There’s a train station down the hill from my house. My wife used to take the train to work from there when she worked in Boston, and I’d pick her up at night, but now that she works closer to home, she drives.
I recently had a problem with the my Sports Illustrated subscription for my iPad, if you define “not being able to read it” as a problem.
The time it must have taken to figure this out is probably more than I’ve ever spent on how to do anything.
(Of course, if you read his wife’s replies to the thread, she appears somewhat less than impressed.)
Facebook is pretty horrible.
If it’s not an algorithm that makes you wonder if you’re seeing everything your friends post, even if you’re like me and click on “most recent” when you go on the page, it’s getting dragged into political disputes even though you try really, really hard not to. (“Just block him,” my wife said. “Then you won’t see his comments,” she said.)
Several years ago, my mother proclaimed that she wasn’t going to watch NASCAR anymore because “Jimmie Johnson won all the time.”
This, as I tried to point out to her, from a woman who was a fan of Jeff Gordon.
”Crosswalks are making us soft.”
No, I promise I haven’t gone fully old-man-yelling-at-cloud, equating crosswalks with smartphones, any concern about NFL players maiming themselves for our entertainment or whatever else is causing the ruination of our society. (And participation trophies, always participation trophies.)
You never know what it’s going to be when the little bell with a blue number at the bottom of Twitter has in store.
It could be a new follower. It could be someone liking or retweeting what you wrote. It could be a comment on how brilliant you are, or how stupid you are.