My new zPhone arrived yesterday and it’s everything I hoped it would be. I sprung for the white patent leather shoulder harness so I have a feeling I’ll be turning heads when I pull this rascal out.

I haven’t figured out how to set it to vibrate but I’m told you know when you have a call.
My favorite feature, however, is the paper print out of missed calls.

I opted for the International Orange model, but the zPhone also comes in camo. Sold out, of course.

I’ve packed my little bag and said goodbye to Barb. As soon as I can come up with Kerri Walsh’s phone number I’m going to call her and have her come get me. We’ll tell people I’m her father (okay, her grandfather). I’ll be the one crouched by the net, ready to towel off my Goddess of Beach Volleyball.

Seriously, this is the only sport worth waiting in line for. I’d like to meet the person who came up with the idea of sponsoring the back of her bikini bottom. [Photo: Kerri (6’3″) hugging her teammate Misty May-Treanor (5’10”)]

6/26/08 – 8:20 p.m.

The Gizmodo caption for this photo was better than the NY Times’:

“Last Tuesday, Lori Mehmen looked out her front door in Orchard, Iowa and this is what she saw. She had a digital camera handy, and somehow managed to take this photo before crapping her pants and taking cover. This, my friends, is why always having a camera nearby is helpful.” [NY Times]

I went skeet shooting with Scott and Christi yesterday. Technically, I went “skeet-shooting-at,” since I didn’t actually hit one of the little clay targets (in the air). Scott placed a couple on the ground about 20 feet from the shooting area (“home intruder range”) and I sent them to the ER if not the morgue.

I haven’t shot a gun in 40 years. Last time was during training for the Postal Inspection Service. We had to qualify with a sidearm (a very un-sexy .38 revolver back in those days) and got an hour or two of training with a 12 gauge riot gun.

I really enjoyed yesterday’s outing and quickly became the designated clay pigeon flinger. Used a little plastic launcher to sling tiny clay Frisbees into the air where Scott and Christie blew them to smithereens.

I was impressed by the skill exhibited by both Scott and Christie. She wielded a 12 gauge pump (is there anything hotter than a woman with a 12 gauge?) and he switched back and forth between a couple of shotguns.

In case you’re wondering… no, I’m not a hunter and don’t plan to be. I’ve never owned a gun. But in the unlikely event someone showed up in the middle of the night, uninvited, I’d like to greet them with something besides my MacBook in my hands. Scott recommends a side-by-side double-barrel 20 gauge.

I know. I’m as surprised as you are.

There’s an image on the right side of this page that’s taken by a little webcam in my office that uploads a photo every 30 seconds. At the end of the day I sometimes leave it pointed toward the door to the hallway, and sometimes I point it out the window. Today I aimed it in a different direction and got this image.

If I’ve done the math correctly, that’s 2,880 images every day. One million plus every year (is it really a new photograph if nothing has changed?). The daytime images aren’t all that interesting but the ones taken when the office is empty sometimes are. Maybe it’s the idea of the photo composing itself.

I’ve had the Office-cam for years and, frankly, I’m surprised nobody has gone into my office at night and… had some fun. The obvious thing would be to moon me (and the world). But wouldn’t it be more fun to create little tableaux? Maybe a solitary figure standing in the parking lot, in the rain… looking directly up at the camera. Or close-up of someone’s eye. Or a page from a book.

And knowing the photo would only exist for 30 seconds, when the next photo takes it’s place. It would really only exist if someone, somewhere, saw it and decided to save it within that half-minute.

I have this fantasy of some guy serving a life sentence. In his cell 23 hours a day. No TV, no radio, no books or magazines… just a computer that can only do one thing. Show the images from my webcam.

What sort of story would he construct from these images. Year after year, some aging white guy in some office somewhere. People walking past the open doorway, sometimes coming in to talk. About something he’ll never know. Would he wonder about my moods from my facial expressions? Would he feel as though he knows me after years of watching me, hour after hour?

And suppose –somehow– I was made aware he existed. And my webcam was his only window on the world. Would I behave differently? Perhaps lure some cute co-workers in for a chat, to brighten his day?

As silly as this sounds, I really don’t know that this is not happening. Hmm.

Well. Tomorrow is Fez Friday. He always enjoys Fez Friday.