowash. I hadn't taken into account, however, that two out of these three would contain complete nitwits.
The first lady didn't quite have the pre-pay concept down. She figured, I'm guessing, that she could run her car through the automated car wash thingy and pay afterwards. I don't know. All I can attest to is the fact that she was repeatedly punching in likely random codes into the keypad there, hoping that she'd somehow hit the magic 5 digit jackpot to activate the car wash. Having failed to accomplish this after seemingly an eternity and probably noticing the increasingly pissed off mob of people waiting behind her, she then resigned herself to sticking quarters into the machine to pay the $4 fee. She, however, had only $3.25.
How do I know this? She got out of her car and began panhandling the rest. I kidd you not.
Secure in my assumption that the next two drivers could not be half as stupid as this woman, I was unsurprised but thankful that the next car zoomed right through. He had a code, and knew how to use it. Amen!
The fellow after him, however, was perhaps a relative of the first bozette. He had trouble grasping the necessity of aligning one's left tires with the moving trackway so as to have the car guided along through the wash and then (thankfully) out the exit, wonderously making room for OTHER people to get their cars washed. Including other people who were already running late for meeting a friend in Berkeley across the bridge.
But, as I suggested, he DIDN'T quite get the picture. So he punched in his code, hit the start button, and waited. And waited. And no doubt wondered, gee, why wasn't his car moving?
I shouted helpful instructions to him the best I could without shouting things that would not be considered "instructive" in a car wash sense. He then succeeded in getting ONE of his wheels along the track, albeit at a 45 degree angle. His car was dragged along for a few inches, but no more.
"MORONS LIKE YOU SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED OUT IN PUBLIC UNSUPERVISED!" I screamed.
Okay, so I instead yelled in a more friendly way for him to try again, back up, and get both tires on the track. Miraculously, he eventually did so.
A few moments later I was in the car wash and out of the car wash. Yet my windshield still had big funny spots on it. Halfway down the street I realized, OH NO, these were spots INSIDE the car! I spit in a kleenex, doing my best to professionally buff the spots away, but what I ended up with were huge colorfully messy streaks instead. I gave up. If this woman judged me solely by the cleanliness of my car, then she was not worth having as a friend, I defiantly reassured myself.
I wish I had thought of that before going to the carwash, though.
The trip to Kara's apartment wasn't any smoother.
I was plagued with mondo traffic getting across the bridge, and MapBlast directions that cheerfully instructed me to turn right when I needed to turn left. I got lost, and shamelessly called Kara for help. Clearly she was not going to like me for my sense of directionality or my (non)possession of paper maps, either.
I had barely eaten all day, and so by the time I finally met up with Kara, I was starving. Luckily, she and I walked quickly to a restaurant and found a table. When she ordered a before-dinner beer, I reflexively ordered a drink for myself... a nice glass of white wine. Mmm.
An hour later, I harshly recalled that big scary looking warning on the antihistimine bottle: "DO NOT TAKE ANTIDEPRESSANTS OR ALCOHOL WITH THIS DRUG." Let's just say I blathered dumbly even more than usual. I think the only remaining quality she can admire in me now is my dashingly handsome looks. Er, or maybe my vivid sense of imagination.
So here I am, past midnight blogging, still not tired, but still sick. And also praying that my friend has a good sense of humor, especially if she reads this entry :-)
I also wouldn't mind some better luck coming my way.
"Ask the Pilot" addresses the nail clipper conspiracy
Frequent and/or savvy Bladam readers might have noticed that I'm often citing articles from Salon.com. That's because even the free stuff there is amazingly insightful and a downright pleasure to read... and the 'premium' articles -- for which I pay about $30 a year -- are typically far more substantive and thoughtful than what you'll more commonly find in similar journals.
Their "Ask the Pilot" column is especially cool, written by an honest-to-goodness pilot at a major airline who answers questions that run the gamut from "Why aren't there more women pilots" to "Do seat cushions actually save lives?"
His most current installment, in which he laments the ridiculous folly that comprises most of the "security" measures in place now, particularly resonated with me... since I recently had my nail clippers confiscated from me.
I had earlier read that the airline security folks were no longer prohibiting these items, I'm guessing due to a lessening fear of a hijacker threatening to "Stand back, or I'll clip your nails!" But alas, my particular species was "more sharp than regular ones" meaning that, I suppose, I could have been especially threatening to even lengthier-manicured flightmates.
I got only a momentary chuckle from the confiscation incident, when the security guard expressed a look of deep concern, and excused herself to talk with a supervisor. She seemed a bit ashen-faced when she returned.
"Sir... um... sir... are these really $85?"
I was full ready to say "Yes, ma'am, and not only that, these are a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation, and are of enormous financial and sentimental value to me. And I'd never THINK of clipping a flightmate's fingernails without his or her express written permission!"
Unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately)... aware of the generally chilly reception to jokes in the security line, I politely explained that, no, the price tag was not in U.S. currency, and I only paid about U.S. $9 for them.
Besides, had I engaged in my goofy fib, she might have selfishly stuck them in her pocket, sprinting to eBay right after her shift.
Sometimes you just can't win.
Their "Ask the Pilot" column is especially cool, written by an honest-to-goodness pilot at a major airline who answers questions that run the gamut from "Why aren't there more women pilots" to "Do seat cushions actually save lives?"
His most current installment, in which he laments the ridiculous folly that comprises most of the "security" measures in place now, particularly resonated with me... since I recently had my nail clippers confiscated from me.
I had earlier read that the airline security folks were no longer prohibiting these items, I'm guessing due to a lessening fear of a hijacker threatening to "Stand back, or I'll clip your nails!" But alas, my particular species was "more sharp than regular ones" meaning that, I suppose, I could have been especially threatening to even lengthier-manicured flightmates.
I got only a momentary chuckle from the confiscation incident, when the security guard expressed a look of deep concern, and excused herself to talk with a supervisor. She seemed a bit ashen-faced when she returned.
"Sir... um... sir... are these really $85?"
I was full ready to say "Yes, ma'am, and not only that, these are a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation, and are of enormous financial and sentimental value to me. And I'd never THINK of clipping a flightmate's fingernails without his or her express written permission!"
Unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately)... aware of the generally chilly reception to jokes in the security line, I politely explained that, no, the price tag was not in U.S. currency, and I only paid about U.S. $9 for them.
Besides, had I engaged in my goofy fib, she might have selfishly stuck them in her pocket, sprinting to eBay right after her shift.
Sometimes you just can't win.
Blogging for ice cream
My friend Maya just got a job at Dreyer's Grand Ice Cream.
This entry is a test to see if a shout-out like this will earn me her undying love and maybe some free ice cream.
I'd settle for one out of two, though.
This entry is a test to see if a shout-out like this will earn me her undying love and maybe some free ice cream.
I'd settle for one out of two, though.
Tuesday, August 27, 2002
Strange week
What a strange week it's been! I'll go back in history and add in some additional more detailed entries if I have time, but here's a summary:
From Wednesday to Sunday, my sister and I converged on my parents' place in Thousand Oaks, California (in between LA and Santa Barbara) and also enjoyed together a family outing to Sea World. And at 31, it somehow feels strange spending time with my folks.
I'm still their kid, of course, but clearly the family dynamics are different. I see my parents differently... still lovingly, but not as omniscient beings. I see more clearly their frailties but also their strengths. And while we're all different and older, somehow at the core I guess we haven't really changed.
And speaking of not-omniscient, I had a doctor's appointment on Monday for my mild psoriasis, and the exchange basically went like this.
"Well, what has worked for you in the past?"
"This," I responded, pointing to some regrettably expired medicines.
He prescribed more of the same and sent me on the way, $50 poorer (for the appt. and medicines).
And for this he gets paid the big bucks?!?
Later that evening, I attended "Cat's Corner," a somewhat exclusive swing venue frequented by the creme de la creme of Lindy Hoppers, and I also participated in the evening's special Cabaret by playing one of my signature piano medleys. To my surprise and embarrassment, I had the attention not only of my fellow dancers, but also all the folks at the adjacent bar. Whew! I did okay, though, and even smilingly obliged when the quite-enthusiastic Lindy women in the corner shouted their evening trademark: "Take off your shirt!" Luckily (for me and for them and humanity in general) I was wearing an undershirt.
In the meantime over the past few days, I had been instant messaging a warm and intriguing woman that I met on the national Yehoodi swing board. And this evening, I finally met her... sort of.
She was participating in a "Jack and Jill" Lindy contest at Broadway Studios, and damn, is she amazing! I had promised to introduce myself to her, and of course, kept on planning to do so, but my dumb brain excused my procrastination "hmm... can't ask her to dance right after [amazing so-and-so lead]."
Before I knew it, she left, and I was left kicking myself (and boy, did that hurt!), especially since she's only here another week 'til she moves back to New York.
And speaking of that... I've been noticing that I have this amazing effect on women. I meet them, then they promptly move away. The proof includes:
- my former kickboxing instructor, just a week or two after we went out
- Agnes, whom I originally met in Helsinki and had coffee with here a week ago
- Rithy, whom I met two weeks ago at a friend's party
- and now Jen, the aforementioned amazing Lindy'er (and actually professional actress as well).
I think I'll call it my Reverse Midas Touch syndrome.
Back to this evening, though... I must have really been out of it, because for the first time since I started dancing, I forgot to change out of my street shoes and into my dance sneakers. I spent 3 hours dancing in my loafers and (dumbly) wondering why I was having trouble doing spins, and why I overall wasn't having a very "on" night. Duh! Or, to quote the grand Simpson, D'oh!
Perhaps I was just a bit... okay, more than just a bit disoriented from the performance of "The Nose" that I attended earlier in the evening. Utterly cacaphonous "music" combined with a story line that had me thoroughly baffled. Basic plot summary as far as I could follow: Some guy wakes up and notices he no longer has a nose. He then discovers his very own nose playing hooky in various locations, and isn't too happy about this. He wants his nose back, but -- alas -- his nose wants nothing to do with him.
I guess he had a reverse sinus touch. :D
I just wish I could have figured out whether the opera was supposed to be a comedy, a tragedy, a philosophical drama, or some sort of surreal paean to early Russian plastic surgeons. Perhaps all of the above?
So anyway, here I am on Tuesday night, writing in my as-of-late neglected blog. I have a sore throat, my nose is not missing but it's stuffily complaining, I don't feel like sleeping, and thus I'm already early-lamenting my soon-to-be-grumpiness in the morning.
My life is sometimes a bit too crowded and confusing for my taste, but at least it's never boring.
From Wednesday to Sunday, my sister and I converged on my parents' place in Thousand Oaks, California (in between LA and Santa Barbara) and also enjoyed together a family outing to Sea World. And at 31, it somehow feels strange spending time with my folks.
I'm still their kid, of course, but clearly the family dynamics are different. I see my parents differently... still lovingly, but not as omniscient beings. I see more clearly their frailties but also their strengths. And while we're all different and older, somehow at the core I guess we haven't really changed.
And speaking of not-omniscient, I had a doctor's appointment on Monday for my mild psoriasis, and the exchange basically went like this.
"Well, what has worked for you in the past?"
"This," I responded, pointing to some regrettably expired medicines.
He prescribed more of the same and sent me on the way, $50 poorer (for the appt. and medicines).
And for this he gets paid the big bucks?!?
Later that evening, I attended "Cat's Corner," a somewhat exclusive swing venue frequented by the creme de la creme of Lindy Hoppers, and I also participated in the evening's special Cabaret by playing one of my signature piano medleys. To my surprise and embarrassment, I had the attention not only of my fellow dancers, but also all the folks at the adjacent bar. Whew! I did okay, though, and even smilingly obliged when the quite-enthusiastic Lindy women in the corner shouted their evening trademark: "Take off your shirt!" Luckily (for me and for them and humanity in general) I was wearing an undershirt.
In the meantime over the past few days, I had been instant messaging a warm and intriguing woman that I met on the national Yehoodi swing board. And this evening, I finally met her... sort of.
She was participating in a "Jack and Jill" Lindy contest at Broadway Studios, and damn, is she amazing! I had promised to introduce myself to her, and of course, kept on planning to do so, but my dumb brain excused my procrastination "hmm... can't ask her to dance right after [amazing so-and-so lead]."
Before I knew it, she left, and I was left kicking myself (and boy, did that hurt!), especially since she's only here another week 'til she moves back to New York.
And speaking of that... I've been noticing that I have this amazing effect on women. I meet them, then they promptly move away. The proof includes:
- my former kickboxing instructor, just a week or two after we went out
- Agnes, whom I originally met in Helsinki and had coffee with here a week ago
- Rithy, whom I met two weeks ago at a friend's party
- and now Jen, the aforementioned amazing Lindy'er (and actually professional actress as well).
I think I'll call it my Reverse Midas Touch syndrome.
Back to this evening, though... I must have really been out of it, because for the first time since I started dancing, I forgot to change out of my street shoes and into my dance sneakers. I spent 3 hours dancing in my loafers and (dumbly) wondering why I was having trouble doing spins, and why I overall wasn't having a very "on" night. Duh! Or, to quote the grand Simpson, D'oh!
Perhaps I was just a bit... okay, more than just a bit disoriented from the performance of "The Nose" that I attended earlier in the evening. Utterly cacaphonous "music" combined with a story line that had me thoroughly baffled. Basic plot summary as far as I could follow: Some guy wakes up and notices he no longer has a nose. He then discovers his very own nose playing hooky in various locations, and isn't too happy about this. He wants his nose back, but -- alas -- his nose wants nothing to do with him.
I guess he had a reverse sinus touch. :D
I just wish I could have figured out whether the opera was supposed to be a comedy, a tragedy, a philosophical drama, or some sort of surreal paean to early Russian plastic surgeons. Perhaps all of the above?
So anyway, here I am on Tuesday night, writing in my as-of-late neglected blog. I have a sore throat, my nose is not missing but it's stuffily complaining, I don't feel like sleeping, and thus I'm already early-lamenting my soon-to-be-grumpiness in the morning.
My life is sometimes a bit too crowded and confusing for my taste, but at least it's never boring.
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