HOW MICROSOFT RUINED MY FATHER'S DAY WEEKEND

I’m not a lucky guy. It’s a fact I have come to grudgingly accept. I like to console myself by thinking that statistically speaking, there have to be people like me, with a constant run of minor, annoying bad luck, just like there have to be people with constant good luck.

Take for example, my Xbox 360. No, really. Take it. I can’t use it anymore. It doesn’t work.
That has me quite mad.

I got my Xbox in March 2007. In 2006, I had lucked into a gig writing freelance articles for a local newspaper. Opinion pieces- like I do here. The best part was I was getting paid for these articles. And, being the good dad that I am, I thought that this extra money would be great to spend on my kids.

Seven articles later, the paper folded. Now for me, this wasn’t that big a deal. I had a regular day job. It could have been worse- I could have been once of those folks that lost their primary means of income. But my luck doesn’t work like that.

Anyways, I had $250 burning a hole in my pocket. And my oldest wanted an Xbox 360- having been sold by all Microsoft’s effective advertising. So, I decided what the heck, and spent my writing money, plus a little of my regular check and got us an Xbox.

It was great fun.

In fact, not only did my daughter enjoy playing her games, I soon became hooked myself. No more sitting at my PC, gaming in an uncomfortable posture, hunched over a desk. Nope, now I was able to recline in luxurious comfort on the couch. Better still, I discovered that with an Xbox I was able to virtually hang out with my friends, without having to leave home. XboxLive, Microsoft’s online gaming service, allows users miles apart to connect via headset and play games together.

In no time, several of my friends and I had formed a little group of gaming dads. We could stay up late, talking trash and enjoying games, but still be home to help change diapers, give baths or any of the other many duties required of dads.

Moreover, I found that gaming was a great stress relief from work. Have a bad day? Crank up the Xbox and play a nice First Person Shooter game. What could be more therapeutic than shooting digital terrorists, or rampaging e-zombies?

However, in the midst of all this electronic fun, I learned that Xbox has a little problem. The Red Ring of Death. This is the gamers’ term for a condition caused by a manufacturing defect rampant in about 1/3 of all Xboxes. A defect that causes your Xbox to overheat and not work anymore.

At first, I was fully expecting to get the RRoD. My luck is always getting me defective electronics when I purchase them. I am repeatedly having to take things back and get them replaced. Very annoying.

However, Microsoft, seeing their market drying up, offered an impressive 3 year extended warranty, free, for the RRoD. Xbox overheats (for the RRoD) just send it in a get it replaced, free of charge. They even mailed you a box and covered the shipping price. Awesome.

For several of my friends, who had purchases the first Xbox 360s out, this worked out really well. Their Xboxes died and they got newer, improved Xboxes. See, Microsoft is always improving the Xbox; adding more memory, putting in cooler-running chips, and even adding an HDMI output.

Once I learned that my pals were getting better Xboxes than they started with, I knew I would never get the RRoD.

And I was right. My Xbox has chugged along, used maybe 20 hours a week, for two and a half years. It’s become my primary hobby. My wife and kids get me games and even extra accessories- like a wireless controller- when shopping for gifts. And this was to be my third Father’s Day weekend, where all I wanted to do was kick back on the couch and enjoy some air conditioned video gaming. I even got a new game, solely for this weekend.

Then my Xbox died last night.

No, it wasn’t the RRoD. That would be too easy. Nope, the graphics chip(s) have died. I get sound, and a super-distorted picture. Something that isn’t covered by the extended warranty.
If I currently had an extra $99, I suppose I could send this sucker off and have it "repaired"; which really means I’d get a refurbished console that someone else sent in with a RRoD. Meaning my "new" console would crap out within a few months and I’d have to send it back. This vicious cycle of exchanging Xboxes can go on for months. One of my friends had to send his back four times before he got a winner.

Yeah, I could send my Xbox off, and wait 4 to 6 weeks for a refurbished return. But what about this weekend? What about my new game- my self-picked Father’s Day present?

Nope, no gaming for me. I get to look at all my games, neatly shelved with my DVDs, and my controllers and extra accessories. I get to listen to my kids pout that the Xbox is down. My friend’s kid suggested that I just go out and buy a new one. If only the world worked like that. At 12, he just doesn’t grasp budgets. We live by a budget. And we’ve been saving our money for pool for the kids for this summer- a small one yes, but big enough that you have to save for it.
I suppose I could be selfish, and tell the kids they aren’t getting their pool. But that wouldn’t be me.

And really, why should I even be in this situation? You’d think that a device meant to be played for hours on end, that Microsoft claims has a "10 year life expectancy" would last longer than 2 ½ years.

So Microsoft tricked me. My Xbox worked so well for so long, and I recommended it to all my friends. Then mine crapped out due to shoddy manufacturing. I guess in the end, this has taught me a valuable lesson- never recommend ANY Microsoft product.

SQUIRE BOONE CAVERNS: A review.

When it comes to caves, I think I’m going to choose my basement mancave over Squire Boone’s beloved Corydon caves.

In case you don’t know the history, Squire Boone and his more-famous brother, Daniel Boone, discovered the caves in Southern Indiana (Maukport, near Corydon, to be exact) in the 1800s. They built a mill nearby. On one occasion, Indians, paid by the British to hassle folks on the frontier, were chasing Squire Boone and he hid from them in the caves, saving his life. Squire Boone so loved his caves that he wanted to be buried there.

I know all this ‘cause I chaperoned a field trip to the caves this week with my daughter’s school.
Call me soft- I’m definitely no frontiersman- but I don’t much care for Squire Boone’s caverns. Oh sure, they’re caverns, so they automatically get points in their favor, but I much prefer my own mancave.

First off, Squire Boone caverns are on a hill. Or maybe that’s in a hill? The point is that when you go, you’re going to be doing a lot of vertical hiking. From the slanted parking lot up to the gift shop, or down to the soap-making house, or candle-making house, or down to the Mill. See, there isn’t just a cavern to see, like in my youth. Nope, it’s a whole tribute to pioneer living. And that would be great- if it were on level ground. But I’m 41 years old and a fairly large guy. While I didn’t crack my head repeatedly on the high ceilings of the cavern like at Marengo Caves, I did find the up and downhill, back and forth hiking hard on my knees. Then we went underground.
Here’s an important safety advisory for anyone thinking of Squire Boone Caverns that has bad knees or is afraid of heights: Don’t Go.

When we went, the walk-in entrance was blocked off- this meant we got to do the 73 step-spiral staircase-from-hell to go down into the caverns, walk up and down many more stairs as we followed the guide, then turned around and climbed back out. I know, people laugh and say someone who’s 6 foot 4 inches tall shouldn’t be acrophobic, but I am. Especially when the metal stairs I am climbing flex under my wrassler-class weight.

Let’s compare my own mancave. It’s on level ground. One flight of stairs, that are strong enough to drive a car down, and carpeted. Maximum depth- one floor, not the 9 floors down that Squire Boone reaches at it’s deepest. My stairs are straight, too. No spiraling, no twisting, no turns. And dry, totally not slippery.

My mancave is drier- although I have to admit I like the cool dampness of caverns, it probably wouldn’t be good for my health in the long run. And while most caverns have electricity for lighting, well, there’s no TV. Point to my mancave and it's satellite goodness.

Solitude? 90 feet underground guarantees you probably wouldn’t hear a plane crash into the gift shop above, but I get decent sound-proofing from my mancave. No doors closing on cars, no cars-driving-by, no birds, no yelling kids outside. Basically then, anything more than one level underground is just unneccessary.

Did I get good pictures at Squire Boone Caverns? Yeah- more impressive than my GI Joe and movie memorabilia collection for sure. But given the strain on my knees to get there, I’ll contentedly stare at my bookshelves without any regrets.

Were the staff at Squire Boone helpful and nice? Absolutely. Great, friendly folks. If they were on level ground I’d go again. Several times.

All in all, I give Squire Boone 1 out of 5 stars. However, if you like climbing and dangerous heights, I’d boost the rating to 3 stars. All in all though, if you’re driving to Corydon to see a cave, I regretfully must recommend you go check out Marengo Caves. Even my 3 year old could handle that tour. Just watch your head.

YOU DARN KIDS GET OFF MY LAPTOP!

Why is it that when you hit a certain age, it annoys you that kids are playing in your front yard- especially other people's kids? Stranger's kids.

They aren't really hurting anything. Hell, stomping that grass might slow it's growth, ultimately saving me from having to break out the riding lawnmower and all the intensive labor that would follow. Like steering. And working the pedal.

Maybe it's the noise? It bugs me when I hear car doors slamming outside, or cars driving by. Which is weird, because when I was stationed overseas, planes were always taking off, all day long, and I completely tuned it out.

Is it like super-powers? Does age grant some kind of cosmic awareness that replaces the obliviousness of youth? Coupled with hyper-irritability?

I know something that irritates me. Twitter.

Here I am, only 41 years old, and Twitter really bugs me. Not because I'm a technophobe. Or a grownup. I'm neither. I play Xbox, I carry an Android Developer Phone and have been using computers since the Timex Sinclair (that's pre-Commodore 64 for you wannabe geeks). I email regularly. Obsessive-compulsively, in fact. As soon as I get an email, it's like someone knocking on my door and I have to answer. Same with my phone. Damn texting.

But I don't get Twitter. Heck, I don't get Facebook or Myspace either. What's wrong with reliable bulletin boards- BBS is what we used to call them in the heady pre-Al Gore-invented-the-internet-days.... Heck, even those Yahoo Newsgroups are okay.

Whoops, it's been five minutes since my last Twitter, hang on a sec...

Yeah, I'm Twittering. I feel like Billie Madison, back in kindergarten or something. I know, lots of old people Twitter. Brent Spiner for example. I sort of get why kids like to hear what Ashton Kutcher is eating or flushing at any given moment, but Brent Spiner? Data? Do kids these days even know what Star Trek: The Next Generation is?

Call us crazy at MTW, but we decided that maybe some Twittering would be good for us. Get the old creative juices rejuvenated with some hip, young Twittering. Or e-rambling, as I like to think of it.

"Burp. I burped."

"Tasted that chicken from lunch."

"Lunch was two hours ago. When will I have to potty?"

"Uh-oh, teacher sees me..."

You get the idea- Twittering is just random drivel. Thoughts people too lazy to say "please" and "thank you" punch into mobile devices with obsessive zeal. Observations and reflections that should have been left to their inner voice. Assuming they have one. Those kids are getting louder day by day, you know.

The worst thing about Twitter though, is the mobile-phone connection. Not only does it allow you to ramble out loud on the internet, via your cellphone, like deranged, demented elderly people in nursing homes, it also allows you to hear other people rambling. Better have an unlimited texting plan though- some people can't shut up. They feel compelled to comment every five seconds. Heck, since I started this article I've Twittered over a dozen times.

It kind of reminds me of Phillip K. Dick. He wrote this great book (those pressed, wood fiber sheets with letters, that don't require batteries or cellular service to read), entitled "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" I wonder if electronic sheep dream of androids. Android phones. All these folks Twittering are like sheep. E-sheep, standing around in the virtual world of the web, bah-ing occasionally to no end. And of course, to Twitter, you need a phone. And Android is the freely-distributable OS for cellular phones put out for Google.

There. See how easy that was- that was a Twitter-like line of thought. In Twitter speak, I'd have said it like this:

"Bladerunner. Good movie."

"Bad Androids."

"Bob has an Android G1."

"I like iphones."

I know, a lot of info left out of the Twitter stream of consciousness. But kids these days are too lazy. I mean, they have abandoned blogging and the deep, soulful reflections full of prose and wit and replaced it with... twit.

Really though, I should embrace Twittering, because it is close to caveman speak. Simple exclamations, short on durations, conveying meaning.

"Food."

"Hungry."

"Eat?"

It's like e-grunting. Beat that, Twitter!


NOTE: Come see me at www.twitter.com/troglodad and read for yourself how uncool and old I really sound.

THE DAY I BROKE UP WITH WENDY

For many years, the love of my life was Wendy, with her cute little pigtails and the smell wafting from her that I could only describe as heavenly. But sadly, the time recently came for us to part ways. Wendy has been letting herself go these past few years. She’s not that clean anymore. She’s greasy. She is just, well, run-down looking. Oh sure, she still has great buns, but that’s not enough.With great regret, I’ve had to leave Wendy behind, for Five Guys.

I’m talking about cheeseburgers, of course.

What could be better than the cheeseburger? It has the meat group, bread group, and dairy group all in one nice package. For those of you that are health conscious, you can always slap on a salad- but I think that taints the heady flavor of roasted cow flesh (or buffalo or any other grazing animal). Throw in a side of fries for your daily vegetable helping, and you’re set.

Wendy’s restaurant was my most beloved restaurant for many years. Those delicious triple cheeseburgers, dripping with extra cheese, a side of fries and a chocolate Frosty was truly my favorite meal. I could eat it everyday- although I would probably drop dead in only a few weeks. Anything that tastes that good can’t be good for you.

But ever since the food genius Dave Thomas passed away, Wendy’s has begun deteriorating. Where the burgers were once cooked to greasy, sizzling perfection in his lifetime, there have been times since his passing when my burger tasted a little... rare. Gone is the delicious saltiness. And where once I could swear I was tasting the savory goodness of what surely must have been steroids injected into the cows prior to slaughter, lately all I taste is something that must be freezer burn.
Wendy’s also began to get complicated. When I order a "Frosty" I don’t want to be asked what flavor I want. I want a damned Frosty. Do I get asked what flavor Coke I want? (They still make Cherry and Vanilla Coke, you know). And what’s with all the fancy schmancy sandwiches added to the menu? There should be three, and exactly three, choices of sandwich: Single, Double and Triple.

Despite the degradation of my most beloved place away from home, my spirits have been recently uplifted. There’s a new Burger Sheriff in town- actually, they’re more of a posse. And I pledge my loyalty for as long as my wallet, and heart, can take their savory goodness.

Five Guys (Burger and Fries) has come to Southern Indiana.

At first glance, I was a little worried to be eating at "Five Guys". They got their start in Washington D.C., where just about everything is screwed up. But I guess working to please the most crooked, twisted, screwed up bunch of nincompoops on the planet is a good way to master the Burger.

When you walk into a Five Guys, you’ll notice right off it’s clean. Okay, maybe the two I have begun frequenting are, because they’re new. Time will tell. Next up, you’ll see stacks of fresh, boxed potatoes. That’s because they claim to use only fresh potatoes, fried in peanut oil. They also claim their hamburger never hits the freezer. It’s fresh and refrigerated, never frozen.

On the way to the counter, you’ll notice boxes of unshelled peanuts out for your consumption. Right there they get points from me. I get to eat while I wait to eat? Man, that’s just like at home, where I’m gnawing on chips or cheese or something while I man my trusty Weber grill.

By the time you hit the counter, you’ve noticed two other things. The price and the simplicity of the menu. Five Guys make burgers, kosher hot dogs and grilled cheese sandwhiches. No chicken. No salads. And they charge a lot for this wonderful food. More even than Wendy’s. But the price is worth it.

When you get your cheeseburger- dressed however you choose- it’s been cooked well done, and is wrapped in plain foil. Not a paper wrapper or a plastic box. Nope, good old aluminum foil, like you’d have on a picnic. Flavor nor heat will be escaping this burger before you shovel it into your mouth. And the fries? Mmmm. Delicious steak fries, served in a styrofoam cup. And then they throw some extra fries in the bag, like tinsel sprinkled on a Christmas tree after the decorations are hung.

I’ll also note that if you order a bacon cheeseburger, the bacon is nice and crispy- not some limp, heated-with-a-hair-dryer strip of rubbery bacon. It crunches and is packed with salty flavor.

I’ll admit that Five Guys is lacking milkshakes on their menu. A juicy bacon cheeseburger with fries is great. But throw in a milkshake, and it’s a feast. At least Five Guys offers free refills to make up for this chilled dairy product bigotry.

By the time you leave a Five Guys, your wallet will be thinner, as though you’ve paid for twice the food you got. But that is fair, since the quality is more than twice as good as anywhere else.

I guess in the future, I’ll still drive by Wendy’s, to see how she’s doing. She does still have Frosty’s and a drive thru. She’ll always hold a special place in my heart, but Five Guys has earned a place in my stomach.

Wendy, if you ever get yourself straightened out, call me. I'll be at Five Guys.

I GAVE AT THE OFFICE

This isn’t just a rant. It’s a proclamation: I won’t be giving anything to charity this year.

I already gave at the office.

About midway through January, my car was broken into. Okay, "broken" might be too harsh of a word here as I suspect it was an unlocked back door (thanks kids) that allowed the thief entry. I didn’t have to repair anything on my car. Nothing was actually "broken".

Nope, there I was, walking out to the parking lot after another hard day in the office, when I noticed the glovebox open in my car. And papers pulled out. And my doors unlocked.

Oh, crap.

Sure enough, someone had rifled through my 1991 Toyota Camry. Which is in itself kind of puzzling. I mean, I drive a junker. It has rust spots and holes and everything. The paint is peeling off the roof. Oh, sure it has a new high performance engine in it, and new tires, but outwardly, it looks like a piece of crap.

What kind of a person is cruising the parking lot- which I might add is next to a Court House and Sheriff’s Office- and thinks, "Oh, I bet there’s good stuff to steal in that car!"

Anyone looking in my car is going to see the toddler booster seat in the bank, the blankets for the kids on the seats, the crappy, 1994 generic radio, the hole worn in my driver’s seat from the leatherman pouch worn daily on my belt, the crayons on the floorboard. Oh, wait, maybe it was my spare change.

I keep a lot of spare change in the car - dollars and dollars worth of pennies in the center console. All the drive-thru change I get goes there for my oldest daughter. She gets a thrill at cleaning the change out of the car. Except for January- since it was stolen before she could get to it.

Okay, even that is not entirely accurate. The lazy bastard/bitch that stole money from my car couldn’t be bothered with the $2 or $3 worth of pennies. Nope, they took maybe $4 or $5 of quarters, nickels, and dimes. Wow. What a haul. I hope they didn’t spend it all in one place.

Of course, that’s not all I’m out. No, it’s more complicated than that. See, the intruder also searched my glovebox, where I keep gas receipts and deposit tickets and slips. And maybe a spare checkbook. Sometimes it’s there, sometimes it’s not. So I had to go to my bank and get a new bank account number.

And that’s where the real trouble began.

First, there’s the time I had to spend going and getting a police report made. Then I had to go to the bank, with my wife, to open the new account, get new debit cards, order checks, etc.

Then there was the trouble of contacting the two autopayees I have, like my insurance company, and telling them I’m changing accounts. In particular, I had to tell them that my automatic monthly payments should still go through, rerouted by the bank, but if not, let me know and I’d fill out new EFT forms.

So two weeks pass, and the new checks come in. Wrong. Wrong name for me, and my wife’s name is omitted. That went over really well. A call to the check printer wastes a good half hour of time, as the little smart ass there tells me I have to go see my bank to get a name added. Then he tries to tell me where my bank is located.

"I know where my bank is," I responded. Smart Ass sneered over the phone (a skill he no doubt learned at the HP Customer Service Academy) and told me that he wasn’t saying I didn’t.

Fun stuff.

So it’s back to the bank on my lunch hour the next day to raise hell and order a second batch of new checks. With the right names on them.

February then rounded out with some excitement. Where in January my two automatic bill payments were deducted from the new account, in February the bank decided not to honor them. Without telling me. The first payee was kind enough to contact me about it, and I sent in new ACH forms. Not so my insurance company.

On March 4th I contacted the insurance company, in person, and told them that my payment didn’t come out the end of February as it was supposed to. I filled out a check, and the lady tells me that’s okay, she just needed the account numbers, she won’t cash the check.

Sure enough, the same day, a payment is withdrawn electronically and I’m current again on insurance.

Five days later, the insurance company cashes my check. Overdrafting my account. This requires a visit to the insurance office again.

So, let’s see… I’m up to $38 for an overdraft fee, $150 for a duplicate insurance payment, and about, oh, I don’t know, 8 hours of my time. All in all, I figure this works out to over $300 of loss for me. I know that’s not a whole lot, but it’s more than I normally give to charities.

I sure hope whoever broke into my car really needed that $6 worth of change they stole. Like they were starving to damn death. Realistically though, I imagine they used it to buy lottery scratch offs or a pack of smokes, or maybe some drugs (I could be wrong there, no idea what drugs cost these days). Heck, maybe they bought some colored markers and invested in an eye-catching "will work for food" sign. Obama wants everyone to reinvest in America, right?

Whatever the thief did, that’s my charity for the year. This’ll be the first time in my life that when someone approaches me for a handout or a raffle ticket to aid something, I can with complete and utter lack of guilt refuse and declare, "Sorry, I gave at the Office."

INVENTION: Sailing to the Product Land

So there I was, driving down the road, chatting with my wife on the way to work, when I had a brilliant idea. I can’t tell you what the idea was, because I signed a confidentiality agreement. But trust me. It was brilliant.

But what do you do with a brilliant idea? Let’s say you do invent the next lightbulb. Having an idea is swell, but how do you get it from your noggin to store shelves? Well, there’s a whole section of the internet out there that deals with these issues, and I have stumbled onto it.

Over the next few weeks, I hope to share all this new knowledge with you. And by doing so, also ensure my ability to prove "first invented". But more on that later. Let’s go back to that eureka moment.

I wasn’t trying to invent anything. I was complaining. And in the middle of complaining, the solution to my problem hit me. It was so obvious. Why had no one thought of it before?

Once at work- and thankfully early so I could do some quick research on my own time- I began to investigate the uniqueness of my idea. I began several web searches for existing products. Nothing on eBay. Nothing at Amazon.com. Yahoo nor Google produced any results.

Okay, maybe this is a new idea. Or maybe it just hasn’t been made yet, but is patented. Easy peezy. Just do a Google Patent search. At lunch of course- it was time to get to work.

By lunch time I was convinced that my idea was brilliant, and I was a little angry I couldn’t just go buy one. Quite frankly, I have no desire to start a business, to prototype, to beg, borrow or steal for funds to start production. I just want one of my doodads for myself.

Lunch time proved that I wasn’t going to be able to buy one anytime soon. Nothing on the patent search. I did find a vaguely similar product- similar in the way that oranges are similar to apples; they both being round fruits that grow on trees. But no doodad analogs.

Now what? Well, thankfully, I have a wide variety of friends. Including some attorneys, a guy who loves watching invention TV shows and a guy who started his own business and has a machine shop. I contacted all three of them.

"Brilliant! I want one!" my lawyer, and fellow shared doodad-problem attorney friend said. "That happens to me all the time! You should patent that and get it made! And I know a patent attorney!"

"Pretty cool!" my inventor-wannabe friend declared.

"Oh, my gosh!" My business friend declared. "That is brilliant!"

Okay, ego stroking done. Now what?

A prototype. Luckily, I carry a leatherman tool on my belt all the time. Oh, sure, folks mock me for this, but when they want something fixed, who do they come to? And my desk was stocked with paperclips, rubber bands, pens, and a whole lot of other junk.

I had a protoype put together in under 5 minutes. Well, not really a prototype, more of a proof-of-concept. Oh, yeah, this could work.

By Day Two, I knew I had to pick a destination and how to get there. Having a great invention in my head, and a cheesy, MacGyver prototype in hand isn’t enough. What to do? Not to worry, work was so hectic I couldn’t do much. And after work it was time to go home and unwind.

Part of my unwinding is my beloved friend, television. And one of many shows I watch regularly is a BBC production called "Dragon’s Den". Again, let me state that I never wanted to be an inventor- I just enjoy watching them shoot down stupid ideas.

Now at this point, you might think I got the idea to try and go on a TV show for inventors. But no, I was too dense for that. But before retiring to bed, I decided to check the internet for when the next season of Dragon’s Den starts. In reading the wikipedia page for the show, I saw that there were similar shows in the U.S.- including one called "Everyday Edisons" on PBS.

Not that I want to be on TV, but I thought I’d check out their website. I'm glad I did.

Turns out that www.everydayedisons.com sponsors inventor contests. You submit ideas, without the need for patents, and companies pick the best ideas. There are cash prizes and even a cut of profits should your idea be the one that actually gets made. And remember, my idea is brilliant.

My lawyer friend was not enthused.

"You should patent it yourself! This could be a steady source of income over the years!"

Maybe. Or maybe I could own 100% of nothing (one of my favorite lines from Dragon’s Den). And I don’t have the time for that. I have a day job, two kids and I occassionally try my hand at this writing stuff. Oh, and then there's my Xbox. That takes a LOT of my time.

Everyday Edisons is perfect for slackers like me.

So here I am, one week after my epiphany, and I’ve set sail on the SS Invention. My idea is in the pipeline. Maybe I can win some money, maybe I have just blown $25 on the entry fee.

THE TRUTH ABOUT HDTV

TV holds a very dear place in my heart. Growing up, I saw more of my TV than my parents. When I was stationed overseas, none of my family wrote me letters, but TV was there for me. When I get home from work, and I’ve had a bad day, I can always plop down on the couch and find something to watch on TV. Yes, TV has always, and will always, be there for me.

You’d think I would be thrilled about the switch to Digital TV coming up this summer. But I can’t stand all the lies being thrown at gullible consumers, about my best friend.

First off, let me assure you, despite HH Gregg’s annoying commercials, your trusty old Analog TV is not going to “blitz off” this summer, when analog broadcasts stop.

While I’m at it, I’d like to also point out that you should never, ever buy HDMI cables from an electronics store. Go home and order them online- you’ll pay about 25% of store cost, and get a better cable.

And finally, a TV isn’t really “HD” unless it can output a 1080p picture. Read the fine print. Don’t get suckered into buying a 720p.

If you’re thoroughly confused at this point, keep reading. If you know what I’m talking about, go help a friend instead of spending more time on this article.

DIGITAL VS. ANALOG

Up until now, TV in America has been broadcast on the analog standard. I won’t get into the highly technical definition of what that means. I’ll simplify it. When a record player scratches a vinyl record with a needle, sound vibrations are converted into electrical impulses. That’s analog. When your computer is hooked up to a microphone, it converts the electrical impulses from a microphone into a computer code. That’s digital.

When television stations stop broadcasting in analog, your TV will not shut off. It’ll show snow (static)- just like if you turn to a channel now that there’s no broadcast on. But that doesn’t mean your TV is no longer capable of receiving a picture- it just means no one is going to be broadcasting one (in analog).

Have a VCR? A DVD player? A satellite or cable receiver? All of those items will still emit an analog signal, over cables connected to your TV. You’ll still get a picture. You won’t need a DTV converter, or an HDTV.

Remember when DVDs came out? The picture was so much clearer than a VHS tape or even broadcast TV. That’s because DVDs have a higher resolution. Resolution refers to the pixels on your set. Your TV displays a picture by means of thousands of teeny, tiny colored dots- pixels. Like the road side hazard signs, but on a much tinier scale. The smaller the dots on your screen, and the more there are of them, the finer the picture looks. Kind of like drawing with a crayon, vs. drawing with a pencil.

Broadcast TV has a resolution of 128,400 pixels on the screen. Most analog, picture-tube TVs however could display as many as 307,200 pixels. DVDs output a picture closer to the 300,000 pixels than broadcast TV- explaining why they look so much better.

HDTV has a picture composed of 3,000,000 pixels. Quite a difference.

HDTV’s are defined by two standards, 720i/720p, or 1080i/1080p. Those numbers are a measure of the vertical lines of resolution. Less lines means less pixels. A 720p TV, while being sold for the same price as some 1080p’s, DOES NOT have the same picture quality. Please don’t be tricked into thinking otherwise.

NOTE: The “i” and “p” is a reference to interlaced and “progressive scan” and is a technical TV term dating from the days of analog TV. Basically, if a picture is 480 lines high, the interlaced version shows 240 spaced lines in odd-numbered frames, and the other 240 frames on even-numbered frames, there being 30 frames displayed per second on television, creating the illusion of movement for your eye. Progressive scan shows you all 480 lines for each of the 30 frames per second, resulting in a finer picture.

(On a side note, bear in mind that on a 13″ TV, those pixels are going to be smaller than on a 42″ TV. A smaller TV then will have a finer, smoother-looking picture than a large TV)

DON’T OVERPAY FOR CABLES

Anytime you shop for a new HDTV, you’re going to be harassed about buying an HDMI cable. Don’t let your eyes glaze over and don’t cave in to pressure.

Those red, white and yellow cables your first VCR used are called “composite” cables. The yellow cable carries a video signal, and the red and white carry audio signals.

When S-Video (Super Video) came out, the yellow cable was replaced with a black cable full of several tiny pins. The video cable was now split up and was capable of producing a better, higher resolution image.

Component cables look just like composite, consisting of a red and white audio lines, and red, green and blue video cables. Component cables can carry stunning 720i/p and 1080i images.
But not 1080p.

See, when all the electronics companies got together to work out sharing the technology of HDTV, they agreed that true 1080p images would only be sent out over HDMI cables- a digital, computery-looking cable. HDMI carries picture and digital audio. No analog involved. This results in superior audio and video, and allows you to fully enjoy the HDTV experience. And you can’t record over HDMI connections.

The problem with HDMI is that the cables are sold in stores for 4 times what they can be bought online. Yes, FOUR (4) times. Or more.

Take the average 6-foot HDMI cable for your new 1080p TV. At Bestbuy, it’ll run you $39.99.
However, any number of websites will sell you a superior cable, for less. My favorite online store, Monoprice.com, sells a gold-plated, 6-foot HDMI cable for $3.56 +shipping.
Yes, $3.56.

Now, you can get more expensive cables at Bestbuy. You can also buy higher quality cables at Monoprice.com. But the cheapest, crappiest cable at Bestbuy is still far more than the best cable Monoprice has to offer.

It’s a racket. It makes McDonald’s profit margin on french fries look tame.

Moral of the story: before you part with your hard-earned cash to enjoy the wonderous beauty of my bestest friend TV, please do just a little reading. The money you could save could be put toward a lot of snacks, something every good couch potato needs.