CALABAMA now available!

My new crime novel, CALABAMA, hit the Kindle and Smashwords bookstores today!

CALABAMA has an "official" pub date of June 15, and it may be a few days before it's available on Nook and some of the other e-book platforms. But it's already up on Kindle and Smashwords. Only $2.99.

(Remember: You don't need a Kindle to enjoy e-books. The Kindle app is free for computers and most smartphones. It downloads in seconds.)

CALABAMA is the story of Eric Newlin, a slacker whose life is in a rut in Redding, California. Sometimes, a rut is the safest place to be. When Eric pushes against the bounds of day-to-day life, he quickly loses everything. He falls so far that a kidnapping scheme starts to sound like a reasonable way to make the money he needs to escape Calabama.

Award-winning author Bill Fitzhugh says, "CALABAMA is Steve Brewer at his absolute best."

Please check out my new novel, and tell all your friends!

Flying solo in e-book publishing

As authors and publishers scramble to get on top of the surging e-book market, I've decided to go it alone. I've secured the e-book rights to my books, and have published my entire backlist via Kindle and Smashwords.

For the first time in years, all seven of the comic Bubba Mabry mysteries are available at the same time. Bubba's publishing history is as checkered as my own (the series has been at four different publishers over the years), and the full set has become increasingly hard to find.

E-books allow me to re-issue books that were published only in hardcover. Now you can find novels like "Bank Job" and "Whipsaw" and the two Drew Gavin mysteries in a more affordable format. Same goes for my humor book, "Trophy Husband."

How affordable? I've published these books at $2.99 each. At that price, a self-published e-book author makes about the same royalty per book (two bucks) as he'd make on a $24 hardcover published in the traditional manner. For the price of two new hardcovers, you could own my whole backlist as e-books.

(One exception here: My car thief novel "Boost" was not self-published. The publisher issued an e-book version and is charging $9.99. I have no control over that.)

I've loaded many of these books over the past few days, so some are still getting their final art and cross-links, and it will take Smashwords a few days to post them all to Barnes and Noble and other online stores. But once e-books are up and available, they require little tending. No warehousing, no distribution problems, no paper.

While I still have manuscripts circulating at the New York publishing houses and many titles still available in paper, I've come to believe that e-books are the future. They make books affordable again. And they allow authors to write whatever we like without worrying that publishers/markets will keep the story from ever reaching readers. How liberating is that?


I've said this before, but it bears repeating. You don't need a Kindle or Nook or other e-reader to enjoy e-books. Download the free Kindle app, and you can read books on your computer or smart phone.

Support your favorite authors. Keep them writing. Buy their e-books.

New website news

Because of problems with domain squatters, I've moved my author website to www.stevebrewer.us.com. It's pretty barebones for now, but it'll get bigger soon.

Check it out.

Interruption eruption

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled Internet browsing to bring you this important message about interruptions.

We’re interrupted all the time, aren’t we? In the name of multi-tasking and efficiency, we try to do too much in too little time and--

Sorry, I had to take that call.

Recent studies have found that modern communication technology adds to the stress of daily living. Because we can be plugged in all the time, we feel that we must keep up. So we check our e-mail every few minutes and send text messages while we’re eating and answer calls in the middle of the night--

OK, I’m back. Sorry about that. News from the stock market. Had to do some deep breathing exercises.

Constant contact should make us more productive, but a recent study found that we’re actually less productive because we’re interrupted so much.

Researchers found that people work faster when they’re often interrupted, but they produce less, said study co-author Gloria Mark, a professor at the University of California-Irvine.
The study found that only 20 minutes of interrupted work resulted in higher stress and frustration. Worse yet, the study found that people were as likely to interrupt themselves as they were to be interrupted by others.

Mark told The New York Times that observers found that “after every 12 minutes or so, for no apparent reason, someone working on a document will turn and call someone or e-mail.”

She said more research needs to be done to learn why people work in this pattern, but it might have something to do with increasingly short attention spans.

Wait. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah. Attention spans. Whatever.

Because of frequent interruption, self-inflicted or otherwise, Mark said, workers don’t spend time thinking in-depth about, um, their, uh, work.

OK, back again. I had to go play a game of pinball with my computer. Sometimes, I need to blow off a little steam, you know? Too much stress from interruptions. I’m sure that interjecting some fun makes me a more productive worker in the long run.

Except now I don’t remember where I was. I had something I wanted to say--

Hey, new e-mail! Just some spam and a joke (that old favorite about the proctologist and the llama), but I like to keep my inbox emptied out so I’m ready when important messages arrive.

Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. Interruptions. And stress. And, and productivity. That stuff. Right.
Sorry, another call. I swear, it’s a wonder I ever get anything done. If it’s not one interruption, it’s another--

I’m back. Had to hurry to the other end of the house to see what made that funny noise. Haha, it was the icemaker. Not really a funny noise at all. Just the usual grrr-grrr ka-chunk. We sure go through a lot of ice around here. Odd, when you think about it, because I mostly drink coffee (no ice!) or diet colas that are already cold in the can, and the rest of the family--

There I go again, interrupting myself. It’s hard to stay on track when I go off in another direction every 12 minutes or so.

Anyway, to sum up, I’d like to say you can overcome this addiction to interruption. Turn off your cell phone and limit checks on your e-mail. Manage the flow of information before it manages you.

I’ll be back with more great tips, right after I take this call--

The Customer Service Two-Step

The router/modem thingy that connects our house to DSL and the greater Interwebs was deader than vaudeville, so I had time on my hands. I called Customer Service.

First, I sat through a lot of recorded messages, occasionally pressing “1” to keep things moving along. The helpful recordings suggested I should plug it in and check the cables, but I’d already tried all that, so I just waited.

A live human eventually came on the line. She was very nice, very helpful. Though we had certain communications difficulties -- I kept referring to the router/modem thingy as “that box on my desk” -- we managed to sort it out.

She asked me the same questions about whether it’s plugged in, but I’d already tried all that. When she heard that even the “power” light wouldn’t come on, she ruled that I need a new box, which I thought was the whole point of this conversation.

Then she said, “Your modem is no longer under warranty. So a new one will be $69.”

“I don’t want to pay $69,” I said. “I already pay you people every month. Without a box, I can’t get your expensive service, which I already pay you for.”

“But the modem costs--”

“I didn’t break the box. I shouldn‘t have to pay for it..”

“Let me go talk to my manager.”

“Okey-doke.”

Several helpful recorded messages later, she came back on: “Okay, my manager says we can give you the modem for free, but you’ll need to extend your service contract by one year.”

“No, I’m not allowed to do that. My wife handles all that stuff. She’s not here.”

“Huh. Let me go talk to my manager.”

A couple of minutes of recorded messages followed, but I wasn't listening. I was playing Spider Solitaire. That part of my computer still worked.

“Okay," she said when she returned. " My manager says we can give you the modem for free and with no contract extension.”

“Free? Great. How soon will it get here?”

“Two to three business days.”

“That won’t do. I need it sooner. This is my home office. My whole business runs through that box. My wife’s business, too.”

“Let me go talk to my manager.”

A few Spider Solitaire games later, she returned: “Okay. We’ll send it overnight delivery.”

“Free shipping?”

She sighed. “All for free.”

“Perfect.”

I report this triumph of everyday life not simply to crow about it, but to remind you that you don’t have to settle for the first answer. With a little mulishness, you often can get exactly what you want.

My wife taught me that. Over the years, I’ve watched her wear down a lot of salespeople and helplines. Her favorite expression: “Can you make an exception for me?”

All it takes is patience. Dealing with Customer Service has developed into a little telephone two-step, and you have to let it run its course. I’m sure the “manager” my helpful operator consulted each time was the next line on a page of sales protocol. In between her ever-improving offers, she was probably doing her nails. Or playing Spider Solitaire.

It’s her job to go down her list and drag her feet and maybe squeeze some money or a contract extension out of the hapless, panicky customer. It’s the good consumer’s job to wait her out.

These companies know they have a lot of competition out there, and to keep customers they must let us have our way with them. Eventually.

All they ask is that we dance with them first.

Pinball lizard

As if I didn’t have enough to distract me from my work, I’ve learned that my computer has a pinball game.

Over the years, I’ve tried to limit computer game-playing because it takes so much time away from productive work. I can kid myself about roaming the Internet and reading e-mail and amusing myself with YouTube idiocies -- those might serve some business purpose or spark some creative impulse -- but games? Not so much.

Not that I’ve been immune. I’m a long-time addict to Solitaire and its evil cousin, Spider Solitaire, and probably could’ve doubled my work output over the years if I would’ve simply eliminated those games from my computer. And there was that long flirtation with Tetris that nearly cost me my career.

But I don’t download games or upload games or generally seek out games that will result in even more wasted time. And I’ve completely avoided the more complicated role-playing games and war games. I’ve seen what those have done to my teen-aged sons. I can’t stand to lose that many brain cells.

But one day recently, I discovered that my computer came pre-loaded with “Space Cadet 3-D Pinball.” Oh, my.

I had to try it, right? I mean it was right there, taking up space, as it were, begging me to check it out and decide whether to eliminate it from my computer’s overloaded memory.

Well. I quickly found that it’s remarkably realistic, if scaled a little small for aged eyes. It sounds just like a real pinball game, with all the bumpers and bells and flippers. Plus, because it’s a space-themed game, it’s flush with laser noises and wormholes and black holes and relaunches and weapons upgrades. All the things that make an old pinball veteran lose his mind.

I’m a member of the last generation that came of age with pinball games. Yes, arcades still feature pinball, but I was a teen when all the games were mechanical, before video games took over. Oh, sure, I remember Pac-Man and Frogger and Pong and some of those other early games, but they were new to arcades back then, and we old pinball hands didn’t think they’d catch on.

I spent many, many hours in the game room of my college’s student union, where it was all about billiards and pinball. I think there was an Asteroids game off in a corner, but the real men were pinball wizards, wasting our lives a quarter at a time.

For years, I rarely engaged in pinball. When my sons were small, I’d occasionally take them to a local arcade. They’d play video games while I’d be off in a corner, whamming away at a pinball game.

If anyone had asked, I would’ve said I finally outgrew pinball. Much too busy and important to sit around, fondling my flippers, pursuing a high score and cussing when I lose.

Then I stumbled across the computer pinball game and became a Space Cadet, playing until my hands cramp. I’m twitchy all the time. I hear bells and lasers in my sleep. My whole life has gone “tilt.”

At least, this time around, my pinball addiction is free. If I’m going to get no work done, I can’t spare the quarters.

Cussing at computers

My wife and I are in the home office we share and she says, “Sure is a lot of muttering in here.”

She was right, though I hadn’t noticed until she mentioned it. We weren’t muttering at each other or even talking to ourselves. We both were grumbling at our computers.

Like many people who work at home, we spend all day every day sitting at computers. Much of that time is spent in one-sided conversations with the machines.

The computers rarely talk back, so we don’t get into that creepy “2001: A Space Odyssey” thing: “Sorry, but I can’t do that. Dave.” In fact, I keep the volume on my computer turned off, so it says nothing at all. I find those cheery “You’ve got mail!” announcements unnerving.

But my wife and I have lots to say to our computers, mostly along the lines of “Hurry up, you dirty $*@&#!”

Computers never go fast enough. Get the most powerful machine available, hook it up to the fastest DSL line, operate it expertly, and still the whole process seems too slow. Oh, it might seem fast at first, but as soon as you get accustomed to the new speed, you’re back to, “Come on! I haven’t got all MINUTE!”

Our impatience with computers is particularly acute when we’re roaming the Internet.

I click on a Web address and it starts to open on my screen. The little color bar creeps from left to right, showing that the computer is working on calling up the site. I start getting itchy. I watch that color bar so closely, you’d think it was my electrocardiogram. After, oh, 15 seconds, I give up.

“Never mind,” I mutter. “I didn’t want to look at it that bad.”

As if another 10 seconds would make a difference. As if my time is so valuable that I can’t wait.

(On the other hand, how many of us will say on our deathbeds, “I wish I’d spent more time waiting for YouTube nonsense to buffer.”)

Not all the mumbling and grumbling is impatience. Some centers on rhetorical questions -- “Why won’t the computer let me do this?” “Where did my file go?” “Why did I ever choose to work with machines?” These are philosophical ponderings for which there are no answers.

Sometimes, our computer carping is aimed at particular aggravations, such as pop-up ads or spam or unwanted “updates” or our own typos. These verbalizations involve words that we’d never inflict on other humans, especially if children are present, but we feel free to bleat at our computers.

Some of the muttering is actual communication. Pleas for help, usually, and therein lies a certain danger. If your officemate asks for assistance and you ignore her because you think she’s just griping at her screen again -- well, let’s say misunderstandings can occur.

At times like these, the best answer might be: "Sorry, but I can't do that. Dave."

Go Google yourself

If you’re going to Google yourself, you first should make sure no one is watching.

It can be embarrassing if you’re caught running your own name through Google’s search engines. Others might think it egotistical that you keep track of how often you’re mentioned out there on the Greater Interwebs. What if the searches don’t turn up much? Worse yet, what if there are more mentions of people with the same name as you?

Such searches can feel like a measure of popularity, similar to the number of times you were pictured in your high school yearbook. A low number of search “hits” might make you feel unpopular and unloved. You might be tempted to put your name on more websites to get your numbers up, sort of like the graffiti “artists” who proclaim their existence on public buildings and railroad cars. That’s just sad.

I confess that I Google myself regularly. I have solid, business-related reasons for doing so. I’m searching for reviews of my books and I’m checking on websites where my column turns up. I’ve got this blog (which sounds like a medical condition), and I’m frequently named on other authors’ blogs. Every mention might result in more book sales, so I’ve got to keep track. Or so I tell myself.

The truth, I fear, is closer to the yearbook analogy. I’m the nerdy kids who’s flipping through pages, hoping to see himself in the Chess Club photo or in the background of crowd shots.

When I search for “Steve Brewer” on Google, it turns up more than 28,000 “hits.” It’s a more common name than I ever would’ve thought.

Probably the most famous Steve Brewer is a foul-mouthed comedian from Detroit who performs at nightclubs around the country and has appeared on Showtime. There’s also a Steve Brewer in San Diego who’s a “one-man concert band.” I hope to see him perform someday.

Other Steve Brewers include a boxer in Idaho; a minister in East Wenatchee, WA; a chef from Fort Lauderdale, FL; a biology professor at the University of Mississipppi; a high school football coach in Tennessee; a county official in North Carolina, and a state senator in Massachusetts. All of them get regular mentions on the Internet.

Steve Brewers run a landscape company in Atlanta, an engineering firm in New Hampshire, a home-building company in Alabama and an investment banking firm in Texas. I’m sure all those Steve Brewers are richer than me, but I’ve got more hits on Google.

Two different towns in Texas -- La Feria and Mexia -- have or had mayors named Steve Brewer. They pop up regularly in news stories online.

There are Steve Brewers in Great Britain who are quoted regularly in news articles: a police inspector in Stanway and (my personal favorite) a watch manager at the Dorking fire station.

I’ve never met another Steve Brewer in person, but I’ve communicated with a few by e-mail. They always respond with something like: “Oh, you’re THAT Steve Brewer. The one who’s all over the Internet.” Which tells me they’ve Googled our mutual name. I get a smug satisfaction out of knowing they must sort through all my hits to get to their own.

Not that I’m counting.

Curve balls in my pajamas

Because my “beat” is life in the home office, I keep my Internet search-crawler thingies set to hunt for news on the-ever-more-popular option of working in one’s pajamas.

This sometimes turns up Web sites that aren’t what I intended, but lingerie is always fascinating, too.

Recently, an item called “Marshall Loeb’s Daily Money Tip” from Marketwatch.com popped up on my computer screen. The article by magazine big-shot Marshall Loeb is headlined: “Stay on Track Working From Home.” It warns that “the ease of working from home can throw a curve ball in the career path,” then gives five tips for succeeding in a home office, all aimed at taking the job more seriously and striking a “healthy balance” between work and home life.

After 11 years toiling in a home office, linked to the world by computer cable, I feel I am eminently qualified to say: Hahaha on that, Mr. Loeb.

First of all, sir, working at home is not a career “curve ball.” It’s a slider. People often make that mistake.

Secondly, people who work in regular offices in our crappy economy can’t seem to strike a “healthy balance” between work and home, either. Why should anyone expect that of us at-home types? Just because we don’t waste time commuting doesn’t mean we manage our time any better than anybody else. I’m still late, everywhere I go, there’s more work to do all the time, and my children think my name is “Gimme Money.” I’m just like you.

Thirdly, you urge at-home workers to take their jobs more seriously, to treat them like regular jobs. You are clearly missing the whole point, sir. Rules and dress codes and pinhead bosses are the reasons we left the regular workplace and went home. We don’t need to inflict those restraints on ourselves.

Still, some might benefit from seeing Mr. Loeb’s ideas for success, so I’ll pass them along. With comment.

“1. Separate your work space from the rest of your home and spend time in it only when you are working.”
This is wonderful advice for those who have spare rooms and padlocks, but I disagree with your next assertion that “kids and spouses do not belong there.” What if spouses share an office? What if children insist on running around the house, making noise and messes? That’s why God invented headphones.

“2. Sit at your desk at the same time every day and keep normal business hours.”
Some of my best ideas come at 3 a.m. I get up and I write them down right away. I can always nap later.

“3. Dress in a way that will help you feel professional.”
Mr. Loeb adds, “it helps to get out of your pj’s and put on a crisp shirt.”

No, it does not. Physical comfort frees the mind. I do all my best work in pajamas. I’m wearing pajamas right now. Mwah-ha-ha-hah.

“4. Disregard house chores until the end of the business day.”
Okey-doke. How about if I disregard them until Saturday?

“5. If your work does not require constant access to e-mail, turn off your e-mail program and check messages only at scheduled times.”
Turn off my e-mail? But I require constant access. I need nonstop incoming stimuli while I sit at the computer all day. Also, jokes from friends.

I need my computer sifting through all the information in the entire world and delivering to me items like “Marshall Loeb’s Daily Money Tip.”

Such informational articles are very helpful. They help me disregard my house chores.

We walk the night

I snapped awake at 2 a.m., my parental radar fully engaged.

A light was on somewhere in the house, its glow barely reaching our bedroom. I figured one of our two teen-aged sons was: a) up in the middle of the night, possibly ill, or b) STILL up, though they’d been ordered to bed hours earlier.

I strained my ears, trying to determine if someone was prowling the kitchen and/or tossing cookies in the bathroom. Nothing.

After a few seconds, the light went off.

Ah. One of the boys was up, for whatever reason, but he’s now gone back to bed and--

The light flicked on again. I listened, waiting. Clearly, the boys were UP TO SOMETHING. But I couldn’t hear a sound.

The light went out. OK, I told myself, go back to sleep. You can deal with the kids in the morning--

The light came on.

I was getting steamed. It’s 2 a.m., and I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow--

The light went out. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I can still get back to Slumberland, so I’m not a complete wreck tomorrow.

The light came on.

I leaped from bed, slung on my bathrobe and marched down the hall, ready to read somebody the Riot Act. Only the light wasn’t coming from the boys’ bedrooms. It was coming from my office, which should’ve been uninhabited this time of night.

Yikes.

I tiptoed to the office door and peered inside. And there was my computer, chugging away, displaying its revolving slide show of screensaver art. Each frame lit up the room for a few seconds, then winked out, followed by the bright glow of the next slide.

You get the picture. The computer had been up in the night, doing routine maintenance, and was now headed toward shutdown. Satisfied, I closed the office door, went back to bed and probably got a good 20 minutes’ more sleep before dawn.

This isn’t the first time my computer’s played such a trick. Once, I was in the shower, no one else at home, when I distinctly heard a man’s voice somewhere in the house. Couldn’t make out what was being said, but it definitely was a man’s baritone.

I toweled off and sneaked around the house, ready to pounce on an intruder. Then I heard the voice again: “You’ve got mail!”

The air-conditioner roars. Clocks tick-tock. The VCR whirs. The icemaker goes bump in the night.

Our sprinklers irrigate the lawns in the pre-dawn cool, so less is wasted. They hiss and gasp, and the pipes stutter in the walls. No wonder we’re such early risers around here.

Every appliance/computer/phone/smoke alarm in the house has a red “on” light or menacing green eyes or a blue digital clock flashing “12:00.” So many colorful little lights, it’s like the bridge of the Enterprise around here. All the lights come in handy when I’m chasing phantom noises in the night. I can wander the house without flipping a light switch, navigating by the familiar beacons of our electronic gizmos.

Sometimes, lying awake, I get paranoid. Among all the whirs and clicks, I hear snickering. Not the sort of thoughts that help a person get back to sleep.

I should teach my computer to play lullabies.

Wonder wanders on the Internet

Remember when we used to wonder about stuff?

Some obscure question would arise, and we’d wonder about it, scanning our brains, trying to remember if we’d ever heard of the poser before and whether me might know the answer. We’d even file the question away for later, with the notion that we’d look it up in a dictionary or an encyclopedia when we had more time.

Now that computers are commonplace, there’s no reason to wonder anymore. You want to know something, you can find out in seconds. A search in Google or a little shoveling in Dogpile or a quick romp through Wikipedia, and you can answer most any question that comes to mind.

Who played the cop in that movie we saw last week? How far to Bali? Whatever happened to old So-and-so? What is this rash? How long do you cook a two-minute egg? Where did all my money go? Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near? All that info, and much, much more, is readily available via the Internet.

We could be the best-informed populace of all time, but in the process we’re losing the capacity for speculation. Wondering is good for you. It makes your brain work. It forces you to come up with your own creative (albeit often extremely incorrect) answers.

Kids are great wonderers. Everything’s brand new to them, so they wonder about everything: Why is the sky blue? Where do babies come from? Why is grass itchy? How many deviled eggs can I stuff in one automobile ashtray? Could you make a doubled-barreled slingshot out of a brassiere? If there are undertows, how come there’s no such thing as an “overtow?” Why is Paris Hilton a celebrity?

As parents, it’s our job to answer their many, many questions as best we can, or to at least steer our offspring toward the right answers. Of course, we parents are tired and distracted, so the quality of our information may be suspect. Plus, some of us are perverse, and have been known to make up fanciful answers from whole cloth.

That no longer works once the kids get access to the Internet.

“You lied!” they shriek. “Thunder is NOT caused by God dancing around in rubber boots. I looked it up!”

We parents have to back and fill, telling the little beggars we were only joking, grain of salt, etc. The children never look at us quite the same afterward.

Not that we notice. We’re too busy looking stuff up on the Internet ourselves. We waste huge chunks of time, tracking down random factoids that we’d probably be better off not knowing.

We start clicking through links, looking for a little more information, and instead get captivated by tangents. We click and we click, and each link takes us farther away from the original question. We start off trying to understand why the ocean is blue, and end up reading a treatise on Portuguese pornography.

This leads to a whole new set of questions: What the heck am I doing? How did I get here? What was I originally looking up? Do I still care anymore? Did I miss dinner? Who knew things were so hot in Portugal?

It’s enough to make you wonder.

We'll jump off that bridge when we come to it

I recently changed my computer's desktop background to a color photograph of one of my favorite structures, the Golden Gate Bridge.

It was a photo I plucked off the Internet, shot from the waterfront to show the full sweep of the grand orange bridge. A sunny day. A few sailboats nearby. When I put the photo up on my screen, the image stretched slightly, softened, so it looked like an oil painting.

Ah, an inspiring backdrop for my workday. Probably an important metaphor there somewhere. I'm crossing some bridge in my career. Or, I'm connecting two worlds, the everyday one and the virtual one in my computer. Or, I'm bridging between real life and art, trying to--

Then I noticed where all my desktop icons had lined up. The four icons for my latest project were midway along the bridge, in midair, apparently leaping to their deaths.

Now there's a nasty little coincidence. I spent the next few hours fretting over omens and lemmings and my new book. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore, and I changed the desktop to a lovely airbrushed photo of a chimpanzee dressed for the office. Better that my icons be spattered all over the chimp's suit than plunging into San Francisco Bay.

This story illustrates a number of points about work in the Computer Age:

1) Somebody's got too much time on his hands.
2) Superstition ain't the way.
3) Nothing's funnier than a chimp in a necktie.
4) We spend so much time with our computers that something as basic as the desktop background can affect our moods. There's a reason for the cheerful daisies and colorful reefs displayed in every cubicle farm in America.

Changing desktop backgrounds is so last decade for most people, but not to me. I am extremely low-tech. I'm the kind of computer user who doesn't want to change anything, ever, for fear it will somehow break the machine.

In the past, I'd pick a standard, pre-loaded image for my background and leave it alone for months, maybe years. Sure, I might tire of climbing that same scenic mountain day after day, but why take a chance, messing with it?

My latest computer makes it ridiculously easy to steal -- I mean, reproduce -- background images from the Internet. Now, my desktop is a revolving art gallery. Landscapes and seascapes and cityscapes. Ansel Adams and Andy Warhol and Vincent Van Gogh. Snow-covered peaks and pale flowers. Surf and turf. And, always, that wry chimp in the suit.

The revolving images reflect my moods and how well work is going. Sometimes, I want to be inspired by a sculpture or a skyscraper, some great thing man has made. Other times, I need to get away, and I'll resort to a secluded beach. If the background changes frequently, it's a sign that I'm goofing around in Google Images all day instead of getting any work done.

I'll probably stick to a single image for a while. Bet on the chimp.

Top o' the morning mayhem

Happy St. Patrick's Day. Mine started off like this: Dancing leprechauns and animated ads full o' shamrocks repeatedly locked up my America Online so I couldn't get online and clear out the usual spam and check my Facebook.

All my other online functions worked fine, but not AOL, where I've got lots of bookmarks and personal e-mail contacts. After rebooting and task-ending and jumping around the room like "Riverdance," I finally got AOL to work.

AOL and Facebook both have recently forced "upgrades" on their users. Whenever you see the word "upgrade," think "upscrewed."

Just the FAQs

Need help? Perhaps the information you seek is in the Frequently Asked Questions below:

Question: How widespread is the term FAQ?
Answer: FAQs are everywhere these days. A Google search for “FAQ” found more than 1.2 BILLION “hits.” Apparently, we’re an inquisitive bunch.

Q: What’s a “hit?”
A: It’s an Internet reference located by a search engine. Also, a Mob killing.

Q: What’s a “search engine?”
A: A method for making jillions of dollars.

Q: What is the “technical services department?”
A: Tech services is the place you call when you want to listen to Muzak for hours.

Q: Do actual humans work there?
A: No.

Q: Those “function keys” across the top of my keyboard -- F1, F2, F3, etc. -- what are they for?
A: Nobody knows.

Q: Then why do we still have them on keyboards?
A: Nobody knows that, either.

Q: What should I do if my computer gives me an “error message?”
A: Run screaming from the room.

Q: Will that help?
A: Couldn’t hurt. At least it will distract you from the misery to come.

Q: What’s a “nanosecond?”
A: The amount of time that passes between an awful song coming on the car radio and your finger hitting the button to escape it.

Q: Can the awful song stick your head in that brief nanosecond?
A: Every time.

Q: Can I put you on hold?
A: Sure, as long as you don’t expect me to be here when you get back.

Q: Would you like to order now?
A: No, I come to fast food joints for the cheerful décor.

Q: Do you want fries with that?
A: Nicely said. You must be a theater major.

Q: Do these pants make my butt look big?
A: Only when you wear them. The rest of the time, your butt manages all by itself.

Q: Are you asleep?
A: Not anymore.

Q: Why is the sky blue?
A: Light rays scatter off molecules in the Earth’s atmosphere, and this scattering is more effective at short wavelengths -- the blue end of the visible spectrum. Also, blue is God’s favorite color.

Q: Why is grass green?
A: Envy.

Q: How many roads must a man walk down, before we call him a man?
A: Four.

Q: Are all parents arbitrary and capricious?
A: Yes.

Q: Why?
A: Because I said so.

Q: Can one answer a question with a question?
A: Why not?

Q: Why don’t we ever talk anymore?
A: Can this wait until halftime?

Q: Red or white?
A: Make it a beer.

Q: Who do you think you are?
A: Zorro.

Q: What’s so funny?
A: An auctioneer with the hiccups.

Q: If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?
A: Easy for you to say.

Q: Can’t we all just get along?
A: Bite me.

Q: What’s that smell?
A: Your upper lip.

Q: What time is it?
A: Time for you to stop asking questions.

Q: Are you always such a smart-aleck, Mr. FAQ Man?
A: Not always. But frequently.

Sacre bleu

How come nearly all my spam these days (or at least what gets caught in my America Online spam filter) is in French? Are you seeing this too, or is just moi?

I can't read French, and know only a handful of words in that language. But I'm pretty sure the French word for "spam" is merde.

Plugged

We've become a nation of nerds.

The average American now spends more time using media devices -- TV, radio, iPods, cell phones, computers -- than any other waking activity, according to a new study.

Coast to coast, we're "plugged in" to music and news and text messages and Internet shopping. We still read newspapers and books and magazines, but way too much of our time is devoted to television and our beloved electronic gizmos.

"As a society, we are consumers of media," said researcher Robert Papper of Ball State University's Center for Media Design. "The average person spends about nine hours a day using some type of media."

Papper and his cohorts spent several months shadowing 400 people in Indianapolis and Muncie, IN, where Ball State is located. The researchers recorded information every 15 seconds on what media the subjects were using. All told, they studied 5,000 hours of media use.

Here are some of their findings:

--About 30 percent of the observed waking day was spent with media as the sole activity, and 39 percent was spent with media while involved in some other activity. Only 20.8 percent of the day was spent solely on something called "work."

--In any given hour, no less than 30 percent of those studied were "engaged in some way with television, and in some hours of the day that figure rose to 70 percent."

--About 30 percent of all media time is spent using more than one medium at a time.

--Women do more media multi-tasking than men. Papper told the New York Post that men seek media contact of "short duration and instant gratification" while women are interested in "longer, more thoughtful" interaction. So, it's just like sex. Proof once again that "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Calgon."

--The average American spends four hours a day watching television and three hours a day using a computer.

As a casual observer, I would now like to say: Great Googly-moogly! Nine hours a day? We spend more time "consuming media" than we do sleeping? Are you kidding me?

Four hours a day of TV, and there's still nothing good on? Three hours a day on a computer? Does that count all the time spent waiting on reboots?

Imagine how much crap we're stuffing into our brains every day. No wonder we can't remember where we left our car keys. We're too busy processing the latest update on Britney Spears. And listening to an MP3 song we don't remember downloading. And turning away telemarketers. And waiting for the computer to finish displaying its annoying pop-up ads.

It's All Input All the Time here in America. If we're not on the phone, watching TV and surfing the 'Net, all at once, then we might miss something.

We stay indoors, filtering the wider world through a haze of electronics. When we do leave the house, we block out extraneous sounds by blasting music into our heads via "ear buds." We sort through our e-mail in coffee shops. We check our voice-mail in movie theaters. Apparently, some of us cannot drive without talking on cell phones.

Media consumption is the true "Revenge of the Nerds." The nerds didn't recruit us into their pocket-protector cult. They just designed neato gadgets, and we all willingly joined their ranks.

PC-free

Very strange being without the Internet for a few days. Funny how much we've come to depend on it for everyday info and esoteric answers to our questions. I got a lot of work done without the constant distractions of Internet, but it felt like something was missing all day.

It was even stranger for the teens.

My 16-year-old son: "It's like we're savages."

Apparently, a few days without YouTube leads directly to "Lord of the Flies."

We are back

After a couple of days with a dead router, we're back on the Internet, at least for the time being.

All correspondence will be answered.

Your patience is appreciated.

How do you mend a broken hard drive?

Modern career couples often rely on service-industry personnel -- gardeners, caterers, house cleaners -- to make their lives easier, but what most of us really need are computer technicians.

This is especially true for those of us who work in home offices. We depend on our computers, but we're out here all alone, far from the assistance of any tech services department that could bail us out when things get dicey.

We have a tenuous, love-hate relationship with our computers. We love how easy they make some jobs. We love the instant access to information. We love e-mail and that sense of connectedness to the world. We hate, hate, hate our computers when they go wrong.

Owning a computer is like being married to a felon. They make life exciting at times, but you just know you'll wind up with a broken heart.

They lie to you. ("This download will take 12 minutes . . . 47 minutes … 2 hours, 36 minutes . . . 14 days.") They cheat on you (adware, spyware) and try to dip into your money (spam). They bring home the occasional virus. When you need them most, they lock themselves up and throw away the key.

We try to salvage the relationship. We lose many man-hours (not to mention a lot of hair) attempting to repair our own computers.

We don't really understand how these machines work, so we're afraid to go poking too deeply into their twisted bowels. Our answer to every glitch is to reboot and pray.

When that doesn't work, we inch along through System Restore and various other lifesaving programs, only to end up back where we started -- with all our important data frozen inside a block of plastic on our desks.

When all else fails, we call a toll-free number, where we reach a technician who directs us through the very same steps we just tried. Since this technician can't actually see our computers, s/he is simply running through corporate protocols -- educated guesses about what might be wrong. In the end, all the customer gets out of this interaction is a bill.

After going through this rigmarole a time or two, home computer users recognize we're simply lucky whenever our computers function properly, and we don't want to do anything to disturb that.

We treat them so gently, you'd think they were teetering on the corners of our desks, ready to commit suicide. We don't want to do anything that might push them over the edge. We don't want to download anything, ever. We don't even want to perform routine maintenance for fear something will go wrong and we'll end up in that most dreaded place of all -- The Frozen Blue Screen of Death.

Since we clearly can't manage our computers ourselves, what we home-office workers need is someone who's always on standby to fix or maintain them -- a Household Nerd (trademark registration pending). When a computer acts up, we could call in the nerd, who would correct the problem while we go out to a relaxing three-martini lunch.

We could designate a spare bedroom for the nerd -- sort of like a maid's quarters -- and arrange for his care and feeding. Pay him a regular allowance. Provide him with his own computer to keep him busy between repairs.

It would be exactly like having a teen-ager in the house. But unlike the typical smart-aleck teen, the Household Nerd really would have the skills to remedy computer woes.

And mend our broken hearts.


(Editor's note: Since I originally published this column, services like Geek Squad and Nerds on Call have become commonplace. I am a regular client. Sigh.)

Danger, we'll robot soon!

Recent scientific breakthroughs have brought us closer to the day when we can each own a smart-alecky mechanical maid like the one on the "Jetsons."

Several companies have demonstrated new robots lately, ranging from Honda's "Asimo" humanoid to little droids that ferry medications through hospital corridors. Each new model raises the question: When, oh when, will we have our very own domestic robots to cook our food and wash our socks?

It may be a while. Researchers say they've still got a few kinks to iron out, such as giving robots proper vision and a refined sense of touch. (There's a fine line between a friendly handshake and a bone-crushing claw.)

We aging Baby Boomers are expected to once again drive the market. As we get older, we'll need "carebots" to give us medical attention and household 'bots to clean up our spills, or so the experts predict.

(Some of us are thinking: That's why we had children. To clean up after us when we're senile. But hahaha on that. The little ingrates will be busy pursuing their own lives, leaving us desperately trying to scrape together enough pennies to pay for our Depends.)

Many of us already are dependent on machines. Laptops, Palm Pilots and cell phones don't just make modern life possible. In many ways, they run our hectic lives. If you don't believe it, think back to the last time your computer crashed. How was your mood the rest of that day?

Do we really need walking, talking, artificially intelligent machines in our lives, simply to do little chores? Do we need more machines managing our lives? Isn't this situation fraught with peril?

(Example: Anyone who has seen the Will Smith action movie, "I, Robot," can tell you that advances in robotics pose the very real danger of producing greater numbers of mediocre action movies.)

But the robots are coming, whether we're ready or not.

Already, you can pay a mere $200 for a robotic vacuum cleaner called Roomba. The machine -- which looks like a bathroom scale on wheels -- will run around your home, bumping blindly into walls and furniture, vacuuming every square inch of carpet, until it is, in an unfortunate misunderstanding, killed by your dog.

Also available are robot lawn mowers which operate much the same way. You input the parameters of your lawn, and the machine takes off on its own, mowing like crazy. We all know how fallible such human programming can be:

"Look out, it's headed for the swimming pool!" Splash.

Robotics experts are looking for new market niches, and I'd like to suggest a robotic coffee cup that will follow me from room to room. Currently, I misplace my coffee cup an estimated 23 times per day. I thought about attaching it to my dog, since he follows me from room to room anyway, but he tends to drop to a sleeping posture without warning, which could result in undue spillage. I need a coffee cup delivery robot. Or, cut out the cup altogether and design a coffee urn that will follow me and squirt java directly into my mouth. That's what I'd call a "carebot."

Another marketing suggestion for us machine-dependent Baby Boomers: Design a robot whose sole responsibility is finding the TV remote.

We'd pay big money for that.