Strange World

There are large pieces of crushed-up cars in the lobby downstairs. Some are attached to the walls; others are sitting on the floor, roped off from casual contact.

They're sculptures by a man named John Chamberlain.

Here's the funny thing. Everyone I've spoken to has said the same thing: when they first saw the crushed-up cars, they didn't think that they were art. They thought that they were one of those anti-drunk-driving displays that are put in front of high schools the week before proms, cars that were wrecked by some drunken teenagers.

When I was down there this morning I had the terrible temptation to go back upstairs, print out a page saying "KIDS - DON'T DRINK & DRIVE" in huge red letters, and surreptitiously tape it over the artist bio next to the largest display.

Of course I'd never really do something like that. But the thought of it has had me chuckling all morning.

Strange World

There are large pieces of crushed-up cars in the lobby downstairs. Some are attached to the walls; others are sitting on the floor, roped off from casual contact.

They're sculptures by a man named John Chamberlain.

Here's the funny thing. Everyone I've spoken to has said the same thing: when they first saw the crushed-up cars, they didn't think that they were art. They thought that they were one of those anti-drunk-driving displays that are put in front of high schools the week before proms, cars that were wrecked by some drunken teenagers.

When I was down there this morning I had the terrible temptation to go back upstairs, print out a page saying "KIDS - DON'T DRINK & DRIVE" in huge red letters, and surreptitiously tape it over the artist bio next to the largest display.

Of course I'd never really do something like that. But the thought of it has had me chuckling all morning.

In A Dim Room

After reading an article in Salon about the high operating temperature of the iBook, including one letter from a reader whose iBook actually spontaneously combusted, I couldn't resist writing my own letter:

---

Subject: In A Dim Room

I was working with my new iBook in a dim room about a year ago. I really couldn't have anticipated what would happen; it was hardly my fault. Perhaps the warmth of the iBook on my thighs lulled me too much; perhaps it was the dim light, and the gentle whirring of the iBook's fan.

In any case, I woke from an odd dream about a tiger to find myself, the iBook, and the room in flames. The melting plastic of the case had charred itself to the skin of my thighs. In agony I attempted to pull the searing iBook off of my lap, but my fingers were charred to uselessness. As flames and acrid smoke rose from the keys, my eyes blurred and I felt consciousness fade.

And what happened then, you ask?

I died. It is a ghost who is writing this.

(Sorry, no offense meant to anyone - least of all Lord Dunsany. I just couldn't resist. :D)

In A Dim Room

After reading an article in Salon about the high operating temperature of the iBook, including one letter from a reader whose iBook actually spontaneously combusted, I couldn't resist writing my own letter:

---

Subject: In A Dim Room

I was working with my new iBook in a dim room about a year ago. I really couldn't have anticipated what would happen; it was hardly my fault. Perhaps the warmth of the iBook on my thighs lulled me too much; perhaps it was the dim light, and the gentle whirring of the iBook's fan.

In any case, I woke from an odd dream about a tiger to find myself, the iBook, and the room in flames. The melting plastic of the case had charred itself to the skin of my thighs. In agony I attempted to pull the searing iBook off of my lap, but my fingers were charred to uselessness. As flames and acrid smoke rose from the keys, my eyes blurred and I felt consciousness fade.

And what happened then, you ask?

I died. It is a ghost who is writing this.

(Sorry, no offense meant to anyone - least of all Lord Dunsany. I just couldn't resist. :D)