I’ve just discovered that iPod touch/iPhone apps in the App Store (as displayed in iTunes) are tagged with incorrect release dates, which renders viewing apps by ‘Release Date’ criteria completely broken. I’m accustomed to checking for new apps each day by browsing the store in such a manner, but it seems I’ve missed a number of releases I was waiting for because the newly released apps were backdated and appeared out of order.
I think the so-called release dates shown might actually be the dates that the apps were submitted for approval and listing.
Evidence: Spore Origins, a highly awaited game that was released on Sept 8 following the Sept 7 worldwide release of its PC/Mac version, has a Sept 5 release date. At present, one must navigate back 25 pages of the Sort By Release Date view to locate it – a blockbuster game released yesterday. Ditto for Real Football 2009, which was just demoed at the Let’s Rock iPod music event.
I took an unserious vow yesterday never to talk about technology again, but I think now that it might be fun to see how long it can last. Apart from this brief mention that I am blogging from my iPhone to see how easy it might be to write something longer than a text. So far so good, but I wish I had smaller thumbs, or at least transparent ones.
Am currently reading Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead, and so far it has been an absorbing and marvelous 140 pages made up of Dickensian coincidences, foreshadowing, and the most stoic and infallible fictional hero since Jesus. I kid, I kid.
It’s easy to feel the machinery moving beneath the surface of the plot and its dramatically convenient developments, but that takes nothing away from the craft of Rand’s writing, which is frankly quite fucking good (‘fucking’ is a word I just had to type, so my iPhone can learn some proper English). One friend has described it as a sort of guilty pleasure at times, likening its passionate moments to a Danielle Steele novel. Of course, as a man I have no idea what that might involve, having never read anything naughtier than Penthouse Letters, D.H. Lawrence, and the Peanut Butter Kamasutra. I have this theory that women only read books for the sex, but had best keep it to myself.
The last two days have been quite pleasant for reading in the late afternoon, and I have been taking advantage of this at the nearby Starbucks. Back in my student days, there was quite a stigma attached to sitting in a cafe reading some voluminous tome all alone, but I am happy to report that society barely bats an eyelid at this once you have put on weight, grown a beard, and begun to bald. Regardless of what you hear, life does get better with age!
The downside to sitting in a coffeeshop all day is of course having to put up with coffeeshop talk. I think I may soon be reaching my limit for tolerating my fellow man. Yesterday I had to endure a young army recruit expounding the benefits of using 2 fingers to apply camouflage paint on the face over the prescribed 3 fingers to a friend who listened with complete awe and attention. It seems 2 fingers gives greater accuracy and a more pleasing appearance over the “bullshit” triple digit technique. Any day now I expect to overhear sewage workers discussing favorite colors of boots to wear to work.