The Emu Tree

Getting My MacBook Repaired: A Rite Of Passwordage

Thu, 12 Mar 2009 23:13:40 -0400

[Originally published in The Strand]
I'd always sort of imagined that, if I were ever held captive and tortured for confidential information, I'd follow in the grand tradition of James Bond or Jack Bauer - surviving any and all forms of physical abuse with my secrets totally in tact. Perhaps that’s why I found it so difficult to surrender my Macbook administrator password at the Apple Store Genius Bar last weekend.
It didn't help that the store's resident Genius requested my password with such nonchalance - as if he were asking for merely my name or phone number, as he had a few minutes earlier. I suppose this level of insensitivity's only natural, given his line of work, but it would've eased my nerves if he'd done a little more to acknowledge the gravity of the exchange that was about to take place. I felt like James Potter, appointing Peter Pettigrew as my Secret-Keeper, all the while wishing that I could give the job to Sirius Black instead. Unfortunately, Sirius was busy with a customer, demoing the new iPod nano's shake-to-shuffle feature.
It wasn’t even that I was apprehensive about giving this Genius access to my files. While he might not have inspired complete confidence, he also didn’t look like the type of guy led to hard drive repair by a childhood love of “Harriet the Spy.” Besides, apart from my six Kelly Clarkson songs and the odd e-mail or photo, there wasn’t much on my laptop that I’d consider “personal.” My actual password, on the other hand, was something that I considered very personal - more so than a thousand photos (naked baby pictures notwithstanding).
An account password, in some ways, is like a time capsule - a condensed summary of ourselves at one point in our lives. What you choose to include in this capsule might not be anything too significant when you first select it, but, by doing so, you give it significance. The difference, of course, is that, while a time capsule spends decades buried and forgotten, the experience that inspires your password is relived daily - further strengthening the original point of reference.
Thus, I was taken aback when, after finally telling my password to the Apple Store Genius, he repeated it skeptically - loudly - for confirmation, and then rolled his eyes and quipped about it with the next Genius over. I tried to laugh, but I might as well have been buying my first box of condoms all over again - facing off with an eyebrow-raising cashier and the embarrassment that comes from something quite personal being made ridiculously public.
It seems that the idea of security has become as outdated as those first condoms would be today. As we further embrace technology, we do so at the further expense of our privacy. I no doubt held my password so much more sacred than my correspondence or photos because both of the latter had already been surrendered to the masses: published, tagged, “liked,” and commented on to death. My password had been mine and mine alone, and had provided the reassuring notion that my secrets were still secure.
Instead, our entire generation - Apple Store Geniuses included - has started to treat everyone else’s secrets as if they’re just another batch of stories published on our News Feed. At this rate, the next Bond movie won’t even need a torture scene - James’ enemies can simply sign him up for Facebook, and watch as he promptly forgets how to maintain and appreciate confidentiality within the films’ first five minutes. In the meantime, I need a new password.
- Eric Mutrie

“What’s the building’s policy on pets? Elephants, specifically.”

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 10:38:28 -0500

[Originally published in The Strand]
I spent this past Valentine’s Day wondering whether or not my bachelor status might have me doomed to live out the year ahead in a co-ordinating bachelor apartment. Two months after deciding that this semester will be my last in residence, I’ve quickly discovered that it’s as tricky to find someone to sleep across the hall from you as it is to actually sleep with someone. In other words, the same things that I detest about the dating scene - the presence of meddlesome friends, the pressures of commitment, and the way that these both manage to overshadow the simple pleasure of good company - all seem to apply even more aptly to the scene surrounding the Craigslist housing section.
My group of friends has a female-to-male ratio roughly in line with that of the labour force at your average Body Shop store. Thus, early last month, the process of elimination left myself and two other male acquaintances the only ones excluded from an all girls birthday party. Yes, apparently twenty-year-olds still have those. I’m willing to read between the stereotypical lines and assume that the evening’s agenda included neither “Truth or Dare?” nor hairstyling, but I have my doubts. Either way, the three of us resolved to assert our independence, and partook in a series of activities that stayed entirely within stereotypical expectations: we played sports, tie-dyed our t-shirts with impromptu blood stains, and discussed Seinfeld episodes. We talked briefly - vaguely - about whether any of us had considered moving out.
Word of our burgeoning camaraderie carried back to the sexist party-attendees quickly, and, by the time I arrived at the cafeteria for breakfast the next morning, we had already been christened the second coming of Bert, Ernie, and their - newly bearded - rubber duck. I sat through my female friends’ excited chatter, which was carrying on as if a lease had already been drafted and signed on my behalf. I tried to laugh off their enthusiasm as I secretly freaked out and concluded that it was way too soon to seriously broach this topic. It was at this point in the conversation that a friend started brainstorming names for our household-to-be. Awful names, like “The Gentlemen’s House” - which sounds like a euphemism for an outdoor latrine.
It turns out that this title was just a preview of the extensive terminology used to describe male friendships. As I sought to get properly acquainted with my newfound friends and potential roommates, I found the whole process annoyingly narrated by eager onlookers, waiting to slap a “man date” moniker onto every pub outing. Mind you, that criticism extends beyond just my group of friends - a gay man at the bar last weekend also mistook me and one of my newfound “bros” for a dating couple.
Second semester’s now half over, and I have yet to discuss next year’s living accommodations with either of my prospective roommates outright. Instead, all we’ve exchanged is a series of hazy statements, mentioned offhand and passed through mutual friends as if they’re our official spokeswomen.
I’m not sure whether Bert or Ernie were as put off by this auditioning phase as I am, but I’ve resolved to start handling things less like a relationship, and more like business. After all, while it may be lonely to spend February 14th without anyone to take out to dinner, it’ll be even lonelier to spend every other dinner of the year with an IKEA kitchen table all to oneself.
- Eric Mutrie

I’m Not Really A Medical Student, I Just Play One In Real Life

Thu, 29 Jan 2009 18:34:50 -0500

[Originally published in The Strand]
The sheer promise of a product like the spill-absorbent ShamWow makes it easy to forget that not quite everything works “As Seen on TV.” Infomercials glorify the goods that they pitch, and prime time programming glorifies the careers of its characters - troubling news for anyone who decided to enroll in medicine after a marathon of Grey’s Anatomy episodes.
When it comes to influencing one’s career path, the entertainment industry’s portrayal of - and bias towards - certain professions makes as strong an impression as any high school career fair. A hit television show is all that it takes to transform an obscure occupation into a weekly preoccupation. Thanks to a penchant for channel surfing, I knew what “CSI” stood for years before I knew what “NAFTA” did, and I now know that physical anthropology majors graduate to jobs analyzing skeletons, occasionally with alumni from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Yet, while a small group of Hollywood works to increase the exposure of a few lesser-known lines of work, the rest of Hollywood is happily outfitted in scrubs and stethoscopes. With House, Grey’s Anatomy, ER and Scrubs all sharing the airwaves for the past five years, it seems that today’s television viewers are as eager for doctors as the Ontario government.
More likely, television viewers are eager for Meredith Greys and Gregory Houses - eccentric, interesting characters who get viewers invested in their shows and, occasionally, in their careers as well. For those aspiring to a job in medicine, such characters become a source of pride, akin to celebrity spokespeople for the field. But for those simply aspiring to find an answer to “What do you want to be when you grow up?,” these characters become models to project oneself onto.
If someone had asked me to name my favourite architects on my first day of ARC 131 last year, I would have listed Tom Hanks’ character in Sleepless in Seattle, How I Met Your Mother’s Ted Mosby, and the dad from The Brady Bunch. Never mind the fact that not one of these men has ever built a real building - arguably, that’s the mark of all of the most visionary architects. Rather, I liked them for our shared personality traits.
This is where things can start to get carried away. There’s a difference between being inspired by a character and attempting to emulate one. Both reality television and Facebook encourage the idea of one’s everyday life doubling as entertainment for others, with conversations and parties turned into plot points in one’s own, personal narrative. But it’s dangerous to view a job in this context - you want to make sure that you end up doing something that you enjoy, rather than something that simply makes for an entertaining and natural addition to your life story. Otherwise, you’re probably better cut out for a career in television scripting.
After all, it’s going to take you more than just a montage to prep for something like your MCATs, and you’ll be stuck in scrubs long after Meredith Grey’s been retired to reruns on The Women’s Network. Thus, this budding architect has come to recognize that perhaps someone like Le Corbusier ought to be a greater life influence than someone like Mike Brady.
Ultimately, it might be best to heed a popular parenting mantra: “No TV until you’re done your homework.” In other words, make sure that you know what a job entails before you let the cool character doing it seduce you. A misguided career choice is one mess that definitely can’t be soaked up by a ShamWow.
- Eric Mutrie

Wake Me Up When You've Given Up on Your New Year's Resolutions

Thu, 15 Jan 2009 00:00:00 -0500

[Originally published in The Strand]
Green Day may have voiced its desire to sleep through September, but I’m beginning to think that the band’s whiny sentiments were ill targeted - if any month deserves a boycott, it’s January. Not only does the first month of each year mark the depressing end of the holidays - cueing the return of baubles to boxes and students to classrooms – but it also inspires the masses to draft horrid “resolutions” and take up unenjoyable activities that were clearly absent from 2008 agendas for good reason. Thus, January is a time when gyms become crowded, pay cheques become budgeted, and friends become intolerable.
It’s not that I don’t support my friends in their efforts to better themselves - obviously, self-improvement is an admirable and beneficial practice. That said, my support wanes once everyone else’s resolutions begin to feel like my own. My friends may struggle to endure their annoying new rituals, but I find myself struggling to endure the annoying new people that these rituals have spawned.
Far from being kept personal, resolutions are now advertised to the point that some people seem to be only one step short of wearing an “Ask Me About My New Year’s Resolution” t-shirt for the entirety of January. Apparently, while in the company of other, happier souls, those left tired, hungry and frustrated by their new traditions feel the need to endlessly reassure themselves of their causes’ validity.
I suppose that I’d be more willing to hear about someone else’s clichéd resolutions if I were convinced that said resolutions were going to play a significant, long-term role in that person’s life. Yet the very fact that a resolution is serving as the subject of exhaustive discussion only exposes it as an idealistic, overly drastic goal that will have faded from one’s consciousness by the end of the month. For a resolution to truly stick, it has to be something subtle that can be accomplished without a great degree of discipline, rather than something that requires one to painfully reinvent his or her life and emerge a fundamentally different person.
How can you tell when you’ve taken your resolution too far? A case in point: it’s fine to resolve to become more familiar with your nearest gym, but keep in mind that said gym is not paying you commission to recruit new members. After suggesting a Starbucks date to a friend this week, I was loudly reprimanded for not remembering the latte’s secret identity as a diet don’t. “If I’m going to spend the afternoon gulping down five hundred calories and thirty grams of fat, I might as well not have hit the treadmill every morning this week.” Oh? Well once you’ve finished tallying all of those calories, take note: when it starts to sound like you’re fishing for a “Congratulations on your diligent workout routine!” card, it’s time to stop flaunting that new gym regime.
Furthermore, by the time February rolls around and you realize that you’re still single and stressed, the latte will regain its place as your best friend, so can we skip ahead to a compromise that doesn’t include a Starbucks boycott? Remember, subtle changes.
Better yet, let’s simply conclude that the best New Year’s resolution is the one that no one knows you’ve made. Although, that said, I may have ultimately ended up making my resolution even more public and preachy than our aforementioned offender: I resolved to write more newspaper articles in 2009. Perhaps in 2010 I can resolve to be less of a hypocrite.
- Eric Mutrie