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I just posted an amazon.com review of the Brother Intellifax 1840c machine that I am about to junk. It's not up on their site yet, but it says:
[headline]
I would swap it for a case of beer and bust every bottle.
[copy]
I will never buy another Brother product again. I sent the following e-mail to Brother through their web site: “My Brother Intellifax 1840c Fax machine is apparently disabled because color ink cartridges are empty. I have no interest in or use for color printing/faxing on this machine. How can I continue to use the machine without going to the expense of replacing useless color ink cartridges?” A few days later, I received this reply: “Brother Customer: Thank you for taking the time to write to us. We apologize for any inconvenience. The color inks works with black to allow the printing ability of this machine. You will need to replace any empty ink cartridge in machine to resume printing. We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience. Sincerely, Facsimile E-mail Support, Brother International Corporation, USA, faxsupp@brother.com.” This machine is essentially an elaborate scam to force you to continually buy color inks (even if you never print in color, the machines uses up its color ink supplies by frequent “cleaning” of the heads), which multiplies the cost of operation exponentially. Did I mention that I will never buy another Brother product again? Sincerely. I am junking this Intellifax 1840c and buying a laser all-in-one; wish me luck.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Introductory
The weather here in New York has been cold enough this past week or so to get me to thinking about...
An Ice-Fishing Story
The lovely former Ada Santiago of Ponce, Puerto Rico once worked as administrative assistant to a general contractor's project manager, on site at the construction of a big tower office building on Seventh, a little north of Times Square. I was in the city one day on business, so we met for lunch, and at my insistence went to one of the ubiquitous Irish steam-table bars nearby. Yum. Hadn't indulged in many years. Nor was I disappointed. Brisket with gravy and mashed, stale sliced bread and canned peas and lots of cold beer to lubricate all: very fine. An acquired taste, of course.
It was a late lunch and the place was beginning to quiet down, except for one table of seven or eight business types of various ages telling stories and laughing loudly. As we were finishing up, the oldest of them, very well dressed and distinguished-looking, began a tale that captivated us, and we fell as silent as did his friends, all of us motionless as he recounted it.
I don't know what got him onto the subject; I didn't hear that part. But he explained ice fishing -- several of his companions, city boys, had never seen or even heard of it -- and then told how he had been taken out on a gray day in the Adirondacks for his only experience of the sport. The friend he went out with drove a pickup truck out onto the ice, to this fellow's nervous amazement, taking them to a little fishing village of variegated shanties and huts right in the middle of the frozen lake. The friend's Rottweiler, very large and deep black and golliwog friendly, rode in the back of the truck, and seemed if anything even more excited than his master at the prospect of a day on the ice.
The friend's fishing shanty was a little larger and more elaborate than most, and was toasty warm inside, quite close to being above freezing, and they re-cut the hole with a power auger brought for the purpose, and settled down to fish. A highlight of the experience was the way the Rottweiler got into the action, for when a fish was caught and brought up to the surface, the dog would dart in, grasp the fish in his huge jaws, and very gently deposit it at the feet of his master. Lavish praise, special treat, stump of a tail wagging ecstatically... repeat.
This managed to make the day's events more amusing by half, meaning that the fun didn't go out of it all for our narrator for damn near an hour, as he said. But, not wanting to be a poor guest, he kept smiling bravely, applauded the dog's efforts manfully, and tried to imagine how good he would feel when they left, by way of keeping his spirits up.
And then his friend hooked onto a big fish.
It must have been a very, very big fish, for the friend fought it for a very great while, his rod being pulled down toward the hole, his face red and his breath coming fast and hot in visible huffs of effort. Gradually the struggle went to the man, however, and the fish, still wrestling wildly with supple strength, was hauled slowly up, up into the light. The Rottweiler was beside himself. He danced around the hole, barking gruffly in his huge deep voice, head darting in time after time as it seemed the fish would be in reach, only to have it heave and arch itself back into the depths. Again and again, fish and man writhing in opposition to each other, the dog growing ever more daring, crouching, springing, lunging back.
And then suddenly the fish was above the surface, a powerful broad silver band of muscle flexing desperately at the end of the arched pole, and the dog, sensing victory, stood tall, gaped his great jaws wide, and stretched far far out over the black water to capture the prize. He deftly turned and twisted with the struggling fish, seized it -- and the line broke.
Overbalanced, with a look of absolute astonishment in its staring eyes, the dog fell into the dark water with the fish still in his mouth, and disappeared.
Now it was the master's turn to be frenzied. After a second's pause of utter incredulity, with a cry he fell to his knees beside the hole, his arms stretched down into the frigid water, shouting the dog's name. The visitor crouched beside him, face close to the surface, trying to penetrate the featureless depth; he realized that he, too, was shouting the dog's name, comprehended that it was pointless and futile -- and shouted all the more.
No dog.
For interminable seconds, and then minutes, and more, stretching out to the utmost extension of what was reasonable, of what was unreasonable, of what was impossible, until their cries grew hoarse, until it was starkly, horribly plain that no warm-blood creature could survive so long in that icy deep. They looked up into each other's eyes for a long moment. Then each looked away, and wearily they stood up. Without a word they stepped outside the shack and, standing a little apart from each other, stared into the distance.
A hundred feet away or so was the next nearest fishing shack. It was a disreputable-looking thing that seemed to be made of doors nailed together and covered in tarpaper. The visitor found himself staring at it idly. Thin trail of smoke issuing from a makeshift stovepipe on the roof, blending quickly with the low gray sky... He turned slowly, studying the distant shoreline, snow creaking underfoot as he shifted his weight... He'd better get his friend into someplace warm before those wet arms-
A sudden loud gurgling scream of horror whipped their heads about. Before they could react the tarpaper shack next door seemed to explode out toward them, its facing side slamming to the ice with a loud report, and the figure of a man came at them at a shambling run, shouting, "Run! Jesus Christ, run! What the Christ is it? Jesus, come on, oh, Jesus, run!" He was upon them. "Get me out of here!" he screamed into their faces, turned to look back at his shack, then whirled upon them again."I'm going for your truck! Follow me! Oh, Jesus!"
They grabbed him, arrested his flight, spun him around. "What the hell is wrong?" they asked him. "What are you running from?"
"How the hell do I know? Oh, Christ, it's HUGE! Red eyes -- teeth like-" He stared at them. "It's all BLACK! Oh, Jesus-" and he broke from them and half-ran, half-staggered toward the truck.
They looked at each other.
"All -- BLACK?!!"
And then they were running, too, but in the opposite direction, of course. They pulled the shivering, frost-rimed dog the rest of the way out of the water from the lip where he was clinging desperately by his forelegs, scrabbling weakly for purchase and whimpering in his throat, found a blanket to wrap him in, and took turns carrying his sopping, sagging weight back to their own shack, where they cranked up the stove and dried him and chafed him and told him that he was a good dog, yes, a very good dog, the best.
He would not meet their eyes, though.
He had let go of the fish.
----------
The narrator told this story so well that everyone in the bar had stopped to listen. There was a long silence when he finished, and then, in a kind of an anti-climax, he stood and gathered up his cashmere coat. "C'mon, fellas," he said. "We'll be late getting back." I wanted to applaud, you know? But, of course, it's New York, and you don't. Though Ada and I still smile at each other when now and again we remember that lunch, and the tale, and how well he told it. We wonder if it was a true story, or was it one of those legends that gets picked up and repeated, like the poodle in the microwave legend, or the bloody hook on the car door legend.
Never saw him again, of course.
An Ice-Fishing Story
The lovely former Ada Santiago of Ponce, Puerto Rico once worked as administrative assistant to a general contractor's project manager, on site at the construction of a big tower office building on Seventh, a little north of Times Square. I was in the city one day on business, so we met for lunch, and at my insistence went to one of the ubiquitous Irish steam-table bars nearby. Yum. Hadn't indulged in many years. Nor was I disappointed. Brisket with gravy and mashed, stale sliced bread and canned peas and lots of cold beer to lubricate all: very fine. An acquired taste, of course.
It was a late lunch and the place was beginning to quiet down, except for one table of seven or eight business types of various ages telling stories and laughing loudly. As we were finishing up, the oldest of them, very well dressed and distinguished-looking, began a tale that captivated us, and we fell as silent as did his friends, all of us motionless as he recounted it.
I don't know what got him onto the subject; I didn't hear that part. But he explained ice fishing -- several of his companions, city boys, had never seen or even heard of it -- and then told how he had been taken out on a gray day in the Adirondacks for his only experience of the sport. The friend he went out with drove a pickup truck out onto the ice, to this fellow's nervous amazement, taking them to a little fishing village of variegated shanties and huts right in the middle of the frozen lake. The friend's Rottweiler, very large and deep black and golliwog friendly, rode in the back of the truck, and seemed if anything even more excited than his master at the prospect of a day on the ice.
The friend's fishing shanty was a little larger and more elaborate than most, and was toasty warm inside, quite close to being above freezing, and they re-cut the hole with a power auger brought for the purpose, and settled down to fish. A highlight of the experience was the way the Rottweiler got into the action, for when a fish was caught and brought up to the surface, the dog would dart in, grasp the fish in his huge jaws, and very gently deposit it at the feet of his master. Lavish praise, special treat, stump of a tail wagging ecstatically... repeat.
This managed to make the day's events more amusing by half, meaning that the fun didn't go out of it all for our narrator for damn near an hour, as he said. But, not wanting to be a poor guest, he kept smiling bravely, applauded the dog's efforts manfully, and tried to imagine how good he would feel when they left, by way of keeping his spirits up.
And then his friend hooked onto a big fish.
It must have been a very, very big fish, for the friend fought it for a very great while, his rod being pulled down toward the hole, his face red and his breath coming fast and hot in visible huffs of effort. Gradually the struggle went to the man, however, and the fish, still wrestling wildly with supple strength, was hauled slowly up, up into the light. The Rottweiler was beside himself. He danced around the hole, barking gruffly in his huge deep voice, head darting in time after time as it seemed the fish would be in reach, only to have it heave and arch itself back into the depths. Again and again, fish and man writhing in opposition to each other, the dog growing ever more daring, crouching, springing, lunging back.
And then suddenly the fish was above the surface, a powerful broad silver band of muscle flexing desperately at the end of the arched pole, and the dog, sensing victory, stood tall, gaped his great jaws wide, and stretched far far out over the black water to capture the prize. He deftly turned and twisted with the struggling fish, seized it -- and the line broke.
Overbalanced, with a look of absolute astonishment in its staring eyes, the dog fell into the dark water with the fish still in his mouth, and disappeared.
Now it was the master's turn to be frenzied. After a second's pause of utter incredulity, with a cry he fell to his knees beside the hole, his arms stretched down into the frigid water, shouting the dog's name. The visitor crouched beside him, face close to the surface, trying to penetrate the featureless depth; he realized that he, too, was shouting the dog's name, comprehended that it was pointless and futile -- and shouted all the more.
No dog.
For interminable seconds, and then minutes, and more, stretching out to the utmost extension of what was reasonable, of what was unreasonable, of what was impossible, until their cries grew hoarse, until it was starkly, horribly plain that no warm-blood creature could survive so long in that icy deep. They looked up into each other's eyes for a long moment. Then each looked away, and wearily they stood up. Without a word they stepped outside the shack and, standing a little apart from each other, stared into the distance.
A hundred feet away or so was the next nearest fishing shack. It was a disreputable-looking thing that seemed to be made of doors nailed together and covered in tarpaper. The visitor found himself staring at it idly. Thin trail of smoke issuing from a makeshift stovepipe on the roof, blending quickly with the low gray sky... He turned slowly, studying the distant shoreline, snow creaking underfoot as he shifted his weight... He'd better get his friend into someplace warm before those wet arms-
A sudden loud gurgling scream of horror whipped their heads about. Before they could react the tarpaper shack next door seemed to explode out toward them, its facing side slamming to the ice with a loud report, and the figure of a man came at them at a shambling run, shouting, "Run! Jesus Christ, run! What the Christ is it? Jesus, come on, oh, Jesus, run!" He was upon them. "Get me out of here!" he screamed into their faces, turned to look back at his shack, then whirled upon them again."I'm going for your truck! Follow me! Oh, Jesus!"
They grabbed him, arrested his flight, spun him around. "What the hell is wrong?" they asked him. "What are you running from?"
"How the hell do I know? Oh, Christ, it's HUGE! Red eyes -- teeth like-" He stared at them. "It's all BLACK! Oh, Jesus-" and he broke from them and half-ran, half-staggered toward the truck.
They looked at each other.
"All -- BLACK?!!"
And then they were running, too, but in the opposite direction, of course. They pulled the shivering, frost-rimed dog the rest of the way out of the water from the lip where he was clinging desperately by his forelegs, scrabbling weakly for purchase and whimpering in his throat, found a blanket to wrap him in, and took turns carrying his sopping, sagging weight back to their own shack, where they cranked up the stove and dried him and chafed him and told him that he was a good dog, yes, a very good dog, the best.
He would not meet their eyes, though.
He had let go of the fish.
----------
The narrator told this story so well that everyone in the bar had stopped to listen. There was a long silence when he finished, and then, in a kind of an anti-climax, he stood and gathered up his cashmere coat. "C'mon, fellas," he said. "We'll be late getting back." I wanted to applaud, you know? But, of course, it's New York, and you don't. Though Ada and I still smile at each other when now and again we remember that lunch, and the tale, and how well he told it. We wonder if it was a true story, or was it one of those legends that gets picked up and repeated, like the poodle in the microwave legend, or the bloody hook on the car door legend.
Never saw him again, of course.
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