The Rug, the Robot, and the Slow Death of My Sanity

Let me start by saying I am not anti-technology. I embrace innovation. I believe in progress. I own a Bluetooth meat thermometer, which occasionally reminds me that I have no business cooking poultry. I have a smart lightbulb that only obeys me when it feels like it. I once tried one of those posture-correcting devices that beeps when you slouch, only to chuck it into a drawer within 48 hours because it turns out I slouch constantly and I don’t need a tiny plastic tyrant telling me so.

But no piece of technology has brought me more frustration, more existential despair, more quietly muttered threats, than my robot vacuum. And none of it would be happening if not for the rug.

Now, let’s be clear: I did not choose this rug. The rug was gifted to me by Vince, my dear friend who, for all his redeeming qualities, has the aesthetic sensibilities of a 19th-century mystic experiencing a vision in a candlelit cave. It is an aggressive rug. A violent swirl of rust orange, jaundiced yellow, and whatever color results from trying to mix despair with bad decisions. Vince, naturally, thinks it’s stunning. “This belongs in your home,” he declared upon presenting it to me, which is the kind of thing someone says when they know an item belongs nowhere but can’t bear to admit it.

Now, a stronger person might have said, “No, Vince, take this back to the dimension from which it escaped.” But unfortunately, I am weak. I value friendship. And so, the rug stayed. And with it came the problem.

Every evening, my robot vacuum attempts the same misguided quest. It sets out with optimism, whirring dutifully across my floors, until—like clockwork—it reaches the rug. And then? Tragedy. The fringe wraps around its little brushes like an octopus seizing its prey. The motor groans in distress. It flails, it spins, it beeps. I, like a fool, rush to untangle it, only for it to immediately do the exact same thing again. It is as if it wants to suffer. As if it has decided that its primary function is not vacuuming but instead dramatics.

I have tried everything. I have programmed it to avoid the rug. It ignores me. I have physically blocked the rug with furniture. The vacuum still finds a way, as though drawn to its demise by forces beyond my comprehension. I have considered simply throwing the rug out the window. But then I picture Vince, looking around my apartment with that quiet, smug satisfaction, knowing his gift remains. And so, the rug stays.

And the robot fights.

And I—an intelligent, functioning adult with better things to do—spend my nights rescuing a vacuum from a decorative choice I never even wanted.

Technology is supposed to make life easier. Friendship is supposed to be rewarding. But in the grand battle between a robot that refuses to learn, a rug that refuses to leave, and a man who refuses to set boundaries, there is only one conclusion:

Vince wins.

- Rupert Chang

Kendrick Lamar Had a Message. I Had a Wooden Spoon.

I timed it perfectly—had just set the rosemary to bloom in hot oil when the halftime show began. It’s a bit of a ritual, my Sunday evening culinary experiment, but I made an exception for the Super Bowl because one must engage with the broader culture, lest one become the sort of person who uses the phrase “the broader culture” in everyday conversation. Enter Kendrick Lamar, who took the stage with a theatrical flair that suggested he had either an urgent message for humanity or was about to stage a coup against the referees. The performance was visually striking—something about the interplay of lights, dancers, and live instrumentation made it feel less like a mere show and more like an urgent transmission from the future. But as for what exactly he was saying, well, I must confess that while I caught the general vibe of righteous indignation and historical reckoning, the specifics eluded me. One moment he was delivering bars with the intensity of a man who had cracked the code to the universe, and the next, the camera cut to a backup dancer in what appeared to be a metallic trench coat, marching with the gravitas of an ancient oracle.

Still, one need not grasp every lyrical nuance to appreciate the moment. There was power in the message, even if it was slightly lost on a man tending to a pan sauce. And frankly, I admire the commitment—it’s no small thing to take the most corporate, middle-America spectacle and inject it with a sense of purpose. There’s a dignity in that, like leaving a handwritten note in a library book for some future reader to discover. I imagine many people watching had their own interpretation, and maybe that’s the point—great performances don’t hand you a neatly packaged answer but rather invite you to wrestle with the meaning. In any case, my dish (a citrus and fennel braised chicken, if you’re curious) turned out well, and the halftime show left me entertained and mildly bewildered, which feels about right.

Exploring the AM dial

Countless rumors are flung around my corner of the web, many of which feature the theory that over-the-air radio broadcasting is a dying platform. This would include the reliable AM radio band.

Many of you are asking yourself: "Is this madman unaware of the FM dial?" It's true, I haven't yet felt compelled to toggle my modularity spectrum machine in a non-AM position. Why bother, with so many pleasant options to be had?

I keep a weekly notebook log of AM stations that are listenable from my living room.  (I've decided "listenable" includes non-pristine clarity -- I can withstand some crackling or hissing, assuming the station content meets my standard)

Sixteen AM stations are available in my area, which earns each a well-deserved spot in my notebook. Here is a quick summary of some of my favorites:

 

The Oldies station

 

I wasn't born in the 1940s, but that doesn't mean I'm ineligible to whistle alongside such hits as "Fools Rush In" (Ricky Nelson) or "Point of no Return" (Gene McDaniels). Local DJ's like Ranger Rick and Steven Trinkleton are local celebrities. I'll occasionally run into Rick at the local cheese board, and we swap water filtering tips.

The Spanish Tropical station

 

Yes, I had to scour Wikipedia, but what a fun rabbit hole that led me into. Thirty minutes later, I found myself overflowing with radio industry news, mostly from radioink.com. Who knew!

But what is Spanish Tropical? It's difficult to pin down with words. Incidentally, I enjoy literally not knowing the words to the songs, and instead prefer to focus on the rich, vibrant melodies. Excuse me, I think I hear it in the background now, and my mind can't help but transport itself away to an oceanside hut on a forgotten inlet, where fish are plentiful and the squawking birds fly overhead as a reminder that they are the true chief executives of this planet.

The Classic Rock station

 

This is my go-to when I'm performing acts of manual labor. I'm not sure if I love America, but I sure do love what music it creates. Classic Rock is America and I'm all ears.

Quick Note: I have a game I just invented, and just tweeted about it. It's about Classic Rock.

The News/Talk station

 

Disclosure: There are many of these stations, and I can't name a personal favorite. Mostly, I'm seeking the sheer presence of another human voice in my eardrums. I also have money that I need to spend, and the friendly show hosts are bursting at the seams with products and services that I know I need.

Why margaraine is troubling

A recent debate centers around the use of margarine in one’s daily cuisine.  As a regular consumer of expensive butter, I am appalled at this and decided to pen this post. 

Margarine is unholy, unnatural, and disruptive to the inner digestive tract.  Those who know me know that I value being regular above all else, making my commode visits on a regular schedule that does not vary more by more than five minutes as a rule.  The introduction of margarine by my otherwise saintly wife laid waste to my digestive tract and sent me in a rut that took me a fortnight to recover from.  I wish I could say that I have forgiven Carol, but that would be a lie.

Margarine is made of vegetable oil – if I wanted to eat solid oil I would frequent a local fried food eatery, like a common glutton or somebody from Alabama.  No, no, no.  Give me solid butter, preferably from a cow which was fed gently culled grass.  There is nothing better than a slice of toasted sourdough bread with a slab of butter, and I will stake my name on that.

Please consult your local grocer to inquire how to obtain fresh butter, they will be delighted to assist you.

Beginner's falconry

I was sitting in my veranda contemplating the flight patterns of the American Kestral when my tea kettle shrieked at me, its high pitched tone causing me to startle and giggle at the same time. When was the last time you had a proper cup of tea? Please think about this for the next 15 minutes and then return. 

Thank you. 

Continuing with the American Kestral, I am always surprised when I mention this prodigious raptor that it is not well known in the lower 48 states. Indeed, I would doubt if one person in 100 would recognize the blue grey plumage of a virile male, nor the sonorous “Klee” it makes as it as it excitedly spots its quarry - grasshoppers, lizards, the occasional vole are its favorites as a rule. 

In short, I recommend you immediately grab your best pair of binoculars and head out to your nearest forested area or aviary to gaze at this delightful member of the animal kingdom. If you are lucky enough to capture one using your own wit and dexterity, you will be rewarded with a beautiful yet furtive bird of prey suitable for beginner’s falconry. 

 

Morning routine

I'd like to start a dialogue today about your morning routine. As I've tweeted previously, having a good morning is the key to having a good day. I think Benjamin Franklin said this. Or possibly Cal Ripken, Jr.  I don't really remember which.

To get things started, here's mine. Every day I wake up at 5:15 AM to the pleasant sounds of nine variable alarm clocks placed throughout my bedroom. Each clock plays something from nature. A growling bear is one. A screeching hawk is another.

Next, I let my German Shepard, Hans, out to loose his bowels and mingle with the local wildlife around my New Hampshire cabin. During this time I prepare myself a triple espresso. Anything fewer than three iterations of espresso and I don't think I could fathom setting foot outside of my kitchen.

From 6:00 AM until 7:00 AM you'll find me nowhere except buried in the periodicals. While I've traditionally read the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and Wired Magazine, I've also started dabbling on my Tablet (TM) and checking out interesting stories and factoids on ZergNet.com. I also like to use this time to practice my craft on Twitter by thinking up clever #hash #tags.  For more on this, please see my previous posts.

By 7:00 AM I am ready for a two-cup serving of steel cut oats, some freshly picked blackberries, and a small block of Vermont cheddar. You'll notice I get a little dabble of everything in there -- I want to make sure my system is running in tip-top shape. One day, I didn't ingest my typical morning helping of oats. I nearly wound up in prison. That's another story I'll share another time.

Immediately thereafter, I take my morning constitutional, where I usually will get in 2-3 games of "Threes" on my Tablet (TM). This game really is a treat and I recommend you pay $1.99 for the "ad-free" version.

By 8:00 AM I am ready for whatever hurdles and surprises the day might throw at me.

What do I do to pass the time? Bird watching, knitting, and writing detective stories chiefly interest me. I've also been recently employed by a nationwide burrito chain to come up with the literature on their soft drink cups. Can you guess which one? I know there are many, but I like the idea of making a game out of this.

So far, so good on that front, but I worry about their vigilance in providing only non-GMO meats. I really should write them a letter about that.

Well, that's that. I really hope you can take something from my morning routine and apply it to your own!

Product Idea Wednesday!

Dear Reader:

Things have gotten pretty heavy on this site as of late.  I acknowledge Ethan and the fact that he has composed words and put them to his site, but please note that the opinions of writers are their own and do not represent the opinions of the other fine pushers of prose contributing to this site.  Put another way, Ethan is insane.

That being said, I wanted to share with you a product that needs to be invented.  I'd apply for the patent myself but I am too busy tending to my pumpkin harvest in anticipation of Thanksgiving next week.  What's the idea?  I'll tell you what!  It's a french fry carton that CLOSES.  How often do you get fries in the drive thru only to find them cold and limp by the time you get home?  This exact scenario has happened to me many times, and no, I don't want to discuss it further.  But aren't HOT fries the best?  By having a closed, heat regulated container, you'll still be able to enjoy those hot sticks of grease and starch long after you shuffle through the drive-thru of your local Carl's Jr.  I think it's really a great idea.

Ok reader, get out there and get that carton invented.  And please remember your dear friend Rupert the next time you enjoy a crispy, oily, mass produced fry at your local burger shack.

Love,

Rupert