I bought a cell phone with a built-in camera a couple years ago with the intention of figuring out how to snap photos and then have them sent directly to my blog, in real-time… It would have been pretty cool, I thought… I forgot, however, to take into consideration the fact that I’m completely inept when it comes to the use of non-food-and-television-related technology, and the fact that my cellular provider charges about $2 for every photo sent. So, as the project sat right there at the nexus of my being cheap, and my being non-tech-savy (two of the more powerful threads that run through my life), nothing happened.
Not only couldn’t I send images to my blog, though, I couldn’t download them to my computer either… So, I’d take photos and they’d just stay there on my phone, where they’d become less and less relevant with each passing day.
So, after watching my cell phone blink for the past year, saying that I’d taken too many photos, and that there was no more memory left, I decided to do something about it. I decided that I was going to figure out how to get my phone to talk to my laptop, so that I could transfer files… That was at least three months ago… As of this morning, however, I finally cracked it. I finally triumphed over my little problem that any sixth-grader of average intelligence could have probably done in five minutes. So, now I’m transferring stuff over to my computer.
Here are a few examples. It’s taken me an hour to figure it out, but the first one, I think, might be a dosa from Mysore Woodlands (great food, if you can divert your eyes from their “traditional Indian” kitchen when youre placing your order). And, the second was taken outside the Ypsialnti skank factory known as Club Divine. The list pictured in that one was actually quite a bit longer as I recall, but I only got a photo of the top of it. I think, toward the bottom, there was a “No Wigs” clause, which is why I decided to take the photo in the first place, but I guess I must have missed it. (My aim sucks too.)
So, on slow news days, you can now look forward to seeing three year old, absolutely irrelevant photos.
11 Comments
Oh, oh! I do love the dosa. My other favorite from Mysore is the Aloo Bonda. Or little dumplings of heaven, as I like to call them. Give them a try, if you haven’t already.
Wow, that dress code is really something. What the f is up with what shoe color you wear? By the way, lucky bastard, kudos on Peter Falk. That guy is a hoot. He’s been on Dinner for Five (IFC) a couple of times and he’s hilariously earthy. Great storyteller.
Mysore Woodlands? Is that on Ford Road in Garden City?
Mysore Woodlands is in Ann Arbor, right on the outskirts of Kerrytown, in the little shack that used to house DeLong’s Bar-B-Q. I haven’t been there in about a year. It’s probably time I went back… And thanks for the tip on the Aloo Bonda. Hopefully, I’ll remember.
As for Falk, I need to call him and finish the interveiw, but I’m going to wait until things calm down a bit (my work is really hectic right now), so if you have other ideas for questions, please send them in.
That dress code was seriously like five pages long too… And it looked like it was printed out on one of those old-time printers where all the pages were connected, and the items got progressively weirder and weirder as you went down the list. As I recall, there were certain hairstyles that were frowned upon.
Forget the dress code. Please describe the culinary pleasures that is that…thing. Am quite curious about the condiments too. Is this a sweet or savory item?
Oh, and why two spoons? This is more mysterious than Cheney’s garage.
My garage, by the way, looks like the building the kids go into at the the end of the Blair Witch Project. If I posted photos you’d be scared to death.
As for the food, it’s been so long ago now that I don’t remember… I’ll go back though, and I’ll take my now-useful camera phone.
I have to have a different spoon for each nostril.
hee hee hee
It’s an OCD thing…. You wouldn’t understand.
There doesn’t seem to be a rule against smearing ones self with feces before entering this dance club, or dressing in blood-soaked rags.