I am not at all technologically savvy. Plugging stuff in is about as far as I usually can get. So why, two days after Christmas, did I decide to attempt to tackle the universal remote my wife bought me last Christmas?
It's not completely my fault that the universal remote didn't get immediate attention. She bought it for me before we had our new TV. And there was an assumption that we'd upgrade to a receiver or some kind of cool sound system. That didn't exactly happen in the year since we've been in the new home. We still have the old DVD player and Wii that we have to plug in one at a time because the old models have the red, yellow, and white cables and our new LED TV only has one set of plugs. It has tons of HDMI plugs but so far we've used one slot.
I had to dig through three cardboard boxes to get to the remote. It seemed simple enough. There was a charging station on which the remote sat. My first problem is I didn't see where the power cord plugged in. It was in a nearly invisible nook on the underside of the remote station. Every time I've put the remote into the station it goes white for a second and then nothing happens. I turned the switch on the bottom of the charging station so it shows white. I think it's supposed to be green when the remote is completely powered up.
So the remote may or may not be charging. That's like step negative two. I put in the CD that's supposed to have the software that you install into the remote, telling it what all of your devices are and the magical combinations to get everything to work. The CD did nothing. It was supposed to start the software. I opened the CD's contents on the desktop and nothing opened and nothing worked. I went to the product's Web site and downloaded the software that way.
At this point my wife thinks the odds of me succeeding are about the same as the Titans winning the Super Bowl this year.
My next step is to record the model numbers of all of my devices. We have a Samsung TV, a Wii, a Sony DVD player, a Visio Sound Bar, a TiVo and a receiver that probably will not be used. I wrote them down, but can I read my own writing?
The software starts running. Page one shows a mother-of-three type holding a remote looking happy. Her husband probably set it up. I'm not saying that women are incapable of mastering technology. It's just the people most happy with technology are the ones who don't understand the inner workings.
I sign my 100th consecutive software license agreement without looking at a word of it. One of these days we're going to sign away our organs to an evil genius.
I had trouble plugging in the USB cable that connects to my remote. Yeah, I had trouble figuring out where that plugged as well. Hey instruction people, show us where things plug in rather than poorly explaining where.
The software continues. Funny how when this process continues, my brain feels softer. Yeah, I know, bad joke. Oh, look, I have to create an account. Can you imagine trying to explain to a 12-year-old kid in 1955 about Internet logins and how it's going to be impossible to remember all of the passwords? That kid would pray for immediate nuclear winter.
I have to suspend my work as I think the remote needs to be charged before it can plug into the computer. I don't think I'm even up to step one yet.
The wife sensed my distress and during the following day, she input all of the "devices" into the computer and it loaded onto the remote. The remote now knows more than I do. The hardest part of fine-tuning the remote was having the computer upstairs and the TV downstairs. It would ask for the steps it took to play a DVD, for example, and I'd have to go downstairs and mock them and bring the remotes upstairs so I could remember all of the button combinations.
I went downstairs with the darn thing and pointed it at the TV. It worked. I even got the DVD player to work. I had to suspend our watching of John Adams because I plugged in one of the cables incorrectly. I had taken the cables out when pulling the DVD out to see the part number. At least I figured it out, although it was a much longer effort than necessary.
It's a pretty remarkable piece of machinery. I'd prefer it if it would load the DVDs and Wii games for me, and if it would rub my wife's feet I think I would be completely obsolete.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Abandoned by emotion and instinct
Yesterday I did something dumb. I didn't set out to perform this task. Before it happened, my work-to-home commute was going swimmingly. I got a haircut. I picked up some things at Target. I filled up the air in my tires and got gas. After that I followed my usual path home. There's an access road near what we call in Atlanta Spaghetti Junction. It's where two interstates meet and it's always horrible with the traffic. If I get on the access road I can slide through to the end of the junction and it saves me a lot of time.
Saving time wasn't enough. I wanted more. There's an intersection at Buford Highway, home to an amazing assortment of ethnic restaurants. The center lane goes through to the interstate. The right lane goes right and the left lane goes left. I noticed that if I got into the left lane, I could merge with the people on the right. Sometimes I merged early, other times I merged as we were crossing the intersection. This maneuver didn't always earn me friends from the people who did things the correct way and stayed in the middle lane.
Yesterday I had the cat-bird position. I was at the front of the line in the left. It was an easy path. I would time the light and hit the accelerator the second the light turned green and get in front of the car to my right. I had done this a few dozen times without incident. As the light turned, I noticed at the intersection a police car. It was for the City of Doraville. This is when my instincts and emotions betrayed me. I should have been able to audible and turn left, which would force me to make a few time-wasting left turns. Instead I powered through. I think the blue lights came on immediately.
Over the past few months I've saved a lot of time by using the left lane. I didn't know that someday there would be a cost.
That was your Zachrilege dumbass moment of the week. Thank you.
Saving time wasn't enough. I wanted more. There's an intersection at Buford Highway, home to an amazing assortment of ethnic restaurants. The center lane goes through to the interstate. The right lane goes right and the left lane goes left. I noticed that if I got into the left lane, I could merge with the people on the right. Sometimes I merged early, other times I merged as we were crossing the intersection. This maneuver didn't always earn me friends from the people who did things the correct way and stayed in the middle lane.
Yesterday I had the cat-bird position. I was at the front of the line in the left. It was an easy path. I would time the light and hit the accelerator the second the light turned green and get in front of the car to my right. I had done this a few dozen times without incident. As the light turned, I noticed at the intersection a police car. It was for the City of Doraville. This is when my instincts and emotions betrayed me. I should have been able to audible and turn left, which would force me to make a few time-wasting left turns. Instead I powered through. I think the blue lights came on immediately.
Over the past few months I've saved a lot of time by using the left lane. I didn't know that someday there would be a cost.
That was your Zachrilege dumbass moment of the week. Thank you.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Funeral in Pittsburgh: Part Two
We stayed in Monroeville, which was about 15 miles east of Pittsburgh. Leechburg was another 20 miles from Monroeville and seemed like at least twice the drive. I drove back on Friday night, and the constant hills, the windy roads, and the lack of street lights made the trip a white-knuckler. Saturday was better. The sun even made a cameo appearance.
The main players in this weekend's events were the three kids. My aunt is the oldest and brought Grandma Alice to Las Vegas to live with her and her husband. She wore a sling all weekend because of recent rotator-cuff surgery. She travels a lot and the injury was apparently due to the repeated lifting and picking up of suitcases. She had a twin sister who died of cancer as a girl. My dad is in the middle. He is a hippie with long silver hair and has recently become a Catholic. He brought a nun and close friend to perform the eulogy. Grandma Alice reportedly hated Catholics, although no one disapproved of the choice. When you die, you're done with choices. The final child was my uncle. He was the first to move out of town. He's been in Baton Rouge for the past 20 years and sounds like a native.
I wasn't interested in the religious overtones of the ceremony. That's not my bag. It was the bag of the majority of the room so it was appropriate. The moment of the funeral and the entire weekend was when the Sister stepped aside and asked if anyone wanted to speak. Half a dozen people spoke, including all of the children, and each message was sad, hilarious, and poignant.
My aunt, that being my uncle's wife, spoke first. She had a handkerchief that Grandma Alice gave her on her wedding day. It was a token passed on from her grandmother on her wedding day. This underlined the importance of family. This family is spread across the country. We don't gather often. When we do, it's always a lot of fun. This trip was different. You could feel the thread, from Grandma Alice's two surviving sisters to the children to me, my brother, and my cousins to the nephews. There was a bond that never felt stronger. As my uncle said, we can mess with each other, but if someone else messes with us, bam! Yes, he said BAM like that New Orleans chef.
Grandma Alice was the age that my parents are now, 61, when I was born. She was 36 when she had my dad, which is my current age. According to family legend, I was the first grandchild who had a notice in the paper because my brother and cousin were born a little too close to my parents' and my aunt and uncle's wedding date. I might have to get "first legit grandchild" on a t-shirt for the next time we gather. What I meant to say was that I always saw her as an old woman. When we visited it was for a semi-formal Sunday meal. I'd play in the small backyard or in the cluttered basement. I don't remember the meals. I do remember that she introduced me to crunchy peanut butter.
Another thread in the free-form speeches about Grandma Alice was that she was tough. I'll venture that everyone who lived through the Depression is tougher than we can imagine. The toughness led to a somewhat gruff exterior. My uncle visited her in Vegas last month and brought over Thanksgiving dinner. He brought over the entire meal and warmed it up at the nurses's station. When he presented the meal, she said "No gravy?"
As grown-ups we constantly wonder how we became the people that we are. When I throw a withering humorous but in a dry way comment, I know where I get it from. I'd be pissed about the gravy too.
The family gathered at a local restaurant for a meal. I ordered a bottle of wine. Hey now, I shared. We ate and drank and mingled and eventually I got back on those roads for one last trip to the hotel. Since it was Pittsburgh, the city of bridges, we crossed over one bridge before Leechburg. It was a farewell.
The main players in this weekend's events were the three kids. My aunt is the oldest and brought Grandma Alice to Las Vegas to live with her and her husband. She wore a sling all weekend because of recent rotator-cuff surgery. She travels a lot and the injury was apparently due to the repeated lifting and picking up of suitcases. She had a twin sister who died of cancer as a girl. My dad is in the middle. He is a hippie with long silver hair and has recently become a Catholic. He brought a nun and close friend to perform the eulogy. Grandma Alice reportedly hated Catholics, although no one disapproved of the choice. When you die, you're done with choices. The final child was my uncle. He was the first to move out of town. He's been in Baton Rouge for the past 20 years and sounds like a native.
I wasn't interested in the religious overtones of the ceremony. That's not my bag. It was the bag of the majority of the room so it was appropriate. The moment of the funeral and the entire weekend was when the Sister stepped aside and asked if anyone wanted to speak. Half a dozen people spoke, including all of the children, and each message was sad, hilarious, and poignant.
My aunt, that being my uncle's wife, spoke first. She had a handkerchief that Grandma Alice gave her on her wedding day. It was a token passed on from her grandmother on her wedding day. This underlined the importance of family. This family is spread across the country. We don't gather often. When we do, it's always a lot of fun. This trip was different. You could feel the thread, from Grandma Alice's two surviving sisters to the children to me, my brother, and my cousins to the nephews. There was a bond that never felt stronger. As my uncle said, we can mess with each other, but if someone else messes with us, bam! Yes, he said BAM like that New Orleans chef.
Grandma Alice was the age that my parents are now, 61, when I was born. She was 36 when she had my dad, which is my current age. According to family legend, I was the first grandchild who had a notice in the paper because my brother and cousin were born a little too close to my parents' and my aunt and uncle's wedding date. I might have to get "first legit grandchild" on a t-shirt for the next time we gather. What I meant to say was that I always saw her as an old woman. When we visited it was for a semi-formal Sunday meal. I'd play in the small backyard or in the cluttered basement. I don't remember the meals. I do remember that she introduced me to crunchy peanut butter.
Another thread in the free-form speeches about Grandma Alice was that she was tough. I'll venture that everyone who lived through the Depression is tougher than we can imagine. The toughness led to a somewhat gruff exterior. My uncle visited her in Vegas last month and brought over Thanksgiving dinner. He brought over the entire meal and warmed it up at the nurses's station. When he presented the meal, she said "No gravy?"
As grown-ups we constantly wonder how we became the people that we are. When I throw a withering humorous but in a dry way comment, I know where I get it from. I'd be pissed about the gravy too.
The family gathered at a local restaurant for a meal. I ordered a bottle of wine. Hey now, I shared. We ate and drank and mingled and eventually I got back on those roads for one last trip to the hotel. Since it was Pittsburgh, the city of bridges, we crossed over one bridge before Leechburg. It was a farewell.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Funeral in Pittsburgh: Part One
It was colder in Atlanta on both ends of the trip. Pittsburgh didn’t exactly welcome us to town with cold enough temperatures and plenty of snow when we arrived. Being in Pittsburgh triggered memories but most of them were of visiting Pittsburgh. I lived in Pittsburgh for the first six years of my life. It’s my hometown but I have no real connection to it.
A thread was closing this past weekend. My grandmother died last Saturday, two days and forty years after her first husband, and finally she would claim her patch of ground next to him. Her last home was in Leechburg, a suburb of Pittsburgh that time forgot. I visited her house at the top of one of the super steep hills that are the trademark of the Steel City. Coming back at least 20 years after my last visit, it hadn’t changed at all.
The wake was Friday. There were a surprising number of people there, because as my dad mentioned, Grandma Alice was 97 and outlived most of her friends. My other grandmother, who is a youthful 81, mentioned that the body in the casket didn’t look like the woman she remembered. I agreed. The body wasn’t there for her. It was there for us. It was a reasonable facsimile so we could remember her as a living soul.
My parents thoughtfully provided a picture book. There were pictures all the way back to the turn of the 20th century. I saw multiple pictures of my grandfather for the first time, or the first time that I could remember. He was the only overweight WW2 serviceman that I’ve ever seen. Seriously, I didn’t think that anyone was more than a buck 40 who wore the uniform.
We had some sandwiches upstairs and my nephews stayed up there. That’s where my dad’s cookies were, and every time their mom turned her head they ate another two. Eventually the southern boys went outside and had a snowball fight. They threw snowballs at each other and passersby. After a couple of hours we all left and went back to Monroeville.
A family gathering is not such without drinking. We got together in my cousins’ room and opened some wine, beer, and Makers Mark. I knew my brother was in trouble when he drank it straight. I should have known he was in trouble when I saw the sweater with the skull on it.
Once the giant bottle of wine was gone, I was done. I had been up for 18 hours which was plenty. We went to sleep, knowing that Saturday was the main event. It would be the funeral.
A thread was closing this past weekend. My grandmother died last Saturday, two days and forty years after her first husband, and finally she would claim her patch of ground next to him. Her last home was in Leechburg, a suburb of Pittsburgh that time forgot. I visited her house at the top of one of the super steep hills that are the trademark of the Steel City. Coming back at least 20 years after my last visit, it hadn’t changed at all.
The wake was Friday. There were a surprising number of people there, because as my dad mentioned, Grandma Alice was 97 and outlived most of her friends. My other grandmother, who is a youthful 81, mentioned that the body in the casket didn’t look like the woman she remembered. I agreed. The body wasn’t there for her. It was there for us. It was a reasonable facsimile so we could remember her as a living soul.
My parents thoughtfully provided a picture book. There were pictures all the way back to the turn of the 20th century. I saw multiple pictures of my grandfather for the first time, or the first time that I could remember. He was the only overweight WW2 serviceman that I’ve ever seen. Seriously, I didn’t think that anyone was more than a buck 40 who wore the uniform.
We had some sandwiches upstairs and my nephews stayed up there. That’s where my dad’s cookies were, and every time their mom turned her head they ate another two. Eventually the southern boys went outside and had a snowball fight. They threw snowballs at each other and passersby. After a couple of hours we all left and went back to Monroeville.
A family gathering is not such without drinking. We got together in my cousins’ room and opened some wine, beer, and Makers Mark. I knew my brother was in trouble when he drank it straight. I should have known he was in trouble when I saw the sweater with the skull on it.
Once the giant bottle of wine was gone, I was done. I had been up for 18 hours which was plenty. We went to sleep, knowing that Saturday was the main event. It would be the funeral.
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