By Dan Moren
September 6, 2016 10:15 AM PT
A Visit from Saint Timothy
‘Twas Apple event’s eve, and all through the net.
Not a pundit was silent—on that, you can bet.
Wishlists were posted on blogs with a care,
In hopes that Tim Cook might see them there.
The bloggers were nestled, all snug in their beds,
As visions of liveblogs danced in their heads.
And I in my office, and Jason in his,
Had just dialed in, to discuss all of this.
When out on the web, there arose such a clamor
We hit command-tab, to survey the yammer.
Away to Safari we flew (no Flash),
Threw open a window, to news sites did dash.
The tweets on the page flew by in a scroll,
Many were cranky, a few were quite droll.
But all told a tale of fear and of woe,
Lit by a rumor, and away they did go.
“No headphone jack? How?” the tweeters exclaimed.
“No wires? (Less space than a Nomad! So lame!)”
“This iPhone’s a dud,” said they, ere they’d seen it,
(And worst of all: a few of them mean it.)
As dry leaves that before the wild tweetstorm fly,
When meeting with reason, raise a hue and a cry,
So out on the web, the vitriol it flew—
It didn’t much matter, if any was true.
When the next day dawned, and Tim took the stage,
He raised his hands to forestall the rage.
“The fervor I’ve seen, has been a bit frightening.
Such love for analog, so little for Lightning.”
“But we’re all here to tell you, we’ve got a solution.
It’s what we do; we spur revolution.”
So out to the stage, his execs they came,
And he clapped and shouted and called them by name.
“Now Schiller! Now Mansfield! Now Cue and Federighi!
Now Thomas! Now Lynch! Now Bongiorno and Chaudrhi!”
Greg Joswiak next, it’s your turn, you’re on,
And then, to wrap up: Bozoma Saint John!”
When the dust finally cleared, after demo and recap,
Tim once again stood, gave his clicker a tap.
“I know what you’re thinking: ‘How can this choice thrive?’”
And ‘Never would have happened, were Steve still alive.’
But give it a try, ‘fore you sharpen your axes.
(And, by the way, we pay all our taxes.)”
With those final words, all faded to black.
The press corps began to file out the back.
Absorbing the details of all that they’d seen,
The videos and slides that’d been on the screen.
In think pieces and hot takes, we’ll soon be awash,
But, for a moment, the briefest kibosh.
For we all love to see what’s up Apple’s sleeves,
Rapt for a moment, in the picture it weaves.
Then it’s back to the grind, the ol’ daily hustle,
Jaded and dour, by life and its bustle.
We’ll not see this fervor, this hope, or this fear—
‘Til this comes round again: Say same time, next year?
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