Charles C. Cordova's Blog, page 2

Coffee at JJ's - Ch. 3: Fitting In

   It's a lifelong concern, I'm pretty sure, that most of us share: Do we belong? Will we be accepted? Will we fit in? More than fifty years ago, when I started the ninth grade at a new school, I remember having the same feeling: will I fit in?
   But fifty years brings a certain amount of experience. We learn not to fear new surroundings and new people, or least not to let it show. So I think, Well, screw it. Either they'll like me or they won't. Let's go see.
When I walk into JJ's I am glad to see Greg, Toshi and Jake already there.
   "Hey, Chuck!"
   "How ya doin, Chuck?"
   They are greeting me by name. A good sign. Another man, whose name I don't quite hear when we are introduced, is seated with them. I sit at the adjacent table, curious to see what the morning will bring. Within a few minutes someone else comes in and buys a cup of coffee.
   "Benny," Greg tells him when the man turns to face us. "Say hi to Chuck. He's one of the guys now."
   One of the guys? I think. Already?
   Tall, thin, dark-skinned and lanky, Benny's graying, wavy hair is combed straight back. He is clearly of Mexican descent and seems to be about my age, maybe a bit younger. Benny says hi to me without smiling. Since I am sitting alone at a table that can hold four people, I offer to have him sit with me.
   "Naw," Benny says, moving to another table. "I'll sit over here. I ain't afraid of these guys."
   Smiling, I tell him, "Maybe you should be."
   They laugh. The man whose name I didn't hear doesn't seem to have much to say. I assume he is just naturally taciturn. He sits with arms folded, looking off in the distance, wearing a neatly pressed white T‑shirt, clean white tennis shoes and light jeans. Like most of the others, he seems to be about my age, give or take a couple of years.
   One by one, other men join the group. A man named Louie enters, and Greg tells me he's a professional photographer. Then he tells Louie I'm writing a book about memoirs. Louie merely nods but the man next to me, whose name I still haven't heard, says, "You know, I'd like to write my memoirs someday. But I can't."
   "Why not?" I ask, curious. "Who wouldn't let you?"
   "State law," the man says. "I can't reveal any details about my job. I signed a confidentiality agreement."
   Greg leans in toward us and tells me, "Until he retired a few years ago, Ryan here worked with mental patients in a state hospital. —You know, the loony bin." He makes a twirling motion by one ear. Now I've heard the other man's name: Ryan. He smiles tolerantly at Greg.
   "You were a psychiatrist?" I ask Ryan.
   Shaking his head, he says, "Registered Nurse."
   "But memoirs don't have to be about your job," I tell him. "You can write about childhood, marriage, or your time in the service. You can write memoirs about any phase of your life."
   Ryan just nods noncommittally.
WE TALK AND I SIP my coffee for another half-hour or so before going to the counter and asking for a refill. I toss a one-dollar bill into the Tip Jar by the cash register. Two other men come in and Greg introduces me to them as well. Frank and Wallace. Both are large men, with Frank standing well over six feet and weighing at least two hundred and fifty pounds. He combs his short, blond hair to one side. Beefy arms.
   Wallace, though shorter, has a large, almost perfectly white mustache. He always wears a baseball cap, though not always the same one. He invariably arrives in tennis shoes, old Levis and a flannel shirt. He also carries an imposing stomach.
   We continue to talk about nothing in particular until one by one the group starts to break up, each man going his own way. I look at my watch and see it is almost half past ten. So if this is any indication, they start gathering as early as eight in the morning and break up some time between ten and eleven.
As he leaves JJ's, Greg tells me, "Be sure and come back tomorrow, Chuck. It's a good group of guys, and we meet every day. You'll fit right in."And I think, Yes, I hope I do. 
   This is a good group of guys.
Read Chapter 4 Tomorrow 

Coffee at JJ's - Ch. 2: First Contact, Part 2

   As he talks, Toshi smiles at the memory of his father. When he finishes, he pushes a small paper plate toward me. "Have some donkey balls," he says calmly. I look down and see half a dozen donut holes on the plate. Donkey balls? I've never heard them called that before. As I reach for one, I ask Toshi, "So if nobody paid your father, how'd he make any money?"
   Toshi gives me another smile. "Oh, we survived. My dad didn't work for the money; he did it because he liked fixing things. Them Mexican kids were so happy to get their bikes fixed for free that they were always stopping by with food for us. I grew up liking beans and enchiladas better than sushi and rice. I learned how to cuss in Spanish before I could do it in English. Tu madre," he adds, to prove his point.
   We laugh, then lapse into a pleasant silence. After a moment, Greg says, "I don't want to keep you from your book."
   "No, that's okay," I tell him. "I can do this any time."
   To emphasize the point, I set my coffee cup on top of the closed manuscript and we continue talking for another half hour or so. I learn that Jake still works as a truck driver. Greg is a retired pharmacist's assistant and Rudy doesn't say whether he is retired or not. So I don't ask. I figure he'll tell me later if he wants.
   "Toshi," Greg explains, "used to own Toshi's Rod & Reel Shop down the block."
   I look at Toshi in surprise. I remember walking past his place several times during the last few years and wondering how anyone could make a living selling fishing gear so far from the ocean. San Pedro is a good twenty miles to the south of us and Santa Monica is about the same distance to the west. I make a note to ask Toshi how he managed to stay in business so many years.
   "But the shop isn't there now, is it?" I ask him.
   "Naw, I closed it up a while back," Toshi says. "Just got tired of the damned thing." Then he adds, "You know, my dad used to have a bicycle shop in East L.A."
   Not wanting to remind him he's already told me this, I just nod. No one else says anything.
   "Yeah," Toshi goes on complacently, "after we got back from Manzanar, he used to fix all the bikes in the neighborhood. Never charged a penny."
   Again I nod as Greg, Rudy and Jake look away, clearly uncomfortable. They pretend not to have heard.
   "They used to bring us Mexican food instead of money. I liked enchiladas better than sushi." Toshi chuckles, but no one else says anything for a long moment. There follows a distinctly uncomfortable silence. Finally, Greg stands and says he has to get going. He holds out a hand to me.
   "We're here every morning," he says. "Different guys from day to day, and there's more than a dozen of us altogether. Why don't you stop by and join us? It'll be good for you."
   ...Turns out he's right.
Read Chapter 3 Tomorrow 

Coffee at JJ's - Ch. 2, Part 2

   As he talks, Toshi smiles at the memory of his father. When he finishes, he pushes a small paper plate toward me. "Have some donkey balls," he says calmly. I look down and see half a dozen donut holes on the plate. Donkey balls? I've never heard them called that before. As I reach for one, I ask Toshi, "So if nobody paid your father, how'd he make any money?"
   Toshi gives me another smile. "Oh, we survived. My dad didn't work for the money; he did it because he liked fixing things. Them Mexican kids were so happy to get their bikes fixed for free that they were always stopping by with food for us. I grew up liking beans and enchiladas better than sushi and rice. I learned how to cuss in Spanish before I could do it in English. Tu madre," he adds, to prove his point.
   We laugh, then lapse into a pleasant silence. After a moment, Greg says, "I don't want to keep you from your book."
   "No, that's okay," I tell him. "I can do this any time."
   To emphasize the point, I set my coffee cup on top of the closed manuscript and we continue talking for another half hour or so. I learn that Jake still works as a truck driver. Greg is a retired pharmacist's assistant and Rudy doesn't say whether he is retired or not. So I don't ask. I figure he'll tell me later if he wants.
   "Toshi," Greg explains, "used to own Toshi's Rod & Reel Shop down the block."
   I look at Toshi in surprise. I remember walking past his place several times during the last few years and wondering how anyone could make a living selling fishing gear so far from the ocean. San Pedro is a good twenty miles to the south of us and Santa Monica is about the same distance to the west. I make a note to ask Toshi how he managed to stay in business so many years.
   "But the shop isn't there now, is it?" I ask him.
   "Naw, I closed it up a while back," Toshi says. "Just got tired of the damned thing." Then he adds, "You know, my dad used to have a bicycle shop in East L.A."
   Not wanting to remind him he's already told me this, I just nod. No one else says anything.
   "Yeah," Toshi goes on complacently, "after we got back from Manzanar, he used to fix all the bikes in the neighborhood. Never charged a penny."
   Again I nod as Greg, Rudy and Jake look away, clearly uncomfortable. They pretend not to have heard.
   "They used to bring us Mexican food instead of money. I liked enchiladas better than sushi." Toshi chuckles, but no one else says anything for a long moment. There follows a distinctly uncomfortable silence. Finally, Greg stands and says he has to get going. He holds out a hand to me.
   "We're here every morning," he says. "Different guys from day to day, and there's more than a dozen of us altogether. Why don't you stop by and join us? It'll be good for you."
   ...Turns out he's right.
Read Chapter 3 Tomorrow 

Coffee at JJ's - Ch. 2: First Contact, Part 1

2.   First ContactON THE FOLLOWING Saturday morning I walk into JJ's and see four men talking quietly among themselves at one table. I don't pay any attention to them, and they return the favor as I purchase a cup of coffee and an Old Fashioned donut. I carry my goodies to an empty table where I start reviewing the manuscript I am editing.
   After a few minutes one of the men calls out, "Hey, what're you doin' over there? Filling out your census form?"
   Since I am the only other person in JJ's, I raise my head and see a man smiling at me. His dark eyes are open and frank, and his guileless grin seems to invite a friendly response. I wave in return. He wears a gray, unpressed polo shirt and a pair of worn Levis. A dark green baseball cap that shows several years' wear covers his head.
   "You workin' on your census form?" he repeats, probably thinking I didn't hear him.
   "No," I answer. "No, it's a book I'm editing."
   "Oh, yeah? What's it about?"
   Before I can answer, he adds, "Why don't you come sit with us? Don't be a stranger."
   He waves me over with one hand. The other three men are studying me, quietly waiting to see how I will respond. I nod and stand. With coffee, donut and manuscript in hand I walk to their table. The man who has spoken stands and motions me to an empty chair.
   "Come on, sit down. Join us. I'm Greg. My friends call me Greg, but you can call me Greg." He smiles and holds out his right hand.
   Taking his hand in mine I tell him, "Greg? Hi. I'm Chuck. Mind if I call you Greg—or would you rather be called Greg?"
   He looks at me for a moment, blinks and then sounding pleasantly surprised says, "Hey, you're all right. Sit down."
   Greg's grip is strong and his smile genuine. "Let me introduce you to these bums," he adds as we sit. "This here is Jake, that's Toshi, and that's Rudy. Guys, this is Chuck."
   Tilted back in his chair, a blue LA Dodgers cap low on his brow, Rudy says, "Hi, Chuck." His hair is almost completely white. His voice is noncommittal, his eyes wary. He sits there with his arms folded, watching me, neither smiling nor frowning.
   "Hey, Chuck," Jake says cheerfully. "How ya doin'?" He wears a dark green woolen cap that matches the color of his T‑shirt. Jake has vigilant, intelligent blue eyes, fair skin and a bristle mustache of a ginger shade. Heavyset but not overweight, he seems to be in his mid-fifties. Maybe a decade younger than me.
   Toshi, a short, wiry Japanese who appears to be in his early eighties gives a brief salute as I sit at the table closest to his. I learn later that his first name is actually Hitoshi, but since everyone calls him Toshi, I do too.
   "So," Greg goes on, "what're you working on?"
   I hold up the title page for them to see, and Jake leans in.
   "Your Memoirs," he reads aloud. "How to Write, Edit and Pub—" He stops. "You're writing this?"
   "Yup."
   "You're a writer?"
   I nod.
   "Maybe he should write about us," Toshi says, eyes twinkling mischievously. He is one of those rare men whose eyes really do seem to twinkle when he smiles. Energetic and alert, Toshi is not the type to let age slow him down. I like him immediately.
   Rudy looks to be of Mexican descent, like me. He is about my age, clean-shaven and serious. He has the eyes of someone who has seen too much suffering in others.
   "So tell us about your book," Greg says, and all four men listen politely as I briefly explain that I am working on a "how-to" book about memoir-writing.
   "You know," Jake says, "I been thinking about writing my memoirs. I got some interesting stories."
   "Everyone does," I agree.
   Toshi adds, "I could tell you some pretty interesting stories about how I grew up in East L.A."
   I look at him.
   "Yeah," he goes on. "After the war, when we got back from Manzanar, my dad opened a bicycle shop on First Street and Fickett, in East L.A. He was always fixing the bikes of the kids in the neighborhood. Most of them were Mexicans, and we were Buddha-heads, but nobody cared. Trouble is, those kids never had any money so my dad never charged them anything."
Read Part 2 of Chapter 2 Tomorrow

Coffee at JJ's - Ch. 2, Part 1

   After a few minutes one of the men calls out, "Hey, what're you doin' over there? Filling out your census form?"
   Since I am the only other person in JJ's, I raise my head and see a man smiling at me. His dark eyes are open and frank, and his guileless grin seems to invite a friendly response. I wave in return. He wears a gray, unpressed polo shirt and a pair of worn Levis. A dark green baseball cap that shows several years' wear covers his head.
   "You workin' on your census form?" he repeats, probably thinking I didn't hear him.
   "No," I answer. "No, it's a book I'm editing."
   "Oh, yeah? What's it about?"
   Before I can answer, he adds, "Why don't you come sit with us? Don't be a stranger."
   He waves me over with one hand. The other three men are studying me, quietly waiting to see how I will respond. I nod and stand. With coffee, donut and manuscript in hand I walk to their table. The man who has spoken stands and motions me to an empty chair.
   "Come on, sit down. Join us. I'm Greg. My friends call me Greg, but you can call me Greg." He smiles and holds out his right hand.
   Taking his hand in mine I tell him, "Greg? Hi. I'm Chuck. Mind if I call you Greg—or would you rather be called Greg?"
   He looks at me for a moment, blinks and then sounding pleasantly surprised says, "Hey, you're all right. Sit down."
   Greg's grip is strong and his smile genuine. "Let me introduce you to these bums," he adds as we sit. "This here is Jake, that's Toshi, and that's Rudy. Guys, this is Chuck."
   Tilted back in his chair, a blue LA Dodgers cap low on his brow, Rudy says, "Hi, Chuck." His hair is almost completely white. His voice is noncommittal, his eyes wary. He sits there with his arms folded, watching me, neither smiling nor frowning.
   "Hey, Chuck," Jake says cheerfully. "How ya doin'?" He wears a dark green woolen cap that matches the color of his T‑shirt. Jake has vigilant, intelligent blue eyes, fair skin and a bristle mustache of a ginger shade. Heavyset but not overweight, he seems to be in his mid-fifties. Maybe a decade younger than me.
   Toshi, a short, wiry Japanese who appears to be in his early eighties gives a brief salute as I sit at the table closest to his. I learn later that his first name is actually Hitoshi, but since everyone calls him Toshi, I do too.
   "So," Greg goes on, "what're you working on?"
   I hold up the title page for them to see, and Jake leans in.
   "Your Memoirs," he reads aloud. "How to Write, Edit and Pub—" He stops. "You're writing this?"
   "Yup."
   "You're a writer?"
   I nod.
   "Maybe he should write about us," Toshi says, eyes twinkling mischievously. He is one of those rare men whose eyes really do seem to twinkle when he smiles. Energetic and alert, Toshi is not the type to let age slow him down. I like him immediately.
   Rudy looks to be of Mexican descent, like me. He is about my age, clean-shaven and serious. He has the eyes of someone who has seen too much suffering in others.
   "So tell us about your book," Greg says, and all four men listen politely as I briefly explain that I am working on a "how-to" book about memoir-writing.
   "You know," Jake says, "I been thinking about writing my memoirs. I got some interesting stories."
   "Everyone does," I agree.
   Toshi adds, "I could tell you some pretty interesting stories about how I grew up in East L.A."
   I look at him.
   "Yeah," he goes on. "After the war, when we got back from Manzanar, my dad opened a bicycle shop on First Street and Fickett, in East L.A. He was always fixing the bikes of the kids in the neighborhood. Most of them were Mexicans, and we were Buddha-heads, but nobody cared. Trouble is, those kids never had any money so my dad never charged them anything."
Read Part 2 of Chapter 2 Tomorrow

Coffee at JJ's - Ch. 1: In the Beginning, There Was Coffee

All right, I'll do it. By popular demand, I am placing "Coffee at JJ's" on my blog in its entirety. Here it is.

   Just look at them: sitting there in the early morning sun, one man with both hands jammed into a windbreaker; another with arms folded across his chest; two men arguing heatedly while yet another hides behind his newspaper, ignoring everyone. This man idly scans the sky for clouds as that man sits hunched over his coffee, carefully protecting it with both hands.
   This particular day in early April with the air as fresh and crisp as Southern California mornings are legally permitted to be, the sky is a clear cerulean. The merest hint of gray shelters the San Gabriel Mountains to the north.
   All is as it should be at that hour: quiet and calm yet energetic with the energy of early morning drivers speeding to work, dropping off children at school … or meeting a lover.
   As a group, the men at JJ's look distinctly pleased with their situation. Most appear to be in their late sixties or early seventies, but one or two might be past eighty. I recall a gift someone gave me three years earlier for my sixty-fifth birthday: a blue ribbon that proudly proclaimed I was Older Than Dirt!
   Well, yes, that's me. I am roughly the same age as the men who sit there gazing at whatever is in front of them. And today what's in front of them is me.
   I hasten across the small parking lot toward JJ's. I have just enough time to buy a donut, which I can eat on the way to my office. With luck, traffic will be moderate.
   If no tanker has overturned spewing thousands of gallons of toxic orange juice onto the freeway, if no early-morning motorcyclist has hit an unseen oil slick, if no hideous ten-car pileup has occurred (with hair, teeth and eyeballs splattered all over the road), I just might reach my office safely and on time. Yet there they sit, those coffee drinkers, almost Buddha-like in their philosophic tranquility.
   God, how I envy them.
   "Morning," one of them calls as I rush past. I look up, but can't tell which of the men has spoken. I murmur a noncommittal, "G'morning" and enter JJ's. I pay for a cream-filled, chocolate-covered, cholesterol-infested donut and then hurry back to my car.
   "Have a good day," someone says, and I wave a silent acknowledgement as I start my car's engine.
   Merging into the right lane of the freeway I reflect on how relaxed I would be if I could sit among those men every day and simply stare at the sky with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I find myself humming Old Man River until from behind me a car horn blares impatiently.
   I press my foot on the accelerator to keep pace with the other cars, all of which are careening along madly at a reckless fifteen miles per hour. Yes, I tell myself, I definitely envy those men. There they sit, knowing something but doing nothing.
   Once I reach my office, though, I think no more about them—until the next time I stop at JJ's.

Read Part 1 of Chapter 2 Tomorrow

Coffee at JJ's - Ch. 1

All right, I'll do it. By popular demand, I am placing "Coffee at JJ's" on my blog in its entirety. Here it is.

   Just look at them: sitting there in the early morning sun, one man with both hands jammed into a windbreaker; another with arms folded across his chest; two men arguing heatedly while yet another hides behind his newspaper, ignoring everyone. This man idly scans the sky for clouds as that man sits hunched over his coffee, carefully protecting it with both hands.
   This particular day in early April with the air as fresh and crisp as Southern California mornings are legally permitted to be, the sky is a clear cerulean. The merest hint of gray shelters the San Gabriel Mountains to the north.
   All is as it should be at that hour: quiet and calm yet energetic with the energy of early morning drivers speeding to work, dropping off children at school … or meeting a lover.
   As a group, the men at JJ's look distinctly pleased with their situation. Most appear to be in their late sixties or early seventies, but one or two might be past eighty. I recall a gift someone gave me three years earlier for my sixty-fifth birthday: a blue ribbon that proudly proclaimed I was Older Than Dirt!
   Well, yes, that's me. I am roughly the same age as the men who sit there gazing at whatever is in front of them. And today what's in front of them is me.
   I hasten across the small parking lot toward JJ's. I have just enough time to buy a donut, which I can eat on the way to my office. With luck, traffic will be moderate.
   If no tanker has overturned spewing thousands of gallons of toxic orange juice onto the freeway, if no early-morning motorcyclist has hit an unseen oil slick, if no hideous ten-car pileup has occurred (with hair, teeth and eyeballs splattered all over the road), I just might reach my office safely and on time. Yet there they sit, those coffee drinkers, almost Buddha-like in their philosophic tranquility.
   God, how I envy them.
   "Morning," one of them calls as I rush past. I look up, but can't tell which of the men has spoken. I murmur a noncommittal, "G'morning" and enter JJ's. I pay for a cream-filled, chocolate-covered, cholesterol-infested donut and then hurry back to my car.
   "Have a good day," someone says, and I wave a silent acknowledgement as I start my car's engine.
   Merging into the right lane of the freeway I reflect on how relaxed I would be if I could sit among those men every day and simply stare at the sky with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I find myself humming Old Man River until from behind me a car horn blares impatiently.
   I press my foot on the accelerator to keep pace with the other cars, all of which are careening along madly at a reckless fifteen miles per hour. Yes, I tell myself, I definitely envy those men. There they sit, knowing something but doing nothing.
   Once I reach my office, though, I think no more about them—until the next time I stop at JJ's.

Coffee at JJ's - The Book

All right, I'll do it. By popular demand, I am placing "Coffee at JJ's" on my blog in its entirety. Here it is.

   Just look at them: sitting there in the early morning sun, one man with both hands jammed into a windbreaker; another with arms folded across his chest; two men arguing heatedly while yet another hides behind his newspaper, ignoring everyone. This man idly scans the sky for clouds as that man sits hunched over his coffee, carefully protecting it with both hands.
   This particular day in early April with the air as fresh and crisp as Southern California mornings are legally permitted to be, the sky is a clear cerulean. The merest hint of gray shelters the San Gabriel Mountains to the north.
   All is as it should be at that hour: quiet and calm yet energetic with the energy of early morning drivers speeding to work, dropping off children at school … or meeting a lover.
   As a group, the men at JJ's look distinctly pleased with their situation. Most appear to be in their late sixties or early seventies, but one or two might be past eighty. I recall a gift someone gave me three years earlier for my sixty-fifth birthday: a blue ribbon that proudly proclaimed I was Older Than Dirt!
   Well, yes, that's me. I am roughly the same age as the men who sit there gazing at whatever is in front of them. And today what's in front of them is me.
   I hasten across the small parking lot toward JJ's. I have just enough time to buy a donut, which I can eat on the way to my office. With luck, traffic will be moderate.
   If no tanker has overturned spewing thousands of gallons of toxic orange juice onto the freeway, if no early-morning motorcyclist has hit an unseen oil slick, if no hideous ten-car pileup has occurred (with hair, teeth and eyeballs splattered all over the road), I just might reach my office safely and on time. Yet there they sit, those coffee drinkers, almost Buddha-like in their philosophic tranquility.
   God, how I envy them.
   "Morning," one of them calls as I rush past. I look up, but can't tell which of the men has spoken. I murmur a noncommittal, "G'morning" and enter JJ's. I pay for a cream-filled, chocolate-covered, cholesterol-infested donut and then hurry back to my car.
   "Have a good day," someone says, and I wave a silent acknowledgement as I start my car's engine.
   Merging into the right lane of the freeway I reflect on how relaxed I would be if I could sit among those men every day and simply stare at the sky with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I find myself humming Old Man River until from behind me a car horn blares impatiently.
   I press my foot on the accelerator to keep pace with the other cars, all of which are careening along madly at a reckless fifteen miles per hour. Yes, I tell myself, I definitely envy those men. There they sit, knowing something but doing nothing.
   Once I reach my office, though, I think no more about them—until the next time I stop at JJ's.

Catching Up to Technology

Well, it's been a week since I posted here, not for lack of things to say but because I have been learning more about the technology that has occurred on the Internet since I last took a serious interest in it.

The thing about technology is that it just won't stop changing!

In the late 1980s, I was in my 40s. I got on the brand new Internet and learned basic HTML code because that that was all there was. Just about anyone with just a little knowledge of code could do it. One small book (about 200 pages) held all the info anyone needed to build their own website.

It may seem simple now, but the Web was mainly about people, not business.

In fact, there were many who decried the onslaught of the few corporations that were starting to build their own websites and selling things on the Web. It was an outrage! It went against everything the Web stood for. The Web was about people, not selling.

But the Eighties became the Nineties, and the Nineties turned into whole new century. I was not in my 40s any more. Suddenly, and without my permission, I was in my 60s -- my late 60s.. Technology zoomed right past me. I lost interest. Too complicated. But even sound and video on a web page was not the end.

People were putting photos on their Web pages, with sound. And video.
 MySpace showed up. YouTube. And things outside the Internet: cell phones. Iphones. Itunes. Ipods. Ipads. --A ton of gadgets with features that I did not want or need. Now people were walking to and from their cars with something held to their ear, talking to someone I could not see. Obnoxious individuals in restaurants were shouting into their cell phones ...and no one was protesting.

And still the technology kept changing

Then I wrote a book, decided to put it on the Internet. So I had to start learning about things like Facebook, Amazon.com (with Search Inside), Kindle, LinkedIn, Blogging, and Tweeting -- as well as XHTML5, SHTML, XML, CSS and a ton of other undecipherable abbreviations.

So after learning enough about Blogging to be able to produce this site, I dove into Facebook (with the help of someone fifty years younger than I) who insisted that "Oh, this stuff is easy."

...Yeah, well, this Geezer doesn't think so. I haven't even started building a website. I can hardly wait.

What are your thoughts, Hobson?

Coffee at JJ's: Catching Up to Technology

Well, it's been a week since I posted here, not for lack of things to say but because I have been learning more about the technology that has occurred on the Internet since I last took a serious interest in it.

The thing about technology is that it just won't stop changing!

In the late 1980s, I was in my 40s. I got on the brand new Internet and learned basic HTML code because that that was all there was. Just about anyone with just a little knowledge of code could do it. One small book (about 200 pages) held all the info anyone needed to build their own website.

It may seem simple now, but the Web was mainly about people, not business.

In fact, there were many who decried the onslaught of the few corporations that were starting to build their own websites and selling things on the Web. It was an outrage! It went against everything the Web stood for. The Web was about people, not selling.

But the Eighties became the Nineties, and the Nineties turned into whole new century. I was not in my 40s any more. Suddenly, and without my permission, I was in my 60s -- my late 60s.. Technology zoomed right past me. I lost interest. Too complicated. But even sound and video on a web page was not the end.

People were putting photos on their Web pages, with sound. And video.
 MySpace showed up. YouTube. And things outside the Internet: cell phones. Iphones. Itunes. Ipods. Ipads. --A ton of gadgets with features that I did not want or need. Now people were walking to and from their cars with something held to their ear, talking to someone I could not see. Obnoxious individuals in restaurants were shouting into their cell phones ...and no one was protesting.

And still the technology kept changing

Then I wrote a book, decided to put it on the Internet. So I had to start learning about things like Facebook, Amazon.com (with Search Inside), Kindle, LinkedIn, Blogging, and Tweeting -- as well as XHTML5, SHTML, XML, CSS and a ton of other undecipherable abbreviations.

So after learning enough about Blogging to be able to produce this site, I dove into Facebook (with the help of someone fifty years younger than I) who insisted that "Oh, this stuff is easy."

...Yeah, well, this Geezer doesn't think so. I haven't even started building a website. I can hardly wait.

What are your thoughts, Hobson?