It Must Be Spring
Like clockwork, the Apple tablet rumor blossoms again, from Gizmodo to Fortune to CNET and back. Tis spring, everyone else shows off their little netbooks, and we Macusers, saplings just as likely to bend as anybody else, say, I want one! I want one!
Especially this year, the catchy name: netbook.
Never you mind that netbooks are money losers, never you mind that to use one means, sign of cross … Windows Mobile.
No, the Faithful dream once again that Teh Steve will relent, pull the Newton’s incredible handwriting recognition out of wherever he’s hidden it all these years and finally give us what we want.
Forgetting, as the Faithful always does, that Teh Steve knows best, that Apple’s got the twenty-five-billion-dollar cash reserve to prove it, and we are well-enough blessed. He does not respond to what we think we want, He provides that which we did not know we wanted. The Jesus phone was not enough?
Not hardly. I’m secretly thinking that the Jobsian instinct is simmering away, even as He resteth up, and He will Return with a Kindle-killer such as you cannot imagine.
Well, it’s possible.
As I say, it would not be spring without these little hopes … and that they will come to fucking naught is really a test of one’s maturity: Can you accept life as it is, or do you still think your puny little wishes give it any shape at all.
I mean, you can spend big money on Freudian analysis (and those analysts still exist, and still get paid for saying nothing. Not a word.) Or you can be just as existentially fucked by loving Macintosh. Trapped. Like a rat. Because who hell can go back? Some trickle off to Linux, but no human being is on record as saying, Gee, I miss Windows. Gee, I miss owning some piece-o-crap discount machine. Gee.
And so you see, our yearly spring squirm, while understandable, even pitiable, is pointless acting-out. As Chris Locke so famously once wrote, “We die,” and as Steve Jobs said many a time—and without speaking a single word!—You’ll get your toy when I’m good’n'goddamn ready. Not a minute before. If then. (He still has not forgiven John Sculley—and we pay.)
I’m telling you, Hopelessness is good for the soul. It’s spring, be happy.