“Should we just go ahead and sign up for Apple TV?” I asked my wife, Cora. “It’s only ten bucks a month.”
“Sure why not.”
“Alright.” I answered. “The Giants are on Apple tonight, though I think it sucks that they’re starting to stream sports. Anyway, I’ve been wanting to watch Masters of the Air.”
I walked to the home office and let out a sigh of resignation. Signing up for anything Apple meant that I would have to eat a small helping of crow – feathers, beak, and all. You see, I don’t have a love/hate relationship with Apple. No, I have a hate/hate relationship with Apple. I’m a hater. Yes I’m a dyed in the wool, bonafide, 100% pure hater of all things Apple.
My animus isn’t so much directed at Apple’s products and services as it is towards the Apple cult. Yes – cult (not unlike the MAGA cult only technologically discerning), Ask anyone of us, scum of the Earth, proletariat, lowlife, trailer park trash who uses a Dell computer or, horrors, an Android phone. We’ve all at one time, or many times, been denigrated by some Apple – head for being antediluvian slime.
For me it started in the early 1990’s with a coworker named Chris Smith. Chris took in the Apple snake oil intravenously and he made certain that the other four of us in our little purchasing office knew that we Windows users were lesser beings. Chris had even managed to convince management to allow him to set up his own personal Apple based system for office use while the rest of us were on a Windows platform.
On any given workday, the slightest Windows hiccup resulted in derision from Chris, followed by an annoying cackle that sounded like a dyspeptic goose.
Every year, Chris would take two days off to attend the annual, Apple convention and Steve Jobs love fest, held at San Francisco’s Moscone Center. So many idolaters would show up at Moscone to hear the apostle Steve Jobs deliver his homilies, that two blocks of Howard Street had to be closed off.
I never attended, of course, so I could only imagine what went on in that holy of holies. No Coors and chips there. No, I imagine they served oysters Rockefeller, tuna tartare, and of course Royal Beluga caviar. There was probably a 39 month aged Parmigiano-Reggiano served on slices of French baguette flown in from Paris which began as Cheese Whiz on Ritz until the apostle Steve transformed it by waving his staff and muttering a few divine incantations. Rumor had it that the Almighty Jobs stayed at a hotel in Berkeley (because, Berkeley) and walked across San Francisco Bay to preach at the convention.
After a few glasses of Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Champagne, the guests could continue to the massage station where vestal virgins would rub out the cricks from the necks of pilgrims who had been holding their noses too long in the air.
“I say Jaspar,” said the distinguished man in a pink Gucci polo to Miles who was adjusting his Mulberry silk ascot. “Have you sampled the latest iPhone?”
“No, I missed that one. I walked 23 miles to the Apple Store a month in advance of the introduction and then stood in line braving three tornadoes and a blizzard. It was a ghastly experience and I was only able to survive by holding onto the faith that I would be able to lay my hand on that sacred device. Sadly, I didn’t manage to get in. I have tried the latest MacBook. It’s smashing, simply smashing.”
Jaspar took a sip of his Chardonnay that had hints of strawberry and oak.
Yeah, I’ll give ya a fuckin oak to sip on, ya hifalutin bastard.
Oh yeah, about those lines that form outside of Apple Stores when the latest communion, er, phone, is introduced. This is the kind of behavior I used to see when teens lined up to get the latest Jordans. But seriously, grown ass adults waiting to be the first on the block to get the latest phone which is allegedly already obsolete (Apple denies planned obsolescence, because any large corporation would deny such malfeasance)? Grow the fuck up.
Chris Smith moved to Colorado some time ago and took his cackle and his Macbook with him.
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