After crossing my fingers so hard I injured a hand, the state of my Macintosh troubleshooting took its most catastrophic turn, forcing us to buy a new computer we weren’t prepared to purchase.
Well, sometimes you just have to shift into survival mode and let the future take care of itself…
Dana and I drove to Indianapolis after the reunion so we could spend time with Bruce. Some anonymous medical genius had him so sedated he could barely keep his eyes open. They load him up with drugs and then stop in and ask him if he’s feeling depressed. Well, that makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? On our lunch break we walked along the canal, visited the Indiana History Center, and looked at some Bodmer lithographs and 1860 watercolors of Old Richmond. By the time I’d stopped in the Cole Porter room to see the Hirschfelds and play a couple tunes on the Wurlitzer, I felt somewhat better, although I took out my residual frustration on a nurse by insisting Bruce get some plain yogurt instead of the version with artificial sweetener, which gives him a headache (no problem, we have drugs for that, too). I’m certain everyone’s glad when the grouchy step-dad leaves.
By last evening we were in Dayton for Dana’s class of 1960 high school reunion, which she always enjoys so much, even though they’re a bit strange for me. Come to think of it, she might say they’re a bit strange for her, too. The music was provided by a classmate who’d worked in Nashville with Barbara Mandrell. He played solo pedal steel with a funky percussion unit that ran off a floppy disk. I was having some trouble listening to his interpretation of Richard Carpenter songs, so I requested a Linda Ronstadt or Roy Orbison ballad. The closest thing he could come up with was Elvis, but Dana was too busy talking and we never did get to have our dance.
While Dana and I enjoyed a splendid dinner with my “big sis” last night in Danville, it occurred to us how abruptly her “House of Joan” has spread across the world. According to Jeeves, the distance between Caitlan (Oxford, England) and Ian (Glendale, California) is 5389.0 miles (8673.0 km). However, if you’re traveling from one to the other and make a stop in Kentucky (anyone would, of course), it measures over 5800 miles, which is fairly close to Joan’s quick estimate of 6000.
So, there you have it. Who needs you, Jeeves, you pompous know-it-all?
— Dana and I began our day having coffee with Kristi, my niece whose family is temporarily displaced by Hurricane Katrina. What a lovely person! I’ve met few people in my life who exhibit such thoughtful striving. I’ve never been more impressed with her, and I was incredibly impressed with her the very first day I met her in 1977. Take care, sweet heart.
— Being with Kristi makes me think of Caitlan, my neice who’s off on her adventure in England. That first week can be quite lonely. I was there. I don’t mean England, although I was there, too. I mean alone in Europe, facing a long separation from family and friends. I was the same age. It was difficult at first. It was also one of the most important personal challenges I’ve ever surmounted, perhaps the most important one of all. Caitlan is a terrific young lady—one of the most gifted people I know. She’ll get through this. She’ll be ok. If you’re the type of person who gets homesick, it never completely goes away, but when she discovers the intellectual center of her universe in Oxford, she’ll do just fine.
— David the Mac Guru urged me to just “sit tight” and await the arrival of a new startup drive for our G4, so that’s what I’m doing, but trying to keep clients happy in this crippled state is gnawing at my nerves. Get a grip—I’m not experiencing anything that countless millions haven’t already dealt with over the centuries—since that first clever human who chose to link mental equilibrium and financial well-being to an infernal machine.
— I was just thinking about my recent stay in the U.P. and the extraordinary “moments” I manage to bring back (in spite of my frayed memory bank). Like observing that remarkable “cinematographer’s moon,” as translucent clouds swept a midnight sky above the dancing treetops, or crossing the brisk Moscoe Channel in full open-water gear—wet suit, cap, goggles, fins, and my treasured diving gloves (generous Jerome will never know how much good use I’ve gotten out of them). I recall those minutes of tense exhilaration when, after all the effort, a big king takes the hook, and all mental energy is directed to the goal of successfully boating the fish, working with the net handler, knowing you may not get a second chance… my annual rediscovery of the pleasures associated with simple industry—preparing a meal, washing dishes, maintaining the boat, butchering and freezing the day’s catch, or salvaging a rusty salmon smoker… the sense of comfort and belonging that has now replaced the former disbelief, when I arrive and first absorb the low-key majesty of the Les Cheneaux… and that elusive point of peak relaxation which occasionally comes with fishing, recognizing that consciousness has been emptied of all thought when mind floods back into the vacuum…
Experiencing Mark O’Connor last night was the kind of transporting event I needed. Any of the other individuals who appeared with him onstage—Bryan Sutton, Howard Alden, Jon Burr, Roberta Gambarini—could have easily carried the evening on their own. The musical originality and virtuosity was riveting. I love wind instruments, but it’s totally amazing what fingers can do when lips don’t have to keep up.
Perhaps this private torture chamber of uncertainty in which I currently dwell—what I hope soon to call my studio again—is meant to be a mere taste of of what Bruce has inhabited for so many months.
God doesn’t work in just mysterious ways. He surely invented the bizarre as well.
Have mercy…
Don’t even ask…
Making a blog entry can be a dangerously handy thing in times of stress and desperation.
After examining my thoughts, I’m convinced that it would serve the greater good if no aspects of my current attitude toward the general nature of the universe were recorded in any way for posterity.
— Month of September workout totals: Swim-7; Bike-4; Run-3; Lift-0; Yoga-0
— I was reliving the moment of confusion, pain, and regret when I learned of Mike’s illness, so I decided to learn more about rheumatoid arthritis. The books in Dana’s own natural healing library here at home were a big help, and she spent time doing some digging herself. RA is an autoimmune condition, and there are strong indications to suggest that it’s related to food allergies. The ability of foods to trigger an immune response is often associated with a weakening of mucous membranes in the intestine that allow undigested food to pass into the blood stream and collect around tissues. In the case of RA it would be the joints. His immune system is mistaking cells around the joints as the enemy and will eventually destroy them if the complex isn’t unraveled. I put together a packet of information so that he can get another perspective. I believe, in most cases, orthodox medical care and natural healing methods can work side by side. It should only help him feel better if he combines dietary and lifestyle refinements with his current therapy.
— Bruce has had a powerful week of positive developments after a long summer of erratic recovery. For the first time since March he was able to take food by mouth. Imagine that… well, I know you can’t… neither can I. He also made it down the hall to the Dialysis Center with a walker, on his own—another first. This man has grit (or as my Uncle Don would say, “the Means”).
Our Macintosh instability was back with a vengeance today. With everything that’s taken a toll on our studio over the past six months, we can do without these maddening disruptions. I’m still trying to deduce my way out of it, fully aware of how dangerous that scenario can be. After hours of frustration I felt like I needed to either go run or find a Texas Margarita. (For the inquiring fans of Uncle John—he chose wisely.)
The precision of certain activities has a strong appeal for me—creating fine typography, fishing for king salmon, engraving wood for printing… and now I can add reloading ammunition to the list, which I did for the first time tonight with David, in his gun room. I’m not mechanically inclined enough to fix engines nor meticulous enough in my logic to write code, but there are aspects of the shooting sports that demand an exactitude which I can manage. I found it satisfying to balance all the parameters and tolerances in order to hold a finished .44 Magnum cartridge in my hand.
The fixes I implemented (in my dubious capacity as studio “Mac Czar”) seem to be holding their own. Life doesn’t seem quite as surreal, and we were back at the HUB again for lunch (could become a nice habit)—this time with our friend Bob (the pie guy), who was on assignment in Danville. Darned if we didn’t solve most of the world’s problems, just like we did Sunday while sitting on the Simpson porch, out in the wilds of Marion County. Just as we got there we ran into Professor Weston and his wife (with nifty his-n-her iBooks), and they gave up their table in the crowded cafe so we could settle in. Beau is on sabbatical and has an interesting blog called Gruntled Center. I thought sociology was boring until I met Beau.
Joan and I joked on Saturday about coming to the HUB as a couple of beatniks on open-mike night. That made us think about the demise of Bob Denver, who we remember as Maynard (to most of America he was Gilligan). Don Adams passed away yesterday. The back-to-back deaths of these 60s-comedy icons got me to thinking about how far we’ve travelled since sitting in front of the tube as adolescents. “Get Smart” was a cool, funny show, Agent 99 had sex appeal to spare, and I never felt self-conscious about watching it. It won Emmys, like our favorite drama, “Mission: Impossible.” On the other hand, wasting your time watching a show like Gilligan’s Island” was inexcusable. Mombo would scold us for being glued to the TV set. Shows like Denver’s became known as “glue” in our household, and you couldn’t deny the obvious if stuck in one. There weren’t a lot of choices if you felt like watching television in the 60s, and even after all these years, it’s hard to believe I allowed myself to “glue down” and watch so much junk like that. Now they’re called classics, and people in Hollywood trip over each other remaking them as major motion pictures.
…an entire day spent waging war against the inexplicable perplexities of technological limbo, and the sad thing is I don’t know if I’m winning, losing, or perpetuating a stalemate. I used to hate those days I spent cleaning out Rapidograph penpoints and scraping wax off the underneath side of my Mayline, but that was paradise compared to the slow torture of troubleshooting a stubborn machine that’s gripping my throat like Vaporware.
Biked out to Mack’s Cabin to hear Milton’s remarks about the “intelligent-design-vs-evolution” argument. My hip didn’t feel too tender. Dana and I spent most of the day at Simpson Farm relaxing with our friends, but the Macintosh Panic was hanging over my head throughout the visit. Why is it that my storytelling ability degrades dramatically whenever I realize I’m “telling a story?”
Today had its ups and downs. I finished a 5-to-6-mile run to Millennium Park and back with a very sore hip (the downfall of Cap’n Lice haunts my soul, too.) I was impressed with Rita’s excellent photographic coverage of our Piratical Blowout earlier this month when Joan shared the CD with us while she and Mombo visited the studio. I was then dismayed to learn of my mother’s worsening muscular ailment. There’s a lot she can do from a dietary standpoint that will help her feel better, and I believe she’s prepared to make the commitment. Nevertheless, we still had an upbeat time at the new Hub Coffee Shop in downtown Danville. On our way out we saw Tony H on the street and he asked about Brendan. After we got home and settled back into the studio, we had a major computer malfunction, as bad as the setback that hit us last winter.
When Caitlan came to the studio today I got my first look at her new
Powerbook G4. They make a handsome couple.
If you don’t think that Brendan’s “Plastic Mullet Series” has achieved the summit of artistic hilarity, then A) you’ve been tragically blind since birth, B) you’re a snob who needs a search party to rescue your sense of humor, or C) maybe you actually wear a mullet style and are not at all amused by his cute little pastime. And if the Cap’nLiceCam is not weird enough, the Danville Rotary Club put up this page. Sonuva gun… I figured that after ten years in Rotary, I’d start looking more like Peter Graves. Maybe I should send Rotary a picture from the famous Muscle Club, (actually I don’t look that wimpy any more, due to my impressively strenuous, Bruce-Waynian training schedule this year).
After tasting my smoked salmon again, I decided that it
didn’t come out so badly (it should get better with some
practice). I unpacked, reorganized, and sorted through my
email. Read over and thought about the report James
prepared on Mombo’s Trust. Got a nice reply from Kyle (no,
by Heaven, he’s not a God-cursed Spaniard!) and learned
that BCA accomplished his assigned missions. Checked out
the “Invasion” pilot on ABC. Wasted my time; it stunk…
This short note is written in the car, heading south through
central Michigan, listening to Paul Harvey, a fixture on the
radio my whole life (that guy isn’t old, he’s damn old!). As
usual, I wax introspective when I leave the Les Cheneaux,
taking internal stock of my priorities and the direction of
my life. I’ve felt such a strong desire for rededication in
my affairs, and I hope I don’t leave the contemplative mode
too quickly. How do I balance my yearning for a hermitage
in the midst of nature with my need to become even more
involved in public activities?
