June 1st, 2010


okay so um excuse me apple

I guess Apple is making a big fucking deal that they sold two million iPads? Internationally? That sounds all impressive and shit, but frankly I can bust it down to its component parts easily.

I heard a quotation once that you could measure the objective importance of a musician by whether or not they went Diamond -- that is to say, ten million albums sold. I thought about italicizing that line, but holy shit, ten million does not need it. Or want it. If you sell ten million of anything I'm pretty sure you're fucking famous forever. Thriller sold 29 million ever. The Wall sold 23 million. FUCKING VAN HALEN sold ten million on one of their greatest hits.

Oh, but the iPad is technology so that makes it different? Why, because it's technology? Video games are technology, and Super Mario Bros. 3 sold something like 18 million worldwide. Face it, Apple, you haven't permeated the market with two million. This isn't Star Trek yet.

Look, I understand why they want to release the number. It's a marketing thing. But in this day and age, as in any other day and age when someone with an opinion could probably get the ear of an editor's handle, and it'd be more likely if they had an opinion about something new and hott -- remember all the bad press around Citizen Kane? -- it's as like as not that the lifetime sales of your product will be tied to the actual utility of said product. That's all I'm saying, and I say it as a man who is vaguely considering getting one of your multimedia devices in the future for purposes of a road trip.
My Equally Valid Opinion

Acts I and II: Chicago, Illinois.

"Are you even paying attention, Coyote?" Of course he is. He's more focused on the game than any of his friends. But the wear-and-tear is tough. He honestly lost track of the score in the flurry of goals that heralded the very first period. But he knew who won and who lost at the end of each game, to be sure. It's what happened afterward that he forgot, or tried to forget. The winners toast to their success and the losers drown their sorrows, and Coyote flits between groups with the practised ease of a god with no allegiances. Then he wakes up in the morning and begins to die. Gods can't sleep through their demises. They'll always feel the sting of the houndstooth knife, needling into their belly, as the killer quells their beliefs, choosing the eradication of higher power over whatever benefits spirituality may have brought. Closing his eyes, Coyote imagines the coming week. Shambling up to bed, only to shake instead of sleep. Returning in the morning, only to shake instead of work. Me, I guess I'm alright, except I'm a zombie now. What a concept. A dead god returning to life as an animated corpse. He wonders if it's even possible. Maybe that's what he is now. Dead spirit attached to this useless flesh. When is it gonna change, he wants to know. When do I finally get to shed this skin and save the world.

Never mind the future, Coyote, you won't enjoy it when it's here. Jokes about the Leafs are up two games to none against jokes about Marian Hossa, and the best road team in the league is about to park the bus on Broad Street.