My connectivity problems are solved, as are my printing problems. I won’t bore you with the long version, only the vindication: I wasn’t crazy. Every part of my system was doing its job, and the fault, dear Brutus, was not in ourselves but in Comcast’s DNS servers.
Anyway, mad props to Adam at the Troy Apple store, who sussed it out for me. He also gave me an excuse to leave the east side and travel into the prosperous suburbs of Oakland County, where Apple stores tend to be located. This one was in a mall called, in a very postmodern name for a mall: The Somerset Collection. It sprawls across two sides of a busy four-lane road; of course I parked on the wrong side. But there’s a skyway with moving sidewalks to carry you over the road, from one temple of consumerism (Neiman Marcus) to another (Nordstrom’s). This was a very high-end mall; no Claire’s tacky accessories or Lidz baseball-cap stores, just Cartier and its expensive cousins. I was there early in the business day, when the only other customers were suburban stay-at-home moms, out for an outing with their perfect blonde haircuts and perfect size-4 butts in $170 jeans and perfect little babies in $300 strollers. They each carried a designer coffee and looked exquisitely bored with it all.
If I were one of their husbands, my motto would be: Cherchez la tennis pro.
That is the end of the cruel cultural stereotyping portion of our broadcast today; I’m certain some of these young women had vivid inner and outer lives. Maybe one served in the Peace Corps in Kenya. Maybe one dreamed of being a large-animal vet in Montana. Maybe another is working on her second novel. At least, I hope so.
Besides, I lied. They weren’t the only customers at the mall, because there were at least a dozen or more in the Apple store. A dozen customers at 10:30 a.m. on a Wednesday — all hail Steve Jobs and the iPod. It was actually busy, not the usual assortment of young dudes waiting to Apple-ify your life. Those guys can be insufferable, except when they solve all your problems.
I didn’t buy the $99 iPod, just as I didn’t buy the iPod mini, even when its tiny profile made my old white iPod look like an obese cow. I think iPods are becoming like hidden cheese in a pizza — I mean, how much more do you want? If an iPod the size of a deck of cards is too big, maybe you need to examine your miniaturization needs.
My preoccupation with the move has limited my exposure to the news lately; the Iraqi elections passed as aural background noise to unpacking, and the Ward Churchill story completely passed me by. But I think Richard Cohen has a sensible take on it today. Worth a read.
I’ve also been paying attention to news of the new town, of course. As a true moderate, I can’t deccide who’s right in this story, about what happens when police recruits fail to salute their chief. It’s either typical management overreaction or else she’s onto something, like, What else don’t these rookies know?
Oh, and Beato’s going to town on Maggie Gallagher, here: So who exactly is this valiant protector who keeps the nation safe from all those privileged white divorce worshippers? Well, for one, she’s a proud graduate of the school of hard knocks, otherwise known as Yale University. She lives on the easternmost fringe of the Midwest, in New York’s Westchester County. She’s the president of the Institute of Marriage and Public Policy, which appears to be an offshoot of the Manhattan Institute, a grassroots collective of populist pointyheads that subsists on tiny $400,000 contributions from jus’-folks donors like the John M. Olin Foundation. … So what keeps her from being exactly the sort of elite white cultural engineer she regularly derides? Actually, it’s pretty obvious. She’s conservative – and only liberals can be insular elites. And who knows – maybe she also really likes country music.