Nixon used to say that phrase a lot, didn't he? It was right up there with "Make no mistake", and "I am not a crook".
Can it be true that manuals are written as part of a corporate strategy to wrest yet more after-purchase money out of the consumer's bony fingers?
Currently, I'm trying to assist a friend in another state who is having a problem getting his VCR to record or play back anything that comes via the new cable box service he has had installed. I think that video manuals and instruction sheets hold the record for being the least well written documents.
I suppose the companies keep their costs down by writing documentation that takes little note of the end user. The quick start guides that show the cartoons of how things get connected often seem to leave out certain facts, such as the ones that show optional gear as though it were part of the standard setup. The optional gear is the stuff that actually makes the rest of it do what you bought it for in the first place.
This, of course, makes after-market revenue almost a certainty, and the rates for such personal attention vary all over the country.
Even though most of the manuals for installation and setup are now available on the web, that just means that it's more convenient to find this miserable collection of poorly-written, myopically printed documentia. And while we all appreciate that it's there, we still can't get past the fact that it doesn't say what we want to know, which is, in simple terms, How do I get this damn thing to work properly without my having to go back to college?
Well, it comes down to the fact that the young generally do not understand the needs of the elderly. Unless they've had first hand experience of no experience, they can't possibly write a manual or prepare a tutorial that starts at Square One and step-by-steps it through everything it takes to make it happen.
After all, the technical writers of today were born in the generation that had a computer in their home. And the next ones will have them in their brains. They have little in common with us: their documentation is rife with assumptions about what we know, based on what they have always known.
And then there's the matter of English as a second language, but let's not get into that here. Generally, these manuals seem to have been translated word by word, choosing the first, not the contextually applicable, meaning for each one.
My friend just wrote that he's thinking about telling the company to take the gear out and return things to the way they were. And I just wrote back that I believe he has found the solution. Corporate America doesn't lose customers willingly.
And for any of you out there who may be technical writers, don't take this personally, but just as a favor to me, will you please read "How to Give Instructions" from Lifehack.org. Dustin Wax, the author, has a wealth of good ideas. They're not hard to understand. So why are they so difficult to do?
Monday, January 21, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Ack and gah!
One thing I especially love about J is her insatiable desire to experiment. She never reads a manual: she just dives in and presses all the buttons, making a mental note of which ones do whatever, and from then on, she is mistress of all things related thereunto.
In the culinary arts, however, she adopts the prescriptive approach. She browses her collection of recipe books and computer files until she finds one that both her mind and her appetite can agree on at the moment. She takes these instructions to the kitchen and by following them pretty much as written (except when things that are listed are not to be found in the cupboard so substitutions are in order) produces something that would certainly be worthy of public consumption.
Many times we have discussed whether if all else failed, she might open a bistro under the obvious name, "Eat@Jo's". This would accommodate both those meat-and-potato eaters to whom the very name suggests roadside diners, while also making room for the computer-savvy amongst the traveling public, who could order ahead by email.
Rarely, but not statistically impossibly, she will hit a clinker, which finds its best audience with the raccoons who nightly forage our feeding platform, otherwise known as the deck.
Last night was such a rarity.
She found something that combined it-might-have-been-a-chicken with breadcrumbs and something else, and the other thing was broccoli and something also coated. Her irrepressible urge to experiment resulted in a dish I promptly named, "Ack and Gah!"
Back in the day, had my mother put such a meal on the table and met with restlessness from the natives, my father would have answered my reluctance by saying, "Too well fed!" This in turn used to enrage me, because, from my point of view, at that precise moment, I was not well enough fed at all. Dad, as usual, of course, was merely quoting some wisdom of the Fathers, someone whose name was "Grandad", who might have been any one of a number of such persons in his stable of ancestors.
J, on the other hand, simply laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more. This made me laugh in concert, until eating either the Ack or the Gah was rendered nearly impossible.
Such happy times! Other spouses might well have said, "Suck it up or go get your own food". But J's attitude toward food doesn't differ much from her attitude toward life itself. "Well, let's try this, and if it doesn't work, we'll have to try something else."
I once made the mistake of bragging, "I'll try anything once". That's no longer true. Bungy jumping and anything involving heights is pretty much exempt. I've learned to draw a pretty strong line in these older years. But occasionally, something will cross the line.
Ack and Gah! Please dear...
In the culinary arts, however, she adopts the prescriptive approach. She browses her collection of recipe books and computer files until she finds one that both her mind and her appetite can agree on at the moment. She takes these instructions to the kitchen and by following them pretty much as written (except when things that are listed are not to be found in the cupboard so substitutions are in order) produces something that would certainly be worthy of public consumption.
Many times we have discussed whether if all else failed, she might open a bistro under the obvious name, "Eat@Jo's". This would accommodate both those meat-and-potato eaters to whom the very name suggests roadside diners, while also making room for the computer-savvy amongst the traveling public, who could order ahead by email.
Rarely, but not statistically impossibly, she will hit a clinker, which finds its best audience with the raccoons who nightly forage our feeding platform, otherwise known as the deck.
Last night was such a rarity.
She found something that combined it-might-have-been-a-chicken with breadcrumbs and something else, and the other thing was broccoli and something also coated. Her irrepressible urge to experiment resulted in a dish I promptly named, "Ack and Gah!"
Back in the day, had my mother put such a meal on the table and met with restlessness from the natives, my father would have answered my reluctance by saying, "Too well fed!" This in turn used to enrage me, because, from my point of view, at that precise moment, I was not well enough fed at all. Dad, as usual, of course, was merely quoting some wisdom of the Fathers, someone whose name was "Grandad", who might have been any one of a number of such persons in his stable of ancestors.
J, on the other hand, simply laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more. This made me laugh in concert, until eating either the Ack or the Gah was rendered nearly impossible.
Such happy times! Other spouses might well have said, "Suck it up or go get your own food". But J's attitude toward food doesn't differ much from her attitude toward life itself. "Well, let's try this, and if it doesn't work, we'll have to try something else."
I once made the mistake of bragging, "I'll try anything once". That's no longer true. Bungy jumping and anything involving heights is pretty much exempt. I've learned to draw a pretty strong line in these older years. But occasionally, something will cross the line.
Ack and Gah! Please dear...
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Derailing my train of thought
On my way to work a couple of mornings ago, a trip that normally takes about ten to twelve minutes, I encountered conditions that tend to confound the drivers in this area. A light dusting of snow had fallen. Lacking countermeasures, we all drove over each other's tracks which became more slippery with each passing vehicle. Intersections were positively dangerous. Yet not many people got in trouble, because they drove with extreme caution. The one or two who spun out were driving light, fast cars, or at least they were when they started out.
And then there was the train. A four-headed monster with about 150 cars, traveling around 15 miles an hour. This was the second train in two days. The previous day, however, the train was shorter, and the time was around noon, which I regard as preferable to 7:45 a.m. when you need to make it to work by 8. This train, however, stopped on the crossing for five minutes, and since I was the first in line, I had no choice but to observe the rusty side panels and the insignia of the companies within my view.
There must be some law here. Let's see how it might be formulated.
1) The speed of the train at the crossing is inversely related to the urgency of your mission.
2) The amount of snow that falls, multiplied by the number of cars using the roads during that time period yields a number which expresses the scale of certainty that you will be late for whatever you need to do.
3) Preferred times for rail traffic are during morning and evening rush hours.
I think this last one is so because when they run trains at night, they are bound to get more complaints about disturbing the peace than if they run them during the day. And it's obviously much safer during the day, because motorists can see the trains coming. On the other hand, in our city, trains run night and day, so perhaps this rule needs more precise formulation.
It always amazes me how close to the railway right-of-way people build their houses. At a local crossing (when I was a kid I used to think those big crossing signs read "Rail Crossing Way"), there is a house that can't be more than ten feet from the wigwag, which has the World's Most Annoying Bell that pounds continuously and can be heard for about two blocks whenever a train comes. The people who live there must have to strap down the TV and pick the pictures (or the plaster) off the rug. But I bet they got the place for a really good price.
Ah, but there's nothing quite like trying to puzzle out the graffiti on the boxcars and tank cars as they crawl across your field of view, since you're the one driver who couldn't make it across the rails before the bar descended. You may not make sense of this, but you have a feeling that it's the last protest against the totally surveiled society. Is this the handwriting on the wall?
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
-- Omar Khayyam
And then there was the train. A four-headed monster with about 150 cars, traveling around 15 miles an hour. This was the second train in two days. The previous day, however, the train was shorter, and the time was around noon, which I regard as preferable to 7:45 a.m. when you need to make it to work by 8. This train, however, stopped on the crossing for five minutes, and since I was the first in line, I had no choice but to observe the rusty side panels and the insignia of the companies within my view.
There must be some law here. Let's see how it might be formulated.
1) The speed of the train at the crossing is inversely related to the urgency of your mission.
2) The amount of snow that falls, multiplied by the number of cars using the roads during that time period yields a number which expresses the scale of certainty that you will be late for whatever you need to do.
3) Preferred times for rail traffic are during morning and evening rush hours.
I think this last one is so because when they run trains at night, they are bound to get more complaints about disturbing the peace than if they run them during the day. And it's obviously much safer during the day, because motorists can see the trains coming. On the other hand, in our city, trains run night and day, so perhaps this rule needs more precise formulation.
It always amazes me how close to the railway right-of-way people build their houses. At a local crossing (when I was a kid I used to think those big crossing signs read "Rail Crossing Way"), there is a house that can't be more than ten feet from the wigwag, which has the World's Most Annoying Bell that pounds continuously and can be heard for about two blocks whenever a train comes. The people who live there must have to strap down the TV and pick the pictures (or the plaster) off the rug. But I bet they got the place for a really good price.
Ah, but there's nothing quite like trying to puzzle out the graffiti on the boxcars and tank cars as they crawl across your field of view, since you're the one driver who couldn't make it across the rails before the bar descended. You may not make sense of this, but you have a feeling that it's the last protest against the totally surveiled society. Is this the handwriting on the wall?
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
-- Omar Khayyam
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
For the love of lava
The Lava Lamp
You know, there's something brilliant about the lava lamp. I'm not talking about the level of the lighting, because we all know that there's something very subdued and subtle about lava lamps. The brilliance lies in the way it fascinates and intrigues.
Like most things in life, the lava lamp does not immediately perform its formless magic upon being turned on. It takes a while for the 40 watt light in the base to heat the wax enough to begin the process of changing the specific gravity to cause flotation.
And this is, of course, a metaphor for most things in life. Things that begin immediately tend to end immediately if not sooner, in my experience. The things that we savor, such as a fine dinner or an episode of meaningful lovemaking, do not have instant beginnings. They take planning and consideration.
When the wax heats to the right temperature, the process begins. Thanks to the laws of physics, chemistry and thermodynamics, a blob rises through the water and becomes a ball as it separates from the column that feeds it. And it ascends for a time, and it stays at the top for a time, but all too soon, it sinks slowly down, often being compressed by a new blob on the way up.
And this is, of course, a metaphor for most things in life. Thanks to the laws of gravity and similar imponderables, the blob is doomed to descend, slowly and perhaps with a certain dignity, but nevertheless downward, inexorably to be absorbed at the bottom of the column, to await a tranformational experience that will renew its upward course. But it will not be the same blob. It becomes a part of all that it has met.
Can you relate to this? Is your life a series of ups and downs: the ups caused by the heating and energy of some source that may not even be visible or clearly understood, and the downs the result of the inevitable cooling of interest and the general downward pull of forces that seem only too ready to work against always being up?
Eventually, the general temperature of the lava lamp heats to the point where the large and sensuous blobs give way to a chaotic mix of small balls and bubbles, and the charm of the lamp is perhaps diminished by a more frenetic mode of activity. And eventually, the action ceases as the water is too warm to allow for the cooling which brings the ball back to the bottom. And so the last generation of lava modules rests for a while at the top of the lamp. But when you turn off the lamp, everything gradually returns to the state in which it began, at the bottom of the lamp.
Without wishing to beat the metaphor to death, I can say that this phase may recall that critical stage in human development called "Midlife Crisis", where, after a life of increasing tempo, and compulsive need to achieve as much as possible, one comes to the realization that you are but one blob in a very numerous crowd of like-minded blobs, and even if you make it to the top, you won't hold that position forever. "Cool it!", and so you do, and you begin the final descent as the energy that moved you to action no longer seems so compelling.
But it is not necessarily a descent into darkness and incapacity, unless you allow it to be so. Like a blob of cooling lava lamp wax, you may find that you will coalesce with a larger group like yourself at this stage, having in common the experience, the judgment, and the perspective that is somehow comforting and welcome amongst like-minded companions. And you may not resent the surrender of your rugged individualism for the greater good, at least as much as you did when you were on the way up, or even at the top.
The lava lamp. It's all in how you look at it.
You know, there's something brilliant about the lava lamp. I'm not talking about the level of the lighting, because we all know that there's something very subdued and subtle about lava lamps. The brilliance lies in the way it fascinates and intrigues.
Like most things in life, the lava lamp does not immediately perform its formless magic upon being turned on. It takes a while for the 40 watt light in the base to heat the wax enough to begin the process of changing the specific gravity to cause flotation.
And this is, of course, a metaphor for most things in life. Things that begin immediately tend to end immediately if not sooner, in my experience. The things that we savor, such as a fine dinner or an episode of meaningful lovemaking, do not have instant beginnings. They take planning and consideration.
When the wax heats to the right temperature, the process begins. Thanks to the laws of physics, chemistry and thermodynamics, a blob rises through the water and becomes a ball as it separates from the column that feeds it. And it ascends for a time, and it stays at the top for a time, but all too soon, it sinks slowly down, often being compressed by a new blob on the way up.
And this is, of course, a metaphor for most things in life. Thanks to the laws of gravity and similar imponderables, the blob is doomed to descend, slowly and perhaps with a certain dignity, but nevertheless downward, inexorably to be absorbed at the bottom of the column, to await a tranformational experience that will renew its upward course. But it will not be the same blob. It becomes a part of all that it has met.
Can you relate to this? Is your life a series of ups and downs: the ups caused by the heating and energy of some source that may not even be visible or clearly understood, and the downs the result of the inevitable cooling of interest and the general downward pull of forces that seem only too ready to work against always being up?
Eventually, the general temperature of the lava lamp heats to the point where the large and sensuous blobs give way to a chaotic mix of small balls and bubbles, and the charm of the lamp is perhaps diminished by a more frenetic mode of activity. And eventually, the action ceases as the water is too warm to allow for the cooling which brings the ball back to the bottom. And so the last generation of lava modules rests for a while at the top of the lamp. But when you turn off the lamp, everything gradually returns to the state in which it began, at the bottom of the lamp.
Without wishing to beat the metaphor to death, I can say that this phase may recall that critical stage in human development called "Midlife Crisis", where, after a life of increasing tempo, and compulsive need to achieve as much as possible, one comes to the realization that you are but one blob in a very numerous crowd of like-minded blobs, and even if you make it to the top, you won't hold that position forever. "Cool it!", and so you do, and you begin the final descent as the energy that moved you to action no longer seems so compelling.
But it is not necessarily a descent into darkness and incapacity, unless you allow it to be so. Like a blob of cooling lava lamp wax, you may find that you will coalesce with a larger group like yourself at this stage, having in common the experience, the judgment, and the perspective that is somehow comforting and welcome amongst like-minded companions. And you may not resent the surrender of your rugged individualism for the greater good, at least as much as you did when you were on the way up, or even at the top.
The lava lamp. It's all in how you look at it.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
When it's empty, fill it. When it's full, empty it.
These words to live by are from my loving and gentle spouse. She coined the phrase a couple of days ago in response to my ha-bitch-ual comments about the one-snout-away-from-a-pigstyle house that we live in. Since that time, this phrase has roiled around in my frontal lobes and come to have a much wider applicability than at first thought.
See, the problem is, as anyone who has been around children or has started out life as a child (Mark Twain), kids don't pick anything up without being harped at. Merely demonstrating the process does not typically inspire imitation. There's nothing in it for them, after all. If they had the ability to understand that leaving stuff strewn in the living space is both dangerous and unaesthetic, there would probably be no issue. As it is, it is much handier to leave stuff where you'll be sure to be intrigued by it another time.
Well, in the course of talking about this as if there were any potential cure for it, J came out with a few ideas as to how behavior can be altered best by simple means, such as posting helpful reminder signs on every vertical surface. Not all of the children, of course, can read, but most can. And in considering the wording, she considered the need.
In our tiny inadequate corridor kitchen, we have a water cooler, two sinks, a garbage pail, two recycle bins, a can crusher and a dishwasher. At any given time of the day, one or more of these devices is bound to be full to overflowing.
Hence, the brilliant relevancy of J's sign (which she has yet to make because her desk is too full to find the sign-making supplies, but that's for another day). For consider this: if the dishwasher is full, it needs to be emptied. If the dishwasher has not been run yet, it needs to be started, and after an appropriate interval, emptied. If the sink is full, it needs to be emptied into the dishwasher and/or garbage depending on contents. If the dining room table is full of dishes, the table needs to be emptied at least into the sink, but preferably into the dishwasher. If the garbage is full, it needs to be emptied outside into the garbage containers. If they are full, they need to be taken to the curb, or set aside for collection. If the water container is empty it needs to be filled.
To this new J's Law, I would add a few corollaries. If the basement is full, it needs to be emptied into the garage. If the garage is full, it needs to be emptied into a garage sale. If the rug is full, it needs to be cleared (of toys and Cheerios and clothes and books, as well as dirt). If the countertops are full, food and appliances need to be put away. If the refrigerator is empty, we need to go shopping. If the stomach is empty it needs to be filled.
And so I wait for a sign.
See, the problem is, as anyone who has been around children or has started out life as a child (Mark Twain), kids don't pick anything up without being harped at. Merely demonstrating the process does not typically inspire imitation. There's nothing in it for them, after all. If they had the ability to understand that leaving stuff strewn in the living space is both dangerous and unaesthetic, there would probably be no issue. As it is, it is much handier to leave stuff where you'll be sure to be intrigued by it another time.
Well, in the course of talking about this as if there were any potential cure for it, J came out with a few ideas as to how behavior can be altered best by simple means, such as posting helpful reminder signs on every vertical surface. Not all of the children, of course, can read, but most can. And in considering the wording, she considered the need.
In our tiny inadequate corridor kitchen, we have a water cooler, two sinks, a garbage pail, two recycle bins, a can crusher and a dishwasher. At any given time of the day, one or more of these devices is bound to be full to overflowing.
Hence, the brilliant relevancy of J's sign (which she has yet to make because her desk is too full to find the sign-making supplies, but that's for another day). For consider this: if the dishwasher is full, it needs to be emptied. If the dishwasher has not been run yet, it needs to be started, and after an appropriate interval, emptied. If the sink is full, it needs to be emptied into the dishwasher and/or garbage depending on contents. If the dining room table is full of dishes, the table needs to be emptied at least into the sink, but preferably into the dishwasher. If the garbage is full, it needs to be emptied outside into the garbage containers. If they are full, they need to be taken to the curb, or set aside for collection. If the water container is empty it needs to be filled.
To this new J's Law, I would add a few corollaries. If the basement is full, it needs to be emptied into the garage. If the garage is full, it needs to be emptied into a garage sale. If the rug is full, it needs to be cleared (of toys and Cheerios and clothes and books, as well as dirt). If the countertops are full, food and appliances need to be put away. If the refrigerator is empty, we need to go shopping. If the stomach is empty it needs to be filled.
And so I wait for a sign.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Justice once, let's do something nice for these folks
The most interesting thing about the New Year is that it will have one more day than the three previous years did. I suppose they each gave up a quarter of their entitlement so that 2008 could bask in the additional day.
So the big question becomes, "What am I gonna do with the extra day this year?" For most of us, it's just the last day of another month, and if we're working, we're working.
This is all wrong. February 29 should be a national, if not a world, holiday. It's very special. Consider all those people who were born on this date. Their first birthday celebration would have been when they were three years old.
It should be a bigger deal, and there are, of course, leapers who are working on it constantly. Here's a list of famous leapies, and here's an example of the kinds of problems they face, having to live a lie when it comes to drivers' licences and insurance.
What could it hurt to honor leapers by declaring a day in their name, and preferably a day off? It's a throwaway anyway, because most of us don't welcome the idea of working an extra day in February. We're too excited by the groundhog and winter and global warming and terror and shopping to want to waste time slaving in the pits that day.
I think I'm gonna do it anyway. If I haven't burned up all my vacation by then, I'm gonna talk the boss into letting me celebrate LeapDay this year. After all, it's a Friday.
And then I'm gonna find me an 84 year old and wish him or her a Very Happy 21st Birthday!
So the big question becomes, "What am I gonna do with the extra day this year?" For most of us, it's just the last day of another month, and if we're working, we're working.
This is all wrong. February 29 should be a national, if not a world, holiday. It's very special. Consider all those people who were born on this date. Their first birthday celebration would have been when they were three years old.
It should be a bigger deal, and there are, of course, leapers who are working on it constantly. Here's a list of famous leapies, and here's an example of the kinds of problems they face, having to live a lie when it comes to drivers' licences and insurance.
What could it hurt to honor leapers by declaring a day in their name, and preferably a day off? It's a throwaway anyway, because most of us don't welcome the idea of working an extra day in February. We're too excited by the groundhog and winter and global warming and terror and shopping to want to waste time slaving in the pits that day.
I think I'm gonna do it anyway. If I haven't burned up all my vacation by then, I'm gonna talk the boss into letting me celebrate LeapDay this year. After all, it's a Friday.
And then I'm gonna find me an 84 year old and wish him or her a Very Happy 21st Birthday!
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