DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

I guess Olympic Airways runs the Greek postal service… the postcards we mailed from Santorini on 15 September finally arrived today. Total transit time: 38 days.

The Greek post is clearly a much better value than the USPS. Consider that each postcard cost us 70 cents to mail — it seems expensive, yes, but bear with me. Mailing a postcard in the US costs 23 cents, and arrives within 3 days, for a final cost of over 7 cents per day. Our Greek postcards, due to their leisurely month-plus time en route, cost less than a half-cent per day. That represents a real value in international postal service; it’s 92% cheaper! Think of the money US corporations could save if they sent all their business correspondence from Greece.

Charles Siebert published an essay about Roy Horn’s tiger in today’s New York Times Magazine. The piece, Wild Thing, begins,

What on earth was he thinking, Siegfried & Roy’s 7-year-old white Siberian tiger, Montecore, sequestered now “in its usual quarters,” as one report phrased it, at the Mirage hotel in Las Vegas, his future as an entertainer, indeed as a tiger, in serious question.

I admit it’s early in the day; I have not read much yet this morning… but still, eight commas? Two phrases in apposition to the subject pronoun? A restrictive phrase — full of meaning, sure — taxed by a subordinate-clause aside (“as one report phrased it”) and two restrictive prepositional phrase to indicate location — spliced with a comma onto the clause/antecedent/appositive disaster-in-progress? Then yet-another complex phrase, itself containing two subordinate phrases and a prepositional phrase, tacked on after that?

Scraped clean of the loops and detours, we’re left with: “What on earth was he thinking, Roy’s tiger, sequestered, his future in question.” That’s only one-third of the words, but it’s already a mouthful. A brain-ful. Too many facts to hang on a single verb, especially considering the first and main clause is a cliche.

Or as Yoda might say, “Terrible writing that is!” It’s still early in the day, but after an hour’s analysis I continue to be unsure the sentence makes sense.

Initially I intended to diagram it, as an exercise and as word-geek entertainment, to force an upgrade to my mental parser. I haven’t diagrammed a sentence since the third grade, but I have my copy of Shertzer’s The Elements of Grammar handy at all times. How hard could it be?

Too hard, as it turns out.

We did the math… and decided that 20 years’ worth of free electricity sounds like a good deal. We just signed up for solar power. We’ll have a photovoltaic array on the roof by Christmas.

We considered waiting until the hardware is cheaper. The problem is that the big rebates and tax breaks diminish quickly… for example, if we waited until Jan. 1, we would pay $1100 more than if we installed it on Dec. 31. So, even though the gear will get cheaper, it could be a long time before it gets so cheap that the prices match the (roughly 50%) discount available today.

There are other benefits to committing now. Here’s one: Consumers can expect to pay up to 30 percent more for heating and cooking this winter because of the higher cost of natural gas, according to PG&E.

Yes, that article addresses the cost of natural gas, not electricity. The article goes on to explain that one of the reasons natural gas is 30% more expensive than last year is that “dozens of new natural gas-burning power plants have opened around the country.” Those plants have to buy gas, too, don’t they? I doubt they will absorb a 30% price hike.

Also, our new governor has announced his intention to “encourage energy firms to build more power plants”, according to the Chronicle. Who’s going to pay for those? PG&E is already bankrupt.

Whatever happers with Schwarzenegger’s plan to build more power plants, a 30 year analysis indicates that energy prices will go up. We’re happy to be exiting this vicious (and expensive) trend.

Ironically, the faster electricity prices rise, the sooner my PV system pays for itself.

Could you find it in your heart to feel sorry for a telemarketer?

How about a junkmailer?

How about a guy who does both?

For the record: I couldn’t. These are industries built on insensitivity. I’m just returning the favor.

Anyway here’s the most odd story I’ve read in a while: Tears of a junk mail magnate. It recounts the story of a failing telemarketing firm that resorts to direct mail in an attempt to prevent bankruptcy.

It’s a real sob story. I don’t mean that sarcastically — when confronted about the direct mail piece, the owner of the telemarketing firm broke down crying.

Most people, when they say they’re “wired,” speak of a caffeine high. In my case it may be more literally true — I may have PC boards and EEPROMs in my brain. That would explain my affinity for technology… the grace with which my existence is suffused when all my CPU-based possessions are functioning well, and the despair I suffer when even one of them is broken.

So when my wife’s Mac burned out a disk drive, I knew I’d have to fix it immediately, even though we were in the midst of a pre-vacation crush, hurrying to get a hundred things done (and packed) in the two days remaining before our departure.

The Mac in question had two disk drives — data and backups were stored on separate devices. Therefore I was confident we’d lost little, if any, important data, even though I was not initially sure which drive had seized. It turns out it was the refurbished boot/backup disk, which came with the (refurbished) system, and which bore a Drivesavers tag, as it had apparently seized once before. (To be clear: some Apple factory refurbs are fitted with “recovered” storage devices. I cannot recommend relying on them, for obvious reasons; it’s among the world’s worst ways to save $60.)

My goal was to restore the system to some basic level of functionality, enough that I could verify that the data drive was intact, for I would not sleep well until that was done. The limited amount of available time dictated the only possible source of a replacement boot drive. It is a store I loathe for its hostile design and untrained staff: Comp USA.

Entry to the store is via a glassed-in foyer. In one corner sits a rent-a-cop, gold-colored badge and navy uniform illustrating exactly what he is not — that is, neither authority nor law. I actively ignored him as I passed through the foyer into the store. My ears were immediately assaulted by the sound of the store’s alarm buzzer.

Reflexively, I turned back to see whether I’d done something wrong. This was a tactical mistake, for it gave the guard an excuse to address me. He was standing in the foyer, hand one one hip as if he was about to reach for a gun. I’m gratified that Comp USA has not so badly miscalculated what constitutes appropriate customer service that they feel the need to provide the doorman with a weapon; the guard’s posturing was just that, posturing.

He motioned for me to come back into the foyer and grunted something about surrendering my motorcycle jacket and courier bag. I couldn’t decide which would be less pleasant — setting my helmet down in the corner of the foyer, amid the dirt and gravel and stains of unknown origin, or handing it to the guard, who probably hadn’t washed his hands in recent memory. I opted for the floor.

The guard sent me back into the store. The alarm sounded again. A man who later was revealed to be the manager approached and with a manner that suggested that I’d done something wrong inquired what I’d come to the store to buy. What could it possibly matter? Was he searching for a reason to deny me entry?

Then the guard moved to interrogate me. “Do you have anything on you?” he asked. “Do I have anything on me?” I repeated more loudly for the benefit of the people who had stopped to stare. “Like what?” I asked. If he wanted to accuse me of carrying something illegal, I wasn’t going to make it easy for him by suggesting specifics.

“Like credit cards,” said the guard, quietly. I hope he was embarrassed. Clearly I hadn’t done anything wrong; I’d barely made it three feet into the store.

“‘Like credit cards?’” I repeated. “Are you telling me it’s illegal to carry credit cards?” I admit to playing to the audience here. I deserved that tiny bit of payback for the delay and harassment.

At this point there wasn’t much more to say, for either side. I’d done nothing wrong, so I picked up my helmet and bag and walked into the store. Many eyes tracked my passage. I fully expected the guard to accompany me through the store, as if the fact that the alarm had already gone off indicated that I intended to steal something.

But to their credit, they let me go. The alarm continued to sound. It was thoroughly annoying.

I was in a rush, even more so after the affair at the front door, so when I did not immediately see a display of disk drives I asked a staff member for assistance.

“‘Disk drives?’” he repeated. He walked uncertainly to the nearest set of shelves, which contained SCSI cards and the like, and began slowly scanning the rows of boxes. It was apparent both that this display did not contain any disk drives and that this staff person did not know what a disk drive is.

“What kind of disk drive?” he asked. “Internal, IDE,” I said, and continued, “Look, just point me to the display. You must have a thousand of them. I’ll find the one I need.” He chewed his lip for a second and then resolved that he couldn’t help me, nor even continue pretending to help me. He spied a more senior staffer and waved him down. “Do we sell disk drives?” he asked the senior guy.

“SURE,” boomed the senior guy, eager to make a sale. “WHAT KIND OF DISK DRIVE?” I repeated what I’d said before. “OH, YOU MEAN ‘HARD DRIVE’!” The younger guy echoed, hand to forehead, “Oh, hard drive.” Like they’d broken the code or something. They pointed to a wall not fifteen feet away.

I also picked out a baggie of cable ties, which the cashier tried to charge me $2 too much for.

Back in the foyer, the lack-of-security guard had been stewing all the while. He demanded to see my receipt. This is an inevitable step in the Comp USA dance routine, but unwelcome nonetheless. I handed him my receipt.

“Says here you have two sets of cable ties,” he accused. As if by only having one in my bag, I’d un-stolen one from the store. I’m trying to ascribe intentions to his thoughtlessness here, but really I can’t fit my mind in such a small place. “Read it again,” I encouraged him, “the first one rang up at the wrong price.” He then wanted to see the “hard drive” I’d bought, which again would prove only that I’d taken what I’d paid for, but not that I’d taken anything I hadn’t. Perhaps they get a lot of customers who claim they left the store without their goods? Otherwise I’d have to conclude that the guard was not entirely clear on the concept of guarding.

Then, to my shock and ultimate amusement, the guard came around from his desk and asked for my helmet, bag, and jacket. He wanted me to walk back through the scanner at the door! “I am not here to help you debug your alarm system,” I said with as much condescension as I could muster.

“But you have a positive charge,” said the guard plaintively.

“If I have a positive charge, I’ll need it to offset the enormous negative shopping experience I’ve just had.” Well, I didn’t say that exactly. Remember, I’m a writer… the snappy retorts don’t come until a few minutes later.

Then I left, accompanied by the fading sound of the Comp USA alarm system, which Dopplered away behind me as I crossed the parking lot.

Shortly after I arrived at home, I left a pointed voice message for the other manager of this Comp USA store. He has not yet called back.