RyanHarne.com

The sweeping success of home improvement shows, not Home Improvement, that is way past its prime, piques an interest in the genre of man known as “handy man”. Once a household necessity, the handy man has gone the way of the dodo into obscurity as our lives now depend on refined and manufactured goods. These reality t.v. shows (Trading Spaces, While You Were Out, Weekend Warriors, etc. ad nauseam?!?!?) put an interest back into the hobby that is craftsmanship and encourage the average American that she/he (yes, you!) can turn your pad into a lively abode with a meager budget and nitty-gritty determination. For the point I’m going to make, or attempt to make, I’ll leave out the “hidden” fact that there are enormous construction crews and builders in the background for these television series.

It is not just a rumor that I am no handy man. I wield a screwdriver no better than a chainsaw, and a chainsaw no better than a one-legged, off-shore oil refinery. Furthermore, these are skills and talents that I do not adamantly desire; I prefer to think of craftsmanship as more of a “gift” and leave it to those with it implanted into their genes. I do not like to mingle in areas that I am ignorant to or have no interest in mingling with; I leave the acts of foolishness to those with that gift.

So it was no surprise when a handy man’s task came before me at work that I was hesitant. I knew a way of completing the task, easy enough, but doing it would require holding hammers and the like. And hammers just don’t get along with me. In fact, we tend to butt heads. Or.. something.. along those lines. Meh.

For a few minutes of the job, it seemed like I was the once-lost king of handy men. Returning from a strengthening exile, I captured my throne and was the graceful monarch that I never knew I was. Peasants in thatched-roof cottages lined the Via Appia to rejoice in my return and regaining of the reigns of the kingdom.

Unfortunately, I am not graceful and, alluding to a previous statement, do not have the handy man gene. I was meddling with fire. Then the hammer attacked. A robber in a peasant’s threads hurled a stone at my parading carriage, smacking me in the forehead. My pride was hurt but I continued on, knowing that the task before me was near completion. Then another stone launched by a hidden burglar. And then a fraud heaved a watermelon in my direction. My entourage was embarassed and I was bruised and beaten.

All said and done, I hammered my fingers something like five or six times. These are not the type of scars that produce character, nor the type that want to watch an incredibly-edited television show featuring unfettered handy men succeeding in their endeavors.

Appending to my current list of things to keep me away from: high-powered autos; political discourse; chocolate-marshmallow desserts; IT help; real Christmas trees; hammers.

My reasoning went as such: if I can make warm, good lattes, then surely I can make cold, good lattes. Cold drinks are always easier to throw together than their warm counterparts. Certainly. So with the advice of barista Derek, tonight I began my summer usual of an iced non-fat half mocha. Too good.

Despite the several times I had this drink this past weekend in VT, I never once watched it being made. I’ll stick to my belief that scrutinizing a barista in action is rude and deserves some salt & pepper in your coffee. Thus, I was ignorant to the iced latte construction procedures. But it’s very easy. Eliminating the milk-steaming step is a dream.

Like I said, last weekend was a VT trip. Cabo fish tacos, diseased-girl theater, walking about campus, photography, PowerBook, Thai food, Coldplay’s X&Y over and over and over. You’d be surprised what you can fit into in the span of 40 hours.

There are many things you can do in 40 hours. For instance you could:

Travel 5.472 * 10^13 meters, at the speed of light. Loiter in WalMart. Watch me make, at an average rate, 400 iced non-fat half mochas. Ride seven carefully chosen rides at Busch Gardens.

I’m sure there are other things, but right now I am unable to imagine anything better than those 400 iced mochas.

The stages of this illness are noticably similar to prior cases of sinus-driven sicknesses. However, this one almost mocks me every day, and in a cleverly distinct manner.

Day one was just a throat irritation. We all start out with that day where we’re not sure if we are, in fact, becoming sick. It’s an ellusive time and causes anxiety in those anticipating the worst. Then, the next day, it hits. Strikes hard. My first day of this sore throat was awful, but I was still an active member of society as I am expected to be. The following day still was a similar suffering.

But this specific case of sickness got different for me. After the two days of horror, I felt somewhat better, having that weak voice yet a comfortable assurance of healing. Then the ailments started to come back, and come back with a posse. A teenage mutant ninja posse.

Saturday, my voice was cracking. “Welcome to Krusty Burger, can I take your order?” comes to mind. There was nothing I could do to stop it, apart from not talking. And there’s no likelihood that such a resolution would actually occur. No chance.

Today. Well, today I am the chopper-riding leader of a motorcycle gang. Either that or a late-night jazz host on NPR. Hearing my own voice down an octave is disturbing. Listening to your voice alone is always weird, but adding onto that an octave filter that transforms you into Barry Manilow sends chills down your spine.

I wouldn’t mind feeling better tomorrow. And having my regular, stock, average voice back. Although, I think I will change my voicemail message right now just for kicks.

I have the most rebellious sinuses in existence. It is no pleasant thing either. Having them leak down into my lungs causes pneumonia; their inflated pressure causes tooth aches; aggravation of them sparks sore throats.

These are all occasional circumstances, mind you, certainly not something I cope with regularly, but they are nonetheless anti-me. With this sore throat that has been gradually pulling me into complete inundation, I’ve discovered a two-word miracle treatment.

Paste. Trees. Well, let’s make that one word and forgive me my stale attempts at humor: “pastries”. While I could suck on cough drops all the day long, I prefer to keep my throat covered in a lukewarm blanket that has the additional advantages of being sweet. This kind of advice is almost as ridiculous to the large crowd as Paris Hilton’s words, in the book “written” by her, to eat junk food and don’t exercise in order to get thin. Even worse are the Hardees marketing directors who think their ads featuring pencil-thin women biting into Monster burgers are a genius ploy. But whatever floats your boat…

I am hoping some weekend theater will do me further good. But until then, as I’ve mentioned to Rianna, I will look on the bright side of the situation and say… hmm.. Whatever bacteria are devouring my throat lining right now, we should be grateful for their fifteen minutes of fame.

Then party once we send them off to summer camp.

Some people have the gift of helping others with their computer troubles. Adam, for example, has helped me time and time again with coding issues that I just can’t comprehend. Coding isn’t a strong point for me, so I just outsource my troubles to the ever-helpful Adam. And he is consistently patient and willing to see me through my tangles of code.

I cannot do that. When people come crying to me for computer help, whether it be cleaning up viruses or figuring out why their computer is running a thousand times slower than it was to begin with, I have nothing to say. Sure, I’ll sit down with them, run through Norton VirusScan and admonish them to stop opening those emails from “the provost” with the attachments labeled “identification tips” or whatever, but I try to avoid situations in which this occurs regularly. I don’t like visiting friends only to be forced in front of their Windows machine to stare into recurring blue screens of death and then be blamed for not knowing how to fix it.

Apparently, being a Mac user suggests to my acquaintances at large that I am an altruistic, freelance IT director. Hey, you use a Mac, please get rid of these viruses; hey, don’t you own a Mac? could you fix my harddrive?; yeah, I’ve seen your Mac, come clean my gutters. It’s flattering in some respects that people would seek me for some computing help, but frustrating when I’m blamed for not knowing the solution and even more frustrating that they know the fix themselves.

I use a Mac. And I don’t have any computer problems. No viruses. No applications that die. No data lost. That is my answer. And, no, Macs are not more expensive to their PC companions when equally outfitted. I’ve linked an article in the past on this point. So, in essence, my IT help is usually, “Hmm… well, this hasn’t happened on my Mac before, so I’m not sure how to fix it.” Not very helpful for helpless people, but I am not getting a degree in Computer Science or in Indentured Servitude.

And it was about time that the next step to alleviating these computer cries for help should be taken. Yesterday, a lovely bundle of joy (hassle-free to boot) arrived at the house for my parents. I wasn’t around for the opening ceremonies (which were, unfortunately, not documented with photographs or video footage), but once I got home the little tyke was working away with a GarageBand track. Awww.. talented for his age.

I hope the parents quickly enjoy the benefits of their Mac and understand that owning a Mac is more than just leaving the world of viruses and troubleshooting - Apple’s core is the combination of their own operating system and their own hardware which function in tandem to allow intuitive computing on the highest level. Oh yeah, and I hope they learn the advantages of showing off one of the most gorgeous pieces of machinery available; it silences the eye-sore grey or beige patchwork boxes out there.

I long for the day when I won’t be pestered by Windows users and their issues. But, the opportunities that those encounters provide are endless. One look at Expose will do it for some people, others need more encouragement either in the form of a Spotlight demo or a heavy blow to the temple.

There is an art show on the boardwalk. Art show on the boardwalk. Turn the corner, art show on the boardwalk. Turn this way for the art show on the boardwalk.

Every block, half-block, quarter-block, and crack in the sidewalk informed my brother, his friend, and I that there was this art show on the VABeach boardwalk. Ironically enough, my brother was looking for art for the apartment. But since the displayed pieces were generally all triple figures, we really only browsed. But I should term it an “impressed” browsing, because some of the pieces were stunning. If I had $3,800 I would have bought that javelin thrower statue in a heartbeat. I think it would make a nice centerpiece for a dinner table; or maybe a security post for the front entry. So many options.

The beach is a nice place. I can only hope, though, that the best beach in the world is not Virginia Beach. Just imagining the countless children who urinate in the water (and sand for that matter) and the numerous boats and jet-skis that dump emissions into the water makes me cringe. Perhaps, one day I’ll take up an offer to visit one of those “virgin beaches” in the Phillipines or Thailand. Even that is too sketchy; claiming an island as being “virgin” just dares for people to spoil it.

We three spent some time at the beach and the ever-nearby art show then went to the mall. Or rather, we went to H&M. If you don’t know what H&M is, well, that is just unfortunate. But forgivable. It’s easy to toss a week’s pay at that store, but, again, that would fully depend on your pay rate. Oh well, poor attempt at figurative language. Ok, H&M is fantastic. While I was looking for my size in the linen pants, a guy asked me, “Is this shirt really only $20?” At that point, I became the H&M salesperson I never was, just as I have done at BestBuy and also as I ended up doing at CompUSA today. Anyways, having an H&M located in the highest concentration area of my college friends is a good thing. A grood thing, even.

I don’t usually list my life’s activities, and this entry is no different, but I will add that the rest of the aforementioned weekend was great. This upcoming weekend is VT-bound. But there are more things in store for this week that I must ready myself for. For me it will be exciting, but for you, well… I suppose I’ll relay the comedy of it and shower the quirks and casual nuances to an eager audience. A win-win situation, no less.