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Some of you old-timers here may remember that, years ago, I set up a virtual reality system here in my house. (Well, not exactly; my beloved and way-smarter-than-me son built the computer and put the VR together). It was, for its time, impressive, but wow was it cumbersome. It had a dedicated tower computer, multiple “scanning” devices positioned around the room to track where we were, a bulky headset, two hand controllers, and long, cumbersome wires all over the place. It was the best the world had to offer, and it was a total kludge, besides being very expensive.
Still, we had fun with it. In one of my prouder moments as a father, my daughter recorded herself in a virtual bar, beating the hell out of other patrons.
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The whole space tourism thing is probably fifteen years too early. I’ve marked with an arrow when Branson did his little billionaire space visit for a few minutes. Virgin Galactic is down well over 50% since then.
My neighborhood has long puzzled as to why Marissa Mayer bought the only funeral home left in town. When she did so initially, she suggested she might turn the mortuary into a women’s club. But it has sat there for years, devoid of dead bodies or much of anything else.
Until this morning. I was walking my dogs, as I always do, and the walls of the ex-funeral home were festooned with original art work of honey bears in various kinds of outfits.