Showing posts with label War Games. Show all posts
Showing posts with label War Games. Show all posts

Monday, August 17, 2015

The #hashtag/tic-tac-toe rivalry


I’m so old school I always feel like shouting “Paul Lynde to block!” every time I see a hashtag.
I wonder if devotees of tic-tac-toe resent how hashtags have stolen the thunder of one of the world’s oldest games.
Archeologists have unearthed evidence an early version of tic-tac-toe was played in the Roman Empire as far back as 100 B.C.
So it’s certainly conceivable Jesus Christ played tic-tac-toe.
Remember, He roamed the earth centuries before the advent of NFL on-line fantasy leagues and needed something to do to kill time.
It’s also possible, Him being Christ, He was pretty good. He could have been the Johnny Beauregard of His day.
As far as my superficial research can tell, Beauregard is the Babe Ruth of tic-tac-toe.
I googled “tic-tac-toe world champion” and found a 2011 link to a possibly satiric story that said Beauregard defeated nine grandmasters during a world championship held in the basement of a restaurant called Mike’s All-You-Can-Eat BBQ Buffet.
I say possibly satiric because the canon of authentic tic-tac-toe reportage is practically non-existent.
The story said Beauregard is the undisputed champion of the World Tic-Tac-Toe Federation.
The WTTTF!
No prize money is mentioned, but I sense the stakes were far less than they were in what was the most famous tic-tac-toe game ever played. That was the one between Professor Falken and the computer Joshua in the great 1983 Matthew Broderick flick, “War Games.”

In the end, the computer thoughtfully decides against launching World War III when it learns “the only winning move is not to play.”

Imagine that. Thirty-two years ago, computers were advising against computer games.

My how times change.

Same goes for our keyboard symbols.
Remember, hashtag, that most modern of symbols, is still referred to on our most advanced North American smart phones as the “the pound sign.” Elsewhere, it’s the “hash sign.”
Will we one day hear automated phone systems advise us, “For more options press the hashtag sign.”
Sounds awkward.
Why hashtags are called “hash” tags is murky. 
Hash, of course, is an often tasty meal composed of pieces of meat or vegetable cut into small pieces and fried; hash brown potatoes, for example.
But I’ve never seen # on any menu and couldn’t find it anywhere on a menu for an upscale Chicago breakfast restaurant called HASH. No mention of cannabis-based hallucinogens, either.
I guess the symbol is limber enough to support all those varied definitions — pound/number/hashtag — but I predict we’ll soon see keyboards with multiple slashes on hashtags.
The innovation could revolutionize tic-tac-toe the way 3D chess did on the rec dec of the USS Enterprise, which Joshua the computer would obviously prefer to Global Thermal Nuclear War.
It’s a sensible myth that hashtag began its twitter rise January 15, 2009. That was the day Capt. Sully Sullenberger “landed” USAirways Flight 1549 upon the waves of the Hudson River. Twitterists began using #1549.
The plane went down, hashtag took off.
A more likely and verifiable story involves a Bay Area techie who’d grown fed-up with how disorganized Twitter had become. 
And Sunday at precisely 3:25 p.m. hashtag will celebrate its 8th birthday. That’s when Chris Messina tweeted, “How do you feel about using # (pound) for groups. As in #barcamp [msg]?”
Messina later said, “It was one of those things where I had so many haters in the beginning that I thought this thing would never pick up. But, secretly, I sort of felt like, ‘Come on, guys, this is the simplest thing that could work.’”
Two days later, another techie, Stowe Boyd, suggested the # symbol be called “hash” tag because it sounded catchier. 
So Happy 8th Birthday, hashtag!
What will you be when you grow up? You’re future is bright. 
I’m sure you’ll hash it all out.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Pest control from a pacifist


The first tiny ants of the season have invaded our home and that means Valerie immediately ordered the family straight to DEFCON 2.

The familiar military term DEFCON comes from Defense Readiness Condition, a phrase that originated during the Cold War and signifies, in descending order, how prepared the top brass are to go to all-out nuclear war (DEFCON 5 equals peace; DEFCON 1 equals Ka-BOOM!).

I like throwing the word DEFCON around because it always reminds me of the great 1983 movie, “War Games,” where Matthew Broderick plays a mischievous computer hacker whose shenanigans with NORAD (North American Aerospace Defense Command) computers nearly leads to an unauthorized nuclear launch that would lead to a MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction) result.

Say what you want about the anxieties and crushing paranoia of the Cold War but, gosh, the epoch sure left us with a dandy batch of acronyms.

The movie includes what could be the rallying cry for beleaguered technophobes everywhere. It happens when Gen. Jack Beringer (played by Barry Corbin) gets so exasperated at having his authority usurped by confounding tech problems, he bellows, “Goddamnit, I’d piss on a spark plug if I thought it would do any good!”

I imagine Val would let me piss on an ant if she thought it would do any good.

But she must know it would not, something every guy already knows. The ant is a formidable antagonist. Each ant is capable of lifting nearly 25 times its body weight with its “mandibles” (that’s the entomological term for ant jaws and as soon I finish this post I’m going to try and find out if ants call human jaws “antdibles”).

Think about that. It would be like me or you seizing a Volkswagen by the bumper with our teeth and lifting it over our heads.

So by those extrapolations, it’s a sort of fair fight whenever I simultaneously squash a dozen of them with one swing of my slipper.

Maybe it’s a female thing, but I never get bent out of sorts by bugs or beasts in the house. I’m a pacifist at heart and, truly, would rather not hurt a fly.

I try and reason with them. I tell them they aren’t wanted. I offer alternatives. I tell them I’ll give them a ride to a nearby park.

But that doesn’t work and it always falls to me to protect the tribe. And that usually means splat. Bats, spiders, flies, mice, I’ve got a body count that would probably reach into the thousands.

We’re pet-less right now, but when we had the cat and the dog, the lousy fleas would pop up every now and again. And with fleas I could be ruthless.

Val would always play the diplomat and encourage incremental steps. Not me, I didn’t pussyfoot around. I ordered the family out of the house and would coldly bomb the nasty little bastards back to the Stone Ages.

That’s in stark contrast to how I dealt with the most menacing creature that ever invaded one of my dwellings. The thing was about 5-foot-8, weighed 175 and smelled like infernal corruption.

It was back about in 1990 at a tiny little two-man newspaper office I shared with my buddy Paul. I remember coming in late from some tedious municipal meeting and hearing the closet door in the darkened office rattle shut.

I pulled on the door. It pulled back.

Turns out he was a homeless guy who’d found the key above the door and had been napping nights in the office. He’d been there about a week or so. Neither of us ever had a clue.

I could have called the cops. Instead, I took him next door to the bar where my buddy was watching the game. I’m not going to say he wound up all bombed like the fleas, but we bought him a few drinks. Paul drove him to a Salvation Army shelter that night.

Oh, how I wish I could end that story with the line, “ . . . and that man’s name was Barack Obama.”

But I don’t know what happened to the guy.

I like to think we helped him on his way. I think if we’d have dealt with him harshly, it might have backfired. He knew our names and where we worked. It wouldn’t have been difficult or unprecedented for the guy to find out where we lived and come after us.

He could have creeped into our homes and become a real pest.