Ebook Revolution

Baby with IPAD

I just came back from a writers' conference, and it blew my mind.  The whole industry change! 

We've all seen how some of the big box book stores with coffee bars and cozy places to cuddle up and read are closing up, and those that are left and becoming harder to find.   It's sad and I already miss them.   If our world was created on a cartoon screen, I imagine the monstrous buildings rising from the ground in a rumbling tornado and blown away like Dorothy clutching Toto on her way to Oz. 

Don't you enjoy browsing from table to table turning the pages, reading the blurbs?

But today there are ebooks.

kindle

the nook

  They're still a minority though rising at a spectacular rate.  There’s the Kindle, of course, but also the nook, Kobo, Sony, and others, yet each type is incompatible with the other.  You can’t buy a book from one and play it on another brand.                     Wonderful.

Remember VHS and Beta Max?  That got resolved pretty quickly with VHS becoming the clear winner.   Not so here—unless of course, you buy an app that makes them compatible.

Are they kidding?
Are they thinking that anyone besides the nerds are going to work that hard?  Really most people just want to read a book, and Kindle’s already got three million available.  It looks like they’re winning the race, but don’t forget the IPAD. 

To date, Apple’s sold three hundred, twenty million of them, and one of their apps allows you to read any Kindle book you like.  Wow!

But is there ever going to be a time where we won't be able to turn an actual page?  Jeez, I hope not.  Babies under one are now playing with the IPAD, and three year olds are hooked!

Just think, you no longer have to lug six books for a two week hike in the woods.  Download the ones you want and carry them all in a few ounce reader, or download them as you go.

baby with IPad

                                                                              

But the best part of the e-readers is really for the writer. 

Publishing always meant months or maybe years of finding an agent, and if accepted, another wait for a publisher, and then production. Broadway could produce three shows on the road before a book gets lost on the shelf for the first time.

With ebooks, there still’s a procedure, but the middleman, the publisher is gone, and the number of new books seeing the light of day is overwhelming:  Short stories, poems, plays, and many odd tidbits that could never have gotten published before, are out there ready to go.  It has sparked the industry.  People are excited again.

Ebooks have become a paradigm, like nuclear energy.   After the bomb was dropped, the whole world was never the same again.

So I say, “Ebooks will never die.”  Like the Gettysburg Address has been repeated till eternity, so will my little truth.

And please tell everyone that Terry Neuman said it. 

Bye Bye Acrylics

Yes, I’m staring down at my nasty paper-thin stubs that look like the result of some lumber company’s chainsaw massacre,  my fingers destroyed for eternity.  (You don't need to see a picture of this).  And I readily admit my nails weren’t gorgeous to begin with, but I’m not happy, and I need to vent.
 

You see I didn’t learn from my mistakes.  This is the second time it’s happened.  This is the second time I got an infection under my thumb and forefinger where I again rushed to the ER to get them clean and disinfected, and later, all my fake nails removed.

No, I’m not going to beat myself up.  Well not forever.   It’s not like I got divorced and then married the same shlub all over again.  No, it wasn’t that horrendous--though it teeters on borderline stupid.

good looking acrylic nails--not mine

The first time it happened I asked my nail tech, Lorrene (not her real name, and I don’t remember her real name anyway) why it occurred.  She said I must’ve knocked my fingers against something and broken the seal, which allowed water to seep underneath. 

                                                                                          

Then it was bound to happen again.  I’m hard on my hands, always banging into something, which is why I could never grow my real ones in the first place, and is the reason I turned to fake. 

fancy acrylic nails, not mine

But I loved the fake ones!  My squatty square-knuckled fingers looked like Miss America’s.  For the first few months, everybody marveled at the perfection until bits of green began creeping under them.  Hey, what was going on?  It was like Johnny Appleseed working the nail beds--a modern leprechaun applying for the chlorophyll rights.

Infection.  Dammit.  Lorrene removed all the nails, and I railed against acrylics, preached against their unholiness, like the pope decrying two gay priests marrying secretly in the Sistine Chapel on a Saturday night.

So what was I doing in the ER last week getting a tetanus shot and an RX for cipro?
You see, my girlfriend Jan (not her real name though I do remember it) got these gel nails a few years ago and said they were safe.

“But fake nails are the worst things ever," I argued.

“But look at mine."  She fanned her nails in front of me.  "I’ve never worn anything neater.  These things are made in heaven.”

I hid my astonishingly jagged stubs behind my back as I examined hers carefully.  It’s been 20 years, and times had changed.  Gels were new, different.  Should I?  My husband would love them.  I took the plunge.
 

Months went by, even a year, until Johnny Appleseed reared his misshapen green head once again, and once again I was force to race behind the ambulances and into the double sliding-glass doors.
 

So what now?  Should I hide my head in shame?  Yeah, yeah, I could do that.

Or...                                       

Maybe I should start a ten-step program, assigning sponsorships and calling it Acrylics Anonymous.   

Crazy, huh?  

 We can walk on the moon, but we can’t find Terry new tips.     

Bye Bye Acrylics

Yes, I’m staring down at my uneven paper-thin stubs that look like the result of some lumber company’s chainsaw massacre, but are really my fingers destroyed for eternity.  Okay, my nails weren’t that gorgeous to begin with, but you get the point.  I’m not happy, and I need to vent.  

You see, I didn’t learn from my mistakes.  This is the second time it’s happened.  A second infectiongrew  under the nail where I again, rushed to the ER to get them off forever.

No, this time it’s for good.   

I’m not going to beat myself up.  Well not forever.   It’s not like I got divorced and then married the same idiot all over again.  No, it wasn’t that horrendous though it teeters on borderline stupid.

The first time it happened I asked my nail tech, Lorrene (not her real name, and I don’t remember her real name anyway) why it happened.  She said I must’ve knocked my fingers against something and broken the seal, which allowed water to seep underneath the nail. 

Then it was bound to happen.  I’m hard on my hands, always banging into something, which is why I could never grow out my real ones in the first place, which is the reason I turned to fake. 

So for a few months my squatty square-knuckled fingers looked like Miss America’s—if Miss America was squinting in the sun from twenty-three feet away. 

Yes, they were a marvel to admire before bits of green began creeping under a couple of the acrylics.  What the hell was going on?  It was like Johnny Appleseed was working the nail beds, like a modern leprechaun applied for chlorophyll rights.

Infection.  Damn.  Lorrene removed the nails.

So what was I doing in the ER last week getting a tetanus shot and an RX for cipro?
You see, my girlfriend Jan (not her real name though I do remember it) got these gel nails a few years ago and said they were safe.

“But fake nails are the worst things ever invented.”

“Look at mine.  I’ve never worn anything ever.  These things are like made in heaven.”

I hid my nauseatingly uneven stubs behind my back as I examined what I thought to be perfection.  It’s been 20 years, and times had changed.  Gels were new, different!  I took the plunge. 

Months went by, even a year, until Johnny Appleseed reared his green misshapen head once again, and once again I raced for the cure—chopped off my nails and swallowed the lifesaving drugs. 

Maybe I should start a ten-step program, passing out sponsorships, ready to offer advice on a moment’s notice.  Acrylics Anonymous.  Crazy, huh?  We can walk on the moon, but we can’t find Terry new tips.     

Steve Jobs and Biological Father: No Final Reunion

I never met Steve Jobs.

I rarely thought about him or followed his life.  But I can appreciate inventions and technology, and more important,  admire true genius.  Although there are many bright people, thank God, there are only a couple geniuses out there-- born every fifty to a hundred years--no matter how often the word is bandied about, like all a child has to do is build the highest castle in the preschool sandbox, and he or she will change the universe.

Sorry Mama Dearest.  Little Chesley might not be the shining light.

From what I’ve learned, Jobs was singular.  He had a vision, and he followed it.  Besides changing the world of technology, his personal life reads like the background of a fast paced work of fiction.  But it's true.  

Abdulfattah Jandali

 

 Most people know that Jobs was adopted.   The other day The Wall Street Journal published a fascinating article.  It’s about his biological father, Abdulfattah “John” Jandali, a Syrian immigrant, who was told in 2005 that Jobs was his son, and after learning the truth, sent emails asking about his health.  He received curt "thank yous," nothing more.  His dream was to meet Jobs in person.  That was never to be.

(Jandali is also the absentee father to Mona Simpson, a celebrated author and Steve Jobs' biological half sister, who wrote a novel called The Lost Father.  Guess who it’s based upon.)

Mona Simpson, Steve Jobs's sister

At 80, Jandali is the general manager of Boomtown Casino outside Reno, Nevada, overseeing 450 employees.  He earned his PhD in political science in 1952 at the University of Wisconsin, and while in Madison, met Joanne Schieble—later known as Joanne Simpson.  She became pregnant with Jobs, but her father was against their marriage.  Subsequently, she put the baby up for adoption.  When her father died, she married Jandali, and gave birth to their daughter, Mona.  The marriage ended in divorce, and Jandali abandoned the family.           

In a speech given at Stanford University in 2005, Jobs reflected on his life and said that he had a relationship with his biological mother and sister but did not mention his father.

I can certainly understand Jobs keeping his distance.  Jandali was no father of the year.  He never contacted his only legitimate daughter, and I wonder if he only wanted to see his son after he learned that his offspring was famous.  Friends say that the estrangement had become a source of great sadness to him over the years.
Really? 

He still had his gifted daughter Mona that never caused him to pick up the phone.  So I wonder how he's feeling today.   If the man still wants to make amends, why doesn't he make the effort and build a warm trusting relationship with his only surviving child. 

I bet he doesn’t.
Stay tuned.

Who Killed Michael Jackson?

Dr. Conrad Murray

Dr. Conrad Murray is on trial this week, and for three more weeks to come, for involuntary manslaughter in the death of Michael Jackson.  He could get four years for not only enabling Jackson’s serious drug habit, but for leaving the room after administering a dangerous surgical sedative, and when he finally walked back in and found his patient unconscious, or dead—no one’s sure—he did not perform proper CPR or call for help immediately.

The doctor insisted that he injected only a certain amount of propofol, the anesthetic that the entertainer used as a sleeping pill, but the autopsy showed higher levels.  The question is:  Did Jackson, who knew how to administer injections, give himself that final dose after the doctor left the room or did the doctor do it and is lying to the world?

surgical sedative, propofol

I say, who cares?  The doctor is already guilty of a million other things, like getting the propofol illegally, supplying Jackson with hundreds of drugs that should’ve killed a football stadium jammed with fans, leaving his only patient alone, and not performing proper CPR.                       

And of course, how come he didn’t call 911 or tell an assistant to do so immediately?  No, he waited, and after a bodyguard entered, Murray asked him to help him clear away the drugs.  Murray was still clearing away vials when the paramedics were leaving with Jackson’s lifeless body. 

                                

Do I feel sorry for Murray?  He’s sitting in court teary-eyed, horrified at the facts presented.  But there’s a pattern here.  He’s been in trouble before—filing for bankruptcy in 1992 and having his Texas medical license revoked in 2002.  A couple years later he met the rock star.  The doctor needed money, and Michael, a serious addict, needed a personal M.D. to write his scripts.  He hired Murray, and ta da! the problem was solved!
No two ways about it, Murray was culpable the day he accepted the job.

 

Unfortunately as time passed, the drugs became incredibly dangerous, and many doctors, had they known, would have predicted that Jackson didn’t have long to live.  If he didn't die the day he did, he would’ve dropped a day later or the day after that, or maybe a week...

There’s a tape of him slurring his speech on May 10, 2009.  Forty-eight hours later, the wizardly Doctor Murray ordered 40 vials of 100 milligrams of propofol.   What the hell was he thinking? 

He didn’t—not anymore.
The only forces that were pushing the physician were greed, stupidity, and hubris.

 Bill Mauer said Murray killed Michael.  I don’t believe that.  Murray certainly expedited the singer’s death, but don’t get the story confused.  Though the proceedings on TV sounds like a murder trial, they aren't.  The people of California know that if it wasn’t Dr. Murray, it would’ve been someone else.
 

There were other doctors before Murray and certainly other incidences, but the only one who killed Michael was Michael.  Sadly, the genius of entertainment could never stop himself.