Trivia

I'm recently 47, which is in itself the source of some ambivalence — but I'm delighted to discover that there's still something left to surprise me. Not the important stuff, but the stupid, trivial stuff that I thought I already knew (or had known, and had already forgotten).

For example: did you know that "Last Train To Clarksville" (best known as The Monkees' debut single, though probably more accurately attributed to Boyce and Hart, since the music was performed by studio musicians) was essentially an anti-war protest song? It's the story of a young man who has been drafted, and he knows he may die in Vietnam. I suppose it might also be interpreted as someone fleeing the draft, as well.

I'm not sure how I've never heard this.

Happy Birthday!

It's Guy Kibbee's birthday today! (That's him on the right, in case you were wondering.)

Speaking of which, I had the opportunity, not too long ago, to see one of his early films — City Streets, made at Paramount in 1931. While notable as a precursor of "film noir," I mention it here because I think it's the only film I've ever seen Guy Kibbee in where he wasn't paying a mostly comic character — he's genuinely sinister here! (It's a terrific film, and highly recommended.)

The Hybrid

This was my very first iBook, from 1999. (That is, unless you count the one I borrowed for about two weeks while waiting for this one to ship. Waiting took forever.) This was my very first portable computer (and my first computer to use a wireless network, technology Apple had introduced to consumers at the same time this model was introduced), and this convenience changed everything. It would be several years more before I bought another desktop computer, and even then, this was only because I needed a larger screen size for the type of work I do. Otherwise, I might have never gone back to using one.

I haven't actively used this iBook since it was replaced by another model — same design, different color, this time a brilliant electric green — about a year or so later, but it still has enormous sentimental value to me.

It was lent out to someone for a few years, and some time after it was returned, I replaced the internal hard drive (mostly because I had another hard drive from another iBook that I couldn't find any productive use for), and that was no mean feat. I had thoroughly detailed instructions to follow, of course, but there are approximately 3500 tiny screws that need to be carefully unscrewed and even more carefully kept track of. I did all right, I suppose (I had only a few screws left over) but in the process of doing so I somehow damaged the logic board — everything worked except the speaker output.

So I bought a second-hand logic board. It came with the bottom of the computer attached, and that was blue (or "Blueberry"), instead of orange (or "Tangerine"), but it cost next-to-nothing, and that made all the difference. So I put everything in the bottom of my office closet for, I dunno, I suppose it's been three or four years.

Today, anxious for an excuse to avoid doing actual work, I decided I ought to finally replace that logic board. (I'd been putting it off as a project to do with my eight-year-old — he had watched me replace the internal hard drive — but I decided it'd just be easier to keep count of the 3500 tiny screws in peace and quiet.) Four hours and a few questions like "where does that tiny spring that I've never seen before go?," I have a somewhat refurbished hybrid Tangerine-and-Blueberry iBook.

It's almost achingly s-l-o-w-w-w-w by the standards I've become accustomed to, almost twelve years later, and amusingly, the screen size isn't wide enough to fit my photo blog, and I had to set up an ad hoc network because the hardware can't handle the more recent encryption standard my wireless network uses, and the battery will no longer charge, so it's a portable computer only in the sense that it has a handle — but somehow, despite everything, it still works. This delights me no end.

Forecast

I've become conflicted about this "snow day" stuff. You see, as a former child, I understand quite well the thrill of the snow day, and believe me, I still share in that excitement. We've had at least one snow day every week this year so far — if I were still eight years old? I would have thought this was the best year ever. He loves going to school, but the snow day is like an unexpected (well, mostly unexpected) gift.

As a parent, though, I don't seem to get too much done these days while my eight-year-old is home. Not that he isn't able to entertain himself, but his interests have become more and more ambitious with age, and often involve taking an old toy apart, either to fix it or just to see how it works (or worked). So I get called in for frequent consultations. It hampers my productivity, which, in turn, kinda nags at my conscience.

Tomorrow could go either way. There's lots of snow expected — but it's expected to end by daybreak, which should allow plenty of time for the roads to be cleared. But then, we had an unexpected few inches yesterday morning, and then an unexpected few more during the day today, so who knows?

Faded

Why is it that so many of the books I've worked on are by middle-aged men, writing about their unlikely friendships — or unhealthy relationships, depending on how you want to look at it — with elderly women, forgotten actresses from the Hollywood of the 1930s and 40s who worked steadily, back in the day, but never found enough fame to be remembered?

Drift Off

Somehow, we've experienced about three months worth of snow days over just the past two weeks.

Bureaucracy

I am the sort of person who enjoys poking holes in a bureaucracy -- mostly because it amuses me, but hey, if there's some way I can put it to my advantage, all the better. Give me the opportunity to find the weak link in a chain of responsibility, and I will exploit that as much as possible. (It's just the way I am.)

I have a tendency to rebel against authority (that gets me into trouble from time to time, but it's served me well, mostly), and if there's one authority I find anything but, well, authoritative, it's bureaucratic authority. Pencil-pushers, file-filers, form-filler-outers — I have no use for them.

I've been quietly mired in both authority and bureaucracy (in more or less equal proportion) for almost the past two years. I've been able to take advantage of the bureaucracy and evade the authority, thank goodness, mostly losing myself in the shuffle of personnel over the past year or so. I like it here, peaceful and quiet, hiding beneath a deflated balloon.