GreatRidge Station

This is one of my famous “grouse columns,” so be forewarned.

For years, I’ve worked with printing companies. For years, they have run into the same problems. I’m thinking that somewhere along the way, someone would have come up with a foolproof method for sending print jobs to print service providers so they can open the files and use them.

The best printer I ever worked with was Cornerstone Copy Center (don’t let the name fool you, they are a real print shop) in Burnsville, MN. They are the only printer that seemed to understand that I live and work in the real world.

The printer I worked with most recently (and who shall remain nameless) told me that they need to be able to open files in Quark. I’ve used Quark, and yes, it is a great program with incredible flexibility. I can also tell you that it is nigh-on to useless in the real world, and I cannot afford it, nor do I want to use it. Their inability to figure out how to open a simple PDF file has cost me too much–last time, it was a week-and-a-half, this time, just four days. Eventually, they figure out how to open my file, but they have managed to miss two significant deadlines.
Frankly, I’m sick of it. Twenty years of dealing with print frustrations is just about enough. And then some.

As most of you know, I am a rebel, or perhaps just an iconoclast. My computers run AMD processors; I have refused to upgrade to Vista; Two of my systems are running Linux. I would be a mac guy, but I just can’t afford it–I am a cheap iconoclast. I enjoy the flexibility of knowing an operating system well and getting my computers to tapdance the way I want them to. Whenever I take on a learning project (like trying to figure out Linux), I try to make sure that there will be some value in the learning. So far, so good.

Imagine, if you will, anti-learning. A tool or process to be mastered that does not result in value, but that actually produces negative value. You learn–and it takes away abilities. To me, that would be anti-education.

You know, of course, there is such a thing. It is the family of software products called “Guitar Hero” (hereafter referred to as GH). So, what do I mean? I’ve only done a perfunctory examination, so I’m jumping to a few hasty conclusions based on my experience and the experience of others. This should be no surprise: I’m opinionated, therefore I blog. So…

• Those who are real musicians tend not to be good at GH and its derivatives, even though many of these people could be classified as real GHs.
• Those who master GH find it almost impossible to transition to the real instrument. The techniques they mastered have no relevance to genuine musicianship.
• It takes time to master GH, and according to two sources, it takes almost as long as it would take to develop passable skills on a real guitar.

I admit, I’m an old curmudgeon, but this kind of thing makes no sense to me. It seems to be a tragic waste of one’s talent, dexterity, time, and competitive spirit to seek false glory. No, most people will never be heroic musicians, but the ability to jam with friends is worth a lot.

One more thought, then I’ll shut up. Heroic musicians? How does one get to be a GH in real life? Do they stumble across the scene of an accident, and tell everyone, “please stand aside–I’m a GH.”

I sure miss Pong.

That’s my diagnosis. It sounds worse than it is (or maybe not). In any case, it is self-diagnosed–and, since I am the first known victim, I got to name the condition, as well. Identic Dischronia sounds better than [my name here] Disease.

Some people complain that they were born into the wrong body. Not me–my body is a little bigger than I need it to be, but I have no complaints. Identic Dyschronia is an almost overwhelming sense that I was born in the wrong time. I may be decades off, and perhaps a century or more.

Let me give you some examples:

• My writing style, particularly my fiction, is a throwback to an earlier time. I don’t anticipate that anyone will ever see what I have written. I’ve been told that my style is “filmic,” and I’ll leave to you whether that is good or bad. I don’t pander to the modernist-contemporary trend of throwing in a sexual encounter every signature (sheaf or section of a hardbound book). I figure that regardless of your sexual experience, what is in your head is probably more meaningful to you than anything I could write.
• My musical tastes are not contemporary. Nor are they rational. Bach, Mozart, Mahler, Waller, Gillespie, Ellington, Wiren, Holsapple. Big Band. Folk. Traditional Jazz. Steeleye Span, Renaissance, Nick Drake, John Martyn, Kayak, Innocence Mission, Indelible Grace. And a lot of people that no one has ever heard of. I have developed an appreciation for music written in Byzantine notation, which uses a completely different scale with intervals that sound wrong to western ears (sample here, but listen to the whole six minutes or you will not get it)–It has a beauty all its own.
• It has gotten to the point that I can’t go to the movies without being offended. As a result, I rarely go. No, I’m not a prude, and I’m not offended by the things you might think would offend me. I take issue with the destructive, materialistic worldview presented in most popular films, and I dislike foul language. You may say “it’s everywhere,” and that may be true, but I have no intention of paying money to hear it. The truth is, the only thing that really offends me is what an earlier generation called “taking the Lord’s name in vain.” I figure that scatological and reproductive language (eupemisms, to be sure) are part of life–but I always remember that “God will not hold him guiltless who takes his name in vain.” I rarely watch TV , and for exactly the same reason.
• I have always been a good singer, but my voice just doesn’t fit nicely anywhere. Years ago, one of the elders from the church we were attending came and asked me to drop out of the church’s music ministry. Apparently, I was neither professional or contemporary enough, and so, with a few exceptions, I have not sung since. Usually, I’m asked to sing at funerals–apparently dead people like my voice–and an occasional classical ensemble piece. I gave serious consideration to voice lessons again this year, and then quickly realized that my opportunities to use that particular talent are non-existent. Maybe 80 years ago, but not today. My wife wants me to record something so I can sing at my own funeral, an idea that makes perfect sense to me.
• Not too many years ago, my hobby was audio. No, not audio/visual–just audio. I loved picking out components, comparing specifications, and matching products to get the best possible sound. It was great fun to be able to walk into a room and know whether the speakers were made in Asia, Europe, or the U.S.; there was a difference in sound, and I could always tell. I remember the frustration with Nakamichi components, which were technically amongst the best on the market, but they were extremely quirky: A Nak tape deck had to be paired with a Nak pre-amp or it sounded muffled. I remember the Nakamichi turntable that would compensate for a record that had been manufactured slightly out-of-round. In our day of digital audio, we may have great sound, but all of the fun is gone. Even Audio magazine, the best publication of its day, is long gone, gobbled up by video and surround sound. I miss those days.
• I used to love radio. I worked for a few different stations, mostly in Rochester, MN and La Crosse, WI, and generally on the overnight shift. I got paid a pittance, but the guy who came in at 6am at the end of my shift was making six-figures. That’s not my complaint, though. Radio just isn’t what it used to be, back in the days when John Doremus was gracing the airwaves with his resonant voice. Now it’s all digital powered, and stations can’t afford to let real on-air personalities develop. I’m sure some of these people actually have personalities, but it’s awfully hard to tell. Mind you, I’m also out of step with the music they play, so it’s a moot point.
• Give me a train over a plane any day. I was struck with the changes that have taken place in the past 100 years when I saw a picture of the Mississippi River, on the Wisconsin side, at a little town called Maiden Rock. The railroad tracks are there, but NO ROAD. There is no doubt that we take good transportation for granted, and this picture made me long for those days gone by. I’m not talking about an idealized nostalgia here: I’m just saying that with the increasing delays at airports and the gridlocked rush-hour traffic, I long for a day when life in a small town was enough.
• I got that Ol’ Time Religion. It’s true. In an age of moral and theistic relativism, I still hold on to a faith that, to many, seems quaint at best and retrograde at worst. It still amazes me that God would forgive me for my sins so that I can live in relationship with him. I know myself too well to believe that I am, deep down, a good person. Jesus Christ ransomed me: I live by his rules.
• Fountain pens and wooden pencils. Just like an old Lincoln has no “feel of the road,” a roller-ball pen has no “feel of the paper.” My writing utensils of choice are fountain pens and pencils, but the every-day life requires me to carry ball-point pens and mechanical pencils.
• Denim: I confess, I rarely wear it. When I do, I feel underdressed and sloppy. My tastes are eclectic–business casual meets Oxford professor stranded in a Scandinavian fishing village with a biker bar instead of a pub–and that’s the best description I can give. In general, I’m a natural fibers sort of guy: cotton, wool, real linen, and leather, and I think that the way I dress shows a level of respect to the people I spend time with. Of course, having said that, I have no idea how men 100 years ago could wear black suits all summer with no air conditioning. I would probably spontaneously combust.

I love my technology, and I am grateful for it. I’m no luddite. In so many ways, though, I am out of step with the world, and have been since:

• 2000, the year that Audio Magazine quit publication
• 1971, the year that the old rail routes were integrated into Amtrak
• 1881, the last time we had an honest president
• 1937, the last year of production for the Auburn Cord Duesenberg Company
• 1964, the last year that Mitch Miller had his “Sing Along With Mitch” program on TV
• 199?, when the Schaeffer Pen Company was sold to Bic. Bic?!?!
• 1997, when Rich Mullins died
• 1973, when Nick Drake died
• 1963, when C. S. Lewis died
• 1991, when Billy Vaughn died
• 1996, when Ella Fitzgerald died

I’m unlikely to catch up with the world. I am who I am, deep down, and I’m not likely to chase after whims or fads. So, if you have a cure for Identic Dyschronia, I don’t want to know. Hey, and if any of you psychological types want to use the term, I want credit!