(Typographical
experiment in progress, proceed with
caution)
Oh
never mind I
had a good mind to start off this week giving the needle to
a certain PC columnist but probably won't. My sources tell
me she's a very nice person, so fine. But why criticize the
latest iMac for not having a floppy drive? I could go on but
it would be much better if I didn't, even if a few people
who expected me to will be disappointed. (A floppydrive?) Anyway, somebody else can answer how she got
a better Photoshop test out of a beat-up PC than an iMac G4:
I'm waaay overdrawn at the karma bank.
There
was also a good satirical piece gestating in my brain about
Microsoft launching a pre-emptive strike on Cupertino, but
my heart just wasn't in it, especially after running over a
state trooper who I know was just about to give me a
ticket. That shook me up so much, I went right to Smith's
and snuck a pint of Cuervo out inside my leather jacket
(they would have overcharged me anyway). When I got home, I
found my wife had left me because she figured it was only a
matter of time before I broke my promise to stay sober. What
a day. (Whew!)
Likewise,
I had a positively brilliant comeback prepared for the few
psychopaths who subjected me to socio-economic flaming
after I said that outside of environments like Macworld
Expo, I've never met a single Mac user who had the very
latest hardware and software (owning same supposedly being
the minimum requirement for non-blasphemous Mac reporting.)
But after opening the Sunday New York Times business section
and finding an advice column on how investors could
profit from a war with Iraq, I decided to relent.
Accordingly, I'm now four-square behind killing as many
people as it takes to get the price of regular down below $1
per gallon in hopes that I can save enough to buy a new
system every three months. Why hasn't anyone pointed this
out before?
Danger
in the dirt What
none of these people realize is that Hobbes the Wonder Cat
dictates everything anyway. [The above photo shows my
wife transcribing last week's GRACK.] That being the
case, I decided to take a drive today (Sunday) instead of
pretending to stay home and crank out a column. The first
step was filling the Ford F-150's dual gas tanks and giving
nearly $50 to the Conoco lady. Right away I realized what a
joy it would be to only pay $30 for the right to spew
my hydrocarbon stew into the pristine air of El
Norte! Heart pounding, I realized what a glorious thing
was about to be perpetrated in my name and how no one would
ever have to vote again. The only downside I could see to
this was that soon I wouldn't be able to see at all -- the
sky, that is -- so I knew we had to get a move on.
There
was more than enough fuel on board to drive to Nebraska, so
I gave the 300 cubic inch six all it wanted. The big Ford
barreled along at 70 mph all the way to Costilla and a
little bit beyond, where the Bad Cows made me stop.
Threatening them with reviving the draft or transport to
central Texas got them out of the road long enough for me to
swing around the herd. Ahead was 55 miles of dirt road (no
lie) leading right through the heart of elk country and Ted
Turner's ranch. This was going to be fun, I knew.
After
only about ten of those miles we ended up at over 9,000 feet
with one of the most ridiculously fabulous views in all
creation smacking us in the face [below]. High on
scenery, I took one look at the sign that read "U.S. 64,
47 miles" and never looked back. We'd already climbed to
the top of the pass, so the rest would be easy, haha. Before
I knew it, we were sliding down slippery gravel-covered
hairpin turns along sheer drop-offs with no guardrails. A
quick glance at the spruces whizzing by my window ("DON'T
LOOK, just drive!") showed only sky between the branches.
Finally we reached the bottom of whatever it was and had a
relatively peaceful hour-long jostle all the way to the
highway, except for that last little "tippy-truck" sign. You
know, the ones that show the silhouette of a truck beside a
black triangle? Flying over the top of a ridge in a cloud of
dust and rocks to plunge into a curving ten percent
downgrade made my day but nearly ended someone else's.
She can take it, though.
Beam
me up, Scotty There
were signs all over the place warning about bears, but they
were all hiding or working for Ted. The last 30 miles or so
of this dirt road goes through Turner's Vermejo Park Ranch
and gives you a feeling for what it would be like to own a
small country with no inhabitants whatsoever. (He must have
a house out there somewhere, with one helluva buffer
zone.) I saw a black Toyota pickup off under a tree near the
end of the road and asked my wife if that was Ted, but she
didn't think so and I believed her -- more likely a
steely-eyed guard with binoculars and a Winchester taking
note of every vehicle that went by without a flag or leaving
money, hah! I'd given everything to Conoco before we left
and the only flags on board were Nepalese, so I hunched down
low and gunned it (no sweat).
I
was sure we'd see some elk, because before we left
I'd seen a big red truck go by with a bed-full of bloody elk
heads, but damned if we didn't. I mean, it was antler
CITY! Oh wait a minute, maybe that's why (duh!):
hunting season, sure. The only good elk is a dead elk, and
all that. Well, poop. At least the air was clear, and I took
a lot of pictures so I could remember.
On
the way back to the apartment, we stopped at the Sonic
Drive-in for green chile cheeseburgers and fries. While I
sat waiting for the brown-skinned girl with a voice like a
bell to hand me the bag and ask for seven dollars and 24
cents, I remembered something else that happened this week:
far away back East in Reston, Virginia, Microsoft opened a
multi-million dollar Innovation
& Technology Conference
Center
featuring "secured facilities for classified meeetings with
intelligence agencies." I am not making this up, as the
saying goes, but I wish I were.
I
wish I were making a lot of things up, but there you
go.
"Grack!"
Senior
Applelinks editor and columnist John
H. Farr
will gladly rejigger this page's font selection & size
if more than two people complain.
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