Do you know how to type properly? It's odd that as computers rose to world domination, typing classes declined.
I'm the only person I know who's taken an actual QWERTY-style class. I took "Keyboarding and Word Processing" in high school. It was my parents' idea, which is weird because they rarely give opinions or guidance. I figured it'd be an easy A. I was so pissed when I received a B+ (Seriously? In a class full of pregnant teens and ghetto lip liner?)
But back to QWERTY. It's really bizarre and counterintuitive, right? Turns out it it's supposed to be that way. The first commercially successful typewriter was developed by Christopher Latham Sholes in 1873 with an alphabetical arrangement. However, people became so fast that the keys would jam. Sholes decided to slloooow doooown the tyyyyping. He placed the most frequently used keys as far apart from each other as he could. His keyboard became known as the QWERTY keyboard.
Better systems exist.
The DVORAK keyboard was designed by August Dvorak in the 1930’s. It allows the typist to write over 3,000 words (vs 50) without the fingers reaching. A QWERTY typist's fingers travel 20 miles per day while DVORAK fingers travel only only 12. A test on Navy typists during WW2 showed productivity increase 74% and accuracy 68%.
The MALT keyboard is even better. Devised by Lillian Malt (a beleaguered secretary perhaps?), it eliminated staggered rows, fostered thumb use, and made it easier to reach the backspace and other normally out of the way keys.
Next week: The History of Mechanical Pencils or Something Equally Fascinating.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Gaylord
Ha! When looking for a title to the keyboard entry, I used an online rhyme generator. The following apparently rhyme with "keyboard:"
keyboarded, pegboard, seaboard, bodyboard, larboard, inboard, freeboard, greybeard, aboard, cupboard, fretboard, outboard, lapboard, headboard, overboard, footboard, bombard, regard, baseboard, Bedford, dartboard, Reynold, chessboard, duckboard, sailboard, elbowed, breadboard, record, leotard, shipboard, starboard, fiberboard, Lombard, buckboard, Bernard, graybeard, sideboard, seabird, moldboard, Gaylord, dashboard, paperboard, wallboard, tailboard, Bernhard, retard, washboard, signboard, westward, petard
I like so many things about this, including how (a) "keyboard" rhymes with every other "-board" word except just plain "board"; and similarly (b) a "greybeard" and "graybeard" totally rhyme but a regular "beard" does not.
keyboarded, pegboard, seaboard, bodyboard, larboard, inboard, freeboard, greybeard, aboard, cupboard, fretboard, outboard, lapboard, headboard, overboard, footboard, bombard, regard, baseboard, Bedford, dartboard, Reynold, chessboard, duckboard, sailboard, elbowed, breadboard, record, leotard, shipboard, starboard, fiberboard, Lombard, buckboard, Bernard, graybeard, sideboard, seabird, moldboard, Gaylord, dashboard, paperboard, wallboard, tailboard, Bernhard, retard, washboard, signboard, westward, petard
I like so many things about this, including how (a) "keyboard" rhymes with every other "-board" word except just plain "board"; and similarly (b) a "greybeard" and "graybeard" totally rhyme but a regular "beard" does not.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Congratulations!
Karl and Melissa got themselves good and married last weekend. I got myself good and embarrassed by crying through a little tribute speech in which, among other things, I thanked Karl for bringing me such a rad sister-in-law and thanked Melissa for making my little brother so happy.
I hope you are currently - as Mom directed - "having lots of sex."
I hope you are currently - as Mom directed - "having lots of sex."
Spray Tan
I was spray tanned last week. I thought it would be a quick half hour of luxury because it was a chic little place in the Castro and the website claimed: "Step into your own private booth to be gently sprayed with a fine tanning mist that creates a beautiful golden tan in less than one minute...Our tanning solution quickly and evenly covers your entire body."
I thought wrong my friends.
I arrived for my 7:00 AM appointment. The surly and sleeveless-tee'd attendant snipped the shop wasn't ready and I'd have to sit and wait. He then took a huge drag off his Peet's, rubbed his temples dramatically, and strolled outside to talk with another gentleman about moving a vehicle for street cleaning. They had a good chuckle.
Properly caffeinated, he sped-talked me through the process. What I needed to do was goinsidethisroomrubthebarriercreamontheinsideofmypalmsknucklesfingernailsandelbowsandkneesandanklesandtopsofmytoesandinsidemytoesandonmyfingernails.
I asked if I could have the machine avoid my face. That was a stupid question and was greeted with a snort and a condescending mention that I could put the barrier cream on my face but he "couldn't guarantee the results."
Then I needed to hangmyrobeoutsidethebooth,enterthebooth,faceforwardandpushthebuttonandmaketheballerinapose, thenturnandmakethecharlie'sangelspose, thenturnagainandmakeballerinaagain, thenturnagainandmakecharlie'sangelsagain, and trynottoobreathinbetweentheburstsofmistandafterthefourthmistitwillfeellikeit'snotdonebutit'sdoneandyoucangetout.
I did those things. I did those things despite the fact that it was cold and the jets shot forcibly into me while I winced and whimpered and maintained my poses. Yet when I walked into my changing room, I saw that while my face was frighteningly brown, my body had received not the promised even coverage, but a bunch of disc marks with long drips running down. Cute! I grabbed the provided baby wipes and attacked my face in hopes of eradicating those bronze demons first. But then the disc n' drip pattern quickly dried on my legs and arms and shit. Wiping the towel gently across my body as he'd suggested did not help. Asking him how to fix it did not help. He gave me a tiny bottle of self-tanner and told me to "massage it into the affected area." (Hey, do I have a botched tan or A NASTY RASH?).
I went to work and stank like self-tanner through the day. I also went to the wedding with streaked- to very-streaked limbs. Lesson learned: Don't fight the Norwegian.
I thought wrong my friends.
I arrived for my 7:00 AM appointment. The surly and sleeveless-tee'd attendant snipped the shop wasn't ready and I'd have to sit and wait. He then took a huge drag off his Peet's, rubbed his temples dramatically, and strolled outside to talk with another gentleman about moving a vehicle for street cleaning. They had a good chuckle.
Properly caffeinated, he sped-talked me through the process. What I needed to do was goinsidethisroomrubthebarriercreamontheinsideofmypalmsknucklesfingernailsandelbowsandkneesandanklesandtopsofmytoesandinsidemytoesandonmyfingernails.
I asked if I could have the machine avoid my face. That was a stupid question and was greeted with a snort and a condescending mention that I could put the barrier cream on my face but he "couldn't guarantee the results."
Then I needed to hangmyrobeoutsidethebooth,enterthebooth,faceforwardandpushthebuttonandmaketheballerinapose, thenturnandmakethecharlie'sangelspose, thenturnagainandmakeballerinaagain, thenturnagainandmakecharlie'sangelsagain, and trynottoobreathinbetweentheburstsofmistandafterthefourthmistitwillfeellikeit'snotdonebutit'sdoneandyoucangetout.
I did those things. I did those things despite the fact that it was cold and the jets shot forcibly into me while I winced and whimpered and maintained my poses. Yet when I walked into my changing room, I saw that while my face was frighteningly brown, my body had received not the promised even coverage, but a bunch of disc marks with long drips running down. Cute! I grabbed the provided baby wipes and attacked my face in hopes of eradicating those bronze demons first. But then the disc n' drip pattern quickly dried on my legs and arms and shit. Wiping the towel gently across my body as he'd suggested did not help. Asking him how to fix it did not help. He gave me a tiny bottle of self-tanner and told me to "massage it into the affected area." (Hey, do I have a botched tan or A NASTY RASH?).
I went to work and stank like self-tanner through the day. I also went to the wedding with streaked- to very-streaked limbs. Lesson learned: Don't fight the Norwegian.
Lean Like a Cholo
I spent a few hours yesterday leaning like a cholo. Andrea talked about it at the wedding and at Wayne's bbq yesterday we all gathered round the YouTube watching the video and dancing like dorky white cholos. The song has apparently flooded the San Diego airwaves because I heard it twice on the ride home. Check it:
Make sure you also look at the copycat videos, including this one.
Make sure you also look at the copycat videos, including this one.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Billie Holiday
On the way home tonight I read the following section in Sleepless Nights, and DAMN I need to listen to more Billie Holiday:
She was fat the first time we saw her, large, brilliantly beautiful, fat. She seemed for this moment that never again returned to be almost a matron, someone real and sensible who carried money to the bank, signed papers, had curtains made to match, dresses hung, and shoes in pairs, gold and silver, black and white, ready. What a strange, betraying apparition that was, madness, because never was any woman less a wife or mother, less attached; not even a daughter could she easily appear to be. Little called to mind the pitiful sweetness of a young girl. No, she was glittering, somber, and solitary, although of course never alone, never. Stately, sinister and determined.
The creamy lips, the oily eyelids, the violent perfume - and in her voice the tropical l's and r's. Her presence, her singing created a large, swelling anxiety. Long red fingernails and the sound of electrified guitars. Here was a woman who had never been a Christian.
To speak as part of the white audience of "knowing" this baroque and puzzling phantom is an immoderation and yet there are many persons who have little splinters of memory that seem to have been personal. At times they have remembered an exchange of some sort. And of course the lascivious gardenias, worn like a large, white, beautiful ear, the heavy laugh, marvelous teeth, and the splendid head, archaic, as if washed up from the Aegean. Sometimes she dyed her hair red and the curls lay flat against her skull, like dried blood.
She was fat the first time we saw her, large, brilliantly beautiful, fat. She seemed for this moment that never again returned to be almost a matron, someone real and sensible who carried money to the bank, signed papers, had curtains made to match, dresses hung, and shoes in pairs, gold and silver, black and white, ready. What a strange, betraying apparition that was, madness, because never was any woman less a wife or mother, less attached; not even a daughter could she easily appear to be. Little called to mind the pitiful sweetness of a young girl. No, she was glittering, somber, and solitary, although of course never alone, never. Stately, sinister and determined.
The creamy lips, the oily eyelids, the violent perfume - and in her voice the tropical l's and r's. Her presence, her singing created a large, swelling anxiety. Long red fingernails and the sound of electrified guitars. Here was a woman who had never been a Christian.
To speak as part of the white audience of "knowing" this baroque and puzzling phantom is an immoderation and yet there are many persons who have little splinters of memory that seem to have been personal. At times they have remembered an exchange of some sort. And of course the lascivious gardenias, worn like a large, white, beautiful ear, the heavy laugh, marvelous teeth, and the splendid head, archaic, as if washed up from the Aegean. Sometimes she dyed her hair red and the curls lay flat against her skull, like dried blood.
Miranda July
This chick Miranda July is everywhere lately and I'm fascinated with her.
First one friend sent me the link to her cool book promotion website. Right after I looked at the website and liked it, another friend asked if I wanted to go see her talk here in San Francisco.
I googled her and learned she produced "Me, You, and Everyone We Know" which I've been itching to see. She also produced a short film called "Are you the Favorite Person of Anybody?" with the completely depressing premise of stopping passersby to ask if they are anybody's favorite person. Yikes. If somebody asked me that on the street I'd probably cry. Because besides my parents? Uh, nobody. I also learned she grew up in Berkeley and lived in Portland for a while so I feel she and I could be friends and stuff.
Then Corporate Casual held a fake MASH game that listed her as an "affair" option. Random.
First one friend sent me the link to her cool book promotion website. Right after I looked at the website and liked it, another friend asked if I wanted to go see her talk here in San Francisco.
I googled her and learned she produced "Me, You, and Everyone We Know" which I've been itching to see. She also produced a short film called "Are you the Favorite Person of Anybody?" with the completely depressing premise of stopping passersby to ask if they are anybody's favorite person. Yikes. If somebody asked me that on the street I'd probably cry. Because besides my parents? Uh, nobody. I also learned she grew up in Berkeley and lived in Portland for a while so I feel she and I could be friends and stuff.
Then Corporate Casual held a fake MASH game that listed her as an "affair" option. Random.
Anyhoozle. Check her out.
(Update 5/29/07: She's also in a recent issue of Esquire!)
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants
My friend recounted a classic Bay to Breakers story via Yelp review.
It involves Grey Goose, Chevron, hot dogs, and Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (twice).
It involves Grey Goose, Chevron, hot dogs, and Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (twice).
Well Hello There
Dear Office Cleaning Lady,
How are you? Did you have a nice weekend? Watch the Preakness? Close call right?!?
Um, I realize we all have jobs to do and I certainly don't want to tell you how to do yours. But when I'm peeing in one stall can you maybe not go into the neighboring stall and open the toilet paper receptacle to refill it, which gives you a straight view into my stall, and then when I reach for the toilet paper on my side your hand grazes mine because you are refilling the other side? In summary, I'm concerned with: (1) the line of sight; and (2) the hand grazing. Thanks!
Linda
How are you? Did you have a nice weekend? Watch the Preakness? Close call right?!?
Um, I realize we all have jobs to do and I certainly don't want to tell you how to do yours. But when I'm peeing in one stall can you maybe not go into the neighboring stall and open the toilet paper receptacle to refill it, which gives you a straight view into my stall, and then when I reach for the toilet paper on my side your hand grazes mine because you are refilling the other side? In summary, I'm concerned with: (1) the line of sight; and (2) the hand grazing. Thanks!
Linda
Monday, May 21, 2007
Waverly Inn
I'm super tired tonight and don't have any blog reserves so you're getting this entertaining email from the lovely KC in NYC:
"Spotted at Graydon Carter's Waverly Inn Monday night: Russell Simmons, sans on-again-off-again Kimora Lee. Looking well-rested and shiny, Simmons sipped fresh juice (apparently BYOJ) and worked the room, at one point going over to a nearby table to shake hands with an unidentified director who was dining with Olivia Wilde of recent Black Donelly's fame and of the unreal facial bone structure (also known as 'hot lesbian' from the OC). Malcolm Gladwell (of The Tipping Point notoriety) arriving alone and be joined shortly after by Brazilian supermodel Adriana Lima. The duo noshed on comfort food while enjoying what seemed to be rather awkward conversation. Across the room, classy Brit Michael Caine chatted with friends and his gorgeous Indian wife. Caine, looking tall and ruddy, did not disappoint. Overheard by the men's room telling two superhot femmes that he didn't see why they couldn't join him in there later was Revlon owner/recent Ellen Barkin divorcee Ron Perlman - looking extra short, extra bald, and extra like he probably has a very, very tiny pee-pee. Wearing signature black-rimmed glasses, in a booth near the back, was German architect Daniel Liebskind. Lastly, business communications up-and-comer and goddess, KC Crofoot, radiant in a black dress and red shoes - celebrating her 28th birthday with gadabout townThocaton McGee and an older couple - one of whom could have been Sean Connery."
"Spotted at Graydon Carter's Waverly Inn Monday night: Russell Simmons, sans on-again-off-again Kimora Lee. Looking well-rested and shiny, Simmons sipped fresh juice (apparently BYOJ) and worked the room, at one point going over to a nearby table to shake hands with an unidentified director who was dining with Olivia Wilde of recent Black Donelly's fame and of the unreal facial bone structure (also known as 'hot lesbian' from the OC). Malcolm Gladwell (of The Tipping Point notoriety) arriving alone and be joined shortly after by Brazilian supermodel Adriana Lima. The duo noshed on comfort food while enjoying what seemed to be rather awkward conversation. Across the room, classy Brit Michael Caine chatted with friends and his gorgeous Indian wife. Caine, looking tall and ruddy, did not disappoint. Overheard by the men's room telling two superhot femmes that he didn't see why they couldn't join him in there later was Revlon owner/recent Ellen Barkin divorcee Ron Perlman - looking extra short, extra bald, and extra like he probably has a very, very tiny pee-pee. Wearing signature black-rimmed glasses, in a booth near the back, was German architect Daniel Liebskind. Lastly, business communications up-and-comer and goddess, KC Crofoot, radiant in a black dress and red shoes - celebrating her 28th birthday with gadabout townThocaton McGee and an older couple - one of whom could have been Sean Connery."
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