Thanks Mom, for everything. You may not be an imposing figure walking down the street, but you’re far tougher than the average tiger. No matter how much life surprises you and tosses you things you weren’t planning on, you find a way to pull it all together and make it all right. And it’s important you realize your contributions and sacrifices do not go unnoticed or unappreciated. Your strength is inspiration to us all. I’m proud of you, and I hope you have a wonderful day.
Free your Images from Facebook?
Kodak has organized a stunt whereby a man will remain trapped in a box until 1 million photos are set free from Facebook by using the new My Kodak Moments app. With the app, users can pull photos directly from their albums and their friends’ albums to create photobooks and prints, which can then be ordered on Facebook for delivery.
If you’re in New York City, you can visit Mark Malkoff in his transparent box. Or regardless of where you are, you could print something and help end his imprisonment. Or you could cry, or maybe just cringe.
Yes, I get that this is marketing schtick. It doesn’t have to make complete sense. But does it have to be embarrassing? After all, they’re nice prints. The photo books are great. The app is well done. It’s the message behind the stunt that makes me wince. (Full disclosure: I work for Kodak.)
Think about it. Kodak thinks your photos are trapped in Facebook Jail. A place where they are easily sharable with 800 million Facebook users. A place where they are archived indefinitely. A place where they are downloadable, linkable, or cross-postable on demand. Yup, these photos are confined like a lion on the Serengeti.
Further, Kodak is proposing to “free” your photos by printing them such that they exist on a single piece of paper and are only sharable with people who can see over your shoulder. This is like trying to convince people to free their music from iTunes by pressing it onto vinyl disks.
They should just hang up a sign that says, “Kodak—We don’t get it… and get off our lawn.”
Let’s face it, Kodak is in trouble. This is no secret. The news reports daily on Eastman Kodak’s efforts to remain financially solvent as it tries to shed the shame of failing to capitalize on the market’s shift to digital imaging (a technology it pioneered) and reinvent itself as a printing company, all in the midst of the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression. Not an easy go.
But it’s one thing to be late to the game. It’s another to show up at the football field with your first baseman’s mitt and your swim goggles and wonder why no one picks you for their team.
My morning coffee was interrupted by a gentle knocking on the front door. On the other side was a delightful older woman and her apprentice proselytizer sporting bibles, Watchtower magazines, and other paraphernalia of the trade.
She opened by explaining they were there to make sure I understood what the bible had to say, because they’ve found many people don’t know. I politely replied that I had a bible, had read it, and was pretty familiar with what was inside. I finished by explaining that I really didn’t feel the need for any additional guidance today.
That should have been the end of it, save for a few pleasantries, and I could return to my cooling cup of Joe and my newspaper. But no.
She reaches into her stack of pamphlets and pulls one out while saying that perhaps she might interest me in some information on God’s creation because science is constantly trying to disprove it, and I might need to know how to respond.
It was at that moment I wished I was a woman and could pull off that whole finger-wagging head-shaking “Oh no you did not” indignation move. But alas, I’m just a gesture impaired male. Either way, it was clear my coffee was going to get colder.
I responded, “I’m sorry, but you have to understand that science is not trying to disprove religious mythology. That is neither its purpose nor its intent. It exists to explain nature in a way that allows us to predict and manipulate it. This is a role that religion does not fulfill, nor aspire to fill. Science is dependent on a method of discovery and rigorous explanation that is completely indifferent to your beliefs. Science is not a democracy, nor is it dependent on faith. You don’t get to pick and choose where it leads.”
“You drove up here in a car whose existence is the product of chemistry, metallurgy, physics, and a dozen other scientific disciplines. You have a cell phone in your purse, you’re wearing synthetic blend clothes, and you’re schlepping out brochures drafted on computers and produced on high-speed printing presses.”
“The world you live in is the product of science. It’s unfortunate that you feel threatened by aspects of science, but unless you’re willing to go back to your cave and huddle around the fire you need to find a way your theology can coexist with it. Anything less is a major act of hypocrisy on your part.”
Science doesn’t want to play in your sandbox. Stop dragging it in.
Halloween was several days ago, which can only mean one thing. Christmas is upon us. Yes, yes, I know Thanksgiving is in there somewhere, but so far our WalMart overlords haven’t figured out how to commercialize that day beyond a good sale on canned cranberry jelly. So it doesn’t count. It’s Christmas dammit! Why aren’t you out shopping?
Actually several members of my family (those with a preponderance of X-chromosomes), started the Christmas season months ago. I know this because they started pestering me in July for what I wanted for Christmas, and for what they should buy my teenage sons. Some consider themselves behind if Labor Day comes and goes and they aren’t wrapping presents yet.
I don’t believe for a minute they simply enjoy gift shopping so much they have to start 6 months early because they can’t wait. Catch them overtired or with an extra glass of wine and they’ll even admit that while they love the idea of Christmas gifts, the reality is a pain in the tuckus, and they are just trying to get it out of the way.
In fairness, it’s not all downside. Pretty much everyone relishes seeing the unmitigated joy on a young child’s face as they open a Christmas gift. And kids’ needs and desires change so frequently in those early years that shopping for them is often fun. But shopping for anyone over 15 gets a little dicier. When shopping for older folks, gifts tend to fall into one of two categories. Stuff they don’t want, and stuff you can’t afford. Which explains why on Christmases-past you may have wanted an HDTV, but instead exclaimed, “Yay! Socks!” while quietly dying a little bit inside.
Retailers recognized this problem, and in recent years the advent of e-commerce and online wish lists have made things easier for shoppers to buy gifts people actually desire and value. In theory, you just hit up your intended’s Amazon Wish List and select from the bounty of gifts he or she has expressed an interest in… And a couple of clicks later, you’re done. Which would be bloody brilliant except that most of us don’t bother adding things to our wish lists. All of which earns us the ire of our loved ones who berate us for depriving them of the opportunity to conveniently show us how much they love us.
So now, instead of struggling to find the perfect gift for Mom, you struggle to find the perfect gift for Mom to give you. It’s not clear this is better. And whatever element of surprise there was in the giving of gifts has vanished. “Oh look! The new razor I picked out for me. What a splendid wrapping job you did on it. Is there any pie left?”
It’s tempting to argue that maybe us older folks should just mutually agree to wallow in each other’s company, embrace the warmth and the strength of our familial bonds, and forgo the whole gift exchange… but apparently that’s just crazy talk. “These are traditions dammit, and it wouldn’t be Christmas if you didn’t get to open something. So, just shut your heretical pie hole and tell me what to buy you!”
Looking at the evolution of gift giving on Christmas we see the following progression of things we give to others to celebrate the day:
Our entire economy is now dependent on Christmas shopping, so we can’t return to just offering each other a little pa-rum-pum-pum-pum without risking a collapse of the entire stock market, and I am not living through 2009 again. Instead, let’s push this forward. I think it’s time we move this along to its next evolutionary stage.
Why don’t we all just take responsibility for not only selecting, but for purchasing and wrapping gifts for ourselves from all our loved ones. Just put their name on it and place it under the tree. This is a sure way to restore the magic of the day, or at least the element of surprise. Sure, you’ll still know everything you’re getting, but you’ll have no idea what you’ve given. Maybe you’ll choose to have the whole family chip in on that TV. Maybe they’ll each give you an individually wrapped Oreo. Have you been naughty or nice this year? Who knows? You do! (Certainly they don’t.) Oh, the fun of Christmas morning is back.
Who’s with me?
It's just a bend to the right... And then a crash to the le-e-e-e-ft.
I’m scouring the paper this morning looking for police reports of yelling and other peace disturbing behavior coming from the home of a local elderly couple. But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.
You see, I live near the Erie Canal, and there are several elevated one-lane bridges that are still the main way to get from here to there. These bridges usually have blind approaches, and so have their own protocols for who gets the right-of-way and who has to back-up and yield the bridge.
Usually this works without a hitch, but last night, one old lady and a particularly non-linear bridge approach combined for a physical comedy routine that was funny and painful at the same time.
On this particular bridge, you need to bear to the right as you approach, which the old lady did with aplomb. However, as she reached the bridge, she found me about ready to exit the bridge on her side.
As per the protocol, and without hesitation, she popped her car in reverse to yield the bridge. She needed to back up about 10 feet while steering gently back around the curvy apron in order to let me by. Easy-Peasy… or not.
Instead, she backed up twice that distance while keeping her wheel dead straight, meaning that she now blocked the entire street. My son and I watched as her head flipped back and forth and the reality of her current predicament settled in.
As we all know, nothing solves a problem like doing more of what you’ve been doing, but doing it harder and faster. So with renewed zeal, the sedan starts again down the hill… on a straight trajectory… heading toward the guardrail on my side of the road. The car jerked slightly to the left and right as the woman tried to see over each shoulder in turn. Yet she remained oblivious to the the outcome that was obvious to me as well as the cars now queued at the bottom of the hill behind her. We all watched, helpless, as the stupidity unfolded.
It was just a Yakkity Sax soundtrack from watching a Benny Hill skit. Traffic was frozen as the car stuttered towards its demise. There was nothing to do but add voice-over commentary for my son. “No! Stop! Turn right! DOH!”
It didn’t take too long before the sound of metal-on-metal filled the evening air as the driver’s side of her car was molded to the unyielding guardrail. I expected to see a look of horror and/or panic on the poor woman’s face, but the incident didn’t appear to register. In fact, she even gassed the car a bit to make sure it was firmly seated against the rail before making her next move.
Fortunately, her next move was forward, a direction that she was more comfortable with. She managed to pull the car back to her side of the road and come to a stop. And trust me, no one else on the road last night was going to move until she finally came to a complete stop.
We rolled past her, looking at all the crinkly sheet metal. I gazed at her face to see if she was okay after her ordeal, but from her expression you couldn’t tell that this wasn’t just another trip to the grocery store. Who knows? Maybe it was. Maybe this was not an atypical bridge negotiation for her. Maybe that’s why I didn’t see a police report in the paper about her yelling husband. Maybe.
Artist's Exaggerated Rendering of the Situation
It all started one dark and stormy night back in February. My miscreant son mistook the word “RAM” on the side of my truck for a verb and turned the ass end of an innocent mini-van into an abstract sculpture.
Fast-forward seven months, and my auto insurance came up for renewal with a little surprise. Travelers decided to assess me a 39% surcharge for the next 39 months as a result of the winter mishap.
My initial reaction was incredulity that a company I’d been a customer of since 1984 would be trying to extract a punitive charge for a relatively minor accident. Especially since my only other claim was in 1995, and the other guy’s company paid for that one in full. So I got right on the phone to Ellen at the agency and asked what this was about.
Ellen has always treated me well, and she was quick to assure me that the charge was not punitive. Rather, it was an actuarial assessment of the now greater risk of another accident. I tried to wrap my head around this. After all, my son is not on my insurance policy. He borrowed the truck that night, and he doesn’t borrow it all that often. Clearly they weren’t saying his whoop-si-daisy somehow made me a riskier driver. So either they were assessing me a 39% penalty for my questionable judgement in whom I let drive my vehicle, or they were worried about some previously unknown quantum-gravitational attraction exerted by fresh paint such that my truck was now hopelessly attractive to other cars.
Either way, I felt betrayed, jilted, and abused. As if three decades of loyalty had no meaning. So, I did what any man would do. I went trolling on the Internet looking for someone new. By the end of the weekend, I had found Catrina, a delightful woman who worked for State Farm. She was only too happy to console me, answer my questions, and provide quotes enticing enough to lure me away from my tarnished relationship with Travelers. The temptation of something new and cheaper was powerful.
I called Ellen the next day to tell her I couldn’t go on like this. I wasn’t paying the surcharge, and if it didn’t come off, then we were through. I knew in my heart, if I wrote a check, Catrina would have me. But Ellen didn’t answer her phone. I left her messages. A whole day went by. Not a word.
When I finally did hear from Ellen, she told me how she’d been working with others in her office, as well as the underwriter and the claims manager to get this resolved. She told of how she accidentally yelled “yahoo!” during a call with another customer when the email finally came in indicating Travelers had seen fit to waive my surcharge. My checkbook went all pitter-patter as Travelers was once again my least expensive option, and I do like it cheap.
But now the hard part, I had to nip my blossoming relationship with State Farm in the bud. I contacted Catrina and told her the sordid tale of the “clerical error” Travelers made about who was driving that night. A misunderstanding that apparently caused our whole spat. I explained that I had agreed to take them back… but to be assured, they will be sleeping on the couch for a while. And should Travelers ever step out on me again, I will kick their butt to the curb and be giving her a call.
She said she understood, and that if Travelers ever slipped up on me again, she would be there with tissues, a bottle of wine, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, and a stack of insurance binders ready for me to sign.
The whole experience leaves me wondering… why do only friendly helpful women work for insurance agencies? Is this some sort of cosmic yin to the DMV’s yang? Is it some bizarre way for the universe to achieve a weird state of cordiality balance?
I’m a hero. And no, I don’t mean I’m a long tubular sandwich, although the fact that I’m not should put to rest once and for all the notion that you are what you eat. I mean I’m now an actual American hero. I’m in league with the likes of John Glenn, Abraham Lincoln, and Superman. My time has come. I have arrived.
I know I’m a hero because I’ve been recognized by a major celebrity on national television as one of our nation’s heroes. And it only cost me $50.
This screen capture came from last night’s Colbert Report where Stephen faithfully acknowledges those who contribute to his SuperPAC by shamelessly pandering to them. This is also evidence that I’ve fulfilled the promise I made to my kids last month that if I was lucky enough to sell my ancient boat for a fair price that I’d send a donation to the organization dedicated to making a better tomorrow tomorrow. Done and done.
It’s not at all clear my kids really care about this, nor is there any obvious connection between boat sales and snarky political activism. It’s perhaps more that I’m prone to the unwarranted linking of disparate thoughts running through my brain after 11pm. But at least I follow through on them.
One of the joys of working from home is that my post-alarm clock commute time is about two and a half minutes. About two minutes of that involves stopping in the kitchen to put the coffee on before stumbling down to my office.
Sitting bleary-eyed in my office this morning I had already managed to fat-finger in a couple of passwords and comb through the email that had accumulated since the end of the day yesterday. It was a promising and not atypical start.
Sensing the coffee should be about done, I ambled back up the stairs to the kitchen only to discover to my horror that my mug was missing from its perpetual perch next to the coffee maker. A quick check of the cupboard and the dishwasher to be sure I hadn’t accidentally washed it… but yup, it was gone. My mind reeled. I began entertaining the notion that someone broke into my house overnight, passed up all the computer equipment and the big flat screen TV, and made off with my vintage Digital Equipment Corporation coffee mug. At the moment, it was my best working theory.
It did cross my mind that I could pour a cup into one of the other dozen mugs in the cupboard… but that was just crazy talk. Shaken, I wandered back to the office… coffeeless. Maybe I could Google police reports to see if there had been any other mug thefts reported in the area.
As I set there pondering my plight, the heady aroma of fresh coffee wafted by my nose. It was then that I noticed a hot cup of Joe, in my precious DEC mug, resting on the corner of the desk. I didn’t know who stole my mug last night, but I was grateful the pangs of guilt made them bring it back, and returning it full was a thoughtful touch.
It’s almost noon now, and having finished the pot, and possessing a lucidity that earlier evaded me, I’m loathe to admit my earlier analysis of the situation may have been flawed. So now I’m wondering how to solve the coffee bootstrap problem. Apparently, I need to work on a new caffeine delivery system that will allow me to be conscious enough prior to having my coffee that I might function adequately enough to actually get it. I can’t risk another morning like this one.
Who knew Reagan was a MaSheen?
I was reading a somewhat interesting article on my computer called “The Backfire Effect,” when my 16-year old son wandered into the room. He did what he always does… made a lazy circle around behind me and perused whatever was on my screen.
It just so happened, I was far enough down the page that the picture of Reagan (shown to the right) was on the monitor.
It was at that moment I became comforted my boy had not fallen in with any Young Republican groups at school, nor had he been sneaking out at night to attend Tea Party rallies.
He looked at me and said, “Is that Charlie Sheen?”
And I have to admit, there is a resemblance. Maybe that’s why Reagan has become a sacred idol of the Conservatives. He’s got tiger blood too.
Artist's rendering of me on the phone with the bank.
Oh, it’s on. These sociopathic banking bastards are tap dancing on my last remaining nerve.
At the beginning of May, my automatic payment to Chase for my credit card statement balance failed to post. I caught this quickly, reported it, and electronically transferred the $463.20 I owed to them. The root cause of this was a glitch in one of Chase’s own systems. But the fact remained, it was 18 hours past the due date.
I soon discovered I had then been charged $33.39 in fees and interest. That works out to 9.6% interest PER DAY. Being robbed at gun point and pistol whipped would have been a better feeling. But I had the inner peace and satisfaction that comes from knowing you’re right, and the maniacal determination to make that reality known to the cadre of clueless meatbags that stood between me and my squeaky clean credit history.
The next few weeks involved more phone calls and faxes than I care to mention. At one point Chase required that I actually had to print documents off of the Chase system and fax them back to Chase as evidence of my claim. This sort of bureaucratic bullshit is not incompetence. It’s a carefully crafted strategy to frustrate and abuse the opposition in hopes they give up and walk away. Not a chance.
They finally relented, and agreed to credit me the $33.39, which was damn sporting of them considering their computer caused the problem in the first place. I was frustrated, but contented. I got my due.
Today my June statement dropped. I opened it only to find a new interest charge on there. I grab the phone, dial the number and punch zero until the IVR cries uncle and connects me to a human being. I explain that I want to know what this interest charge is. The agent informs me he’d be happy to help me with that today. I somehow suspect he’s going to change his mind.
He cheerfully drops into a canned script about how interest charges are calculated, and I cut him off at the dangling participle. I explain there should be no interest at all as they credited me the $33.39, and otherwise the card is paid off.
He clicks away at his keyboard for a moment, and announces he has an answer. There were almost 3 weeks that went by from when the $33.39 was charged to me and when they credited my account for the same. This was the interest I owed on that overdue charge, prior to them issuing the credit.
I left the line silent for a moment assuming the insanity of what he just explained would trigger a follow-on statement, or at least a satisfying “splat” as his head popped and the gelatinous goo dripped from his monitor. But nothing.
“Let me see if I have this right,” I offered. “You’re charging me interest for failure to pay you money you agree I didn’t owe you?”
“Well Sir, the system doesn’t remove the charges, it merely credits you. And according to policy you are still responsible for the initial charges and any late fees or interest on those charges.” He spoke with a straight face, however improbable that may seem.
Donning the face in the illustration above I roared back, “This is completely unacceptable! Chase agreed I was not liable for initial problem. That’s why they credited the charges in the first place. I will not be held financially responsible for the vagaries of your internal accounting system. You agreed to credit the charges. I expect that to be all of them. And I do not expect to have to waste my time or yours having to explain this all over to someone else next month.”
Another long silence loomed on the line. Then much to my surprise, “Yes Sir, I’m going to go ahead and credit that interest charge back to your account.”
This should have been a good outcome. I ultimately got my justice (at least until next month). But at what price? Financially, I’m in way over the $33 limit if I remotely try to factor in the time devoted to this. And I’m sure they’ve spent way more dealing with this resolution as well. Yet I suspect that for every one of me who goes to the wall over this stuff, hundreds of folks just pony up the extra fees in the interest of keeping it simple. And that’s why banks do it.
I’d like to even think this was strictly a Chase problem, but it’s not. I’ve already stopped doing business with Citi and Capital One because of different situations where I was treated like somehow I should consider it a privilege to do business with them. Somewhere along the line the whole equation got inverted.
It’s not that these banks are too big to fail… it’s that they’re too big to give a flying f*#k about their customers.
Today’s local newspaper reported that federal prosecutors are alleging that a Hell’s Angels member threatened a witness—through a Facebook page “poke.” Seriously… you can’t make this stuff up. How lame of a Hell’s Angel do you have to be that your preferred intimidation tactic is a button on a web page?
Wait… Facebook still has a “Poke” button? And people use it? I can’t remember the last time I was poked, but maybe I’m just inherently unpokable.
Then again, my immediate family has a lingering bad taste about poking as my youngest used to instigate serial poking episodes from the back seat of the car. His opening volley would be to stick a pointed finger into a fellow passenger and then issue the drawn out low-key utterance, “po…ke”. This would then propagate randomly through the vehicle for what seemed like an eternity as everyone poked everyone else while I gripped the wheel and muttered, “Are we there yet?”
So, maybe it’s just that my circle doesn’t poke. But either way, this notion of Facebook poking as harassment has to be a bit of a legal stretch, no? Apparently not. Google “Facebook poke considered harassment” and you get a ridiculous number of hits. People being arrested and sued for all manner of virtual abuse. This is just one out of control poke-analia, to the point that it’s rather amazing CNN hasn’t devoted a full news segment to scourge. After all, they spend most of their time reporting on Facebook and Twitter anyway.
I guess the upshot here is just a word of warning to all your serial pokers out there. Trespass on your friends’ cyberspace with care. One poke too many and you’ll be headed to the pokey.
Even sweet old ladies can be driven over the edge by tech frrustration.
I stopped to get gas today, and pulled up to the pump behind an old lady who seemed to be having some trouble. As I was parking I witnessed her jam her card in the pump, then whack the pump selector button somewhat indelicately. This was followed by a repeated two-handed thrust of the pump nozzle into her car, into the pump, and then back again… and again, as if she was the center attraction in some weird mechanical ménage à trois.
What stuck me was not the rage against the machine, but that this sweet little woman would have looked right at home at a church social, undoubtedly uttered the phase, “Well aren’t you a dear,” several times a day, and couldn’t have weighed 100 pounds soaking wet and carrying a bowling ball.
Stepping out of my truck I called forward, “Would you like some help?” She turned toward me, muttering something about the kid inside the store not doing his job. She then returned to her jamming, whacking, and thrusting.
I set my pump up to run and she was still at it—a relentless geriatric machine. I called forward again, trying to be helpful. “Did you answer all the questions on the screen?” Her head pivoted my way again. She stopped momentarily, considering my words. She glanced back at the pump, then flung open her car door to retrieve her glasses. You could feel the tension in the air as she squinted at the pump.
“Why the hell do they need me to answer questions? They have my damned card!” And undeterred, she jammed, whacked, and thrusted again.
I finally decided to intervene anyway, and approached her. “Here, let me try,” I offered, and I pressed the cancel button on the pump thinking we’d start over. But before the pump had a chance to reset… you guessed it… jam, whack, thrust.
“I don’t know why it’s got to be so damned complicated,” she said with exasperation.
“Let’s just start over,” I said a bit more firmly while taking the nozzle from her hand. I reset the pump with an eye out this time for any flailing hands, asked her to put her card in again, then asked if she wanted a receipt. Once the pump was operating I told her I thought she was all set and returned to finish filling my own vehicle.
As I was walking back I could hear her mutter, “That’s the last damn time I let him tell me to stop for gas. It’s not my job!”
I’m sure she was grateful in her own way… and I do not envy her husband when she gets back home. This is one sweet old lady you do not want to piss off.
Growing up in my father’s auto repair business, I came to understand that a car’s firewall was that piece of the body that separated the engine compartment from the passengers. Back in the day (as my teen son is wont to say despite sporting such a paltry number of days), this was pretty essential hardware as engine fires were not uncommon. The advent of several safety systems as well as the demise of carburetors has made such fires comparatively rare. But modern digital automotive systems now have different safety issues requiring a different sort of firewall.
Security experts from the University of California, San Diego, and the University of Washington have successfully hacked into a car’s onboard control system using a variety of attack vectors. In one case, they used a car’s cellular connection (similar to OnStar) to access the vehicle’s computer. In another, they took control using an Android phone connected to the car’s Bluetooth interface. In the third case, an MP3 music file, loaded into the car’s sound system, was infected with a Trojan that successfully loaded itself into the vehicle’s firmware.
Now in your average car, there is a limited amount the hacker can do once he gains access to the firmware. He could futz with the fuel mix and mess up your gas mileage, or change all the presets on your radio. While this is annoying, it’s not terribly dangerous. It’s also not interesting enough to warrant the efforts of would-be hackers unless this is their thesis project.
However, many higher-end cars may be unlocked, started, or in the case of vehicles with a self-parking features, even driven away under computer control.
While this is a scary prospect, it mostly reflects car designers not yet realizing the impact of networking the vehicle control systems. Cars will simply need to employ the same sorts of firewalls and security software used by other computer systems. Which also means the same sort of constant updating to address more recent exploits and attack vectors will also be required.
Ironically, I left the automotive field to pursue a career in computers. I know my life will have come full circle when the first family member calls because their car has a virus.
The device is nearly invisible when worn.
Sometimes technology comes up with odd things that are way more useful than tools for hygienic espionage. Case in point is the new SoundBite dental hearing system.
Bone conduction systems have been around for awhile now, and are effective at restoring hearing when there is damage to the auditory nerve of only one ear, but the other is working well. In such cases, conventional hearing aids are useless. However, existing systems require an external device to be bolted on to the side of your head.
Okay, that probably is an overly dramatic description, but as someone who has complete loss of hearing on one side, when they explain they are going to attach something to your skull with a drill, that’s kind of how it sounds. At least so far, that solution isn’t more appealing than suffering the loss of all spatial hearing ability.
However, this device requires no surgery or permanent attachment of any kind. The receiver unit is molded to your teeth and just pops in when you use the device. It wirelessly picks up signals transmitted by the small microphone clipped behind the decorative ear, and passes the sound into your jaw where it resonates into your head for the other ear to hear.
Apparently, with enough practice, a user can regain a good share of their spatial hearing. It would certainly be nice to not have to spin around in circles looking for who’s talking any more, or have to turn my head ridiculously far around to hear a quiet comment from the person seated to my right. Unless we’re eating I suppose. Then the device would be in my pocket and I could still only hear half the table. Then again, maybe I’d be so riveted by the conversations around me I’d eat less and listen more. Yeah… probably not.
