Grim unphotoshopped foto of a drunken slob, male. Subject was espied exhibiting behavior typical of the species (e.g. Texas Longhorns fan passed out cold, fly open, may or may not have pissed self) at a bus stop near the Erwin Center on Red River, September 1, 2006.
I have spent the entire morning locked in mortal combat with The Man. By which I mean I have spent the entire morning locked in mortal combat with Adobe Systems Inc. The episode has robbed me of what little vim I had left. Here is my sorrowful tale.
Once upon a time there was installed on the Twisty Mainframe a very expensive copy of Adobe CS2. Adobe CS2 contains Photoshop, an application I use daily and without which I am nothing. Nothing.
Horribly, the Twisty Mainframe is located in my office, which is down a flight of stairs from the main level of the Twisty Bungalow. A flight of stairs is coconut pie if youâ€™ve got two or more feet, but for monopods such as myself (or, one suspects, for gastropods such as the one pictured above), that office might as well be in Cambodia. So I have contrived, for the duration of my ankle infirmity, to relocate the bulk of my professional life to the Twisty Recuperational Chaise*. There I might elevate my swole-up foot on comfy cushions, and there, with the aid of my 12â€œ Powerbook, the TV remote, and a middlin’ high stack of reading material**, I have been testing various versions of Lounging Theory in field trials for the past 3 weeks.
Yet I long for more. Thus it was my desire, this morning, to install Photoshop on my laptop, so that I might enhance charming photos like the one above for what is without a doubt your profound enjoyment, as well as to pretty much contribute meaningfully to Western civilization, without having to flail around tempting fateâ€™s cruelty on these absurd crutches.
â€œNot so fast!â€ said Adobe Systems Inc. They were adamantly against facilitating my brilliant plan. Installing Photoshop on the Twisty laptop, it turns out, is like trying to prove the Goldbach Conjecture. I was obliged to search out dusty old account numbers, crusty old download URLS, and mouldy old serial numbers from ancient versions of Photoshop that are no longer even installed on any of my machines. To this end I teetered up and down the stairs on my rickety crutches, retrieving one essential code number after another, only to discover upon each return that Adobe Systems Inc, would require yet another.
In this painful and tedious manner I got all the way to the â€œInstallation was successful!â€ screen, whereupon my heart, though I had squandered 4 hours of my rapidly diminishing lifespan on this inane project, swelled with joy. However, I was, if I may mangle Blake, to kiss this joy as it flew. For I was, in the final hour, dee-nied. Apparently the 8 million bucks I paid Adobe Systems Inc for CS2 does not entitle me to use the software in a manner that is actually useful to me. For although I am but one lone crippled spinster aunt and can use only one computer at a time, I may not â€˜activateâ€™ Photoshop in two simultaneous locations because Adobe Systems Inc are afeared I am a software pirate.
Adobe, 1. Twisty, 0.
Downloading without joy, if I may now mangle Ruskin, is base***.
So Iâ€™m afraid you and I are stuck with crappy-lookinâ€™ fotos for the duration. They always look so unpleasantly cinÃ©ma-veritÃ© straight out of the camera.
* OK, the Twisty Recuperational Chaise is really just a cheap twin-size futon outfitted with assorted cheap wedge-shaped pillows. It takes up my entire living room and is super-ugly. I regard it as a prison.
** The Twisty Recuperational Book Table contains these titles:
Schmidly. The Mammals of Texas
Geoffrey Nunberg. Talking Right
Kurt Vonnegut. The Sirens of Titan (contains pet patriarchal dramatic device: the love-rape)
Sheila Jeffreys. Beauty and Misogyny
Bertrand Russell. Why I Am Not A Christian
Natureâ€™s Path. Oatey Bites Cereal Box
*** John Ruskin knows from base. â€œLabour without joy is base. Labour without sorrow is base. Sorrow without labour is base. Joy without labour is base.â€ Time and Tide (1867) Letter 5