Okay, so it doesn't have quite the same ring as the Jimmy Durante original, but it is sincerely meant.
For (navel-gazing) context, I'd been struggling the past two evenings with an Ubuntu Linux upgrade that I probably made worse by opting for the simple (meaning brute-force) solutions. None of these made any real difference, and the info. that actually solved my immediate problem was very much a needle and haystack proposition.
Mercifully, a poster going by the handle of "caljohnsmith" on the Ubuntu "Absolute Beginner" forums handily provided a magnet. And now the less frustrating--if slightly more painstaking--work of restoring my applications and settings and data begins.
The problem with communication is that too many people overrate their own ability at it. Rather like nearly everyone considers her/himself an "above average" driver. Because, hey, *I* know what I meant...you must not be listening right! I only have to go back to a deskside conversation yesterday that was like a verbal moebius strip: It could have been Monty Python skit...that is, if it had actually been funny.
So someone who can pack that much useful information into three sentences deserves some serious kudos. Thank you, thank you, thank you Mr. CJS. Tomorrow when I restore my email and am able to get to my new Ubuntu Forums account info., I'll tell you personally. But for now, I hope that the public shout-out will do.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Data leaves the personal computing "nest"?
One very minor epiphany to come from the exercise of backing up my PC of the last two years before a brute-force upgrade to Ubuntu (the "Jaunty Jackelope" flavor), mainly because the process may very well trash the already borked installation.
The last time I had to do this sort of thing in any serious form, the term "cloud computing" had barely hit my radar, and then only in a hand-wavy, pie-in-the-sky-a-la-mode kind of sense. I'm still waiting to be convinced that it will be half of what its proponents claim, but it only now occurs to me what a sea-change it would represent. Currently, my backup "process" is still more or less glorified sneakernetting with flash drives and the kludgey misuse of an external hard drive that clearly resents the Linux cooties with which I'm infecting--or innoculating, depending on your point of view--it. But, saving file sizes, it's no different from the boxes of floppies that are (almost impossibly) holding out like Hiroo Onoda under the bed in the "guest room" that doubles as my office.
But to me, the whole point of treating the "cloud" as one giant data-attic is not so much that whatever bytes you consider important--or at least did when you uploaded them--as it is a matter of making the hardware more irrelevant. In other words, the semantic link between your computer and what it holds is severed.
For an old-schooler like me, at least, that's quite a reversal. At one time--namely the tail of the 1980s and 1990s--my digital life could fit on a couple of 5.25" floppies. Like other aspects of post-college life, however, it became to easy to leave that collegiate (cough) "nomadism" behind and settle down. This is when personal computers were still quite an investment...particularly for a distinctly unemployable Liberal Arts major. And even floppies weren't exactly disposable back in the day. Thus the hardware and the data were basically synonymous. If your computer was whacked, you were pretty much out of luck.
That, I believe, led to a certain fetishization of PCs, particularly during the early to early-middle part of the PC era. While I doubt that we'll ever see the renaissance of the "thin client," I do think that we'll see the hardware become less relevant to computing in the generic sense. (Specialized gadgets will probably be chased into obsolesence even more quickly, which might offset the extra commoditization for chip manufacturers--although I'm guessing it won't be by that much.)
But our attitude toward computers--meaning the ones we actively use in our workaday lives--will definitely never be the same.
The last time I had to do this sort of thing in any serious form, the term "cloud computing" had barely hit my radar, and then only in a hand-wavy, pie-in-the-sky-a-la-mode kind of sense. I'm still waiting to be convinced that it will be half of what its proponents claim, but it only now occurs to me what a sea-change it would represent. Currently, my backup "process" is still more or less glorified sneakernetting with flash drives and the kludgey misuse of an external hard drive that clearly resents the Linux cooties with which I'm infecting--or innoculating, depending on your point of view--it. But, saving file sizes, it's no different from the boxes of floppies that are (almost impossibly) holding out like Hiroo Onoda under the bed in the "guest room" that doubles as my office.
But to me, the whole point of treating the "cloud" as one giant data-attic is not so much that whatever bytes you consider important--or at least did when you uploaded them--as it is a matter of making the hardware more irrelevant. In other words, the semantic link between your computer and what it holds is severed.
For an old-schooler like me, at least, that's quite a reversal. At one time--namely the tail of the 1980s and 1990s--my digital life could fit on a couple of 5.25" floppies. Like other aspects of post-college life, however, it became to easy to leave that collegiate (cough) "nomadism" behind and settle down. This is when personal computers were still quite an investment...particularly for a distinctly unemployable Liberal Arts major. And even floppies weren't exactly disposable back in the day. Thus the hardware and the data were basically synonymous. If your computer was whacked, you were pretty much out of luck.
That, I believe, led to a certain fetishization of PCs, particularly during the early to early-middle part of the PC era. While I doubt that we'll ever see the renaissance of the "thin client," I do think that we'll see the hardware become less relevant to computing in the generic sense. (Specialized gadgets will probably be chased into obsolesence even more quickly, which might offset the extra commoditization for chip manufacturers--although I'm guessing it won't be by that much.)
But our attitude toward computers--meaning the ones we actively use in our workaday lives--will definitely never be the same.
Monday, September 28, 2009
No post tonight
I'm trying to rescue an Ubuntu installation from an "upgrade" (Gutsy Gibbon -> Hardy Heron, in case it matters to anyone) that seemed to go swimmingly right up until it came time to restart the system. Then the warnings (from the "bearded ones" in the Linux User's Group) about how "painful" that can be were suddenly made manifest.
Dealing with that is guaranteed to chew up the rest of the evening...and probably then some. I'll spare my gentle reader the blow-by-blow, however.
Hope that your evening is going better than mine.
Dealing with that is guaranteed to chew up the rest of the evening...and probably then some. I'll spare my gentle reader the blow-by-blow, however.
Hope that your evening is going better than mine.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Another side of marketing "storytelling"
The Rochester, MN home wine-makers--"The Purple Foot Club"--apparently have a strong enough community that the Von Klopp Brew Shop can broker the sale of hundreds of pounds of California wine grapes. These are trucked to his store where folks pick them up and have the option of running them through Wally's de-stemming machine that also does the initial crushing. (Trust me, the very nominal fee will cost you less than the pants and shirt you'll replace after crushing them the retro way.)
But the experience does tend to quash any romantic images of sun-,drenched French villagers at the grape harvest, chateaux in the background, bottles of previous vintages waiting by the rustic lunches on tables under the trees, etc. Particularly when you're trying to keep the umbrella over your husband as well as yourself (wondering how close that lightening actually is) while waiting your turn at the roaring machine that will start your grapes (which really look more like blueberries) on their way to being wine.
But then someone opens the back of his truck, tunes the radio to the football game, fires up the grill, and starts a tailgate party of sorts. Then the rain slacks off, and someone else wanders through the line, offering samples of the Petite Syrah he made with last year's grapes. And a new story, far better grounded in reality, takes the place of the old. It's not the story that will move wine off the liquor store shelves. But Midwesterners into this hobby--and unaccustomed to the landscapes of Sideways and Bottle Shock--will certainly recognize it as authentic. Which is probably why Wally seemed rather miffed with himself for forgetting to replace the batteries in his camera--thus missing the chance to remind people next year of this year's purple-spattered festivities.
Marketers--even the ones I respect--seem to use the term "story-telling" monolithically. It seems to me, though, that sometimes two sets of "stories" are needed. One, of course, has to start from the "Once upon a time..." point and run all the way through the "And they lived happily ever after." That's for those currently on the outside. The story told to insiders doesn't need that structure. It has to do, I think, with pointing out the details and surprises that the first telling had to skip in the interest of time. Sometimes it must even find more story after the Princess and her Prince have settled into their castle and made more little royalty.
In a way, I think that telling the second kind of story is healthier for the story-teller, namely because s/he isn't merely reciting organizational legend...which, of course, always reads better than it was lived anyway. And it keeps the focus on the existing clients (and their part in the story) rather than forever chasing new ones with the same schtick. Because, as the saying goes, "we all know the end of that story..."
But the experience does tend to quash any romantic images of sun-,drenched French villagers at the grape harvest, chateaux in the background, bottles of previous vintages waiting by the rustic lunches on tables under the trees, etc. Particularly when you're trying to keep the umbrella over your husband as well as yourself (wondering how close that lightening actually is) while waiting your turn at the roaring machine that will start your grapes (which really look more like blueberries) on their way to being wine.
But then someone opens the back of his truck, tunes the radio to the football game, fires up the grill, and starts a tailgate party of sorts. Then the rain slacks off, and someone else wanders through the line, offering samples of the Petite Syrah he made with last year's grapes. And a new story, far better grounded in reality, takes the place of the old. It's not the story that will move wine off the liquor store shelves. But Midwesterners into this hobby--and unaccustomed to the landscapes of Sideways and Bottle Shock--will certainly recognize it as authentic. Which is probably why Wally seemed rather miffed with himself for forgetting to replace the batteries in his camera--thus missing the chance to remind people next year of this year's purple-spattered festivities.
Marketers--even the ones I respect--seem to use the term "story-telling" monolithically. It seems to me, though, that sometimes two sets of "stories" are needed. One, of course, has to start from the "Once upon a time..." point and run all the way through the "And they lived happily ever after." That's for those currently on the outside. The story told to insiders doesn't need that structure. It has to do, I think, with pointing out the details and surprises that the first telling had to skip in the interest of time. Sometimes it must even find more story after the Princess and her Prince have settled into their castle and made more little royalty.
In a way, I think that telling the second kind of story is healthier for the story-teller, namely because s/he isn't merely reciting organizational legend...which, of course, always reads better than it was lived anyway. And it keeps the focus on the existing clients (and their part in the story) rather than forever chasing new ones with the same schtick. Because, as the saying goes, "we all know the end of that story..."
Saturday, September 26, 2009
How to lose your most important salesperson: The customer
While cleaning out old papers a few weekends back, I came across a hand-me-down paperback that had idled in my filing cabinet for far, far too long: Harvey Mackay's Swim with the Sharks (without being eaten alive). The names dropped in the anecdotes are dated enough that they actually made me feel a little old when I thumbed my way through the "lessons."
Sure, a lot of the "rules" of marketing have changed, thanks to the constant evolution of the internet and related technologies. But certain human fundamentals don't. One of them--the very first in the Mackay book--was being quite flagrantly violated tonight when my husband and I stopped into Barnes & Noble. To quote:
Now, I realize that bricks-and-mortar bookstores are under fierce competition from Amazon.com and probably their own online incarnations as well. They can only be expected to make up so much of that in overpriced coffee and pastries. But real-world bookstores let you browse a book before deciding to buy, something their virtual counterparts very often don't. That's a huge advantage, and turning a bookstore into something that feels more like a club completely negates it.
It's possible that I'm just missing something, namely the next evolution of the trade that began with Gutenberg and Manutius and the like--one that might be a no-brainer to those who put ink on paper for a living. It's not a romantic business, however much bibliophiles--such as my unabashed self--tend to idealize it. But to say that blogging and self-publishing are responsible for the death of the bookstore ignores part of the equation.
Simply put: A book is a more tangible connection with information than a website that may or may not be there tomorrow. Having that information in dead-tree format is an insurance policy against that information being scattered to the winds or lost entirely. But, unlike "free" information on the internet, books cost money. This requires us to make a buy vs. pass decision that cannot be made (first hand, anyway) without viewing a sample of the work to determine whether we can make a connection with it.
A bookstore--at its most elemental--exists to make that initial connection. Having coffee with that book while the connection is being made is a nice option to have, but is not central to the experience. And when the bookstore's attempt at "ambiance" completely subverts the match-making, the whole point of having books at what's essentially a coffee-bar is lost on me.
Sure, a lot of the "rules" of marketing have changed, thanks to the constant evolution of the internet and related technologies. But certain human fundamentals don't. One of them--the very first in the Mackay book--was being quite flagrantly violated tonight when my husband and I stopped into Barnes & Noble. To quote:
Marketing is not the art of selling. It's not the simple business of convincing someone to buy. It is the art of creating conditions by which the buyer convinces himself.Understand that when I walk into a bookstore, a sale is already half-made. I'm just a sucker that way. But when the music is blaring so loud that I can't concentrate on the chapter I'm trying to skim to get a feel for a book, I can't convince myself to buy it. When we walked out of the store, my husband remarked, "It's like walking out of a bar."
Now, I realize that bricks-and-mortar bookstores are under fierce competition from Amazon.com and probably their own online incarnations as well. They can only be expected to make up so much of that in overpriced coffee and pastries. But real-world bookstores let you browse a book before deciding to buy, something their virtual counterparts very often don't. That's a huge advantage, and turning a bookstore into something that feels more like a club completely negates it.
It's possible that I'm just missing something, namely the next evolution of the trade that began with Gutenberg and Manutius and the like--one that might be a no-brainer to those who put ink on paper for a living. It's not a romantic business, however much bibliophiles--such as my unabashed self--tend to idealize it. But to say that blogging and self-publishing are responsible for the death of the bookstore ignores part of the equation.
Simply put: A book is a more tangible connection with information than a website that may or may not be there tomorrow. Having that information in dead-tree format is an insurance policy against that information being scattered to the winds or lost entirely. But, unlike "free" information on the internet, books cost money. This requires us to make a buy vs. pass decision that cannot be made (first hand, anyway) without viewing a sample of the work to determine whether we can make a connection with it.
A bookstore--at its most elemental--exists to make that initial connection. Having coffee with that book while the connection is being made is a nice option to have, but is not central to the experience. And when the bookstore's attempt at "ambiance" completely subverts the match-making, the whole point of having books at what's essentially a coffee-bar is lost on me.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Frivolous Friday, 09.25.2009: Cheesy movie metaphor
I mentioned publicly that I had spent part of last evening listening to a presentation on the LISP programming language, and someone who's a PHP (language) cowboy snarkily remarked, "I didn't think that people still programmed with a LISP."
Sigh. Language snobs. Just because a language is older than you are doesn't make it obsolete.
But what popped into my head immediately after that was the idea that the programming world is like Skull Island in the 1933 version of "King Kong." A place where time stood stone-still for dinosaurs like T-Rex and other museum celebrities. Yet, somehow, later reptiles (such as snakes) and even mammals (like our leading man) could evolve in chronological tandem with the rest of the world...although evolution was clearly prejudiced in favor of the "too darned big to eat" gene. (Presumably, Skull Island's human population were parvenus, although that doesn't explain why a culture technologically advanced enough to build a wall high enough to keep the critters out couldn't just as easily build a fleet of boats and get the heck out of there.)
So, from now on, I think that will be my stock explanation for the young-uns who can't grok how 50 year-old languages like COBOL can power back-end accounting systems in an age when every month seems to find a new language wriggling in the primordial goo of the internet. Or, more aptly, in the gooey "building blocks of life" that the internet provides: Code repositories, free editing tools, mirror servers. And, of course, a ready supply of fierce competition. Yep, Skull Island. Definitely.
Sigh. Language snobs. Just because a language is older than you are doesn't make it obsolete.
But what popped into my head immediately after that was the idea that the programming world is like Skull Island in the 1933 version of "King Kong." A place where time stood stone-still for dinosaurs like T-Rex and other museum celebrities. Yet, somehow, later reptiles (such as snakes) and even mammals (like our leading man) could evolve in chronological tandem with the rest of the world...although evolution was clearly prejudiced in favor of the "too darned big to eat" gene. (Presumably, Skull Island's human population were parvenus, although that doesn't explain why a culture technologically advanced enough to build a wall high enough to keep the critters out couldn't just as easily build a fleet of boats and get the heck out of there.)
So, from now on, I think that will be my stock explanation for the young-uns who can't grok how 50 year-old languages like COBOL can power back-end accounting systems in an age when every month seems to find a new language wriggling in the primordial goo of the internet. Or, more aptly, in the gooey "building blocks of life" that the internet provides: Code repositories, free editing tools, mirror servers. And, of course, a ready supply of fierce competition. Yep, Skull Island. Definitely.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
What's taken so long? And when are we going to do this?
I just don't see how a law like this could be even remotely controversial: Warning: this unrealistic image has been PhotoShopped.
I mean, what part of truth in advertising can you argue with? If the fast-food chain's ad agency PhotoShops the quarter-pound burger to make it look two inches thick to sell more burgers, that's fraud. If the athletic gear company's ad firm PhotoShops Tom Brady's head onto a more-ripped-than-Mr.-Universe body to sell more shoes, that's fraud. And when "Redbook" PhotoShops oh, about forty pounds and twenty years off Faith Hill to move more magazines, it's fraud. The worst part is that magazines like "Redbook" try to pass themselves off as part of "the media." Which--when you think about it--raises the question, "If you can't get past the cover without being lied to, why would you trust anything beyond that? Sheesh.
Good grief, I remember when we Americans scoffed at the Soviets' egregious photo-doctoring for propaganda purposes. And now now we "capitalist swine" can't keep our hands off the mouse.
But, while I think that the French law is a highly overdue no-brainer, I'm sure that there will be pushback from those affected. You know: Meddling nanny state and blah-blah-blah. But here's the deal: You can't call it capitalism when the consumer can't make an informed decision. Period. Granted, you can make the case that Coca-Cola has been fraudulently named for the last 80 years. But, under the circumstances, I think we can live with that...
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