Word: dials
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...mumbling--which forced me to repeat commands again and again--turned out to be the first of many problems. More annoying was mastering each service's navigation system. For example, I couldn't just dial up Tellme and say, "Give me the name of a good drama playing at my local theater." Instead, I had to say "movies" (pause), "Upper West Side" (pause), "drama" (pause). Then, after listening to a long list of films, I had to bark out more commands to get show times. Speaking like a robot and getting lost in a verbal maze was so annoying...
...MAIL, MOST ANYWHERE MailStation ($99, $9.95 a month), from Cidco Inc., based in Morgan Hill, Calif., is the size of a hardcover tome and very portable, with a small but readable flip-up screen. The company provides access with local dial-ups from most U.S. cities, but only e-mail is available--no surfing. Like nearly every other Internet appliance, Cidco commits you to its own Internet service when you buy the device...
...wants a buddy, not a fembot. Frank Keating wasn't a dark horse until he told us he was; too safe to be a surprise. Chuck Hagel has got foreign policy cred and independent cred, but it's doubtful Bush wants anybody who's on John McCain's speed-dial. That leaves John Kasich, the House budget guru and rock 'n' roller who has been written off as too young for a ticket short on presidential experience. But try this...
...probably haven't heard of Jonathan Hoefler and Tobias Frere-Jones (unless you're an art director, in which case you've got their number on speed dial). But if you've picked up Rolling Stone, SPORTS ILLUSTRATED, the New York Times Magazine or the hip new business magazine Fast Company, if you've strolled through the Guggenheim or Whitney museum, if you've dutifully filled out the 2000 Census form or watched ESPN, you've seen a sampling of the 500 original typefaces they've designed...
...sounds like the stuff of B movies, but when Michael Paterniti tracks Harvey down in New Jersey nearly a half-century later in Driving Mr. Albert (Dial Press; 211 pages; $18.95), it turns out to be closer to tragedy. For years the doctor has claimed to be conducting independent research on the purloined remains, but he has produced no findings, and reputable scientists dismiss him as a jerk. A parade of wives and children have abandoned him, and he hasn't practiced medicine in decades--all because of his zealous dedication to the chunks of brain. Now, at 84, Harvey...