Thursday, July 13, 2006

If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Of course, if everything's broke, you better leave work early.

There's a philosophy in certain businesses called "Planned Obsolecence." Perhaps you've heard of it. If you haven't, you might be able to surmise what it's all about. If you're not in either of those boats, sit down over here next to me. I'll explain.

Basically, the idea is that you create a product that is actually engineered to break after a finite number of months. Toasters are famously shitty this way. So are American cars. I've also come to the conclusion that iPods have a chip inside them that causes self-destruct, Inspector Gadget-style, about thirty days after the warranty expires, so that smug pricks at the Apple store can put it next to their ear, shrug, call you "bro," and explain that there's nothing they can do. But you can get 10% off your next one. Such generosity at that store; Mother Theresa has met her match, posthumously.

Why do I mention this? It's because, after a week of leisure, procrastination, and practice on acoustic instruments, I suddenly realized that nothing I own works. This goes beyond the holes in my shoes, and my pants, and, come to think of it, this shirt, which, all considered, would make my mother quite sad, being that her son currently resembles a scarecrow in dire need of a haircut. We're talking about instruments. See, my amp broke a few weeks back. Why? Because I was playing it, silly. And every chord too. Because, you know, I was using those and apparently unplugging them too often. And my poor little melodica has a smashed key, so that note you're hearing, that's a F sharp, which is a bad note to hear when you're trying to play a natural C. It sort of sounds like a cat dying. Loudly.

(Cool tangent: That particular interval is called a diminished fifth, which was considered in earlier days to be downright diabolical and is now used primarily by fat, angry metal dudes.* Seriously).

So, today, I go make repairs. Hopefully. As long as people, you know, show up at their stores when they say they will. Plan B, as always, is to put on my leech robe and get leeching. If you have one of the above pieces of equipment & don't want to loan it to me, turn your phone off, throw your computer out the window, ignore the smoke signals I'm sending from this roof on Market Street.

*Apologies to Tony Iommi.

12 comments:

Gasoline Hobo said...

great. now i'm picturing a robe made of leeches.

thanks a lot.

good luck on your rounds. i had to make the trek to the Apple store recently for a failed hard drive in my powerbook (lost THOUSANDS of high res photos). fortunately, i got the kindly, middle aged portly genius bar lady, and she hooked me right up. of course, that was AFTER the portly goateed hipster ignored me for 30 minutes. i think a leech robe would make him slightly more...malleable.

birdmonster said...

I love that the "genius" bar is basically a bunch of dweebs who look up FAQs on the Apple website.

Yes, you bastard. I did that already. You want me to headbutt you with unstoppable ferocity or what?

Sandisoverrated said...

Yeah, my ipod just stopped working now too. I can play music on it fine, but my computer wont realize it's there. Shit. The show on saturday is going to great, right? Yes, it will be.

Anonymous said...

So, which of you lovely birds is the brilliant blog-poster? I am always entertained by your musings, it's a guaranteed giggle fest pretty much every time I read. Not that you should quit your day job, but thanks for updating often.

Anonymous said...

Its Justin. Blame all the insanity on justin. Just kidding justin u rock! and plus what else would i do every day...the birdblogless word just looks so sad to me.

birdmonster said...

SiO: I had that problem---actually think it's fixable. You'll just have to deal with the goateed pompous ass Gasoline Hobo dealt with. He'll put it up to his ear, stroke his weinery goatee, and then, 50% chance it's fixed. If he can't do anything, I ask that you flog him repeatedly.

And yes, Saturday. 'Twill be righteous.

2xAnon: Yes, I'm outed. Not unlike Oscar Wilde. Glad you enjoy. That's the whole idea, you know.

Gasoline Hobo said...

ha! "weinery goatee"!

"The modernist angel depicted as a relief on [Wilde's] tomb was originally complete with male genitals. They were broken off as obscene and kept as a paperweight by a succession of Père Lachaise Cemetery keepers. Their current whereabouts are unknown. In the summer of 2000, intermedia artist Leon Johnson performed a 40 minute ceremony entitled Re-membering Wilde in which a commissioned silver prosthesis was installed to replace the vandalised genitals."

vandalised genitals.

birdmonster said...

Everyone knows Angels have no testicles. It's a fact proven by Lifetime TV and countless necklaces my grandma gives my sister, regardless of whether she wants them. Score one against Wilde.

Gasoline Hobo said...

Michael Landon's yuck luggage begs to differ.

Anonymous said...

every chord broke?

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