New Laptop Help?
So here's what I've got from the Dell website. Can any tech people help tell me if this is good or if I should be adding something better. I'm going to be using it primarily for writing and Internet surfing, but I might dabble in audio/video editing, as well as some light gaming (Portal, Torchlight, etc.). I'd love for it to last me a good 3-4 years, if not longer, without the need of any major upgrades.
What I have right now is $599.99, which is about my price range, but feel free to explain to me why I need a better whatever and why I'm overpaying for a whatever.
This is the one I started with, and the only thing I changed was bumping up the video card to the next tier: http://configure.us.dell.com/dellstore/config.aspx?oc=dndozm2&c=us&l=en&s=dhs&cs=19
| PROCESSOR | Intel® Pentium® Dual Core™ T4400 (2.2GHz/800MHz FSB/1MB cache) | edit | |||||
| OPERATING SYSTEM | Genuine Windows® 7 Home Premium, 64bit, English | edit | |||||
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| WARRANTY AND SERVICE | 1 Year Basic Service Plan | edit | |||||
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| MEMORY | 4GB Shared Dual Channel DDR2 at 800MHz | edit | |||||
| HARD DRIVE | 320GB SATA Hard Drive (5400RPM) | edit | |||||
| BATTERY OPTIONS | 6-cell battery | edit | |||||
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| INTEGRATED WEBCAM | Integrated 1.3 MP Webcam | edit | |||||
| WIRELESS CARDS | Dell 1397 Wireless-G | edit | |||||
| VIDEO CARD | 256MB ATI Mobility Radeon HD 4330 | edit | |||||
| INTERNAL OPTICAL DRIVE | 8X CD/DVD Burner (Dual Layer DVD+/-R Drive) | edit | |||||
| SOUND OPTIONS | High Definition Audio 2.0 | ||||||
Emmy's Nose and US Healthcare
Last week I had my first real dramatic parenting experience. While I was across the room getting dressed, Emmy was watching her grandpa out the window and bumped the board holding it up (the weight is broken). It came crashing down, I assume on her head, but in the second I heard it fall and her start screaming she already had her head out, at which point it caught her hand.
I've replayed the moment I lifted the window off and grabbed her thousands of times already. She looked at me with sheer terror in her eyes. Somehow she had tore her nose open, and I grabbed her and held her against me, not sure how serious it was, but blood streaming down my chest.
Once we checked her out a bit, nothing looked really serious. She could bend all of her fingers, but one of the two places where her nose ripped had gone completely through. Meaning part of her nose was two seperated flaps of skin and I didn't know for sure if they'd heal back together. Here's where things break down.
We pay over 400 dollars a month for health insurance for all three of us. My job doesn't offer it at all, so we have to purchase it ourselves. That is a sizable chunk of my monthly income, and yet it doesn't cover us for so many things -- one of which is emergency room visits. If we go to the ER and Blue Cross & Blue Shield decides that we needed to once the doctors find out what is wrong, I believe they pay a percentage of it, but if they deem it "unnecessary" then we get to pay a fee that I believe is over $100.
So I, as a parent, am left to decide whether or not that trip to the ER is "necessary", and if I screw up that decision than we get a bill that on a lot of weeks we would be unable to pay. Have you ever tried to call a hospital to ask for advice on whether or not you should come into the hospital or if the situation is alright on it's own? In America, the advice is always to come in.
They don't want to get sued if they say otherwise and someone up and dies, and I imagine they like the extra income they bring in from having people show up without actually needing anything done to them. After all, just walking through that door and having a doctor look at you costs you money, even if the doctor says nothing is wrong and sends you home after taking up a minute or two of his time.
I'm just thankful that Emerson's nose is healing wonderfully despite us not having gone to the ER. If it had healed like a mangled lump of skin I would have felt like complete crap every time I looked at it. This is fucked up, America. A parent has enough things to worry about, and whether or not a visit to the emergency room is "necessary" should not be one of them. Yeah, ultimately it all worked out, but I would have at least had the immediate comfort of knowing a doctors opinion if we would just shut up and get universal healthcare.
It might not affect you, but it sure as hell affects me. "Oh my god! Universal healthcare in other countries is so broken! Just ask anyone!" Guess what, when I was trying to decide if I should take Emmy in, a Canadian friend of mine called a phone number and had a doctor's opinion for me in a few minutes, free of charge. It wasn't biased by whether or not they'd get sued, or how much money they'll make, it was just answers. Jesus Christ, that sounds broken, doesn't it?
The Terrible Twos Strike
When they talk about terrible twos, they aren't exaggerating. Emmy was always a pretty good kid, but recently it's gotten ridiculous.
If she leaves the room for more than a few seconds, she has found something to make a mess with. She could have found a Sharpie somewhere -- even though I thought I put them all out of reach -- and started drawing all over the table with it. Or maybe someone forgot to close the lock on the fridge and she is rubbing cream cheese all over her legs. Even when she does things that she is supposed to, like sit down and go on her potty, before you realize she is done she has taken the bowl out and dumped her poop all over the floor.
Time-out isn't working, she is perfectly fine with getting put there. The second she gets put in the seat she completely understands that what she did was wrong. She's sorry. She won't do it again. That was naughty.
Sometimes I feel like destroying one of her toys right in front of her whenever she does something that she knows she shouldn't have done. But then, it is the best feeling in the world when she runs to greet me as I walk in the door after work.
When she had finally fallen asleep the other day, I gave Zoe a hug and kiss. "We'll get through this, and we'll find it hilarious. And then we'll do it several more times."
Because despite all the tough days, there are plenty more good memories. Like that picture up there from when I took her out to give the horses water with me last night. Apparently baby cows look like sheep, so she kept saying "Baaa" over and over. The last week or two has been the hardest thing I've had to experience as a parent, but I would never have it any other way. And when it is finally over, the day that she broke a whole carton of eggs, rubbed cream cheese on her legs, drew on the table with Sharpie, and ate some paint (non-toxic) will be the source of laughter.
Writing on Fumes
I'm not entirely sure what I expect to get out of this habit I've formed.
I mean, I'm really only writing on a regular basis, because I've gotten in the habit of writing on a regular basis. Vast cyber pits are filling with articles I've shit out with undetermined motivation. They are being lost to the winds of time, never to be read again -- if they were ever read in the first place.
I was trying to break into the videogame journalism field, right? I recall that being my original motivation, I'm just not sure if that is even a viable option for the future. And really, what is a viable option for the future?
I guess I enjoy writing enough that it wasn't a complete waste of time, but if it is time for me to move on I certainly don't know what to move on to.
Don't mistake this for some "lighting a fire under the ass" sort of declaration. I'm in a rut. I'll tell myself over and over again that I'm an average writer in an overflowing industry, and I need to seek out a real career path; but I won't do it.
A real career path just doesn't interest me. Nothing that has ever interested me in life is the result of a college degree, which seems to be the default "normal" career path starter. Still, I could easily fill the fingers on both hands with people who are sitting on degrees that they may never actually use. And honestly, I would probably never use any degree I ever even fathomed of getting.
Sitting in a classroom trying to absorb information that I'm told is important so that I can get a piece of paper that will help me get a job that I never wanted in the first place seems asinine. But then, everything about that entire system seems asinine. I'm a better worker, and much more intelligent, than the throngs of drunken stoners I graduated with -- but they've got that piece of paper, so they can get that job that neither of us want.
So what do I do? Throw myself into the biggest load of bullshit ever so that I can get spit out the other side a soul-less man, or keep striving to achieve something that has been dying a slow death for several years? I know, it's a Sophie's Choice, but I guess I've gotta make it. Can I cut them both in half?
In the Interest of Accountability
I think I need some organization in my life, or more specifically, my writing. So, here is the schedule I will attempt to stick to. Please, feel free to hold me accountable if I should deviate from it.
With the intention of finally getting some of the countless ideas I have on my clipboard of notes fleshed out into full articles, and keeping my name in the video game journalism realm of the online world, I'll hopefully unleash a new article each Monday. This will give me the whole week and weekend to pound out a rough draft and then revise many times, which should help my writing. These articles should go on both Cerebral Pop and Bitmob, and I'm going to have to get better about then submitting them to sites like Reddit, Digg (If it'd ever work for me), StumbleUpon and N4G.
For now I am going to continue doing The Kongregate Mob over on Bitmob every Tuesday, but I hope it will pick up some momentum in the coming weeks.
Every Friday I'll do an Insufficient Funds post at Cerebral Pop, hopefully in the morning for maximum hit potential before the weekend crawl.
Mixed in between those three assignments, I'd like to post at least three articles on Examiner and this here personal blog. At least one in each place, and an extra for whichever has more activity that week -- my personal life, or the video game news realm.
So there you go. Keep in mind, all of this is on top of Backlog Brigade, and my as of yet unannounced Bitmob project. Though, I can't guarantee I won't fall off the wagon a bit during the weeks when both of those things hit.
Wish me luck. Oh, and I'll try to remember to do a song a day on my Tumblr each and every day as well.
Paper Carriers: The Toughest Job?
Rain or shine is all well and nice Mr. Postman, but how about giant snowstorms and holidays? No? Well then sit down.
I've been a paper carrier for over 8 years now, whether I was doing foot routes around my town, distributing to the stores in the area, or covering huge amounts of barely driven country roads. I work every single day of the year, and I emphasize every. Thanksgiving, Christmas... you name it. And what do I get? Shit on at every turn.
A paper carrier isn't even considered an employee by the paper they work for. That is mostly so that they have no problem dropping you at a moment's notice should they feel the need. And despite any amount of pay you take away -- which is better then any minimum wage job, but still less then those posh mail carrier routes -- is chipped away by the ridiculous amounts of gas and car repairs you have to cover.
But I'm at peace with the frustrations, because I like all the time to myself I have to listen to music, podcasts, and audiobooks. What is the real frustration, is how companies treat me if I stupidly let it slip that I deliver newspapers.
AutoZone gives lifetime warranties on brakes fully expecting people to be bringing them in multiple times. What they count on is people forgetting, losing reciepts, or selling their cars. I don't understand how they come out on top from the whole deal in the first place, but I learned real quick that they are looking for excuses to void it. Mention doing papers, and you're off the warranty. So I have to alternate which town's AutoZone I go to each time I take in my brake warranty, hoping they don't analyze the dates too much.
Then Progressive reared it's ugly head when I slid into somebody's metal mailbox and punctured a small hole in my door panel. When the questioning began while filing my claim, I stupidly assumed that informing them I wasn't traveling down the road when it happened, but pulling away from the mailbox, would somehow make things better. After saying the claim would be covered, the sharks started to devour all the evidence, and I got a call the next day saying that they wouldn't cover me. They had called the manager at the depot where I pick up papers, and found out that I deliver. That's all it took and they were gone.
Still, it was a learning experience, because when the car I had only owned for 2 months needed a transmission, I started making calls to the dealership. After going rounds with salesmen and sales managers, I emailed the general manager of the whole place and successfully convinced him to pay for it even though I didn't have their extended warranty.
The day that they were going to come tow it from the mechanic it was at, I rushed over to clean out anything related to newspaper delivery. I asked the mechanic to please not mention anything about my job if he were to strike up a conversation with them. Throughout the week that they had it, I fielded questions from them like, "There's a lot of mud up under this car. Much more then normal. You don't do construction, do you?"
It sort of bothers me that I work my ass off, at a job that far tougher then most out there, and I have to worry about hiding it from anyone I talk to. No matter how much I drive my car, brakes are going to eventually go bad, accidents are going to happen, and transmissions should last longer then 40,000 miles.
Everyone who reads this, do me a favor. Give your paper carrier a tip. Give him/her multiple tips throughout the year. Don't call to complain a minute after they are normally there, they might have had to change a tire or dig themselves out of a snowpile. Treat them like they are the hardest working people in the world, because even the lazy ones, work pretty damn hard.
The Grass is Never Greener
I've lived a pretty uninteresting life, story-wise. I couldn't regale you with tales of riding on car hoods, or getting drunk and breaking into some place. I've never been drunk, never even touched a drug, and married the same woman that was my first kiss.
The one stupid thing I did in my life, happened the night before my wedding shower. Some friends and I went sledding at the biggest hill in town, and noticed a ramp someone had built at the bottom of said hill. I guess this is where my common sense throughout life failed me, and I decided to jump that ramp.
I couldn't tell you exactly why I had that thought, perhaps I was seeking some last attempt at a ridiculous story to tell before I got married. I couldn't tell you exactly why I told my friend to stand behind it until I was halfway down the hill so that I could steer toward it, and I'm sure he couldn't tell you exactly why he listened instead of telling me what a stupid idea it was.
According to him, I had to have gotten at least 10 feet in the air. The problem here is, I didn't fall off -- I stayed sitting flat on my butt, on a sled that was well off the ground, and landed it perfectly... against the upward slope of another hill.
The rest of my night is pretty uninteresting; hobbling toward the car with my friend's help, getting driven home while lying in the back seat, and falling asleep halfway through "A Scanner Darkly" while my friends snuck out aren't part of the epic sledding jump tale I should be telling. But like I said, I've lived a boring life -- to me, this isn't a "Oh man! You should have seen it!" story. It is a reminder of why I love the life I have chosen.
Like probably everyone else, my mind wanders sometimes. I start to think about the experiences I may have missed out on in life. I am not my Uncle Andy, able to talk about the time he was hiking through Scotland and ran into Phil Collin's property caretaker, who said he was welcome to stay the night at Phil's mansion if he needed a place -- no, he wasn't there before you ask. I am not even my brother with, I'm sure, countless stories about roommates, and bartending, and parties, and traveling the US to do bird counts, and past loves.
But everytime I stop and think about not having those stories to tell, my tailbone aches. A bitter reminder of the one time that I did do something worthy enough to talk about, and I regret it constantly. I may think that living on my own, and traveling the world, and getting completely wasted, would have been fun experiences to have, but they aren't the life for me.
I've found a woman I'm completely in love with, and had a daughter that brightens my day the second I walk in the door. I can handle not having any epic stories to tell. But whenever I think the grass may have been greener on the other life path, my tailbone hurts like hell, and I remember that I'm happy exactly where I am.
Ripped from the Headlines
A brisk October morning in New York City. The elevator door opens on the 17th floor of a swanky apartment complex. Out steps Chip Dipson, detective extraordinaire.
His rich brown, sturdy, leather dress shoes clap on the thinner-then-paper carpeted hallway floor. His perfectly creased black pants and the ends of his tan trench coat, sway around his ankles and hips respectively, as he confidently strolls past each apartment. He briefly adjusts his tie, and his black button-up shirt as he opens the door to apartment #29.
Inside the studio apartment, there are police officers standing in every corner. Pizza boxes are cluttered around the reclining chair that sits in front of the 36" HDTV. A couch with pullout bed is against the hallway wall, trash strewn about in the sheets.
In the kitchen, a massive pile of dirty dishes is stacked in the sink and cigarette butts are scattered across the counter top, as well as the entire apartment. On the outside wall, sits a computer desk, with a large, flat screen monitor, combination printer/fax, and dead man slumped over the keyboard.
"Alright Jim, what'd you get me out of my nice, warm bed for?" Chip says as he slides his left hand into his pant pocket and takes off his sunglasses with his right, a hint of frustration in his voice, like he's too good to be working this case.
"Well Chip, Oscar Madison over here seems to have gotten himself shot in the back of the head." He says nonchalantly, motioning toward the dead body laying on the computer desk, blood running from the bullet hole in the back of his head, down the side of his face.
"There a Felix, or Mrs. Madison?" Chip asks, still holding his sunglasses in front of him, open, as if ready to put them on at a moments notice.
"Doesn't look like it, he seems to live alone. Not that any roommate or spouse would ever put up with a mess like this." Responds Jim, as he precariously picks up a moldy, half-eaten piece of pizza from a pizza box balanced on the arm of the recliner and tosses it back down with a disgusted look on his face.
Chip, having tossed up the ends of his trench coat and perched the tips of his thumbs into his belt loops, strolls over to the dead man. He leans over his body, examining the bullet hole in his head, then turns back to Jim.
"This whole thing reminds me of the case we had last week," He declares, holding up a picture of another dead man on his LG Dare cell phone, "You notice any similarities?"
"That guy was equally trashy. Life didn't seem to be working out for either of them." Jim replied distractedly as he held up a porno mags sideways with one hand, eyeing the centerfold.
Chip was peering around the dead man, at the trash strewn about the computer desk, looking for some kind of connection between the two murder cases. His eyes panned across the desk, and stopped abruptly at the tray of the printer.
"Hey Jim,"
"Yeah Chip?"
"Didn't the last victim have an unemployment check in the mail that he was holding when he was killed?"
"Uuh, I think so." Jim said, as he tossed the magazine back down on the bed and began to walk over to Chip.
"Well, if so, then we may have found our connection." Chip said confidently, holding a freshly printed resume up for Jim to see.
"Are you saying we have a killer out there targeting people who've been laid off? With the job market the way it is right now, probably half the city is at risk!"
"It looks like it could not only hurt to have your resume up to date, but it may even kill." declared Chip smoothly, as he slid his sunglasses back on and strolled out the door to the apartment, rock music blaring.
Suddenly everything went black.
In a double wide trailer, somewhere in Ohio, the every man gets up out of his reclining chair. He mumbles obscenities to himself as he stumbles to the kitchen, limping slightly.
"Stupid fuc... CEOs and big-shot Hollywood writers... think they have a clue about what we're going through." He grumbles.
The factory where he works has been shutdown for four weeks now, and he's too old to keep doing roofing and construction jobs to make ends meet -- his leg is already crying foul. He grabs a half eaten ham sandwich out of the refrigerator and takes a bite as he limps down the hallway to his bedroom, still cursing big-wigs and television networks under his breath.
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