Well Intended

I've lost touch with someone I used to be very close with. Believe me, this is all for the best — it did not, as they say, end well. But I can't escape those idle moments when I think of her, and wonder, and from time to time I somehow end up reading a column she writes for the her small local newspaper.

I think I fell in love with her words. That was how we met, in a restless flurry of written words. And she had a blog, where she revealed herself to everyone in secret — but, of course, I knew it was her. Her voice was distinctive and personal, and when using it she seemed less afraid to confront the world that had closed in around her.

I thought it might be fun (mischievous, but fun) to search for the clues of what had become of her life over the past several years. What a disappointment to find that her work has become almost a caricature. I know, this all smacks of bitterness, and there is that, must confess. It's just that her work has all the same themes, even the same words, that I remember so well. It's as though these years have never passed.

In each column she'll confess her weakness, share an experience from her past, and aspire to be much more noble and virtuous. And over and over and over again. But it's not only cliched, it's so much less personal — it's not her voice, it's this superficial, idealized vision of who she wants a reader to believe she is. Granted, a small town newspaper might not be the best opportunity to share your secrets, or yourself — and anyone who knew her, really knew her, we knew that she was anything but virtuous. That was part of the fun. (That more than smacks of bitterness, so the less said, the better.) This just seems so hollow by comparison.

(Oh, and on the oft chance you should happen to read this? You were never the one who repaired your broken window or replaced your car battery.)

Late

I am beginning to believe that time speeds up rather suddenly every weekday afternoon, just about 4:25 PM -- because inevitably, the next time I look at the clock it's several minutes past 4:30 PM.

Step Out

Another is here.

The Circus

Sketches: What If They Lived?

You know, I did the series of thumbnail sketches for this book so long ago (this scan is from late May), that I have only a dim memory of my thought process at that time. But I think the idea of a book title as a question is tremendously appealing, in that it lends itself to the (obvious) element of the question mark. (And there are some very attractive question marks, typographically speaking.) So I did several variations on that approach, along with some slightly more conservative stuff, you know, just in case.

I'll bet I suggested my favorite was the one in the top right corner, because that was what we went with.

When the time came to put together a more formal version of the cover (this time, in late September), I really had only the title to work with, so I put in placeholder text ("Blah blah blah blah") for the rest of the elements. The large question mark was set in Clarendon, at a slight angle to fit the space better. I tried a version with all of the type set in Clarendon, but decided on Bodoni, instead, because I wanted to use the variety of different weights.


I really like that white version of the cover (on the left) — I like white covers, because they seem to be more rare — but I felt that the question mark held together better with the period when the top was white, to match the predominant color of the photo. I mean, yeah, I suppose it works just as well with the black of the photo defining the round edge of the period (and if I keep looking at it, I'll probably change my mind!), but I chose to go with the black version.

Here's the finished cover, which I put together just this morning. I resisted adding lots of color for it's own sake, because I think this design works best in very simple black-and-white — but I also didn't want the cover to look as though it were unfinished. I've introduced a small amount of blue (I tried a few other colors, including red, though that somehow seemed too gory for the subject matter), but I've kept the title in white, because it's important that it be linked with the question mark. And because I like it like that.

The Six-and-a-Half-Hour Bookblock

I did a 400-page bookblock today — 400 pages! —designed it, put it together, adjusted the design a bit, then adjusted the design a bit more, all in a day's work. (Out of deference to the author and publisher, the title of the book will not be disclosed.) Mind you, it had no photos (which is unusual) and it was fairly easy to format — but it was still a labor-intensive process, and it's been a very long day.

Cathedral

My eight-year-old built this. (Actually, this is the second time he built this, or something like it — the first time, it was accidentally destroyed by a clumsy friend before I had the chance to take a picture of it.) He proudly announced to me that this was a cathedral, but that it was not like any other cathedral, and that all the people who don't believe in God come to it. (He went on to describe that the roof opens up for weapons to be pointed at the sky, presumably in the direction of God).

We had been watching "Building The Great Cathedrals" on NOVA not long before this. It's obviously sparked his imagination. He has the general sense of a cathedral as a church, as a place of worship — but I'm still not sure what inspired him to create one for such contrary reasons. I was puzzling over this with a friend, not too long ago, and she gave me a sort of you're-missing-the-obvious look — that had to have come from his parents, of course. But I'm really not so sure.

I tend to keep my opinions on religion mostly to myself, particularly around my son, because I'd like to think of that as a decision he ought to be allowed to come to on his own (and I think eight years old might be too soon to arrive at it). That said, though, as a family, we're not antagonistic to religion, but it's obvious we don't embrace it. The most practical contact he's had with religion has been to admire an old stone church from the outside.

I very gently tried to get him to elaborate a bit on why someone would want to build a cathedral for this purpose, but his interest in the conversation trailed off, and he began to describe a symbol he had built, trying to make the complicated shape with his fingers.

I try to encourage him to understand that not everyone will think or do or believe what he does, and that a certain amount of understanding of those differences (and either tolerating them, or failing that, just keeping quiet) goes a long, long way.

Maybe that's just the nature of eight years old — to be contrary.

Just Blue

The Twelve-Hour Brain

I had been content to leave Halloween to my wife this year — really, there's just too much else going on here these days. Two years ago I spent a week (or more) putting together the legendary robot costume for my son; last year he wore it once more. The question of this year's costume remained undecided up until about a week ago, when his mother decided that "Mad Scientist" would be easiest. He already has a white lab coat, after all, and goggles, and other stuff that might prove useful.

But then it was left to me — the day before the school's Halloween parade! — to fill in the details. (So much for contentment.)

I gave up my beloved bright orange squishy Nerf Brain, painted it grey, hollowed it out a bit (I would have done that first, if only I'd thought of it), and used the flashing LED lights from some old toys to bring it to life (though that would require a fair bit of rewiring). And I put two big bolts in it — that's where the electrodes are attached, of course, connected to a helmet (which is, in fact, a small colander). It took about twelve hours from start to finish, including lots of running-around-getting-stuff time.

My eight-year-old was completely and totally delighted — though he later admitted (to someone else) that watching me put it together really wasn't very interesting.

Kyle-of-The-Future

So what would you do with a four foot hole in your backyard?

Here's what we're doing. My eight-year-old son and I will write a letter (maybe even send a drawing, as well) to the Kyle-of-The-Future. We'll write about the present, what we think might happen, and hope might happen. Everything will be sealed in a (mostly) airtight and (hopefully) moisture-proof box, and buried. We might even send a toy into the future — though I've warned him that I'll be in no great hurry to dig this hole again anytime soon, and anything that goes into the future, stays in the future.

I have no idea when that will be. Five years? Ten years? These are the days I'm not entirely sure we'll still be in this house next year. But my hope is to put this off 'till he's old enough to take an active part in the digging.

Dig

I have been digging an enormous hole in my backyard. I don't think there's any part of me left that doesn't ache.

We have had, of late, what I will euphemistically refer to as "a plumbing problem." It's not that much of a euphemism, it does involve actual plumbing, but trust me, you really don't want me to get into the details. The best we've-tried-other-solutions-and-none-of-them-worked hope of addressing this problem was to come in through what's called the "clean out," an access point along the main drainage pipe, closer to the street than the house. I was kindly provided with a diagram of where the pipes lurk, somewhere beneath the ground (courtesy of our Town Engineering Department), with measurements and everything — but the connection goes this way and that at several points, and I had no way to turn the angles that had been carefully noted into anything that would be remotely useful. So I had to make a best guess. But I was reasonably certain I'd come close, based on what I could work out from the diagram.

Making matters worse, though, the notes were that the clean out was 4' deep underground, more or less. So not only did I not know where it was, I'd have to dig four feet down, maybe more, to even have a chance of finding it.

Armed with a brand new shovel (I couldn't find the old one), and the desire to avoid the quoted $850 excavation charge, I dug in (heh), hoping for the best.

Three hours later, I'd come to an impasse. I was almost 4' deep, but it had become virtually impossible to get the loose dirt out of the hole, which at this point was only slightly larger than I was. I had made the hole slightly wider at the bottom, so I could maneuver better (I thought that might offer a better chance of finding a buried pipe, as well), but I wasn't getting much of anywhere. I climbed out of the hole to call my wife and admit defeat. Shameful, ignominious defeat that would set the cause of our budget back by $850.

It was after I got off the phone with her that I noticed the very small patch of blue green against the dirt, on the wall of the hole. At first, I thought it might be a leaf.

Sure enough, though, it was the clean out. All along, it had been right next to where I had been digging. Even better, it wasn't four feet below the surface — it was four inches. If I had moved just a step further away from the house when I started to dig, I would have uncovered it in all of three minutes.

I walked into the house, calmly, quietly, and let loose with the loudest and longest torrent of cursing I think I have ever uttered in my adult life. (But it was all in cartoon voices, and there was nobody but the cats at home to hear it, anyway.)

Mad

My eight-year-old, the poor kid, is in absolute dread that his third grade teacher might be mad at him. Not always, just in those moments when he's uncertain over aspects of his homework, something he thinks he should or shouldn't have done. I've done my best to calm him, and reassure him that he has nothing to worry about, but geez, once that kid gets all worked up over something, it can be difficult to convince him otherwise.

I know third grade is asking more of him, but he's excited (mostly) by the challenge. It's still early in the school year, and I've met his teacher only once (and briefly, at that), but I know he likes her. There's just this quiet anxiety that seems turns up every so often.

I didn't tell him that I've had people mad at me, too. (I didn't tell him that because if I did, I'd have to explain why people might be mad at me, and that's not really a discussion I want to have with anyone, much less my eight-year-old.)

Sweet Smell of Success

I was watching Sweet Smell of Success earlier in the evening, for the first time (I came in a bit late), and it felt as though I'd stumbled into watching the longest episode of The Twilight Zone I'd never seen.

It looks like a Twilight Zone episode — beautifully photographed in black-and-white, most of the story seems to take place at night, on city streets. It even sounds like a Twilight Zone episode — strange, not-quite-natural dialoge (much of it written by Clifford Odets), and a great jazz soundtrack (by Elmer Bernstein). Martin Milner is in it, too — and you know something just isn't right when he's been cast as a jazz guitarist.

Adopted

There was an interesting piece of news earlier this week, when an analyst from the firm Bernstein Research made the claim that the iPad had become "one of the most successful consumer electronic device launches ever," surpassing even the (likely estimated) 350,000 DVD players sold during that product's first year.

Once you start paying attention, you learn not to pay too much attention to what an analyst says (some of them predicted the iPad would be a dismal failure), but as anecdotal evidence goes, this is interesting:

Target started carrying the iPad just this week, and I was in one of the stores this morning (this was early this morning, before 9:00 AM), and during the five, maybe ten minutes I was there, one person bought an iPad, and another was just about to.

Dangerous Curves

No sketches this time, none worth sharing, anyway. (I did a small thumbnail sketch while taking notes.) It took some time to sort how to get to where I wanted to go with this, and a bit more time to get there. And then a bit more time to clean up the photo, which had seen a bit of wear over the past, I don't know — eighty, ninety years, however long it's been.

(You know, I hadn't really thought about just how old this photo must be before now.)

My idea was that we remember these girls as young and innocent (perhaps a bit naughty, hence the photo), in contrast to their rather miserable fates — so the cover is light and feminine. And yes, it's pink.

I've wanted to find a use for this typeface forever — it's based on a hand-lettered specimen made using a Speedball pen. I used to have a few of these pens, ages ago (I was surprised to discover you can still buy them), and a booklet with several beautiful hand-lettered samples. (I probably still have it, somewhere, packed away in a box.)

Who Said What Now?

I dunno, I don't think I ever used to have to read something twice, or three times (or more) for it to begin to make sense. Maybe that's just the way it works when you get into your 40s.

Saturday Night

I'm watching Friday Night Lights — mostly on the recommendation of David Bianculli (who has such high praise for the series), but also because it's now in repeats on ABC Family, and I don't have to chase it down on the network (and I can start at the beginning). That, and I really like Kyle Chandler.

I haven't decided how much of this I'll be in for, though — mostly because the series is on five nights a week (and I have only so much time, and there's only so much room on the DVR), but also because — and I know, I'm betraying my age here — I find the unsteady handheld camera stuff really, really irritating. There's nothing for my vision to rest on.

Not that I'm actually watching TV — I rarely watch TV these days, even when there's something I want to see (so to speak), it's often on while I'm doing something else.

I am enjoying it, though. (And it's become surprisingly difficult to stop myself saying "I'll tell yuh whut..." every so often.)

Devour

The past two days have been intense, but tremendously satisfying.

I want to push everything else aside, all of the work that needs to be done, all of the phone calls to be made, bills to be paid — I just want to concentrate on learning. I can't, of course. I get this way when I've discovered something new and compelling, a book or film, or a lover — I want time to stand still, and I want that forever to learn everything, all at once. I want to devour.

Days

I'm sure I made this observation last year (and I know I'll make it again next year), that I used to mourn the end of the Summer, the end to my unstructured days, the beginning of the school year. Now, as a parent, I can't wait.

(Well, no, that isn't entirely true.)

School begins later this week for my eight-year-old, but this almost took me by surprise — I thought it was next week, I'm not sure why. But it starts in fits and starts: Thursday is a half-day (not even), Friday is a full day, but then Monday is a day off (for Labor Day), Tuesday and Wednesday are full days, and then Thursday and Friday are days off. Two weeks later, a full week of school at last.

I'm looking forward to the beginning of my unstructured days

You may never need to know, but now you'll know where to look.

If there is but one essential piece of information available on the Internet — this is it.

Bamboo

It's been an anxious just-about-two-months waiting for my new iPhone case to arrive. I preordered, so I got ahead in the queue (for whatever that was worth), and a very generous discount, but because these Grove cases are mostly handmade, in a small shop in Oregon (even the aluminum bezels are anodized there), they tend to be kinda slow to manufacture. But mine has arrived at last.

(One thing I discovered, while waiting and waiting and waiting and checking for updates — patience isn't my strong suit — is how pointless Facebook really is. Grove has a Facebook page, where updates are posted from time to time, but mostly it's just short bursts of blah blah blah from customers, interspersed with people asking for information about the status of their orders and being politely told to send an email, instead. And more of the same from others who didn't get that message. I think I'll go back to letting this entire phenomenon pass me by, thanks.)

I wish there were a way to adequately describe the scent — the lovely aroma of wood, with a hint of what seems to be lemon. That must be the oil the case has been hand-rubbed with, to bring out the grain in the bamboo. (I can still smell it in my office.) The wood is otherwise unfinished (with no varnish or polyurethane coating), and I'm told it will wear it's age attractively with use.

It's very nicely packaged, too. The remainder of the wooden block the case pieces were cut from serves first as a sort of package, then can be used as a picture frame.

I have become accustomed (reluctantly) to using the iPhone without a case, though with persistent uncertainty — it's always felt fragile and delicate and small in my hands (even though it isn't, really). This bamboo case is thin, though not insubstantial, and it seems to add just enough dimension to the phone to make it slightly more comfortable to hold.



The case has been so carefully designed and manufactured that it just fits over the phone, with only friction (believe it or not) to hold it in place. The two pieces (that's the lower part, shown loose in the photo above) slide on and stay on, unless you remove them. Or, in my case, unless you place the phone in a very snug-fitting canvas case, and the added size makes it difficult to get the phone in and out, and when you try to remove it, the bottom half gets stuck. That was a disappointment (though the case I've been using was never designed for the iPhone 4 to begin with).

Which brings me to my only other disappointment thus far — the hole in the bottom of the case for the dock connector is just a bit too small to accommodate any of the dock cables I have. (I've been planning on getting a SendStation Dock Extender, anyway, but I might need to tinker with it a bit to get it to work.) The lower part of the case sides off easily, but I'm concerned that constantly removing it will inevitably lead to scratches, no matter how careful I am.

This is a very attractive, very beautiful iPhone case. It might not be the most durable (most cases are made from silicone, or plastic), but I like the warm, organic quality of the wood, and that's a sacrifice I'm more than willing to make. (And if your buttons are pushed by buzzwords like "sustainability" and "responsible," this is undoubtedly the case for you.) To be honest, it does seem expensive at $69.00 ($89.00 if you have the back custom engraved, by laser), though perhaps less so when you understand how much care went into this, and how much of the work was done by hand.

The Wild Green Yonder

Commerce

I've just purchased $300 worth of books (with the proceeds from my recent adventures in eBay), from a bookstore I've never used before: The Book Depository. What could possibly go wrong?

Prices — at least, the prices of the books I was looking at — seemed reasonably competitive with Amazon, or Barnes and Noble, but what made the difference for me was that I had a coupon for 10% off (and I knew I'd be placing an enormous order, so it would make a difference), and the fact that I could pay via PayPal (and avoid the trouble of having to transfer money into my Checking account to pay it out again).

Here's the part I don't understand, though: the free shipping. I just assumed that, although The Book Depository is a British retailer, they would have a fulfillment operation here in the US. But they don't — they're shipping everything by Air Mail. And if that weren't odd enough, they seem to be shipping each of the 18 or 19 books I ordered separately. (At least, I think they are — the first arrived this afternoon.) I suppose that might make sense, if various items were sent from different warehouse locations (we'll see how the other items arrive), but I can't help but wonder how they're making any money at this.

This all reminds me of the excitement of the pioneering days of Internet commerce, when retailers were willing to suffer enormous losses in a desperate attempt to grab mindshare. A friend of mine used to refer to the early days of Barnes and Noble's web site as "The Great Barnes and Noble Land Grab," because they were offering a discount coupon of $10 off any order more than $10, and virtually no restrictions on how often it could be used. (I bought so much stuff with so many transactions that my bank assumed my debit card had been stolen.)

Numbers

I used to have a head for numbers. No particular aptitude, mind you, but enough to get by in doing my own tax returns, and keeping my checkbook balanced, that sort of thing. I've run my own business, even done my own bookkeeping. And I'm good at following directions. That usually helps.

It was today, however, when faced with the task of filling out a new set of W-4 forms, that I began to wonder if all that had come to an unexpected end. (The "following directions" part, too.) I must have filled out that worksheet — you know, the one that's supposed to help you determine how many exemptions to claim? — I must have filled out that worksheet three or four times, and somehow I kept arriving at the conclusion that I ought to claim something like 24 or 25 exemptions.

I tried again, this time without itemizing deductions (even though we undoubtedly will be), with the hope that following the simple route might make more sense. It didn't — but at least this time I was only claiming six or seven exemptions.

In the end, I gave up and just went with one less than whatever we decided to go with the last time we had to fill these forms out. (We had a bad, bad year for taxes last year, and we're hoping to blunt the ill effects this year as much as possible.)

Drama

I enjoyed Degrassi so much more when it was about real kids — not this idealized fantasy of what teen years could be, should be, if you were living on your own, or playing in a band (or both), or somehow handed every opportunity you ever dreamed possible (an acting career, a modelling career, a recording contract, an internship in New York, two weeks in a lavish penthouse apartment in New York with your boyfrend, without parents).

It used to have something to say. That, and it used to be so much better written.

Apparently, the series will be trying something new this year — after having been shuffled off from broadcast television in Canada (where it's produced, and has aired for almost a decade) to a cable channel (due to a decline in ratings), the series will be adopting the popular form of the telenovela — or, as they used to be called in the days when I grew up watching them, the soap opera.

The thing about a soap opera I've always loved best is how a simple plot can very quickly go ridiculously, completely over the top, and how much fun that can be to watch. I am, in fact, as I write this, watching the first episode of the new season, and it's become increasingly obvious that this is the approach the series has now embraced. I'm not sure why it took three-quarters of the two-hour episode for the creepy rich siblings (introduced last year) to kiss, but there we are.

This may well be the only note the series has left to play. At this point, I think it's the only thing that might keep me watching with any real interest.

"Friend"

This week I received a "friend" request — I'm sorry, I am compelled to put that in quotes — from someone with whom I have exchanged a total of six email messages (between the two of us). Granted, this was somewhat more than just a superficial exchange (although we were strangers) — but it took place almost three years ago.

Wandering

I've been trying to gently acquaint my seven-year-old with the notion that it isn't always necessary to pay attention to the signs or stay on the straight path. I think that's an important lesson to learn, it's just the subtle questions of "when" and "how" that he's still too young to understand. (He's already pushing back against my authority.)

When Little Stony Point proved far too crowded for exploring on Sunday afternoon, we pulled off further up the road, at an unmarked path. No idea where it would lead. Well, no, that's not entirely true — we knew we were headed more or less in the diection of the river, but we had no idea how far away it was (a good, long walk), or what we would find along the way (lots of wild raspberries).

At the river's edge, we found what I would later discover to be the remains of a brick yard (one of many up and down the banks of the river). It's funny, the things you didn't know you didn't know — that people collect bricks, for example, and maintain web sites with a wealth of information about that trade. (That was how I found out where I was.)

We spent the afternoon at the edge of the river. It was so much more fun in that it was completely unexpected.

Little Rascals

My wife, if she could have seen me, would have been very irritated, and desperately envious.

I've gone out back on the deck to leave a bit more food for the family of raccoons before getting to bed. (Yes, she has a family now. Four little ones, who look exactly like her, come tumbling along behind in the evening, probably not too much larger than my feet under all that fur.) By now, I've become a familiar presence, so much so that Mother approaches with little apprehension (particularly when she sees the plastic container I'm holding, which invariably contains dry cat food), and the kids soon follow.

I'm standing near the door, slowly edging my way back toward it. I'd much rather stay and watch, though. Mother is nibbling from a pile of dry cat food, while the kids are nibbling along with her, or completely destroying a plastic foam toy my seven-year-old has left on the deck, or looking through the back door at the cat that's watching them, or trying to get up the courage to approach the plastic container I've left on the deck (I'm not sure what they thought it might be), or approaching me — which didn't require much courage at all.

One of the little ones, the most intrepid one — there's always a most intrepid one, in every litter — is wandering around my feet, sniffing at my shoes, then at my bare ankles, with a cold wet nose. That one is soon joined by another. I'm not the least bit concerned for my safety, really I'm not. Mother doesn't seem the least bit concerned, either, though she does take a sudden interest when I pick up the plastic container (I have to convince her it's empty, and that anything I have to offer is right in front of her).

I know raccoons are curious, but every year it seems I discover this all over again.

Comics

I spent most of the morning putting a set of books — actually, a half-dozen sets of books — up for sale on eBay. They're reprints of old comic books, most from the 1960s (the comics that were reprinted, not the books), and I'm selling them so I can replace them with — well, it's sort of difficult to explain. I'm selling them in order to replace them with new versions of the same material that have far better reproduction. And yes, it really does matter. (It’d take too long to explain why, but it really does matter.)

These are the comics I grew up reading (in books and in reprints, many years after the fact), and they left an indelible impression on me. I came to them at just the right time, at the age when you begin to choose your own pop culture. Everything is new (and even if it isn't, you don't know any better), you consume it relentlessly, and good or bad, it somehow stays with you forever. This, for me, is the stuff that forged a lifelong interest in comics, and there's never, ever been anything better.

My seven-year-old was instantly, almost magnetically attracted to these books when I took them down from the shelf to be dusted — that’s the way this stuff should work. (I’ve been trying to remember how old I was when I first discovered comics.) I’ve promised him we'll share this treasure soon.

Teased

I feel as though it's been just about to rain for weeks now. Not so much because of the heat, or even the humidity, but because the forecast keeps saying so. But apart from the odd drop here and there, the weather has failed to follow through.

The wild raspberries are beginning to appear, and I've promised my seven-year-old that as soon as it rains, they'll be everywhere.

Unexplained

A backscratcher, found hidden inside a fallen tree in the Pound Ridge Reservation.

Sketches: Vernon Dent: Stooge Heavy

I almost never have a chance to do anything lively and fun with the interiors of the books I design — most books don't readily lend themselves to it (this was the rare exception), so when the opportunity came up again, I had (what I thought was) a great idea. This was a book about a character actor, a second banana, little known now, probably known no better then, but one of the faces you've seen in hundreds of films, even if you never knew his name. In fact, that was to be part of the title of the book.

So I thought it might be fun to use a banana as a sort of subtle design element. Spent the entire morning looking for just the right one, too — I had something specific in mind (it would have to be recognizable at a small size), and you'd probably be surprised at how many there were to choose from. (Just a simple search for photographs with the term on iStockphoto yields an impressive 10,163 results. Now you know why it took the entire morning.) Having found one I thought I could use, I made a few modifications, most notably converting the image to greyscale, since there would be no option for color inside the book.


I wanted to use the bananas at the chapter breaks. You'd see them every so often, but (hopefully) not so much so that they'd wear out their welcome. (I could use them on the cover, as well, though I hadn't really thought ahead any further than that.) My first thought was to incorporate them with the chapter numbers, but once you obscure the shape of the object, it becomes difficult to make out what the object is. (It seemed to in this case, at least.) You can get around that by making the object bigger, but then you begin to lose the subtlety. So as a solution, I put a small photo on the bottom of the beginning of each chapter. (This had a super-secret added benefit, in that should the idea did not go over well with the Author, I could remove the banana but add space to the top of the page.)


Then came a moment of insecurity, and I began to wonder: if you remove the distinctive yellow color from a banana, is it still a banana? That's not a philosophical question, but one of perception: will the humor be lost if the object isn't immediately recognizable? My wife's objective opinion was that she knew what it was without a second thought, and that was enough reassurance for me.

About five minutes later, more or less, I remembered that the title of the book had changed — removing the "second banana" reference. (The Author, Editor and Publisher had been back and forth and back and forth on this, but once I got this idea in my head, I conveniently forgot the rest of the discussion.) There wasn't much of a punchline to the visual joke without that title, so the notes and sketches have been filed away, to await another book on another "second banana," another day.

The cover was still lots of fun, though. I had a fairly simple idea from the start, I just needed to choose the details as I went along. (That's a sort of rudimentary color study on the right.) It took an endless afternoon to get the letterspacing just so, particularly the a/v combination in "Heavy," because the letterforms don't fit together as well as all of the others. (Even now I'm fighting the compulsion to go back and make adjustments.)

I decided to use the discarded title after all, as a subtitle, because I felt that it was necessary on the cover, for both editorial and design reasons.

Making the Case

I'm very, ummmm, careful about my iPhone. Not only because I've been able to sell each of them for a (reasonably) tidy sum when the time came for a new model to be released, but because I just don't want it to have any scratches. At least, not any scratches I'd have to be confronted with on a regular basis.

I settled on a case I liked — a flip case, so the screen would covered when I wasn't using it — shortly after I bought my first iPhone. I'm a true creature of habit, and as such, I've somehow managed to keep using this case for almost three years, through three different iPhone models, despite slight changes in size. (The second and third iPhone designs were slightly thinner at the edge, but thicker in the body, as many of us become at this age.)

But with a completely new design (much more thin, slightly more narrow), now I have to find — and become accustomed to using — a completely new case. (If you're a true creature of habit, you'll know just how difficult that can be.) Flip cases for the iPhone don't seem to have ever really caught on, so rather than wait in hope, I've decided on a case made by hand, of bamboo. Most cases are made of silicone, or hard plastic, but I like the warmth, and the organic quality of the wood. (I'll even have an option to have it custom-engraved, too, though I haven't decided if I will.)

But it will be three or four weeks — possibly longer! — before I'll have the case. That's an eternity in opportunities-to-scratch-my-iPhone days. For the time being, I'm using a simple canvas slipcase that offers only minimal protection, but it seems to fit well. (I'll probably keep using it, even with the case, to protect the screen while it's in my pocket.) And I'm being very, very careful.

Spoilers!

My seven-year-old saw Toy Story 3 yesterday, as part of a classmate's birthday party. On the way home from the theatre, he completely gave away a surprise from the story. "Spoilers!" I said to him (too late). Then I had to explain what a Spoiler! is, and why someone might not want to know.

I've been keeping a secret from myself all week.

Tonight is the final episode for this series of Doctor Who, which aired earlier in the day (or the evening, if you were watching it), and I know almost nothing about it. I'd like to keep it that way for the next half-hour, before I have the chance to watch.

No previews were aired following last Saturday's episode (which ended with a thrilling cliffhanger, of course), and when one was made available a few days later, I almost watched it. But then I thought to myself, no, it'll be much more fun to be really, truly surprised.

Not too long after the series returned in 2005, word got out several weeks in that the lead, Christopher Eccleston, would not be back the following year. So we all knew what to expect at the end of thirteen weeks — The Doctor, near death, regenerates and takes on a new identity. That's a concept most everyone who watches the series would be familiar with, and anticipating it didn't make the rest of the series, or that final episode, any less exciting to watch — but it sure would have been such fun to have been surprised.

I'm not expecting anything quite so unexpected. But then again, you never know...

Recycling

I had planned to sit out this cycle of iPhone — no, really. I really did. But then, there came an opportunity that persuaded me otherwise.

My seven-year-old has an iPod Touch (his beloved iPod Touch) that he's been using for some time now. It doesn't have a built-in microphone, so I bought a little device (about the size of a push-pin) to serve that purpose. And it works, but it plugs into the earphone jack to do it, which means that the sound is switched off when he uses it, which means he can't use applications like, say, Talking Carl.

That, and he really doesn't have enough storage space. (He was six years old when I bought this — I thought 8 GB would be more than enough.)

So I came up with this brilliant, persuade-my-wife idea: we could wait for Christmas, and hope for a new iPod Touch with a built-in microphone (which seems just about inevitable, though there's no guarantee), or — here's the brilliant part — if I were to buy a new iPhone, I could give him my older model. He gets a built-in microphone, he even gets a built-in camera, and twice the storage space.

I could sell it (I've done that twice before), and make enough money to cover the costs of a new iPod Touch — and then some! — but then, there's still no guarantee that the kind of iPod we want will be coming. (And it's much easier this way.)

She agreed that this was a good idea (even better, it could be in time for my son's birthday, in August). So I'm getting a new iPhone, after all.

I was expecting to have to go stand in a long, long line, as I had the last two years. But June 24 (the date the new iPhone was to go on sale) would be the last day of school, with dismissal at 9:30 AM. So if I were to wait in line, I'd have a seven-year-old with me, with all the patience of, well, a seven-year-old. (It's just as well I didn't — the lines at most Apple retail stores this morning have been, according to many reports, completely ridiculous.)

Thankfully, it turned out Apple would be offering pre-orders again this time. (I actually complained politely about this last year, and I'm pleased that it might have had some effect.) So I'll preorder the week-or-so before, sit back, and just wait for FedEx to arrive.

That seemed like a perfectly reasonable option. But then, everyone else had the same idea. It took all day, off and on, to successfully place an order. And just in time, too. Not too long after that, advance orders were expected to ship in the beginning of July. (Not too long after that, they were shipping in mid-July.)

The new iPhone arrived yesterday, a day early.

Insomniac

This one, I think she has it all worked out. While the rest of her world is still sleeping, she gets up early, ahead of everyone else (usually in the late morning, often before Noon), and she has the world all to herself. There's nobody to quarrel with over food, or good hiding places.

Of course, that means she has to suffer through the heat of the afternoon — in fur, no less! — and that can't be much fun. But it's reasonably cool in the shade, beneath the deck, and there's a source of cool water close by.

And if she scratches at my back door long enough, she knows that sooner or later, I'll probably bring her food.

She's adapted her habits to best take advantage of the world around her. Either that, or she's an insomniac.

(It's a wonderful world of anthropomorphism: a nearsighted Northern Flicker flew into my office window this afternoon. And a deer was sneezing in my driveway.)

Nearsighted

I think, if my eyesight gets any worse, I could be content just to listen to the movies Melvyn Douglas was in.

The Lodger

There's a something that lives under my house.

I should start at the beginning: our house doesn't have a basement, it has a crawlspace. (It really isn't good for much of anything — too damp for storage, and not all that accessible, but there you are.) There's a small wooden door on the side of the house, but the most of the panel had rotted away by the end of last year, and I put off replacing it. This year, after all the recent raccoon activity, I decided the time had come to do something about that.

Now, I was just about certain that someone — or something — had taken up residence in the crawlspace while it was open (not for any particular reason, it just seemed more likely than not), and I certainly didn't want any harm to come to them. So I left a small plate of dry cat food and a container of water close to the entrance before putting the new door in place. Sure enough, within a day, some of the food had been eaten — but not all that much, not nearly as much as I expected.

I left the door open, just enough, with the hope that whatever it was might wander off.

I tried again, a few days later, this time with another small plate of cat food on a piece of cardboard, and — this was my brilliant idea! — surrounded it with baby powder. Whatever it was, at least it would leave footprints I might be able to identify. And it did — there was lots of traffic (at least, that what I think it was), and a few distinct prints. I think it's a mouse. Or mice. The prints seemed larger than I would have expected, but who knows, perhaps mice have big feet.

At least it isn't another raccoon.

Left Over

More of the same here.

Age

This might be remembered as the point in my life where I finally began to feel my age. Or the effects of aging. Or something. These days, when I get sick (though it doesn't happen that often), I feel as though it's hitting me just a bit harder than it used to. And I need to watch my sleeping habits more carefully — I'm much more susceptible to lack of sleep. Without enough, I'll wander through the following day without focus.

I was thinking perhaps this had just been a difficult week, between the vaccination, the cold, and the increasingly oppressive heat. But I watched Caddyshack for the first time, and I kept thinking that it would have been much, much more funny if I had seen it about thirty years ago.

I need new glasses, too.

Quicksilver

Once Bitten

I was bitten by a raccoon last week. When the subject comes up, people inevitably say "attacked," and I'm always quick to correct them ― I don't feel as though I was attacked. It was just a nip, on my right arm, a few inches above the wrist, from a familiar raccoon that was just a bit too eager to get to the food I had.

You could probably say I deserved it ― I've become comfortable around the raccoons, and I haven't exactly been discouraging them (by which you might also say "I've been encouraging them"). This one in particular has become very, very comfortable around me, and so at ease with the peace and quiet and the leisurely pace here that she often turns up in midday, while any potential competition is still comfortably snoozing away. It's better that way, before my son is home from school later in the afternoon, and everything becomes more hectic.

(And before you ask, no, that behavior in and of itself is not necessarily an indication of rabies.)

In fact, she behaves more or less the same as any other raccoon I've ever known (I've been watching them here for many years), so I wasn't terribly concerned that she may be rabid. There was still a chance she could be carrying the disease, though, so while there really was no choice for me but to seek treatment, that presented a terrible moral dilemma. The only way to confirm rabies in an animal is to ― well, I'll spare you the gruesome details, but she would have had to have been trapped and killed, and I was horrified by that possibility, even if it might spare me a course of treatment. She's a nuisance, yes, but she's a nuisance mostly of my own making, and I don't consider her to be a danger. I would be devastated if I were responsible for her needless death.

As it turns out, though, the authorities didn't seem concerned enough to take such action, which was a big relief (albeit a big surprise). If you've managed to trap or kill the animal that bit you, they'll gladly oblige you in testing it for rabies ― but apart from that, you're on your own. They'll treat your illness, though.

As to that course of treatment? You know, it wasn't nearly as awful as I was expecting. I already knew that the barbaric days of a series of very, very painful injections to the abdomen (it was necessary to have a large muscle group that could withstand so many) had long past, but I still had to have several the following day ― five or six of them, I think, in various parts of my body. And then one today, another later this week, and another next week. And a Tetanus Shot, just to be sure.

I haven't had a shot since ― you know, I can't even remember the last time I'd had a shot. (I've had some blood drawn over the past year or so, but that's it.) It hasn't been nearly as painful as I had expected ― that might have been because I did not look. I do not like needles. Needles make me very anxious. I remembered the time, ages ago, when my then-girlfriend was being treated for Lyme Disease, and we somehow arrived at this idea that I could give her a series of weekly injections of antibiotics (or whatever it was). But when the time came, I couldn't do it. I just could not do it.

We've been trying to discourage this raccoon ― or rather, encourage her to fend for herself. Maybe even sleep in a bit. This habit she has of turning up during the day has already attracted some attention, and I'm concerned that it might become her undoing.

If This then That

Despite appearances to the contrary (and the turbulence and that chaos that often lingers beneath the surface) I tend to be an organized, even methodical person.

I spent a day or two this week setting up some automated functions for InDesign, repetitive tasks that could be done for me, much more quickly. (I don't know why I didn't do this ages ago.) This involves writing what amounts to rudimentary computer programs in AppleScript, though not so much with computer code as a series of mostly familiar words and phrases (tell, repeat, if, then, of, else, end, that sort of thing). The phrasing is key, though, and the pieces do need to be organized in a specific way for the scripts to do anything useful.

I've dabbled in AppleScript off and on through the years — enough to be familiar with the structure, less so with the details. But I understand enough to get by, and I know enough to be able to pull bits of code from here and there to build what I want.

Many people would find it all maddening, even though AppleScript is designed to be as accessible as possible. I enjoy the complexity. It's all just the pieces of a puzzle, everything has to fit together in a particular way, or none of it makes sense.

I've often thought of trying my hand at more complex programming projects. I started reading up on C many, many years ago, but I never found the time to pursue it (and I've long since forgotten anything I might have learned). It's been on my mind off and on for several months, and I want to try again — if for no other reason than to convince myself that my mind is still dexterous at 45.

I can't help but think that most of the world will lose at least three minutes of productivity today.

Seperate and Distinct

My seven-year-old has a life all his own now — or at least, a part of his life — apart from me. He has encounters I cannot share, and he experiences his world in ways I can no longer completely control. I can't say I'm completely comfortable with this, though I have become resigned to it. I'm also intrigued.

I've had the slightly unsettling notion, once or twice over the past several months, learning of experiences he's had in school that I knew nothing about. (Often these will come up in conferences with his Teacher.) Not because they were embarrassing, or anything he'd have reason to conceal, they're just — I suppose they were simply overlooked.

And from time to time he'll say something, or make passing reference to something, or ask a question about something, and leave me completely flummoxed, wondering "Where could he have heard that?"

Today, for example, was a big question, a very big question — about religion. I've been very impressed with the range of material they're covering in his Second Grade class (even envious, as I remember my experience to have been rather dull by comparison), but somehow I don't think the subject has come up there. (At least, I can't say I've noticed it in his homework.) And I wouldn't expect a discussion of the existence or non-existence of God to be a common topic among the other seven-year-olds. (But you never know.)

I don't mind answering — or, at least, trying to answer — these questions. I don't even mind being drawn into a discussion with my seven-year-old that I wouldn't have expected to have for a few more years. But I wish I could somehow learn more about the ways he learns about his world.

Questions

I made a comment recently to someone about the difficulty I thought I might have explaining something to my seven-year-old, who tends to be very, very inquisitive. Follow-up questions are just about inevitable.

"See that's what happens when you are a good parent and teach your child to question the world around them." was the response, with a knowing smile.

I'll often get a question first thing in the morning (really) before I'm even properly awake. My son will come in, only moments after having gotten out of bed, to ask me about whatever is on his mind, or how something works, or to solve a math problem (usually something I'd need pencil and paper to sort out even if I were thinking more coherently). Sometimes he'll ask the same question more than once, or when he knows the answer (and I know he knows the answer), but I suppose that's all a part of learning.

And I don't mind. And I'm glad I don't always have the answers for him — I think he'll be more inclined to keep asking questions that way.

Hidden

The details of my life seem to be reasonably well hidden — at least so far as Google is aware of them. All of which suits me very well, thank you.

Mind you, I'm not completely invisible, if you put enough effort into the endeavor, you could probably work out where I live, and find my small publishing business. But I've been careful to keep most of my interests and activities — good and somewhat less than good — separate from my name. Even this blog is written anonymously, though it wouldn't take much to put the pieces together.

And it turns out I have a surprisingly common name. I wouldn't have thought so, growing up — I never really liked my name, I always felt awkward about it, somehow. But it's turned out to be something I share with a marxist, a gun enthusiast, several authors, and someone with a Facebook page, none of whom are me. This quite nicely confuses the issue. (I was fifteen pages into a Google search of my name before I found a link that I spotted as recognizably mine.)

I enjoy my anonymity. I like being hidden. I don't want to be found so easily.

The Fact of Fiction

I envy the way my seven-year-old can be carried away and completely lose himself in fiction, while at the same time be aware that it is. I can still do that, kind of, sort of, but — nah, who am I kidding, it just isn't the same for me. I only wish that it were.

A Month

I thought, for some reason, that there must be a month between April and May — just a bit more time for me to be able to finish everything that has to be done (along with everything else that's kept me away from, well, everything else for the past several weeks).

In the back of my mind, I've been comforting myself with the notion that at least I have more time before May...

Voice

I was told today that my seven-year-old's writing has it's own wonderful, distinctive voice. (This was from his teacher, who said she often uses his work as an example for the rest of his second grade class.) While flattered (by proxy), I'm ashamed to admit that I hadn't really noticed — but then, I only see his writing in homework, in short bursts of answered questions rather than stories or journals or imagination. Perhaps this is a side I'll see when classwork is sent home.

Try Again

What a difference several months makes — I started work on this cover almost a year ago! In the interim, I did the book design (though the project would also hang in limbo for several months), and with that finally complete, I turned my attention back to the cover. And quickly discovered it deserved a second look.



I'm not sure how I arrived at the decision that the large open space at the top of the cover worked — but it really didn't. And that name just sort of disappeared in the middle of the cover — despite my best efforts to make sure it was at least legible, it lacked the kind of clarity I think is incredibly important in those fleeting moments when you're trying to catch attention with a book cover.

Fractured

It was a busy week. Lots of unfinished projects to put away — and then my seven-year-old fell and hurt himself at school. He turned out to have two very-difficult-to-identify fractures in his arm, near the elbow (I couldn't tell you exactly where), and will have a cast for the next few weeks. He's adapted to wearing it quite well, though. (I think it helps that his best friend went through more or less the same experience just recently.) And it's made from glow-in-the-dark fiberglass!

Indecisive

I had so many other projects that I wanted to get to today — but I started working on this, and fell victim to my muse.



(I had a few other more complicated ideas that were discarded, in favor of something more simple.) I can't decide which version I ought to submit. I'm pleased with the red cover (that was my initial approach), but that white cover reminds me of books from fifty or sixty years ago — or at least, my imagined idea of something I must have seen along the way.

Today, I am Eight Years Old again.

I've been waiting for this day for months (though it feels as though it's been much longer) — Doctor Who returns to television today, finally, (following the series' hiatus during the past year, which was filled with an intermittent series of specials), with a new cast, a new production team, and a renewed sense of energy and enthusiasm. Trailers and brief excerpts from the first episode have been slowly revealed over the past several weeks, building the anticipation. I've been so very excited, like a kid just days away from Christmas! And I've made no effort whatsoever to hide my excitement from my seven-year-old, either. (He may begin watching the show with my wife and I this year.)

I won't try to explain the appeal of the series (which began in 1963 and ran for 26 years in it's original incarnation, before it was brought back in 2005) except to say that, even at 45, it still appeals to the child in me.

Steven Moffat, the incoming Executive Producer said something in an interview recently that I felt perfectly captures the spirit of the series, that Doctor Who "makes children of everyone who watches it. If you're still a grown up by the end of that opening music, you've not been paying attention."

I'm going to go make some popcorn!

Not

I'm not all that adept at putting on a façade. I might try, if it's something I'm curious about, or if I want a challenge, but I think my strong sense of self has left me a bit less malleable than I might like to be.

Fooled

The Internet is just no fun today. It's April 1st, and virtually everyone feels obliged to post their most hilarious and clever pranks — though they are, more often than not, neither. It isn't that I don't have a sense of humor, just that too much of a good thing is usually anything but.

This post, though — on a new identity for the Dunkin' Donuts chain — had me hoodwinked (upon first reading, at least). Not only because a substantial amount of thought and work was put into the presentation, but because I was just thinking about this, not too long ago.

Some logos don't age well — like music, or fashion, or a fad, there are elements of a design that seem inextricably linked to a particular point in time. (For some of us, anyway. Most people wouldn't much care, but when you work in design, you really can't help but notice this stuff.)


The Dunkin' Donuts logo seems very much a product of its' era, having been introduced in — I can't seem to find a definitive answer to this, but from what I remember — the mid-1970s. (The coffee cup on the left was added in 2002.) And it looks, to me, like it was introduced in the mid-1970s. It's a very simple design, just the company name set in a typeface (Frankfurter) that noboby uses any more (because it seems hopelessly anachronistic), in bright magenta and orange.

(I don't think I've ever found a good use for Frankfurter — but over the past several years, the company has extended it across signage and promotional materials, and I think it all works really well, much better than I would have expected.)

Yet somehow, it doesn't seem dated. It doesn't seem modern, either. It just seems — timeless. The simplicity is the key to the durability. Trends in design (they're closer to fads, really) have come and gone at least a dozen times over in the years since that logo was introduced, but they've all been ignored.

Target

I enjoy my work, I really do. But there are times I just want to rest my creative mind, and do something else, instead. Thankfully, there's almost always something else that needs to be done.

And then, there are the days I just don't want to do much of anything. Today was one of those days.

I've been looking for a specific item, an action figure (if you must know!), one that can be found only at Target. I've been checking, off and on, over the past few months, waiting for it to appear. I think I just missed it last week (based on having seen other items from the same assortment) at the store that's closest to me, about a half-hour away. I checked again today, but without success.

I decided, though, if I was going to spend this day accomplishing nothing, I might as well find a way to make it interesting. So I decided I'd check every Target store within reasonable driving distance to see if I could find what I was looking for. It wasn't all that difficult, really — each store was no more than a half-hour away from the last. (That is, except for when I missed an exit in New Jersey and wound up in the Lincoln Tunnel, and then midtown Manhattan. First time I'd been back since I left my job in late 2002.) Several hours later, I'd been to seven different Target stores (three in New York, four in New Jersey), and found — and accomplished — absolutely nothing.

But I am content to have wasted this productive day in a most ridiculous way.

Tax

I haven't done this in ten years, perhaps longer, but I was all set to try to prepare my own Income Tax return this year, instead of taking it to the accountant — I really was. I'll admit, though, this measure was driven in part by desperation — it is now, as I write this, the fourth week in March, and I was embarrassed to be bringing everything to the accounting firm so late. (This happened last year, as well, but two weeks earlier.) That, and the $400 it will cost would be far better spent elsewhere.

"I'll just use last year's return as a guide," I thought to myself, naively. "I know it won't be easy, but how difficult can it be, really?"

One look at the amortization schedules from 2007 put a swift end to that idea. (I couldn't even find a copy of my 2008 return, which had been filed electronically.) I have equipment that was purchased last year, and perhaps the year before — I'm not sure I'd even know where to begin to sort all that out.

Instead, I spent the rest of the day gathering the paperwork to leave with the accounting firm. Let this be their headache.

Sketches: Blondie Goes To Hollywood

I'm not paid nearly enough for some of the work I do. Believe me, this isn't a display of hubris — it's an objective assessment! (This is a small publisher.) So it's in my best interests to limit the time I invest in these projects to a minimum. That said, though, I don't mind putting a bit more effort into the covers, where the work will show.

And so it was I came to spend most of the day working on this (which took more time than I had to spare).

Since this is a book about a long-running comic strip (sort of), that seemed like a good direction to go. I did a sketch to work out the basic idea, a page of comics, but that seemed a bit — dull. So I tilted it a bit, just to give it some tension and energy. I was concerned about straying too far from what would still be recognizable as a comics page, but I thought I could get away with it, given the subject of the book.

I've used primary colors — actually, process colors — to bring to mind the appearance of a comic strip. All I had to work with were photographs (I'm precluded from using any art from the comic strip) and only black-and-white photographs at that, so I've tinted them. I couldn't use the actual logo, either, so I put one together that is, shall we say, a reasonable facsimile.

Rose

I was genuinely surprised by the reactions of dismay — mind you, this was from other people in a pet store! — when they discovered I was bringing home a Tarantula as a pet. There was never any hesitation here, particularly not from my seven-year-old, who was very excited by the prospect. (The Hermit Crabs, sadly, did not survive the cold, and I suggested we might use the tank for something else.)

Say hello to Rose (named for that brilliant iridescent color on her abdomen).

Sublimated

Had you not been here, you might never have known that only a week ago we were covered in a thick, deep blanket of snow.

Happy Birthday!

It's Guy Kibbee's birthday today!