At some point over the weekend someone in my apartment wielded a glass of water like a pro and disabled our poor keyboard with a single splash. It was an expert wound, not killing, merely maiming it in such a way that it could perform a few simple tasks but not provide me with the letters e-d-c, r-f-v, t-g-b, and oddly enough, i-k-, (It was the kind of disfiguring wound an evil crime boss visits on an insubordinate servant: slicing off an ear, amputating a limb, cutting out the tongue, what have you.). I disabled the password complete function on my computer a long time ago, and now my security measures, taken as much to claim a small degree of computer savvy as anything else, have come back to bite me in the ass. Laboriously, oh so laboriously, I copied and pasted single letters into web form fields in order to read Paul Krugman columns in the New York Times. Getting into my email was torture. And my Palinode entries were kiboshed for the long weekend. I won't say who tortured the keyboard so, but she's very sorry and won't go placing her water at the desk again, and in a show of marital solidarity I've agreed to do the same.

I worked around the problem by stealing an unused keyboard from work. I can see why nobody uses it anymore; it's utterly filthy, stuffed with a fluffy layer of hair, dust, crumbs, skin and matter. I unscrewed the back and discovered that the circuit board has approximately the same dimensions as the keypad. How is this possible? Worst of all, though, is the absence of the Windows key. I know that nobody uses that key for anything, but I use it for everything. With the addition of Winkey (the coolest piece of software alive) I had my keyboard configured to obey my every whim without resort to the mouse. When you sit down at my computer you can look at the mouse, lean in close and whisper, "Hey mouse? I just wanted to say: Fuck you. I really wanted you to know that". Now I have to make nice with the mouse whenever I want to navigate this stupid graphical user interface they call XP. So for Easter I ate: a) my words; b) some pad thai; c) likely some yoghurt.

One more thing about this filthy antiquated keyboard I'm using: the Control key actually says 'Control'. This keyboard must have been the cutting edge back in the day. I never realized that personal computing peripherals could be quaint, but there it is. Hi, says the key, I'm your Control key. You may not recognize me from your typewriter, but I can enable all kinds of powerful functions that unlock your door to the age of Personal Computing!

IN OTHER, LESS GEEKY NEWS

Today I spent several hours at the library.

I SAID LESS GEEKY, NOT EQUALLY GEEKY BUT IN A DIFFERENT VENUE

Okay then, let's say that I spent several hours on a 'horse' (swivel chair) and on this horse I 'rode the range' (operated a microform reader) and 'enabled little dogies' (looked through newspapers from the early part of the century) so I could, um, 'round them up?' (find old disasters?). Enough. I can't keep up this cowboy charade anymore. My job rocks Herr Casbah because I can spend an afternoon in the university library micromaterials room, where nobody goes. Just outside the door a stew of university students check their hotmail, play solitaire or otherwise abuse the vast bank of library computers on the main floor (Library staff must know that the computers are being put to all sorts of uses that have nothing to do with academic research. I think the tech upgrade was installed simply to appeal to students in a university that has become increasingly like a vocational college over the last ten years.), but the micromaterials room is pleasantly empty. The reference staff comes in every so often to catch a break from the fug of cologne and late adolescent hormones, but otherwise I'm alone with the last hundred years of journalism. AND: The Wing Collection, a complete inventory of all written materials published in English between the 16th to the early 20th century. If nuclear warheads begin to fall I'm running to the micromaterials room with lead blankets and cinderblocks and dehydrated yoghurt. And then oh, I'll trip and my glasses will break, and I'll curse Rod Serling. Anyway. My favourite recreational activity there (yes, I know, shut up) is finding the bizarre racist stories from the old Toronto Globe and Winnipeg Free Press, with headlines like "Alberta Won't Take Mennonites, It Is Feared" or "Chinaman Crazed on Opium Shoots and Stabs". But none so far have compared to:

Lethbridge, Alta., Sept. 20 - Captain E. L. Janney, whose 41-day hunger strike in the Provincial Jail here, initiated by him, according to his own allegations, because of cruel and inhuman treatment while being held in jail pending trial on a charge of obtaining money under false pretenses, was the only witness at the investigation into his treatment in jail, which began this morning. The investigation was ordered by the Provincial Government following 12 charges of cruelty and inhuman treatment made by Janney through his solicitors. Janney was in a weak condition. He fainted when placed in an automobile to be taken to the police station.
His evidence went into detail concerning his alleged treatment. He protested that he had been placed between two colored men at the mess table, that guards used abusive language to him, that he had not been given an opportunity to exercise, and that he had been treated worse than convicted men on many occasions.

I can only assume that Captain Janney must have been an insufferable jerk to be treated "worse than convicted men". What I like most about the story is that the complaint about being seated next to 'colored men' becomes the alibi for a trashy headline. And this was on the front page.

FURTHER ON THE SUBJECT OF JUNKY JOURNALISM

April 23rd, a Global National-National Post investigation: Tweens - Too Fast, Too Soon. A hard-hitting expos� of the 9-14 set in Canada. Where's the Vapid Pandering Journalism booth around here? 'Cause when I grow up I want to spend my time investigating the video-game-playing dad's-booze-swilling homoerotic-experimenting world of barely pubescent children. Better yet, I'd like a job in which I send out form letters to homeless people. Dear Disenfranchised Person of No Fixed Address: Instead of investigating the systemic causes of poverty and injustice, we're devoting our resources to spoiled suburbanites smoking their parents' dope and playing Halo in some dude's basement. Please continue to keep it real.

YOU ARE SOON TO BE BONUSED

In the spirit of sharing, The Lotus and I decided one thing each tonight. She decided that the old woman who lives one floor above us moves about by means of a harness and a rigged-up set of old bicycle pedals attached to a set of wires and pulleys. The upshot is that her feet never touch the ground, since there's no other way to explain the fact that we can occasionally hear small objects like screws hit the floor and roll around, but not once have we heard a footstep. We're thinking that the conveying apparatus has been in use so long that piece by piece it is falling apart, and it's only a matter of time before we'll hear a massive thump followed by a stream of profanity. For my part, I decided that the word 'bonus' is a worthy secular replacement for 'bless'. Which is my excuse for the following exchange: "Bonus me Father, for I have failed to redeem my coupons in a timely fashion. It has been three days since my 50 cent savings on Save-Rite Brand apple drink expired". "Child, you must work three hours as a stocker and seven as a produce mister to redeem that coupon". "Thank you father". "You're welcome and come again soon".

parode - exode