No wonder the Chinese aren’t wasting their money on iPhones. They’ve been saving their pennies to debut a Pink Floyd space opera.
Red (not so) Delicious
Apple has surprised a bunch of folks (and maybe itself, too) with a less-than-stellar revenue estimate based largely on sputtering sales of iPhones, particularly in China.
Huh. Did everybody suddenly get tired of skimming the kids’ inheritance for a new handheld computer every couple of years, or what?
I’m not Chinese, and I could do with a new iPhone, but I sure wasn’t excited about pissing away $749 for the cheap one. Or about Face ID. Or about paying the AppleCare vig’ because you just know you’re gonna fumble the pricey little mother somehow — spill your coffee on it, drop it in a toilet, or yardsale onto it while shredding the gnar.
I’ve been sort of keeping an eye casually peeled for a refurbished iPhone 8, but that seems to be a unicorn. Either that or the Chinese got ’em all. Refurbed 7’s are available, but even those run $469.
Think about it. Nearly five hundy for a used phone so bots can ring you up in the middle of the night and pitch insurance to your voicemail. And then sell your number to other bots because the whole selling-insurance thing isn’t working out for them.
Plus the impertinent Xr and Xs map your mug before they will do your bidding. And since you didn’t pony up for a new one, you skinflint penny-pincher, you, that cheapo good-enough 7 or 8 is probably programmed to sell your selfies to a deepfaker who’ll fuse them into a viral video in which you are simultaneously the Sonoran donkey and the person of questionable moral fiber who … who … no, let’s not go there. It’s too early in the year for that image.
Y’think Apple will take a hint and make an iPhone in a proper size at a proper price that doesn’t ask more of you than you ask of it? Nah, me neither. It’s only a few billion.
Anyway, the next iPhone will blow the donkey so you don’t have to. Whoops, I went there. Must be later than we think.
‘Insects don’t have politics’
Oh, to be a fly on the wall (or in the hair) as Darth Cheeto meets with the Rebel Alliance this afternoon. I bet the SS is frisking everyone for audio recorders, ’cause you just know dude is gonna say something makes Carrot Top look like Stephen fuckin’ Hawking.
Better to be on the wall, though. God only knows what’s in that hair. Whatever it is, it can’t be good for you.
Shake, rattle and roll
Don’t expect me to hit the bricks for the first ride of the New Year. We’ve already achieved the expected “high,” there’s a stiff wind out of the ENE, and the snow is coming in sideways.
Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment), has enjoyed a brace of delicious breakfasts and retired to his quarters to map out the year’s strategy on the underside of his eyelids.
His adjutant, Miss Mia Sopaipilla, has drawn guard duty in Tower One, but as there seem to be no White Walkers within the perimeter — just a few socialist finches hopping around at the base of the maple, looking for a handout — she too is at a reduced state of readiness.
The conditions compelled me to fry up a skillet of my famous two-pepper hash (red bell and Hatch green, with diced red spuds, minced onion and garlic, Mexican oregano and chopped cilantro). Herself topped it off with a couple eggs over easy, and a generous sprinkle of grated Cabot sharp cheddar with a fruit cup on the side helped douse the fire.
Now the question is: How do I sweat that off? There’s not enough snow to do anything with, just enough to do something to me, and I’m kind of over that. But setting up the stationary trainer strikes me as a poor way to kick off a new training log.
Incidentally, I managed 3,309.8 miles on the bike last year, which is probably about a third of what Friend of the Blog Sharon logged. Still, I make it my best year since 2011, when I rode 3,370.2 miles.
And now, Lightnin’ Hopkins and I would like to wish all you cool cats and kittens a rockin’ happy New Year (h/t to the M-dogg for serving up that hot Decca platter). Wear it out. Tear it up.
Limping into the new year
The finish line is just around the corner. If we can just stay on our feet — never a sure thing — we’ll make it to 2019.
It’s been a week since I took my little tumble on the trail, and in that time I’d neither run nor ridden, reasoning that my crumbling temple of the soul needed a little quiet renovation.
Besides, it was cold out there. Snowy, too, and windy, with ice in the shady spots and everything. One of yis up north must have sent your miserable climate down here for a change of scenery.
Thus the cycling was right out. I’d managed a couple short, limpy walks, favoring that dodgy left knee, but skipped the resistance training ’cause my right mitt looked like a couple bucks’ worth of ground round. With a good thick bandage and heavy gloves I could shovel snow, and that was fine. Lifting weight with an actual purpose, don’t you know.
FInally, today everything seemed more or less in order, and as it started to snow again I tottered out for a short run. It felt weird at first; if you’ve ever tweaked a knee you know the feeling, the reluctance to put any serious weight on it, your stride having strayed, your mojo gone missing.
But gradually I loosened up and settled back into something like a rhythm, and while I pussyfooted around the icy patches I was able to shake off a few flakes of rust. When I got back to the ranch I even treated myself to a little quality time with the dumbbells.
No, not those dumbbells. I’m talking weights here. I’m still hoping to see the other dumbbells in the dock here directly. It’s gotta be Mueller Time one of these days.
As for the rest of yis, I hope to see you slouching around El Rancho Pendejo come the new year. Keep your heads in the clouds and your feet on the trail, and we’ll all join up on the flip side for another lap around old Sol.
