Before my mission, I had never sent a text message, never poked anyone* via Facebook, and never looked up the Marvel character Deadpool on Wikipedia because I just wanted to know. In fact, I had only a vague idea what Wikipedia was. I didn’t yet own an iPod, and I was still borrowing my mom’s clunky Nokia cell phone with a pull-out antenna. I was also still a fervent acolyte of the PC cult, regarding anything Mac with distrust usually reserved for infomercial salesmen and Ku Klux Klansmen.
After a two-year break from reality, I returned to the technology dimension and found it a different and scary place.
Now I really have no idea where I would be without it all.
Facebook. At its core, it’s a way whereby you can keep in touch with friends old and new. But after spending a few minutes there, it’s clear that it’s much more: Facebook is a way to let everyone, both those who don’t care and those who really don’t care, know which farming implement you most resemble or which Transformers character you and 40 million other people are most like.**
Wikipedia. An online encyclopedia that anyone can edit. Sounds like a great idea, right? Despite the obvious possibility of anything of Wikipedia being written by someone’s cat who someone gained control of a keyboard, it is truly a useful tool. Many academics malign Wikipedia for its inherent lack of trustworthiness, but let’s be honest here — if you’re sitting in class, possessed by a sudden desire to learn about anything from African trade routes to the lightsaber, this is the place to go.
(Did you know you can click on “Random article”? Let’s see: “Turkey at the 2006 Winter Olympics” … “1993 Australian Baseball League season” … “2 gauge” … “Dave Ford” … “Hypoiodous acid” … “Stargate” …)
iPod touch. I can sit in the back of Sunday School, ostensibly flicking through my vast collection of Church manuals and scriptures that came with my scriptures app. Actually, I’m playing Hero of Sparta and defeating various denizens of the underworld. Not that I’m really fooling anybody.
Laptop. My Macbook truly is a wonderful thing, despite having been made obsolete several times. I mean, right after I bought mine, Apple came out with the new aluminum Macbook, which carried facial recognition software; the new aluminum Macbook Pro, which was durable enough to withstand a minor nuclear blast; the new larger Macbook Pro, which had battery powerful enough to run Iron Man’s suit for thirty minutes; and the newest Macbook, which is, apparently, so earth-friendly you could actually plant it and expect a tree to grow. ***
Cell phone. I’ve never been an excessive texter, but it’s easy to see how addictive it can be to have a conversation with someone without having to actually open your mouth, put on clothes, or even devote more than fifteen seconds of every minute to the effort.
Isn’t technology grand? I don’t know how I ever survived without it.
Become a follower. Tell your friends.
* One of my friends and I are engaged in a poking competition, wherein we poke each other on Facebook. The complex ritual goes like this: one of us will poke the other. When the poked party discovers he or she has been poked, he or she will poke back, after which the original poker retaliates with a new poke. The possibilities are truly endless.
** Most people get Optimus Prime when they take this quiz. As flattering as this may be for you, you’ve got to realize that not everyone really has it takes to be a self-sacrificing giant robot who turns into a semi truck. Somebody’s got to be Ratchet or Ironhide.
*** I want to know what would grow on this tree. Smaller Macbooks? iPods?
Showing posts with label Optimus Prime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Optimus Prime. Show all posts
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The choice between a voicemail message and a restraining order: a blog with barely a mention of Optimus Prime [Connor]
“Hi, you’ve reached Connor, who is NOT Ryan, Ladine, or Lucine.”
Allow me to explain my current voicemail message.
Apparently, my cell phone number bears an extreme resemblance to that of several other people. Multiple times in a week, occasionally multiple times in a day, I receive calls from people I have never met nor heard of. Most of these people ask for a guy named Ryan. I originally assumed that this meant my brother Ryan, since the phone number belonged to him until about a year ago. But no; Ryan confided that when he took calls, he first had to verify it was Ryan Kunz they were asking for, not this mysterious other Ryan. Sometimes these calls are social calls; sometimes, they’re definitely work-related. For a while there, I was receiving calls from the hospital, asking how his treatment went. I sure hope it went well.
Then there are the Ladine People, as I’ve named them. They call about twice a week, asking for somebody named Ladine. Frankly, I don’t think anybody old enough to still have been named “Ladine” would have a cell phone, but I haven’t pointed this out to the Ladine People. I used to answer these calls and patiently inform them they had the wrong number, but they just kept calling. Rather than file for a restraining order, I’ve just added them as a contact in my phone and have given up answering their calls. At least I can be secure in the knowledge that if I’m ever going through a difficult time and need someone to talk to, the Ladine People will be there for me, faithfully dialing the wrong number time and time again.
Finally, we reach my favorite. During third trimester last year, an elderly lady would call me every day during third hour. Seeing as I was in class, I only managed to take her calls and inform her of her mistake once or twice. She was always asking for someone named (I’m not making this up) Lucine, and would become very distressed when she couldn’t get a hold of Lucine. These eventually culminated in the Holy Grail of blogworthy voicemail messages, which I swear on Optimus Prime’s grave I am not making up:
“Lucine, Lucine, are you there? I need to talk to Ladine. Or your grandmother Nadine. . . This is Josine.”
It doesn’t get much more priceless than that. As much as I enjoyed these messages, though, they were clogging up my voicemail inbox and my phone memory. Eventually, I changed my voicemail to the one featured at the top, stating clearly that this was not Ladine, Lucine, or Ryan. Both Josine and the Ryan Club have pretty much ceased calling. The Ladine People, however, have faithfully continued calling AND LEAVING MESSAGES. To leave one of their messages asking for Ladine, they must first listen to a message stating that this is NOT Ladine. I have no explanation for this. I want to meet these people.
Allow me to explain my current voicemail message.
Apparently, my cell phone number bears an extreme resemblance to that of several other people. Multiple times in a week, occasionally multiple times in a day, I receive calls from people I have never met nor heard of. Most of these people ask for a guy named Ryan. I originally assumed that this meant my brother Ryan, since the phone number belonged to him until about a year ago. But no; Ryan confided that when he took calls, he first had to verify it was Ryan Kunz they were asking for, not this mysterious other Ryan. Sometimes these calls are social calls; sometimes, they’re definitely work-related. For a while there, I was receiving calls from the hospital, asking how his treatment went. I sure hope it went well.
Then there are the Ladine People, as I’ve named them. They call about twice a week, asking for somebody named Ladine. Frankly, I don’t think anybody old enough to still have been named “Ladine” would have a cell phone, but I haven’t pointed this out to the Ladine People. I used to answer these calls and patiently inform them they had the wrong number, but they just kept calling. Rather than file for a restraining order, I’ve just added them as a contact in my phone and have given up answering their calls. At least I can be secure in the knowledge that if I’m ever going through a difficult time and need someone to talk to, the Ladine People will be there for me, faithfully dialing the wrong number time and time again.
Finally, we reach my favorite. During third trimester last year, an elderly lady would call me every day during third hour. Seeing as I was in class, I only managed to take her calls and inform her of her mistake once or twice. She was always asking for someone named (I’m not making this up) Lucine, and would become very distressed when she couldn’t get a hold of Lucine. These eventually culminated in the Holy Grail of blogworthy voicemail messages, which I swear on Optimus Prime’s grave I am not making up:
“Lucine, Lucine, are you there? I need to talk to Ladine. Or your grandmother Nadine. . . This is Josine.”
It doesn’t get much more priceless than that. As much as I enjoyed these messages, though, they were clogging up my voicemail inbox and my phone memory. Eventually, I changed my voicemail to the one featured at the top, stating clearly that this was not Ladine, Lucine, or Ryan. Both Josine and the Ryan Club have pretty much ceased calling. The Ladine People, however, have faithfully continued calling AND LEAVING MESSAGES. To leave one of their messages asking for Ladine, they must first listen to a message stating that this is NOT Ladine. I have no explanation for this. I want to meet these people.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Lost in hypotheticals: Who would you take on a deserted island? [Ryan]
A few weeks ago, I wrote an editorial about not wasting time, about finding time in your college years for the things that really matter.
Somewhat ironically, I wrote the entire thing while watching a marathon of "Lost."
For the longest time, I was content with other TV shows. Watching Jack Bauer save the world every week was sufficient for my mind, even if he never used the bathroom or exhibited any kind of normal human function other than grimacing slightly every time he got shot in the chest.
It’s one of those shows you simply can’t just stop watching.
I’ve recently gotten into the show, which, for those of you who haven’t seen it, is about a group of improbably good-looking people who end up stranded on a mysterious island.
(By “gotten into,” by the way, I mean, “become obsessed to the point where my Facebook relationship status should say, ‘in a relationship with "Lost"’”)
The fifth season ended earlier this semester, leaving my questions unanswered and my imagination running rampant. My questions things like these: Why is the island so hard to find (Maybe it’s because the island is only there if you believe in it, like Santa Claus or global warming) and what is the creature they call the monster?
And of course:
Who would I like to be stuck on a deserted island with?
The last one is a valid question, of course; the applications are many and the likely affective scenarios myriad. Who might add some hope, flavor or protection during the lonely days on a deserted island?
President Obama: If I was stranded with the President of the United States, especially our current one with his near religious following, the civilized world would waste no time rescuing us. Forget whatever harm his debilitating economic polices can do to already ravaged economy — they might even send an aircraft carrier to pick us up.
Jack Sparrow: We all know Jack would probably spend the entire time frolicking on the island drinking some sort non-alcoholic beverage, so of course I would join him in his good clean mayhem. Maybe, after fourteen Doctor Peppers, we would sing “A Pirate’s Life For Me” while dancing around a campfire.
Optimus Prime: If we’re allowing fictional characters, by the way, into this scenario, then of course we can allow Optimus Prime. I’m not sure what his practical use would be, honestly — but come on! He’s Optimus Prime! He wouldn’t be too much use in fishing or gathering wood, but you’d definitely be safe from any island-dwelling Decepticons.
Edward Cullen: The arrangement would be utterly perfect. First, he wouldn’t have to eat, so I could eat all the meager food. And speaking of food, he is so perfect he could probably conjure up a four-course meal by simply breathing on the sand. Lastly, if something ever happened to his food-producing ability, I could simply — in an act of poetic justice lauded by males everywhere — eat him.
Chuck Norris: Do I even have to explain myself?
Problem solved.
Somewhat ironically, I wrote the entire thing while watching a marathon of "Lost."
For the longest time, I was content with other TV shows. Watching Jack Bauer save the world every week was sufficient for my mind, even if he never used the bathroom or exhibited any kind of normal human function other than grimacing slightly every time he got shot in the chest.
It’s one of those shows you simply can’t just stop watching.
I’ve recently gotten into the show, which, for those of you who haven’t seen it, is about a group of improbably good-looking people who end up stranded on a mysterious island.
(By “gotten into,” by the way, I mean, “become obsessed to the point where my Facebook relationship status should say, ‘in a relationship with "Lost"’”)
The fifth season ended earlier this semester, leaving my questions unanswered and my imagination running rampant. My questions things like these: Why is the island so hard to find (Maybe it’s because the island is only there if you believe in it, like Santa Claus or global warming) and what is the creature they call the monster?
And of course:
Who would I like to be stuck on a deserted island with?
The last one is a valid question, of course; the applications are many and the likely affective scenarios myriad. Who might add some hope, flavor or protection during the lonely days on a deserted island?
President Obama: If I was stranded with the President of the United States, especially our current one with his near religious following, the civilized world would waste no time rescuing us. Forget whatever harm his debilitating economic polices can do to already ravaged economy — they might even send an aircraft carrier to pick us up.
Jack Sparrow: We all know Jack would probably spend the entire time frolicking on the island drinking some sort non-alcoholic beverage, so of course I would join him in his good clean mayhem. Maybe, after fourteen Doctor Peppers, we would sing “A Pirate’s Life For Me” while dancing around a campfire.
Optimus Prime: If we’re allowing fictional characters, by the way, into this scenario, then of course we can allow Optimus Prime. I’m not sure what his practical use would be, honestly — but come on! He’s Optimus Prime! He wouldn’t be too much use in fishing or gathering wood, but you’d definitely be safe from any island-dwelling Decepticons.
Edward Cullen: The arrangement would be utterly perfect. First, he wouldn’t have to eat, so I could eat all the meager food. And speaking of food, he is so perfect he could probably conjure up a four-course meal by simply breathing on the sand. Lastly, if something ever happened to his food-producing ability, I could simply — in an act of poetic justice lauded by males everywhere — eat him.
Chuck Norris: Do I even have to explain myself?
Problem solved.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A discussion of psychology and Optimus Prime: another blog possibly induced by eating too many Otter Pops. [Connor]
Recently I’ve been reading a book entitled The Color Code, by Taylor Hartman. It’s a psychology book detailing a method to understanding human behavior and actions: why we feel the way we feel and why we act the way we act. Pretty deep, huh?
In truth, it starts out pretty simple. There are four fundamental personalities, named after colors: red, blue, yellow, and white. Everyone, except maybe Disney’s Mitchell Musso, fits into one of these personalities. Each color has a unique set of traits, strengths, and limitations. Reds are aggressive and dominating, thriving on challenges. Blues are emotional, often altruistic, and center their lives on relationships and following their own moral compass. Yellows are fun-loving people who want to have a good time. Whites are laid-back people who like to stay out of the limelight and enjoy feeling secure. Up front, many people may seem to be a mix of the colors; however, everyone is driven by a single core motive, one central thing that they seek after. Reds strive to overcome challenges and gain power. Blues want intimacy: relationships, understanding, love, call it what you want. Yellows crave fun, whereas Whites want to feel secure. Since I started reading the book, I find it fascinating to select people and identify their personality color.
Which brings us to my central discussion. I made an interesting and disturbing discovery: even fictional characters will fall into one of the color categories. This has led me to a disturbing line of thought resulting in my identifying Darth Vader as a Red, for his aggressive, dominating personality; Obi-Wan Kenobi as a White, for his apparent need to stay independent while staying comfortably out of the spotlight, and Samwise Gamgee as a Blue, for his altruism-based effort to support Frodo Baggins in the quest to destroy the One Ring.
My mom let out a justified laugh when I admitted to having gone so far as to classify certain of the Transformers into colors. Optimus Prime, my personal hero, is another Blue, for his self-sacrificing, moral-driven mission to save Earth from the wrath of the Decepticons. (It’s sad to admit, but Optimus holds a special place in my heart. I was roused to tears by his go-down-swinging dying scene in the second Transformers movie.) Megatron, like many villains it seems, appears to be a Red.
I admit: it doesn’t get much nerdier than this. Applying principles of psychology to fictional (except in the case of Optimus Prime- don’t you DARE imply that he isn’t real!) characters. But I for one find it interesting, at the least, that made-up characters, even alien robots, can be grouped under categories of human personalities.
PS. I’m a Blue.
PPS. So is Batman.
In truth, it starts out pretty simple. There are four fundamental personalities, named after colors: red, blue, yellow, and white. Everyone, except maybe Disney’s Mitchell Musso, fits into one of these personalities. Each color has a unique set of traits, strengths, and limitations. Reds are aggressive and dominating, thriving on challenges. Blues are emotional, often altruistic, and center their lives on relationships and following their own moral compass. Yellows are fun-loving people who want to have a good time. Whites are laid-back people who like to stay out of the limelight and enjoy feeling secure. Up front, many people may seem to be a mix of the colors; however, everyone is driven by a single core motive, one central thing that they seek after. Reds strive to overcome challenges and gain power. Blues want intimacy: relationships, understanding, love, call it what you want. Yellows crave fun, whereas Whites want to feel secure. Since I started reading the book, I find it fascinating to select people and identify their personality color.
Which brings us to my central discussion. I made an interesting and disturbing discovery: even fictional characters will fall into one of the color categories. This has led me to a disturbing line of thought resulting in my identifying Darth Vader as a Red, for his aggressive, dominating personality; Obi-Wan Kenobi as a White, for his apparent need to stay independent while staying comfortably out of the spotlight, and Samwise Gamgee as a Blue, for his altruism-based effort to support Frodo Baggins in the quest to destroy the One Ring.
My mom let out a justified laugh when I admitted to having gone so far as to classify certain of the Transformers into colors. Optimus Prime, my personal hero, is another Blue, for his self-sacrificing, moral-driven mission to save Earth from the wrath of the Decepticons. (It’s sad to admit, but Optimus holds a special place in my heart. I was roused to tears by his go-down-swinging dying scene in the second Transformers movie.) Megatron, like many villains it seems, appears to be a Red.
I admit: it doesn’t get much nerdier than this. Applying principles of psychology to fictional (except in the case of Optimus Prime- don’t you DARE imply that he isn’t real!) characters. But I for one find it interesting, at the least, that made-up characters, even alien robots, can be grouped under categories of human personalities.
PS. I’m a Blue.
PPS. So is Batman.
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