Billie Jobs

Ashley and I attended the Mac event (The Macintosh Marketing Story: Fact and Fiction, 20 Years Later) tonight at the Computer History Museum. In attendance were numerous members of the original Mac team. The best part about this event was the numerous Steve Jobs stories.

Me with Donald KnuthIn one anecdote, Andy Cunningham recalled a trip to New York City. They arrived late and Steve, as usual, had to rearrange the furniture in the hotal room. He needed the furniture to be just right, as he could never stand the way hotel rooms were arranged. And he needed a big bowl of strawberries. With whipped cream. On the side. And a baby grand piano (despite not being able to play the piano). And some flowers of a variety he couldn’t agree on with Andy, not that it mattered, given that it was the middle of winter in NYC and nearly midnight.

The next day, the photo shoot proceeded as planned. Unfortunately, Steve hates working with photographers, and is normally extremely uncooperative. Luckily for the photographer, Steve was really into Michael Jackson at the time – in particular the song “Billie Jean”. Thus, Andy spent the entire film shoot watching Steve cooperate with the photographer in bursts of three “Billie Jean”-filled minutes, then desperately rewinding the tape to the beginning of the song.

These are not the stories you read about in Business Week.

Besides listening to the stories, I got the chance to meet two renowned pioneers in computing: Donald Knuth, and Margaret Wozniak. While you may recognize Knuth as the author of The Art of Computer Programming, the exhaustive catalog of computer science knowledge, you might wonder: who’s Margaret Wozniak?

She is the person without whom Apple would not exist: Steve Wozniak‘s mother.

People and Cars

A character in the popular 80’s film The Secret of My Success once said: “Something happens to a man when he puts on tie – it cuts off all the blood to his brain or something.” This soundbite collided with my neurons right about the time a guy in a BMW decided to weave his way through traffic without so much as a turn signal last week. If the blood really does stop flowing to the brain when a man puts on a tie, is the same true of anyone who gets behind the wheel of a luxury car?

Maybe it’s the sense of entitlement that a luxury car endows on the owner that convinces them that the rules don’t apply to them:

“Stop sign? Ha! Stop signs are for the proles! I’m behind the wheel of the epitomy of German-engineering – out of the way, peasants!”

God, how I loathe them.

In some cases, I wonder if the cars themselves are actually engineered to encourage this behaviour – is the turn signal level in a BMW Z4 located somewhere really inconvenient? In the glove compartment? Under the seat? In the trunk? Or did ze krafty Germans eliminate it altogether in the name of efficiency and some extra legroom?

I originally suspected the root cause was that people driving these cars felt they were somehow better than everyone else on the road. But even if that were the original cause, given the plethora of overpriced “luxury” cars on the road in Vancouver that can no longer be the reason. One of first things Ashley noticed when she moved here was the number of high-end cars, and how every car, even the non-luxury cars, were immaculately groomed. And she’s from New York – you know, the place with all the guys in suits and ties that eat currency for breakfast (little know fact: greenbacks are a surprising source of dietary fibre). So if every Thomas, Richard, and Harold in Vancouver can afford to buy (or, shudder, rent) a BMW, Porsche, Mercedes, or even Hummer, what is the source of this behaviour?

Fear not, for I have a theory…people are idiots.

Now, before you retort with “No, you’re wrong Brendon! People are rational and thoughtful beings!”, hear me out. It was only when I observed a pedestrian step into a crosswalk, looking in the opposite direction from traffic flow, traffic, I might add, that was flowing through a green light perpendicular to the pedestrian’s route, that the truth became evident. I realized that in my previous observations the luxury cars were a red herring, a distraction that prevented me from seeing the underlying cause of bad driving: people. People talking on their cell phones. People checking their makeup. People who can’t see over the steering wheel. People who were too busy trying to look cool to notice the traffic backup, only to end up in the middle of the intersection when the light changed – yeah, people are looking at you, buddy, but not for the reasons you think.

The solution is simple: get rid of the idiotic people. So the next time a pedestrian wades into rush hour traffic without the benefit of a crosswalk light, do Mr. Darwin a favour and turn that bozo into a car bra. Only you can stop idiocy.