I made the mistake of going into an iStudio shop yesterday and sitting in front of a lesser version of this Uber-computer I could buy for half price, which is so sophisticated the iStudio staff not only didn’t have one, they found it hard to believe that Apple had let one escape into the wild. Never mind, even the lesser version, with its acres of screen space, the entire computer built into the monitor’s frame, already had me thinking.
But I’m just a wordsmith. What I do is I string words one after the other, and then switch them around this way and that till I get tired of it. Another friend, S. Tsow, a fellow writer, tells me I don’t really need anything more advanced than a pencil. Unless, of course, I need to put a man on Pluto.
On the other hand, Sara has tumbled to just how big and bright and hi-rez the monitor really is, and how spiffy movies would look on it; and she points out, not for the first time, I’m such a chintzer I won’t buy a giant flatscreen TV or even hook up the antique we already own to a cable or anything, and what about the World Cup? And Wimbledon? And so on. Never mind I say the next World Cup lies four years down the road, Wimbledon a whole year.
But this machine has a 27-inch screen. Can you imagine? Even Sunday mornings at a range of five paces I could still write on it.
“And this is useful?” Sara asks.