All That Glitters

Someone suggested an intriguing possibility that I hadn't ever thought of (something, I will admit, that is probably of more interest to me than most of the people who will read this) ― the metallic gold ink used in printing might begin to tarnish with age!

I'd never heard of such a phenomenon before, but a cursory Google search did yield a document that refers to metallic ink "tarnishing due to contact with atmospheric pollutants, acids, alkalis etc." (Apparently, Pantone metallic inks have to be handled and stored much more carefully because of this.) I suspect what happens is as the paper has ages, the pH changes (it probably becomes more acidic with time), and this is the inevitable result.

Then again, I've seen several copies of a book published in 1948 that had significant gold detail on the dust jacket, and none of them displayed any evidence of this sort of problem. Granted, that was about 15 years before Pantone inks were introduced (I'm not sure when Pantone's metallic inks were first used), but I would imagine the underlying composition of the ink is more or less the same.

My (very) small publishing company reissued this book as a replica of the original edition, a few years ago. I wonder if my edition will have that same longevity?

The World's Biggest Dump Truck

One of my son's favorite toys over the past several years has been something we have (both) taken to referring to as "The World's Biggest Dump Truck." It's a simple and reasonably inexpensive toy (you can find them at Target), but it's enormous ― to a toddler it must seem like the biggest and most fun toy imaginable.

While my son was attending preschool, there was a small park nearby he liked to visit in the afternoon. The World's Biggest Dump Truck was a favorite toy to bring there, though it inevitably attracted the attention of virtually any toddler that came within sight of it, and one of them would usually run off with it if it were left unattended for more than fifteen seconds. (Thus, my son learned difficult and unpleasant lessons about sharing his toys.)

We eventually bought a second World's Biggest Dump Truck and quietly left it in the park for all to play with. It was well and truly enjoyed ― I recall having to bring it home at least once to repair a wheel that had fallen off.

My son still plays with his World's Biggest Dump Truck. Or he did, at least ― before I backed the car over it when it was mistakenly left in the driveway several months ago. I promised him we'd buy another, and I suggested we also buy another for the park — that was what we did this morning. (He was eager to explain to anyone who would listen that this was "The World's Biggest Dump Truck," and why we were buying two of them.)

We dropped it off at the park this afternoon. It was a cloudy, dull day, and unseasonably cool, so there weren't too many kids about ― but the moment we arrived with The World's Biggest Dump Truck, every toddler there wanted to play with it, a fact that did not go unnoticed by my son. ("We should have bought two World's Biggest Dump Trucks!" he said to me.) By the time we left, a two-year-old was happily pushing it all around the park.

Sweatshirt

One of my very favorite things in all the world was a sweatshirt ― one that came into my life with an old girlfriend, and stayed with me long after she left. It was a dark, cranberry red, almost the color of wine, and it was, without a doubt, the most comfortable piece of clothing I've ever owned, or probably ever will own. It was a woman's sweatshirt, but I couldn't have cared less (and anyway, it wasn't all that obvious). I had taken to wearing it while the former owner and I were still together, and for whatever reason (I can't remember why), it was left for me. Either that, or she just never noticed that I had taken it.

I couldn't begin to tell you why it felt so comfortable ― I have no idea. I never examined it too closely, as that might have spoiled the mystique.

(When I catch a cold, my preferred method of treatment is to bundle myself up and sleep under several layers of blankets and quilts ― I wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, but with my fever broken, and I usually feel much better the next day. I would always, inevitably, wear this particular sweatshirt ― it was my magic talisman.)

I would wear this sweatshirt for years, long after those years began to show, for as long as I possibly could ― before it finally dissolved into nothingness. I've never been able to replace it.

I had hopes for another sweatshirt from, of all places, the Victoria's Secret catalog ― my wife had spotted something she thought might be reasonably similar, and they were on sale, so I chose one that was a sort of grey blue green (if you can imagine that). I've been wearing it off and on over the past several days, while working. It's loose-fitting, perhaps a bit too open around the neck, but comfortable. But it just isn't the same.

Responsibilities Include

Today's mail brought with it a complimentary copy of the trade magazine Security Management. (This month, there are articles on animal rights extremists, hotel security, and stalking, among other topics.) It came addressed to me as the "Security Director" of my small business.

If I'm going to ask me to take on additional work, I'm going to walk right into my office and demand an increase in my salary from myself.

The Dot and The Line

I've recently introduced my six-year-old to one of my very favorite cartoons (and books): The Dot and The Line: A Romance in Lower Mathematics. It's the delightful tale of a straight line who longs to win the love of a high-spirited dot; but she finds the line to be dull, and conventional, and instead turns her affections toward a wild and unkempt squiggle. Based on the book by Norman Juster, Directed by Chuck Jones and released by MGM in 1965, it went on to win the Academy Award for Best Animated Short Film for that year. You can watch it here.

(My son seemed to enjoy it, more than I thought he might — it's gentle humor, much more whimsical and clever than funny.)

I have a copy of the original edition of the book, published in 1963, somewhere in the attic — it's been reissued once or twice in the years since, but none of the later versions seem to have the charm of the original (on which the animated version were based), not to mention the distinctive and wonderful typography and design of that era.

Spring

April First

For me, nothing quite captures the spirit of April Fool's Day like having a six-year-old tell you (repeatedly) that there's a frog on your head. (When I dropped him off at school this morning, I heard my son play the same prank on his teacher.)