The Expensive Apple Device Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

This year, generational obesity is Channel 10's weight-loss lynch-pin. A heavily reinforced, industrial lynch-pin being asked to deliver too much. Self-Obsessed Cohabitating Delusional Malcontents (7.30 pm, Sunday till lard-knows-when) is yet to be shown as a ratings failure, so here’s to making the most of it and thinking about something else.

It did highlight one of my own intergenerational issues, though, but without all the cliff jumping and cannibalism... sorry, "backbighting".

Generational Technobastardry

Generation Battleground Alpha:

My father was a music-obsessive by birth and an opera singer by trade. The way a High-Fidelity Stereo was placed and adjusted in the home was an operation of such technical finesse and importance, NASA's approach to the moon shots were considered a bit slapdash by comparison.

As a toddler, apparently I sensed that any dial or button needed to be put through its paces regularly and to destruction. My family has never let me forget that I was “The Menace”. Daddy's Hi-Fi ain't never been the same.

Generation Battleground Beta:

Toddler Darth Baby escalates inter-generational techno-war on Ex-Toddler The Menace.

Pre toddler wrangling, our telly had a hard-drive tuner and I waxed lyrical on its arrival. 

That telly tuner meant a lot to us. To mangle a metaphor for the fun of it; if you wanted to turn our telly off against our will, you would have needed to send Sir Alec Guinness wearing a hessian sack and waving a fluorescent tube to get it done.

That HDD tuner had a gorgeous and unfortunately enticing electric-blue button on the front. Darth Baby pressed the button so often (somehow through the baby barrier by means best explained by Sir Alec) that the HDD Tuner punched its own clock and checked out.

Not content with that, while I had the HDD Tuner out of the shelf to rewire, Darth Baby threw it on the ground with such force and accuracy, the USB memory stick in the back that held the back-up operating system was mashed and then somehow separated from the box. If I was The Menace, Darth Baby is Menace + Cost.

Generation Battleground Omega:

It is a law of nature that each generation has to somehow improve upon or at least apall, that of its parents. As sure as Beiber enervates Underworld, Darth Baby’s wife will have her cyber-intertube-implants thrown through her bionic pelvic floor in-utero, by Darth Baby’s feckless thug of a son.

... and I wouldn’t have it any other way, Daddy-o. Groovy.