The battery in my laptop is ailing. It once held a charge for a respectable 3+ hours; now it barely breaks the one-hour mark. And now I find out that I have been hastening its decrepitude all along. I have always let the battery drain completely before recharging it, a piece of battery folk-wisdom I picked up somewhere. But, apparently, according to this site, Lithium Ion batteries actually wear out faster if drained every time. , Awesome...
Why are we still cursed with chemical batteries? I realize that battery technology is getting better and better every year, and that new batteries are smaller, cheaper and last longer than the ones being made even a few years ago, and that this trend is bound to continue. Still, it feels like batteries are an awkward hold-over from an earlier age; the last few years have seen a transition to flash memory, wireless data transfer, and superthin LCD and plasma screens in many mobile devices. Laptops and cell phones are getting tinier and tinier, with only two factors imposing size restraints on them: the user-interface and the battery. Workarounds are possible (and often fascinating) with user interfaces: iTap, voice-commands, and touchscreens all help to mitigate the lack of space issue. But batteries remain, relatively, big and clunky, and there's nothing we can do about it.
The battery on my Moto Razr makes up most of the weight of the device, and doubles its thickness. The battery on my iBook will cost several hundred dollars to replace. Can't we do better than this? I dearly hope some crazy engineer somewhere is working on miniature hydrogen fuel cell technology. Or tiny, well-contained cold fusion drives. Or bitsy little hamsters on treadmills. Something--give us something.
I suppose we're stuck with chemical batteries for the forseeable future, but *dang* it's frustrating. Computer can do so much now, with no wires and fewer and fewer moving parts. But how can anything that you have to chain to the wall every few hours be considered *truly* wireless and portable?
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Bisque in Anger
Bisque in Anger
Or
How I Learned To Stop Waiting and Love The Desk
Recently, a buddy of mine asked me why I quit my lucrative waiter/bartender position in favor of a desk job that paid less than half the money. What started out as a simple response to his question blossomed into a surprisingly lengthy rant on the beef I have against the service industry and the creatures that inhabit it, on both sides of the bar. I’ve been wanting to write a series of pieces on being a waiter for some time now. While I was in the biz, I was always coming up with pithy little observations and collecting amusing anecdotes; partially to pass the time, and partially to vent some of the frustration that I had to deal with working the job. Now that I’ve hung up my cocktail apron for good (or at least, for now), I think I might have the scientific objectivity to tackle the project. This will be the first of several entries on the wild and wooly world of waiting tables and tending bar.
I started waiting tables my junior year of college, and started bartending about a year later. There are many advantages to working a service job in college: the jobs are relatively easy to get, even if you’ve never waited before; evening work hours make it easy to accommodate your class schedule; you earn a big chunk of money for a few hours’ work; you’re working with a lot of people your own age; there are no take-home responsibilities; and it’s even got some ‘cool’ cache to it. Even after college, for a guy or gal in their early twenties, who’s not sure about a career path, a service job can seem like a good idea.
Then why did I quit my bartending job? Two reasons. One, I've never liked the blatant disrespect that customers and co-workers are allowed to treat you with, and I kept getting into fights with people. I usually got away with it because I'm basically likable and a good employee, but if I'd stayed in the industry, it would only be a matter time before I got fired/walked out/spilled hot bisque on someone's lap in anger.
Two. More prosaically, working evenings meant that I didn't get to spend as much time with my girlfriend, who works a 9-to-5, and it was beginning to take a toll on our relationship. To all you young couples out there: you and your partner can get away with working different hours for a while, but if you want to stay together, you eventually need to sync up your shifts. It’s hard to keep the love alive with someone you never see.
Three (now that I've got a full head of steam I realize that my reasons were legion). I’d officially graduated from my early twenties to my mid-twenties. I might not have known yet what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I knew that a service job wasn’t getting me there. I wanted to get a job that could conceivably lead to a better job, somewhere down the line. Now, granted, this cuts both ways: sometimes you get a lame desk job that you realize can only lead to FURTHER lame desk jobs, most of which will probably pay LESS than a halfway-decent waiting gig. But it was a risk I was willing to take.
Four. Being a waiter or bartender when you COULD be doing "so much more with your talents" is a way of making a statement to the world. It's a declaration that you don't care how other people judge you, and you're going to do things your own way for your own reasons. Besides, it gives you ample free time to pursue artistic activities, or other personal passions that those poor saps chained to a desk all day don't have the time or the energy for.
Unfortunately, I didn’t meet many waiters with this mentality that actually DID much that was creative and meaningful with their time. The vast majority just got drunk and partied every night, and then become career waiters because they don't know anything else and have destroyed all their credibility and their drive. That's just never been my scene. Also, all that money you make? Hard to save, baby, when the after-hours bar beckons. I knew plenty of waiters who made forty, fifty grand a year (or more!) but struggled to pay the rent every month.
One exception to this rule is a bartendress of my acquaintance who has a business as a professional photographer working the wedding/baby/graduation circuit. Creative? Not the most. But it's her own business, it's fulfilling, and she's working to make it into a full time gig, and she's making progress. Then she can kiss the service industry goodbye. Cheers to her.
Five. That ‘career waiter’ track that everyone who’s in the industry long enough gets on? Scary stuff. Working in fine dining, I’ve known plenty of them. Many of them are good human beings, but something about being a waiter past a certain threshold works strange changes on your soul. Worse, most of them eventually become Restaurant Managers, and end up working more hours for less money and more accountability. I’ve seen it happen, and trust me, it ain’t pretty.
I could go on longer, but I'm sure you've heard as much as you need to. I actually dig my lame desk job right now. The pay is low, but then again so is supervision and accountability, I can listen to music and old Loveline reruns on my iPod all day, and it’s something I won’t be embarrassed about putting on a resume. I don't know if it will provide me with the magical key that releases me you the vicious lame-job cycle, but right now, I’m content to…wait.
Or
How I Learned To Stop Waiting and Love The Desk
Recently, a buddy of mine asked me why I quit my lucrative waiter/bartender position in favor of a desk job that paid less than half the money. What started out as a simple response to his question blossomed into a surprisingly lengthy rant on the beef I have against the service industry and the creatures that inhabit it, on both sides of the bar. I’ve been wanting to write a series of pieces on being a waiter for some time now. While I was in the biz, I was always coming up with pithy little observations and collecting amusing anecdotes; partially to pass the time, and partially to vent some of the frustration that I had to deal with working the job. Now that I’ve hung up my cocktail apron for good (or at least, for now), I think I might have the scientific objectivity to tackle the project. This will be the first of several entries on the wild and wooly world of waiting tables and tending bar.
I started waiting tables my junior year of college, and started bartending about a year later. There are many advantages to working a service job in college: the jobs are relatively easy to get, even if you’ve never waited before; evening work hours make it easy to accommodate your class schedule; you earn a big chunk of money for a few hours’ work; you’re working with a lot of people your own age; there are no take-home responsibilities; and it’s even got some ‘cool’ cache to it. Even after college, for a guy or gal in their early twenties, who’s not sure about a career path, a service job can seem like a good idea.
Then why did I quit my bartending job? Two reasons. One, I've never liked the blatant disrespect that customers and co-workers are allowed to treat you with, and I kept getting into fights with people. I usually got away with it because I'm basically likable and a good employee, but if I'd stayed in the industry, it would only be a matter time before I got fired/walked out/spilled hot bisque on someone's lap in anger.
Two. More prosaically, working evenings meant that I didn't get to spend as much time with my girlfriend, who works a 9-to-5, and it was beginning to take a toll on our relationship. To all you young couples out there: you and your partner can get away with working different hours for a while, but if you want to stay together, you eventually need to sync up your shifts. It’s hard to keep the love alive with someone you never see.
Three (now that I've got a full head of steam I realize that my reasons were legion). I’d officially graduated from my early twenties to my mid-twenties. I might not have known yet what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I knew that a service job wasn’t getting me there. I wanted to get a job that could conceivably lead to a better job, somewhere down the line. Now, granted, this cuts both ways: sometimes you get a lame desk job that you realize can only lead to FURTHER lame desk jobs, most of which will probably pay LESS than a halfway-decent waiting gig. But it was a risk I was willing to take.
Four. Being a waiter or bartender when you COULD be doing "so much more with your talents" is a way of making a statement to the world. It's a declaration that you don't care how other people judge you, and you're going to do things your own way for your own reasons. Besides, it gives you ample free time to pursue artistic activities, or other personal passions that those poor saps chained to a desk all day don't have the time or the energy for.
Unfortunately, I didn’t meet many waiters with this mentality that actually DID much that was creative and meaningful with their time. The vast majority just got drunk and partied every night, and then become career waiters because they don't know anything else and have destroyed all their credibility and their drive. That's just never been my scene. Also, all that money you make? Hard to save, baby, when the after-hours bar beckons. I knew plenty of waiters who made forty, fifty grand a year (or more!) but struggled to pay the rent every month.
One exception to this rule is a bartendress of my acquaintance who has a business as a professional photographer working the wedding/baby/graduation circuit. Creative? Not the most. But it's her own business, it's fulfilling, and she's working to make it into a full time gig, and she's making progress. Then she can kiss the service industry goodbye. Cheers to her.
Five. That ‘career waiter’ track that everyone who’s in the industry long enough gets on? Scary stuff. Working in fine dining, I’ve known plenty of them. Many of them are good human beings, but something about being a waiter past a certain threshold works strange changes on your soul. Worse, most of them eventually become Restaurant Managers, and end up working more hours for less money and more accountability. I’ve seen it happen, and trust me, it ain’t pretty.
I could go on longer, but I'm sure you've heard as much as you need to. I actually dig my lame desk job right now. The pay is low, but then again so is supervision and accountability, I can listen to music and old Loveline reruns on my iPod all day, and it’s something I won’t be embarrassed about putting on a resume. I don't know if it will provide me with the magical key that releases me you the vicious lame-job cycle, but right now, I’m content to…wait.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Lapcats
Sometimes, a well-placed cat can achieve things like nothing else can.
A cat in the lap is something to be savored, a warm comfort that I hadn't experienced for a long time until recently, when Allie and I were blessed with two bundles of feline joy of our very own. It's kind of a shame to rouse an ensconced lapcat. Mine always manage to look offended when forced to move along, way out of proportion with what the crime of moving them should warrant. And a lapcat's trust, once broken, will never be extended again--at least not for a good hour or two, or until it wants something from you. At any rate, a cat in the lap is worth at least two knocking things off the counter or scratching on my favorite chair, so there's always an advantage to keeping them in plain sight.
The other advantage of having a cat in the lap is that it forces me to stay put. And, in this case, to publish a first blog entry. About time.
A cat in the lap is something to be savored, a warm comfort that I hadn't experienced for a long time until recently, when Allie and I were blessed with two bundles of feline joy of our very own. It's kind of a shame to rouse an ensconced lapcat. Mine always manage to look offended when forced to move along, way out of proportion with what the crime of moving them should warrant. And a lapcat's trust, once broken, will never be extended again--at least not for a good hour or two, or until it wants something from you. At any rate, a cat in the lap is worth at least two knocking things off the counter or scratching on my favorite chair, so there's always an advantage to keeping them in plain sight.
The other advantage of having a cat in the lap is that it forces me to stay put. And, in this case, to publish a first blog entry. About time.
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