I have a friend, approaching middle age, who suddenly found himself single last year after 15 years of marriage. Recently he decided it’s time to re-enter the singles scene and after some fruitless flailing, surrendered to the 21st century inevitability of the computer dating service.
I find the whole thing fascinating, from a purely academic point of view. (Adrienne joins me in this academic fascination, so don’t get funny ideas.) The service to which my friend subscribes allows one to answer as many as 500 questions, the idea being, the more details one provides, the better chances of finding a good match. You don’t have to answer all 500 and most people –apparently – don’t, at least at first.
Although my first reaction was mild scorn, the more I considered this system, the more sense it made to me. This is the kind of thing computers are good at: take a bunch of data, reduce them to binary propositions (yes or no, zero or one) and see which data sets among thousands match up best.
The computer doesn’t do the selecting; it suggests profiles of other folks who seem like a good fit, one of the matched subscribers then has to get in touch with the other and if the gut reaction matches the computer’s opinion, things proceed from there.
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There’s an App for That
I’m a middle-aged man, with the characteristics of a middle-aged man. I accept this. In summer, I grill and I tend to make a fetish of it. I make my own barbecue sauce. I make out that it’s some big artisan deal, when it’s really not. Probably another ego thing.
I was out in the car last weekend and decided to swing by the store and pick up another bag of charcoal briquettes. (My version of the fetish runs toward charcoal, rather than propane.) (And, no, I don’t use lighter fluid. Thanks for asking.)
I grab the big bag of briquettes and hoist it under my arm and silently congratulate myself. “Man, I’ve still got it. How long have I been grabbing these bags of charcoal? Thirty years? Thirty-five? And the 25-pound bag seems no heavier. I still handle it with the same ease as ever I did.” Seeking written validation of my continued virility, I checked the bottom of the bag to see: “16.6 lbs (7.53 kg) * Lasts the same as an 18 lb bag.”
So 1981’s 25-pound bag is now a 16.6-pound bag apologizing for not being an 18-pound bag and I am getting older. I got over it. I’ll try to age gracefully, the alternatives are unappealing. I do, however, feel bad for the charcoal-buying public, which doesn’t get the value it used to. Call me an old man yearning for days gone by, but there it is.
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