Category Archives: Asides

More tech-support transcripts

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Hilarious piece in Slate by Evan Eisenberg. Sample:

In order to serve you better, it will be helpful for us to know which order you belong to. For Primates, press 1. For Cetacea and Proboscidea, press 2. For Jesuit or Dominican, press 3. For Knights Templar or Hospitaler, Knights of Pythias or Columbus, as well as Masons, Elks, and Kiwanis, or if you are unsure, press 4. If you are a Franciscan and have a rotary phone, please stay on the line.

Please key in the model and serial number of the product you are calling about. The model number is the series of 12 letters and digits that is visible when you push the unit away from the wall, work your head into the gap using a crowbar and No. 10 machine oil, and train a beam of ultraviolet light on the lower three centimeters of the right-hand rear surface of the appliance.

If the model number is obscured by dust or cockroach detritus, wipe it with a soft, lint-free cloth soaked in a solution of ordinary rubbing alcohol, Kirschwasser, and formaldehyde. The serial number is the 37-digit number inscribed by means of laser nanotechnology on the underside of the unit and is not visible to the naked eye.

When you have entered both numbers, press the pound key. Note that at any point you may return to the previous menu by hanging up, calling again, and repeating the process until you reach the point just before the point you are at right now…

There’s more. Much more. For example:

Most common problems can be resolved at home by following a simple sequence of diagnostic tests and procedures. We will now guide you through such a sequence. If you wish to skip this section, press 1, 3, and 9 simultaneously while restarting your telephone. Please note: If, while answering these questions, you see smoke or flames or if your chest is warm to the touch, hang up and call 911.

The only thing missing is the ubiquitous assurance that “we really value your call”.

Footnote: After recovering from a bout of hysterical laughter I realised that I’m currently reading Mr Eisenberg’s lovely book, The recording angel: Music, Records and Culture from Aristotle to Zappa.

Macho frauds

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Lovely Guardian column by Linda Colley about the weird macho strutting of Bush, Cheney & Co — all of whom shirked military service in Vietnam…

In America, the excitement about Dick Cheney’s shooting accident is over. There are no more talkshow debates about why he took so long to make a statement, and no more news reports about his 78-year-old victim. Even the delicious contrast between the vicepresident’s bravery in the face of small birds and the deferments he took to keep from going to Vietnam no longer raises eyebrows. Yet the shrewdest comment I heard on the incident was rarely touched on. What did the vice-president think he was doing, inquired a serious hunter? Real men got up early and went into the countryside hunting wild quail alone with their dog. Going in groups to a farm to shoot specially bred birds was for sissies. It wasn’t Cheney’s involvement in masculine pursuits that was noteworthy; it was that the mode of masculinity on show was bogus…

Don’t mention the war

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The US Ambassador came to College today, to give a talk to the Gates Scholars, and I sat in on the proceedings.

Robert Holmes Tuttle is a genial cove who apparently continues to be Co-Managing Partner of Tuttle-Click Automotive Group, described by the embassy as “one of the largest automobile dealer organizations in the United States”, while still representing his country. (Wonder what he does when questions about automobile emissions come up.) Mrs. Tuttle, a corporate lawyer, also came along and lent a touch of glamour to an otherwise drab occasion.

Tuttle’s talk was stupendously banal — partly a paen of praise to his country’s enlightened tax system (eh?), and partly a sermonette on the importance of giving (prompted in part, I guess, by the fact that most of his listeners were in Cambridge because of a huge benefaction made by Bill Gates to the university to establish the Gates Scholars scheme).

The Q&A session with the students was similarly banal. The questions were uniformly respectful and mostly vague. There was not a single mention of the war in Iraq. (John Cleese, where are you when we need you?) A question about anti-Americanism abroad was skilfully deflected by the Ambassador with anecdotal guff about how English visitors to the US are always overwhelmed by the hospitality and friendliness of the natives. He dealt rather well with a questioner who asked whether released US prisoners should have the right to vote (apparently they don’t), by explaining that sometimes there was a conflict between his personal views and the fact that he had to represent his government. Asked what he regarded as the two biggest problems facing the world, he replied “poverty and bad governance”, which I thought was a pretty intelligent answer — especially as I had expected him to trot out the party line about global terrorism.

As he gave his talk, a couple of thoughts came to mind. One was Ambrose Bierce’s definition of an ambassador as “a person who, having failed to secure an office from the people, is given one by the Administration on condition that he leave the country.” Mr Tuttle is a substantial donor to the Republican party, and served as Ronald Reagan’s Director of Personnel. The other thought was that this genial, agreeable chap is essentially the acceptable face of Rumsfeld, Cheney and all the other right-wing nutters who have driven the US into its current cul de sac. He is, in other words, the velvet glove for their mailed fist.

Wrong number

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I’m grateful to the readers who have kindly drawn my attention to this item in the current issue of Private Eye.

Only three months into 2006, there is already a hot favourite for this year’s prize for the most spectacularly dud PR puff.

The April issue of GQ carries an “article” about the new Wembley stadium which reads more like a publicity brochure for the sports venue and its management company. Hack John Naughton can barely contain his awe and reveals that “the stadium architects employed astronomers to calculate the position of the sun on May afternoons to ensure that the pitch is not covered in shadow when the FA Cuo final is played. At 3pm on Cup Final day, only two southern corner flags will be in shadow”.

Not that anyone will notice. Just after the mag went to press, it was announced that the stadium wouldn’t be ready in time for the FA Cup Final, which will now take place in sunny Cardiff instead.

Er, not guilty, m’lud. It’s another chap with the same name. He specialises in covering what might loosely be termed popular culture. My academic colleagues never tire of showing me their (lovingly photocopied and distributed) copies of his review of Stag Night Videos! The only time our paths have crossed was when a Prosperous Sunday Newspaper sent me a large cheque made out to “John Naughton” for pieces I hadn’t written. (And, since you ask, I returned it.)

Joined-up photography

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One of the photographic forms I really admire is David Hockney’s ‘Joiners’ . Like all great artists, he makes it look easy. But actually it’s fiendishly difficult to do well. This is an attempt I made to convey the feeling of the Connemara graveyard in which my grandparents (and five of their children) lie buried. It’s a beautiful, peaceful, windswept place, from which you can see Galway Bay and the Aran Islands, and somehow cried out for something better than a static picture. But this doesn’t work because, for example, I missed out the heads of two of the Celtic crosses. You can’t read the headstone at this resolution, but it reveals that, in 1922, two of their children died within a week of one another (both from infectious diseases now routinely vaccinated against). And they lost another child just a year later. The horror is unimaginable. But that’s what life was like in rural Ireland in those days.

Wallace worth more than Grommit!

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Honestly! According to BBC Online,

Oscar-winning Aardman Animations has been given £4,000 to replace the Wallace prop lost in a warehouse fire.

The company has also been given around £2,000 for a canine Gromit prop as part of an undisclosed insurance payout for the damage to the Bristol premises.

It got £100,000 for the Chicken Run pie machine lost in the fire last October, which was caused by faulty wiring.

Insurer Norwich Union says it based the sums on the cost of “reinstating” the props and not their market value.

Cheapskates!

Who said this?

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From Guardian Unlimited

“Power is moving away from the old elite in our industry – the editors, the chief executives and, let’s face it, the proprietors,” said Mr X, having flown into London from New York after celebrating his 75th birthday on Saturday.

Far from mourning its passing, he evangelised about a digital future that would put that power in the hands of those already launching a blog every second, sharing photos and music online and downloading television programmes on demand. “A new generation of media consumers has risen demanding content delivered when they want it, how they want it, and very much as they want it,” he said. Indicating he had little desire to slow down despite his advancing years, he told the 603-year-old guild [the Stationers’ Company] that he was looking forward, not back.”It is difficult, indeed dangerous, to underestimate the huge changes this revolution will bring or the power of developing technologies to build and destroy – not just companies but whole countries.”

He added: “Never has the flow of information and ideas, of hard news and reasoned comment, been more important. The force of our democratic beliefs is a key weapon in the war against religious fanaticism and the terrorism it breeds.”

Strong stuff, eh? Oh, and the identity of Mr. X? None other that the Digger himself, Rupert Murdoch, now the proud owner of MySpace.com.

Fukuyama vs. Levi

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The French chic-intellectual Bernard-Henri Levi has written a book about contemporary America entitled American Vertigo in which he says rude things about Las Vegas. Francis Fukuyama was cross about this. Here’s the entertaining exchange between the two savants.

Milosevic: the mystery deepens

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Curiouser and curiouser… Milosevic Possibly Manipulated His Medication to Fake Illness…

A top toxicologist in the Netherlands said that he believed Slobodan Milosevic, the former Yugoslav leader, was manipulating medication to fake a medical condition, a plan that might have played a role in the heart attack that caused his death.

That theory was advanced by Dr. Donald Uges, professor of clinical and forensic toxicology at the University of Groningen, who posited that Milosevic was seeking to demonstrate that Dutch doctors could not cure him and that he should therefore be allowed to seek treatment, and freedom, in Moscow. He was imprisoned here on charges of war crimes and crimes against humanity including genocide during three Balkan wars in the 1990s.

Uges based his theory on his detection in Milosevic’s blood of a drug that had not been prescribed for him and that was not only inappropriate but, under the circumstances, dangerous. He was found on his bed in his prison cell on Saturday morning. The drug at issue is an antibiotic known as rifampicin, used to treat serious bacterial infections, such as tuberculosis. It is known to interfere with medications he was taking for high blood pressure.

Impossible to summarise…

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… so you’ll just have to see for yourself. But the title conveys the essence:

The Slow and Painful Collapse of a Relationship Over the Course of a Weeklong Vacation as Expressed by the Names Each Partner Gave Their Digital Photos Taken During Said Vacation.

Very clever idea — by Matt Hulten.