OneHundredWordsForFog

My very first childhood memory is an abstract tableau in the backyard of my house, viewed in the dim light of a smeared peach sunset, on a warm Southern California evening.  

I am certain that this memory is preserved from the mind of a very small child because, when I conjure it up now there is a lazy quality to it; a timeless pre-verbal feeling that accompanies the image with a sensation unique to kids: A kind of unconscious powerlessness intertwined with pure unadulterated wonder. 

I simply can’t remember a time when I did not remember this scene.   

The perspective is unusual, like a snapshot taken from a spot quite close to the ground; where the foreground of speckled pebbles seems somehow tremendously important and the old splintered fence post soars impossibly high like a cartoon skyscraper or the launch tower of a rocket ship, disappearing to a sharp point stabbed into the velvety twilight sky. 

When I was little, there was so much that went on over my head.

That sunset vision could be any time of the year since seasons are not native to the region where I was born.  The air temperature feels no different from my body temperature as if the air itself is an extension of my skin or my body has no boundary.  There is no evening breeze.  The air is still, but not stifling. 

No noises can be heard except for the listless droning of unenthusiastic suburban crickets, the muffled whoosh of distant traffic from an invisible freeway and the soft spitting of a neighbor’s lawn sprinklers.  The shouts from the horde of big kids, who play Kick-the-Can or dodge ball in the street, cannot be heard.  They must have been called in to dinner or it is past their bedtime.  No one is yelling at me to come inside, to wash my hands, to sit down and eat, for God’s sake you need to eat!  I remember being excited by the silence, breathing it in and holding it, trying to make it last, savoring it like Christmas candy.

The smooth grey paving stones that line the path along the asphalt driveway are delightfully cool under my bare feet and my heart pounds with the anticipation of exploration, no different, no less thrilling, than any other brave adventurer’s first step into a virgin land.

I know that I am not allowed to go here by myself, into the little side yard past the garage where the trashcans are kept, but no one is watching me now and the strange smell, the sweet mysterious vapors beckon.

And then I see them high up, over head:

A linear pattern of geometric silhouettes floats magically far above me. Each shape is held equidistant from its fellows, hovering in space, connected but not touching, suspended cleverly so as to leave no trace of the wire which holds them.

Pierced hexagons, flat circles and thin cylinders dangle from invisible wires hung along the fence, like daring circus performers. I know that I should not touch them, even if they were in reach.  No one can touch them except my father who has instructed, I believe, the dust motes in the air to not mar their smooth and shining finish. It is imperative that these small pieces must be perfect, that no flaws can be seen upon their bright coats - although once taken down and assembled, no one will ever see them again.

They are a set of metal nuts, bolts and washers which have just been painted in glossy black and they glisten with the golden reflections of the honeyed sunset sky.

All I can see are car parts, car parts, beautiful, beautiful car parts.

"Oh no!  I've been attacked in the middle of the night by a diabolical lazy ray and can't get out of bed.  Will you bring me breakfast, mom?"

The last time I saw Travis, he was at my office door upset. Or more like, agitated.  He was interrupting something I was supposed to have completed, some underdone overdue unimportant work assignment.  But I could see that he wanted to talk to me and I honestly liked talking to the guy, I supposed I wanted to be interrupted.  And I could see by the look on his face it was important to him.  I knew that he only came to talk to me when he thought he had a problem that he couldn’t fix himself and these instances were fairly rare.

I can’t even remember the issue now.  I remember seeing Travis and I remember being glad to see him and I remember not being surprised when he started to complain about, probably, not being able to get machines or if he got machines they were all broken or un-ssh-able or he didn’t have the right group permissions.  As he stood there he told me what he wanted to do and then listed all of the ways that he went about it and then all the various steps (in detail) that didn’t work the way that they should have and then, and then, he explained to me how the machine management process should work, what would be the right way to do this very simple thing that was simply now such a huge pain in the ass.

And of course, he was right.

I remember being happy that he cared enough to want to talk to me, to want to try to fix these things.  And that thought made me smile.  I don't know if he thought I wasn't taking his situation seriously, me sitting there smiling when he was upset.  I wish I could explain to him now that I just enjoyed listening to him, I always learned something from him, it didn't mean that I didn't care but the opposite.  I worry that he thought I was just an oblivious idiot manager.

But I was also smiling because it was so quintessential Travis: It was clear that he had interrupted me to tell me about something that he could fix, that he knew he could fix himself.  Mostly he just wanted to tell me that it was wrong that he had to fix it, it should just work.  And all I could do was agree because he was right.  He knew he was right.  We both knew it.  But there was simply nothing that either of us could do about it at that point in time.

And now this image of him is stuck in my mind, Travis is standing there holding in both hands a steaming paper cup, barricading my office door from the row of cubes at his back.  He is insistent that these very basic pre-requisites for doing our jobs should not be this screwed up, that for everyone to waste their time like this is wrong.  And there I am, nodding my head silently, smiling, bathed in the man's pure unstoppable logic in the face of an inscrutable corporate corporeality.

Thinking about going to work today and not seeing him, not ever seeing him again, brings his words back to me.  And again, I can only agree with him:

“This is bullshit! Total bullshit!” 

It's cool to see that the original iMac, one of my projects at Apple, is in here.

Nick and Schuyler’s Top Ten Variations on the “Guitar Hero” Videogame.  Try this list out on another ten year old boy to see if they think it is really really funny.

The runner ups are:

10. Opera Hero – You dress up like a fat lady wearing a horned helmet and yell.

  9. Guitar Geek – Hack into fame by using a computer for a guitar!

  8. Drum Hero – Play the drums if you can’t keep a tune.

  7. Guitar Freak – Like Guitar Geek but weirder.

  6. Guitar Villain – Run around and hit people with a guitar.

  5. Guitar Hamster!  (no explanation)

  4. Guitar Villain Hero – Chases the guy hitting people with guitars

  3. Shut-up Hero – Hits the guy making up the guitar hero list for being stupid

  2. Bagpipe Hero – You have to wear a kilt.

The Number One alternative Guitar Hero game title is:
  
  1. Fart Hero! 

Zoe has an old typewriter which seems to spontaneously generate strange correspondence.  I found this in it the other day:

Dear Ant Margarine,

How are you? We are all fine cept Muffin; Gorgy’s latest goo was rather Vicious.  It ate a good bit of Muffin’s Fur before Expolding.  Left a horrid stink it did.

Last Market Dae, Mum came home with many things, Pots and cups and even China Plates!  Mum says the plates are not reely from China, as they are made by Mr. Barker who lives down the Layne.

Johnnie has been Naughty lately, he let Muffin ride him about and they crashed into the potting shed and broke 5 pots and a Ceramic Vase Mum puts Roses in.  Johnnie got a Hat to match his Lace.  He is very Stylish.  His hat twas maed by Gorgy, it is Purpul beecuz it is his favrit color. Johnnie also ate a bit of wall Paper and now Mum is in a Tizzy.  She said that we must Redo the Batheroom. 

Ooh and Grampa Bobbs has come up Tops, for he has givyn us a Pig!  The Pigs name is Beatrix, she has Piglets, there be 6 of them and they are named by Number.  He has also givyn us another Cow, it has maed Friends with Bessie.  We have named the newe Cow Oxford.  Mum says it’s a Joke but I don’t Get It. 

Mum has got Gorgy a new Pet:  It is two Little White Mice in a Cage.  Gorgy calls them Blindy and Chopper; she reeds Too Many Books. The Brown Chicken lives under the Roof nowe with us.  It has made a nest on the Beem and sqawks at Mum when she commes Neer. 

Gorgy lost a Tooth.  It had no Holes.

That is all for now.

Love,

Ted.

When I asked Sky which country he was writing about for his end of the year report, he replied:  "Psuedo Arabia."

My mom's twin sister, Margie, and my daughter, Zoe.  Zoe is looking awfully smug. 

The boys are reading in the back seat of the car; squeezed between more than a couple dozen different dog-eared books which are built into wobbling cairns between their bodies, their dirt splotched feet and against the pock-marked armrests of our aging Subaru.   Nick is reading the last book of Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimeus trilogy and the latest in the Tamora Pierce fantasy series, purchased with a birthday gift certificate from Grandma. Schuyler's eyes are glued to an illustrated Ripley’s Believe it or Not with a Stars Wars Visual Dictionary and one of my old Xmen compilations blanketing his lap.  

[Note: It is not unusual for the boys to read more than one book at a time.  If it’s a new title by a favorite author, like Tamora Pierce, they’ll take turns reading it, alternating chapters.  Also, if a story is almost at it’s end – let’s say within one or two hundred pages of completion – then another book is necessary as a back-up.  Arguments about the need to bring multiple paperbacks on a five minute car trip to the grocery store are not uncommon.  As the photo illustrates smaller books can also be used as bookmarks.]

Nick pauses from his reading.  I look in the rear-view mirror anticipating a rare conversation with my first-born son. His eyes look into mine.  Yes! A chance to talk.  About something other than books maybe?  I smile back at him and nod, excited, waiting for him to speak.  He has a gleam in his eye.  He wants to tell me something.


Nick: Hey Mom, do you think Bartimeus would beat Wolverine?

Me (crestfallen): Huh?

Sky (not missing a beat): Well I got Wolverine, Storm and Nightcrawler.  They'd beat Bartimeus.  Nightcrawler is a demon too you know.

Nick: But Bartimeus is five thousand years old!  And I have all the gods and goddesses from Tamora Pierce too.

Sky:  What about Terry Pratchett, like all the books he has ever written?  There is about one hundred.  I would put the whole Terry Pratchett series against Tamora Pierce!

Nick (laughs, confidently):  No way.  Bartimeus would beat Pratchett. Easy.

Sky: Well, I have the world history of horror stories that would scare them.  And Ripley’s Believe it or Not!  There’s some really weird stuff in there! And the complete Star Wars Visual Dictionary.  How about that?  That's like, in the future!

Nick: Light sabers can’t actually hurt gods and goddesses. 

Sky: What if I had a Bible?  Then they wouldn’t exist! 

Nick: Would you throw the Bible at them?

Sky:  Sure!  That would scare them! 

Nick: What if I had the whole San Jose Library?  That would beat the entire Star Wars universe!

Me (gamely): Which library?  There are different branches – there is the Willow Glen Branch and the downtown branch…

Sky: Well, in the Star Wars book there is a whole universe of different planets and each planet has their own library and each library has a zillion books in it.  It would be like a Death Star Library!

Me (exasperated):  Guys!  Books are not weapons!  Why does everything have to be a battle?!

Nick:  What is she talking about?

Sky:  I don’t know.  She never makes any sense to me.

Nick:  Just ignore her. 

Sky:  Wait!  I know!  We could use all of the stories in the universe that end with happily ever after!  That would win!

Nick: Yeah! Happily ever forever!

We have been having a difficult time naming the new car.  Usually names come to us quite easily and really we thought this would be a done deal by now.  Zoe is our family's Chief Namer of All Pets and Important Objects.  The first name she delivered, the very first time she saw the car, and which we all agreed was an obvious good choice was: Beatrice. 

It was so simple, so right and so well done until I talked to Tim - that very night - my only other Prius-owning friend.  I told him that we had a Prius and her name was Beatrice.

He said, "No, you can't name your car that!" He was quite adamant too, because, unbelievably, his daughter Abby had christened their vehicle "Beatrice" years before when they had bought it from a French woman of the same appellation.  Apparently Abby thought that there was a rule that your car must be named after the person from whom you purchased it.  Anyway, we immediately agreed that it would be far too confusing to have two cars and one French woman all sharing the identical name, so strangely and suddenly our Prius was anonymous again.

But then, after admiring the car's verdant hue one morning, I came up with Esmeralda.  None of the kids liked it though.  They didn't get the reference to the car's exquisitly glittering green tint nor had they read the book or even seen the Disney version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  I was greatly disappointed because I love this character (the original Hugo which I read in High School, not the Disney version) and have always been jealous of her for having a pet goat. 

Zoe next countered with Charybdis.  She insisted that this was a very good name and was somewhat offended when I countered that it lacked a particular warmth and didn't particularly roll easily off one's tongue.  Anyway such a moniker was destined not to stick.  At all.

This whole thing is mildly reminiscent of working at Apple on the original iMac proposal.  We had pitched the translucent, blobby, all-in-one-concept to Steve with such success that he wanted a detailed prototype as soon as possible.   This meant the design team stayed up late night after endless night, coming up with what we thought were perfectly good solutions to completely impossible engineering problems; only to have Steve reject them with the words that he knew "we could do better".  Or if he felt a little less benevolent - which became more and more the case as the days went by on this particular program - he'd say "This is crap" and send us back, literally, to our drawing boards and CAD systems.  After weeks of rejection and professional humiliation, the entire team started to finally crumble from exhaustion, believing that it was not technically possible, knowing we would get fired for daring to return empty handed.  We doubted ourselves, our worth and almost everything we had thought to be good and right.  We watched what started out as such a simple, brilliant concept teeter into a total product disaster.

And then, one day, without warning or explanation or reason, it just happened.

We came upon something that we hadn't seen before.  Something new.  Something completely perfect.