Review: “Everyware: The Dawning Age of Ubiquitous Computing” by Adam Greenfield

First of all, I have to confess that it took me six weeks to get through this one. Significant, that, given that the subject matter is right up my digital alley.

“Everyware”, as described by the author, is literally the seeding of the world we live in with computers that are, well, everywhere—built into the devices we use daily, from our coffee cups to our refrigerators to our pets. Appliances, we are told, will communicate with one another, billing will be automatic, our needs will be fulfilled and even anticipated by an intelligent organized web of 1’s and 0’s.

Yes, this is one of those books which informs us that soon, like it or not, our very clothing will be monitoring us, and maybe communicating personal facts to the world at large.

Good thing I’m a naturist.

If some of this seems familiar, it may be because we’ve already started down the path. Consider the act, commonplace already, of using a cell phone to snap a shot of a real estate sign. within moments, if the sign contains an appropriate bar code, you can be taking a virtual tour of the property in question. A mere five years ago, this might have sounded more like something out of “Star Trek”.

And that is the whole point of the book: that the traditional concept of computer as PC is fast coming to an end, following its ancestors (the mainframe and the mini-computer) into relative obsolescence. Next up: tablets, readers, and ingrained processors.

    Greenfield makes no claim that all of this will happen tomorrow. Indeed, many of his book’s theses (instead of chapters) outline some of what prevents it: “The necessary network infrastructure does not exist’’; “Appropriate design documents and conventions do not yet exist”; etc. Perhaps most important of all: “As yet, everywhere offers the user no compelling and clearly stated value proposition”.

There are cautions here as well, some dealing with the continued erosion of privacy which everywhere might aggravate: “What if every fact about which we generally try to dissemble, in our crafting of a mask to show the world, was instead made readily and transparently available? ... who you’ve chosen to befriend in your life, say, or what kinds of intimacy you choose to share with them, but not others.” Clearly, everyware is about more than a countertop that displays traffic reports. “It brings along with it the certainty that if a fact once enters the grid—any fact, of any sort, from your Aunt Helga’s blood pressure at noon last Sunday to the way you currently feel about your most recent ex-boyfriend—it will acquire a strange kind of immortality.”

There are observations of how some countries—like Japan—are less likely to embrace the Internet than they are the mobile web. One wonders, then, if the near future in North America will look a bit like the orient today. (I can remember wondering the same thing back in 1999 in Hong Kong, where I first saw widespread sales of flat screen TVs.)

If the book has one major shortcoming—for this reader, anyways—it’s the overwrought use of the English language. Occasionally, it’s almost Victorian: “The discourse of seamlessness effaces or elides meaningful distinctions between systems.” Um, sure... of course it does. The pink ones, especially. I mean, I do realize that I’m not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but sheesh...

All in all, however, not a bad collection of essays for the reader searching for hints of the possible future.

Review: Golden Pagoda Burmese/Asian Restaurant

On a damp late-winter evening recently, Maya and I went forth looking for a quiet place to have a late supper, one we didn’t feel like cooking ourselves. We meandered, sans reservations, into the city core, and found ourselves dropping in on the Golden Pagoda just an hour before closing. The location is one I know well, having spent many an hour there after the clubs closed back in the ‘80s—it was a Robin’s Donuts then!

Interestingly, not all that much has changed in the general shape or size of the place. Not to worry, though—the odours of donuts and cigarettes (smokers could light up anywhere then) is long gone. The aromas that have taken their place held great promise as a friendly hostess led us to our table. The décor, while simple, was adequate, and the restaurant appeared clean and taken care of.

I ordered, then watched as Maya put our server through the usual grilling and ingredient-substitution requests. (It’s one of those things I put up with in my beloved, as if she doesn’t have a world to put up with from me!) Our server fetched another person to help answer some of her questions, but no one seemed the least put off. The service, in fact, was cheerful and competent throughout our meal, something I wish could be said for more places we have dined.

The Pagoda’s appetizers include Burmese samosas or spring rolls, and tempura onion or squash sticks. Maya had the Ingredient soup, in a size big enough to swim in. I had a salad—I forget which one—which contained chic peas among many other things. Maya’s soup was filling and delicious, practically a meal in itself. My salad also was good, but far too oily I thought—might be fairly high in calories.

For our main courses we had one noodle dish and one curry. Both were excellent, and in generous portions; Maya required carry-out (the rest of her meal, that is, not Maya). On some curry dishes, Golden Pagoda gives you a choice of heat level from 2 (mild) to 8 (very hot). I went with the middle-of-the-road 5, and it wasn’t bad at all.

One very small criticism: We sat furthest from the windows for warmth, next to the “pagoda”, and there was a bit of banging coming through the wall from the kitchen. Not loud enough to be really disturbing, but present nonetheless. They could do with a bit of soundproofing there.

I should mention the parking, which is a darkish lot but right at the side of the building, mere steps from the door, so you won’t have to walk. They are licensed, and also have a take-out menu. All in all, we were impressed with Golden Pagoda. It was a great place to have a good hot meal on a chilly night. I believe the restaurant is owned and operated by new Canadians—welcome! We are looking forward to our next visit.

Golden Pagoda Burmese/Asian Restaurant
#3, 411 Second Avenue North
306-668-9114
http://www.goldenpagoda.ca/

Review: The Leonard Cohen Concert

They say turnabout is fair play.
Since writing about our less-than-stellar experience at the (otherwise excellent) Eagles concert, I did not expect nor desire to attend another concert in Saskatchewan other than the one I’d already bought tickets for. Imagine then my surprise, at the age of 46, to find myself walking into Credit Union Centre—okay, being dragged in—to see a concert by none other than…

The New Kids on the Block?!

I do not even have a teenaged daughter to use as an excuse. What I do have is my wife Maya, who works in the hospitality industry. She served the “Kids” when they were in town, and as a result, was offered free tickets. Never being able to pass up anything freely offered, she naturally felt obliged to accept. At least the eleven-year-old seated on my other side was better behaved than the unfortunate twenty-year-old brainstem from the previous event.

But Maya cares little for the singing voice of Leonard Cohen. Not the music—she agrees with me that he is an excellent songwriter—but the singing itself. She insists that he can’t sing, and my efforts to convince her that it is the manner in which he can’t sing that does the trick fall on disbelieving ears. “It’s like the way Neil Young or Bob Dylan can’t sing,” I insist. “It’s all in the technique.” She just agrees that they can’t sing either.

She also doesn’t get the whole Cohen lady-killer thing. “What do women see in him?” she wants to know. “Besides, isn’t he like seventy years old?”

“Seventy-four,” I corrected. “Here’s your ticket.”

Mr. Cohen recently graced a Saskatoon stage, immersing the audience in a deep pool of talent that included Sharon Robinson, his collaborator of recent years. The gents in the band dressed smartly, complete with top hats like the ones businessmen used to wear. Even the guys at the sound board wore them. The stage had an aura of a more sophisticated era.

One might be forgiven for expecting this esteemed gentleman poet to rustle softly onto the stage with three generations of autumn leaves swirling about him (along with a few “cigarette” papers from the sixties). One would be wrong. With his entourage in place, Mr. Cohen ran onto the stage like someone ready to pound out a rock concert. I know sixty-year-olds that would fall and break an ankle had they tried to do the same.

The second the music began, Leonard fell to his knees, facing one of his extremely talented musicians, to croon “Dance Me to the End of Love”. The crowd went suitably wild, and LC won a few points with Maya. I’d shown her a YouTube copy of the song’s poignant video (the “live” version) the night before, and she’d actually liked it. We were off to a good start.

I can honestly say that I have never in my life enjoyed a concert so utterly much. There was not a missed note anywhere, even when the guitarist lost a string in mid-flight (right on the big screen, as Leonard serenaded him again). Further, they knew in just what order to lay out the wares: by the time we were treated to “Halleluiah”, we were ready for it.

That one was amazing. As anyone familiar with the song knows, it starts low and rises, finally breaking through the clouds like God sailing down a sunbeam. To see Cohen in the flesh performing this is a memory to keep. For one thing, he’s seventy-four, and for another, he’s a little guy, maybe five-six, and razor-thin. As I watched him build to the song’s crescendo, it seemed to me—I swear it really happened—that his pant legs actually began to ripple. You couldn’t help but know something amazing was about to erupt.

Erupt it did, and the crowd went to its feet as if on cue. The woman in the row in front of us broke down and cried. I confess, a tear came to my own eye as well; it’s good to have lived to see and hear this.

It took a while, a long time really, for the applause to die away, and then the concert continued. We received at least a full three hours, with a break in the middle. And when he performed the player’s anthem “I’m Your Man”, there wasn’t a dry lady in the room. Six years away from 80, and the cheers and happy sounds emanating from the female half of the audience were something to behold. In fact…

“Woo-hoo!” shouted someone near. 

I blinked. There was something oddly familiar about that particular “woo-hoo”. It sounded awfully similar to one I’d heard at my side at the Kids’ concert. I turned to Maya and found her radiant, flushed with the sort of female glow that I generally only see on special occasions such as our anniversary or a new James Bond film. 

Mr. Cohen, you rascally lady’s man, you’ve won over another one.

By the end, I myself was tired—I’ve no idea how someone Cohen’s age does it—but happy. He wisely saved some of the biggest for the three or four encores, and then he skipped off the stage. Skipped, I tell you, like a kid.

If the concert could be summed in a word, it would be this: respect. Mr. Cohen is both a Jew and a Buddhist, and the discipline shines clear through. Whenever anyone plays a solo, or takes the lead vocal, he has always turned toward them, making himself part of the audience to focus our attention on the other and not on himself. Now he’s added the removal of his hat, which he holds to his chest as a sign of respect to the person performing. When introducing the members of his team—twice—-he bows to each in turn. The guy has class, and a deep respect that you rarely see anymore. To see him perform is an honour.

He also has a new fan:

“Okay,” Maya admitted as we made our way to the car. “I get it now.”

Review: Las Palapas Resort Grill

We’ve been three times so far, attracted by this small restaurant’s reputation, location and décor. We’ve experienced two hits, and one unfortunate miss. 

Not much to look at from the outside (especially in winter), but the décor within is colourful, funky and unique. There’s enough in the way of Latin-American-style knick-knacks and ambient eye-candy to keep you from tuning out. This is not a place to go for quiet, one-on-one dining; in fact, it can be rather noisy for a small restaurant. Groups of friends, however, may like this, though you may sometimes have to raise your voice to be heard. Tables are grouped in the common rather than separated by dividers. It’s meant to be an invigorating atmosphere, and it works.

As to the food, it’s a somewhat Canadianized notion of Mexican food, but really quite tasty. The actual menus – a bit garish to read, but fun – are available for viewing at their website (something I wish more restaurants would do). In all, the offerings are fairly priced, and the portions reasonable. For the most part, we’ve been pretty happy with anything we’ve ordered.

The first time we went, the restaurant was full, but the service remained quite good. Our orders were correct, and did not take long to arrive. Our second visit was just for drinks, and again the service was fine. Unfortunately, the third time, we ran out of luck. Though our meal was fine for the most part, it was difficult to get attention paid to our table, the last one down at the end. We were not asked about drinks, nor did our server drop by to ask how everything was. We had to wave our arms about to snag any attention at all. In the end, while contemplating dessert and a second drink, we were left completely alone.

Receiving the bill - and then paying - proved especially challenging. By this time, our server had vanished, apparently for a chat in the kitchen. An item that had been replaced had been added onto the total. With no staff at all in the dining room, I finally left to start the car, while my wife went off to track down Houdini. Disappointing, especially since we’d enjoyed the restaurant so much in so many other ways.

Every restaurant has its off-nights, though, so we’ll likely try again—maybe in summer, when the deck (under a thatched-style roof!) finally re-opens again. The food is good after all, and this looks like a fun place for friends.

910 Victoria Avenue, Saskatoon (Two blocks off Broadway at Main Street)
http://www.laspalapas.ca/contact.php