January 2012

Fuzz.

One of the top news stories of the day includes the proclamation that male ‘cast members’ at the Disney properties in Florida and California will be allowed to wear beards beginning the first week of February.

Now, before I get into my intended direction of this blog entry, I am going to step aside one moment to share my initial thought when seeing this story all over the media today. The fact that a few thousand men are allowed to grow facial hair while employed by an entertainment company makes the top headlines across our country is sad. There are many, many, many more important things going on in our country today, and a few whiskers is not really one of them. That being said, here I am writing about this topic on my blog, though I’m not really a news outlet more than a literary fart, so I guess that’s what my blog is about.

I’m not shy of the fact that I like facial hair. I have always liked looking at guys with beards and mustaches and since it naturally grows there, one would assume that it’s suppose to be there. Removal of the beard is contrary to nature, and while I find the act of shaving to be very fascinating (despite my attraction to beards and mustaches), it goes without saying that society as a whole sees a clean-shaven man as a more clean-cut man. It’s a stereotype that is not really that true but the stereotype is still there.

Back in the beginning of the ’00s, Disney started allowing men to wear mustaches. Prior to that, male employees had been required to be clean shaven since 1955. Walt Disney wanted to distance Disneyland, and later, Walt Disney World, away from the carnivals of the day, where scruffy looking men acted in shady ways. He wanted to show his parks were different, and the male grooming standards were part of that. Hence, the clean shaven rule in ’55. The mustache allowance at the beginning of the 21st century made sense in a way, since Walt himself had a mustache for the majority of his adult life. A man with a mustache can still look clean-cut in his Disney cast member uniform or costume, especially when the ‘stache is groomed to Disney’s dress code standards. (Hipsters are out as waxed handlebars aren’t allowed).

One of the beauties of visiting a Disney property is that it’s an escape. When you pass through the gates of WDW and the road signs go from green to purple-with-mouse-ears, you’ve left the real world behind and you’re about to enter a magical place where the colors all match and are even brighter, there’s music in the air everywhere you go and everyone has a smile on their face and not a care in the world. The magical land of Disney has clean cut folks doing their clean cut thing in their own little world. They’re there to help you lose yourself in their carefully constructed fantasy and accept it as your reality for as long as your wallet can support it. And in that clean cut fantasy in their clean cut world, bearded men are the villains in a cartoon plot. It could be that I’m just hypersensitive to beards because of my attraction to them, but a bearded cast member will be a stark reminder that you are in a temporary (and rather expensive) fantasy that is being painted as reality. It screams “none of this is real!!” Unfortunately, this will bring in all sorts of questions to mind; Does Snow White smoke? Is Mary Poppins really bitchy? Is Mickey REALLY smiling for the photo? You mean there’s a human head holding up the Mickey head? Is this bearded man strapping me into the Tower of Terror a good guy or a bad guy? Am I going to lose my lunch?

Having been to WDW on several occasions (thanks, sweetheart!), I like to say that I become a kid again when we’re there. I’m more outgoing, I’m a little more carefree and quite frankly I don’t give a flip as to what people think about me. It’s the fantasy atmosphere that fuels that letting go. During our last visit I noticed a few chinks in the Disney fantasy façade; the film for “Ellen’s Energy Adventure” is VERY dated, the new cash registers all over the place don’t quite fit where the old ones used to sit, creating weird holes and messy looking displays where the old customer readouts used to be and the burgers seems to be getting smaller while the tab seems to be getting bigger. (Thank god they updated the ‘O Canada!’ film on the back part of Epcot). I see the allowance of beards on men as another chink in the fantasy. The presence of facial hair says it’s just a job for the folks that used to be clean cut fantasy characters. And this makes me a little sad. It just doesn’t feel very ‘Disney’.

If I want to check out beards at Disney, I’ll check out the tourists (and probably sneak a few pictures). I don’t need to be brought back to reality when I’m trying to enjoy my little escape vacation.

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Monday.

So today is Monday and I think this is the first week since before Thanksgiving that I have to work the entire week. Can you imagine? I have to work five out of the five workdays this week. The world has gone mad. Let’s see how I do with trying to be a morning person five days in a row.

This morning I woke up promptly at 5:30 and hit the exercise bike. I’m still really in the mood to do some riding on my road bike out in the fresh air, but it’s not something that is really enjoyable in Central New York in the middle of January. Nevertheless, it is something that I continue to daydream about and this keeps me happy in some way. Riding the exercise bike is ok for trying to keep some sort of exercise in my daily life, but I don’t really feel the psychological benefits that I experience when I ride my real bike. Perhaps I need a wind machine, a large screen television with some footage of the countryside whizzing by and a dash of scent of meadow muffins.

Though I worked many hours this past weekend (in preparation for my Big Presentation tomorrow), we did manage to see a lot of friends in Albany during the semi-monthly “Bear Albany” event. I must be getting old, though, because I decided at a little after midnight that I had had enough merry making and took the shuttle back to the hotel, where I promptly fell asleep after sharing a bag of microwaved popcorn with Earl. There’s a part of me that can’t believe that I used to DJ until 2:30 in the morning (4:00 in some parts of the state) and then after DJing I used to go to after hours parties and be rowdy until dawn.

I think I liked Saturday night’s approach better, because we were able to get back on home on Sunday early, giving me the opportunity to get more work done. Working from home certainly has it’s benefits, even on the weekend.

On the way home from Albany yesterday I suggested to Earl that we sell our house and buy a double-wide in the country somewhere. I was joking about it, but he gave me “the glare” and told me that he would rather live in a tent during a flood (or something equally colorful). I always remind him that I grew up in a single-wide mobile home and he’ll be funny and retort, “I can tell”. I don’t want to actually live in a double-wide, though I would if the budget dictated so; there’s a part of me that hopes that our next abode, wherever it is, is either a house on an isolated peace of land somewhere close the civilization or a loft right in the middle of it all where I can either walk or use public transportation everywhere. I think I’d like to experience living in a big city and trying out that lifestyle for a while once in a my life. It might be a kick.

Plus, I could ride my bike everywhere and then I’d be really happy.

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Organization.

Even though it’s Friday and my head is in a bit of a weekend space, I have to admit that I’ve been rather productive at work today. As I was driving into work this morning, I realized that I had lived up to one of my resolutions from last year, and that was to be more organized, primarily through the Getting Things Done methodology that is touted here on the web. During the year I tried a couple of different software packages that are designed to make your GTD experience as wonderful as possible, but I ended up settling on OmniFocus on the Mac, iPhone and iPad. All of my work and personal stuff is mingled together in this one application and I constantly get reminders and the like of stuff I should be doing or need to accomplish. Last night I had a reminder pop up that told me that I needed to replace the burned out lightbulb in our shower. Before my attempts at being organized I wouldn’t have remembered until I went to take a shower and flicked the switch, only to discover the bulb out, and then I would have had to go streaking through the house and down to the basement to grab a new bulb and done the handyman routine in my birthday suit.

See? I can get mentions of me being naked into even the most mundane topics of a blog post.

Because I was reminded that I needed to do this, I was able to enjoy my shower this morning without worry of not seeing all the relevant parts and I didn’t have an attitude from having to flash the cat as I made my way down into the darkest parts of the house in search of a light bulb.

It’s wonderful when something from a resolution sticks and it works.

Now if I could do something about my spending habits.

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Dreaming.

Earl has been out of town for the past couple of night. While he gets to do the work thing in the lovely city of Buffalo, I have been trying to get a decent night’s sleep in our snug bed at home. This isn’t easy for me to accomplish, as I have mentioned before, because while I have my father’s tendency of being able to sleep in a moments notice, anywhere, I seem to also have my mother’s tendency of them waking up a few hours later so I can roam the halls of the house. I don’t think either of them made ghostly “ooooooo” sounds in the pitch black of the hallway in the dead of night, that’s my own spin on the family traditions. Tom caterwauls to add to the frivolity.

Part of my problem with waking up in the middle of the night is that I’m forcing myself to go to bed when I’m not tired so I can wake up when I am tired and head to work. Someday I’ll fix that problem and have a job that is in sync with my natural circadian rhythms, until then I will continue to exclaim “good morning” to everyone as I return from lunch. Imagine how much better my annual review would be if they actually had me as a productive unit all day long instead of just the afternoon. Hey, I didn’t pick the hours.

So I roamed the halls and the ghostly “oooooo” sound around 2 a.m. last night. I got a glass of water, I changed the water in the cat’s water bowl (as a reward for his contribution to the atmosphere) and I stared out the front window for a few moments to see if the neighbors were doing anything. Gladys Kravitz (the first one) would have been proud, the second one was just too mean to care.

Once I got back to bed I think I fell asleep rather quickly because I don’t remember seeing 2:30 on my iPhone last night, so that’s a good thing. Since I had awoken and then gone back to sleep, the dreams got a little bit funky. I dreamed of being outside with a bunch of people that felt familiar but I couldn’t really name today. It was then that I decided to apparently start singing for everyone in the dream, as they were apparently assembled around some sort of fountain situated in a park. I started singing “Defying Gravity” from the musical ‘Wicked’. The song is a little high for me if I were to sing it in it’s intended octave (I am in no way an alto like Kurt in ‘Glee’, heck I’m not even close to being a tenor) but in my dream my voice was able to soar in ways that it hasn’t soared since elementary school. I remember consciously thinking that I was singing so high and clear and brilliantly and being happy that there was no auto-tune involved.

The song went on for a few moments and I was just happy happy happy in the dream. I got to the bridge and started singing louder, feeling more free and happy as people enjoyed the tune.

And then I woke up.

I woke up because I had startled myself, having started singing the song, in my natural register, at full voice in my bed. The sound of the dream quickly faded away as the sound of reality came in and there I was, nearly standing in the bed (thank god the ceiling fan was off) singing my heart out as if I was standing on stage.

Had Earl been home, the whole production number probably wouldn’t have gotten that far as he’s pretty good at steering me back to bed when I start walking around or otherwise getting rambunctious in the bedroom. It doesn’t happen often but once in a while I start roaming around a bit. I don’t remember having sung songs from Broadway musicals while standing in bed before, but all I can say is that when I woke up I felt blissfully happy for expressing myself in this fashion (in the dream) and that the feeling has carried throughout the day.

I think we might need a baby gate across the stairway though if I’m going to be doing more numbers while the husbear is out of town.

And the ceiling fan must remain off.

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Piracy.

I once worked for a small radio station that had a very limited budget. Because the station was small and just starting out, the record companies didn’t really pay attention to the station. And when a record company doesn’t play attention to the station, they don’t care if you play their latest hot sensation or not. And since they don’t care if you play their latest hot sensation, they don’t give you records (or in our case, CDs) to play. Since everything about the music industry (aside from a selection of genuine artists) is profit generated, they’re not going to waste the few cents needed to give you a CD so that you can play their song, since they don’t care if you’re there because you haven’t built a name for yourself yet. This posed a problem for me as the Music Director of this station, because to have a successful radio station you need to do more than play Debby Boone’s “You Light Up My Life” over and over and over again, especially when you’re going for the young and hip generation (resurgence of bell bottoms notwithstanding).

The limited budget presented to me for promotional purposes and music purchases was $1.46 every two weeks. Actually, I exaggerate, I wish I had that much to spend. I ended up begging and pleading with a local record store to see if they would give me records in exchange for advertising. I ended up with $100.00 a month in “trade”, as we call it. The problem with working with the record store in this fashion was that we didn’t get any new music, we got established music, which was fine, I guess, but when you’re competing with another radio station and you’re throwing lines like “Where the hits hit first” around, you have to live up to the hype.

Enter Napster.

Napster was this new, fun program that let you download songs for free from others. Back in the day, it was cool because you could get tracks that were only available on vinyl as MP3s, meaning we could play the long dance mixes of songs without having to put a turntable in the phone-booth sized studio. In addition, since there seemed to be some unscrupulous people in the music industry, we were able to play leaked tracks of songs that would have never seen the light of day. (Ironically, I’m still kind of proud of two things from my radio career: getting yelled at by a VP at Warner Brothers Records for playing Madonna’s “Music” before it ever hit the street and then having the VP yell at me again a few hours later when he heard us play what is now known as “You Thrill Me”, the demo and unreleased version of Madonna’s “Erotica” single. Like a good gay, I lived dangerously when it came to Madge in her prehistoric years.)

We were kind of walking a fine line when it came to using Napster tracks on the radio station because while radio station music is all marked “For Promo Use Only”, and that’s what we were doing, we didn’t really obtain the music according to the rules. On the bright side, this unfortunate practice did get us noticed by the record companies and actually helped our ratings enough to get us listed in the all mighty Trade Magazines. After this all happened, the record industry cared what we played.

However, there was a part of me that felt really dirty getting ahead in this manner.

I have to admit that as a former radio guy and as a computer programmer, I’m not the biggest fan of illegal obtaining intellectual property. It’s not right. I see it as stealing. I have been given black CD-Rs that were marked “Windows 2000 Datacenter Server” and told to install them for a customer. There was a time when I could type the Office 2000 installation key from memory because the one-use key had been installed on so many different machines. It’s all wrong. I get why folks don’t want their stuff pirated. I’m fine with purchasing music and books and television shows and movies and computer programs, in fact, that’s what I do on a daily basis. I just don’t appreciate it when I’m treated as a criminal for making a copy of a song so I can have a copy on my laptop and on my desktop. I don’t appreciate being told that I should have to buy an extra copy to have a CD with my favorite tracks put together as an album. I don’t like that.

You may have noticed that sites across the internet, including this one, were “blacked out” and urging you to call your elected officials to urge them to vote down the SOPA and PIPA acts passing through Congress next week. These acts, if passed, will give folks the ability to turn down a website, without warning you first, if they suspect that you’re hosting any sort of content that they deem illegal. Essentially any site targeted would have it’s identity removed; you’d have no way of getting to it even though it’s still sitting there, right on it’s server. And this is if they SUSPECT you’re hosting illegal content.

That’s not the way to do things, folks.

Positive reinforcement always garners better results than the converse. Legitimate copies of music should be treated with the respect it deserves and the consumer should be allowed to do with it as he wishes, as long as it’s not violating the normal distribution channels of the associated industry. If you like your friends MP3 collection, let them listen for a while and then let them buy their own copies. We never saw folks sitting at a bus stop reading a Xeroxed copy of “War And Peace”, why would we just make digital copies of our music and throw it out all over the place? Place nice so that the industry learns that they have to play nice.

As a quick aside… the current Congress is the most dysfunctional, unproductive Congress in the history of the United States. Our elected officials know Solitaire and Microsoft Outlook ’97 on their laptops and little more. Do we really want to give the government the opportunity to enact legislation that marks American citizens as criminals when they don’t really get technology in the first place? We don’t want the government in our bedrooms and we certainly don’t want them in our earbuds.

Call your senator or representative today and urge them to vote against SOPA and PIPA. Google it for more information.

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Relax.

So I spent a few days off the grid this weekend and it was quite enjoyable. There was some meandering around the nation’s capital. New friends were made, online friends were met in person, which was quite awesome, and old friends were connected with again.

Friends are good.

Relying on nothing but my iPhone for my connection to the online world was an interesting experience and one that I will be anxious to repeat again. There were a couple of occasions where I wanted to sit down and write, but outrageously high wi-fi access prices sometimes help you keep it real.

I needed to regroup to get this 2012 thing going in style. Now I feel like I’m back on track.

Oh, ginger beards are apparently quite popular these days. I think I’ll keep mine.


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Progress.

Nothing demonstrates the progress of modern technology like the appliances found in today’s modern home. Where once sat a stainless steel dishwasher capable of removing even the deepest of grime from your grandmother’s china, now sits a molded piece of plastic that gently caresses the small, bite-sized piece of spaghetti that has survived not one, not two but three trips through the dishwasher. To improve the quality of the cleaning cycle, one must upgraded the firmware and then reboot the dishwasher, a task once reserved for the machines that launched nuclear missiles towards our enemies.

Ah, progress.

My mother and father had the same washing machine for nearly 20 years. Made by Westinghouse, this washing machine ran as many as six loads in one day and, aside from the Great Flooding Incident of 1976, ran flawlessly up until it finally gave out and spit grease all over a load of clothes. It’s successor was made by General Electric and served for in it’s place for over a decade.

We are on our second washing machine in our home. The first piece of plastic lasted seven years, but should have been replaced two years ago when the bearings in the spinning mechanism went out. I looked into getting the bearings replaced but the fine folks at Fridgidaire advised me that the project would be costly and in the long run it would be cheaper to just replace the washing machine. I decided to just wait until the dang thing spit grease; when the washer was on spin you could hear it clear out to the road on a hot, summer day. I’m sure the neighbors were amused.

Our current washing machine, a General Electric, stands tall with the dryer on it’s shoulders in the laundry room. The length of a cycle can vary from 30 minutes (on speed wash) to two hours and 45 minutes on the “anti-bacterial cycle”, unless the load becomes unbalanced before the final spin. Then the washer will tumble and churn and think about spinning until it feels everything is just right. The current record for determining the precise environment required for a spin cycle is nearly four hours. It counts down to 7 minutes, then up to 9 minutes then down to 7 minutes then up to 10 minutes. When one notices this is happening, you must press “pause”, wait for permission to open the door, rearrange things and add or subtract an item from the drum to make it happy, stick your head in the damp environment to look around and see that all parts of the drum are covered evenly with soggy underwear, slam the door shut and then press “pause” again. The door will lock, unlock, lock, unlock, lock, unlock and then finally lock again. Water will spurt for just a moment until the washer gets it’s wits about itself and realizes it should be emptying and not filling the tub, then it’ll juggle the hard work you did making sure the underwear is in the right place before starting the whole add and subtract minutes from the time as it’s trying to spin trick.

The old washing machines would just make a banging noise and you’d reach in and get everything in the right place and then send it off on it’s merry way again.

This is progress?

Perhaps our washer needs a firmware upgrade and reboot.

Poop.

One would think that the struggle of working 55 miles away from home everyday would be the long drive in the wee hours of the morning, especially during these winter months. That doesn’t happen to be the case at all. I’ll admit that there are times that I don’t want to make that drive at 6:30 in the morning, and I would be remiss in not admitting that I miss coming home at lunch time, watching an “I Love Lucy” rerun and playing with the cat whilst I write my daily blog entry. These things are on my mind as I work 55 miles from home, but there is one specific thing that I can not get used to.

I struggle with doing my business in the bathroom at work.

We have around 200 people working the building and there is one common bathroom for the entire facility, and it’s rarely empty. Oh, I’ve heard rumors that there is an executive bathroom, appropriately located in the executive wing, but during the few, brief visits I’ve enjoyed in that part of the building, I’ve noticed that the executive bathroom, which appears to be a broom closet with some plumbing, is never in use. During my visits to the common bathroom I frequently see those that have multiple letters after their name on their office nameplates, opting to poop in coach instead of first class. They’re usually friendly. There’s no limp, blue curtain.

At my old job the bathroom had one urinal and two stalls, though usually only one stall worked at a time. Since there were heating issues in that building, I would never risk sitting on the toilet during the winter for fear of freezing into place and not being able to move until I thawed out at spring; and since I worked close to home back then I could make the trek home at lunch time and take care of my business.
I don’t have that luxury in my current employment situation.

I’ve mentioned before that my brief glimpses of the common ladies’ room (when the door has been opened and I can see in) revealed a two room affair, complete with a lounging area that has couches and easy chairs and a television for many to enjoy. As long as you’re female. My friend Sandy once mentioned that she was selling greeting cards at work. I asked where the display was and apparently they were on display in this lounging area that precedes the main event of the ladies’ room. They have a shopping district in there and everything. The actual rest area of the ladies’ lounge (as it’s marked on the building evacuation plan) shares a common wall with the mens’ room (we know when they flush but little else), which has four urinals shoved into the corner and four stalls, one which contains a telephone company truck hazard cone strategically situated next to the toilet. There are seven sinks along the front and a random number of paper towel dispensers; since the dispensers break once in a while, the maintenance folks just relocate the dispensers for the handicapped individuals to a higher location for those not in a wheelchair. I feel bad for the folks that are trying motor their wheelchairs with wet hands.

The sign on the door proclaims that the mens’ room is closed weekdays from 6:00 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. for cleaning. No exceptions. Don’t make it a habit of having an emergency because the cleaning staff isn’t leaving to accommodate you unless you’re doing it in the hall, apparently. This declaration is interesting to me, since the cleaning staff only comes to the building three days a week. The head cleaning woman is rather young, and named after a month in the year, but she’s not named March or August. August is a guy’s name. She has quite a few tattoos. At times she seems to have a mood adjustment assist to her day; I don’t know what counter her assists come over to fulfill her needs but she’s always quite friendly. I don’t mind the fact that she occasionally uses people that are walking the perimeter of the parking lot in the interest of staying fit as target as she comes flying into the parking lot. She’s smiling when she does it. 
I end up having to do my serious business in that bathroom at least once a day, though I pee quite frequently due to large consumptions of water. I hate doing my business in there because I know that people recognize my feet under the stall wall. I’m afraid that each individual has a distinct odor and that I have been rightly identified. I am conscious of the noises and gases. I worry that my suspenders drag on the floor. This is an interesting aspect to my habits and feelings of this nature, because I can go to a public restroom on the interstate or in a Macy’s and making some of the most foul noises and sounds known to the human race and not think twice about it. I don’t like it when people know me in the bathroom. When at a house party, I avoid using the “guest bathroom” which is usually located under the stairs, right in the middle of all the party traffic. On the occasions that I have to use the “guest bathroom” at a party, I usually end up farting loudly in there when there’s a lull in the conversation on the outer side of the door. I worry I kill the gaiety.

I don’t like it when people talk in the bathroom. Conference calls in progress at the urinal are just weird. One of my co-workers, a very jovial southern gentleman, usually flashes his trademark smile and says “Hello there, J.P.” just as I’m making a bee-line for stall , which does not have the hazard cone but does have the best wi-fi reception in the room. I smile on the outside, but I die a little on the inside, because he has identified who I am to any other person that may be doing their business and now they’ll be able to identify my smell. This terrifies me in a small way.

There was a different voice in there today when I thought I was alone in there. “HElllooooooo!”, chimed the mood-adjusted voice as the cleaning lady came in.

“I’m here”.

“I know, sweetie.”

Sigh. I needed to pass some gas to get things moving. Now she would know how my digestive system works.

I glanced at my watch and confirmed that it wasn’t between 6 and 6:30. What the hell was she doing in there? I didn’t want to have to evacuate and do my business in the broom closet with plumbing.

“I’ll be just a moment.”

“Ok.”  I heard her leave.  I then made a noise that I don’t really need to describe here during this dialog. And forget about the smell.
I find it interesting that I’m rather freaked out about this, aside from the fact that doing it where people don’t know me doesn’t bother me, because I have been nude in public on countless occasions in my life and back in the day I did a lot more interesting things in public without a second thought.

As I walked out of the restroom, she asked, “Everything come out ok?”

Oh my god.

 

Winter.


Well, whaddya know, it is winter after all. The snowfall is still a little anemic for this time of year, but at least the view is starting to match the season now.

When I got this morning I could hear the wind howling and the sounds of either really thick rain or sleet pelting the bedroom window. I looked out, expecting to see the lawn and driveway covered in snow, but instead saw that everything was just wet. It was that fun 33ºF that everyone loves to drive in. “Is it ice or is it rain? Who knows?”

As I made my way east along my daily commute, the rain quickly changed to snow as I descended into the Mohawk Valley. Apparently the plowing crews were not alerted to the fact that it’s January in Upstate New York, because very little had been done to clear the roads. It can’t be a budgetary thing, because there hasn’t been that much snow this season, so I don’t know where everyone was. When I got off the Thruway and onto the back roads (up by Farmer Bear’s place and the like), I was making my own tracks. I discovered that the new Jeep is a little more feisty on the slippery surfaces than his predecessor; popping into 4WD tamed him a bit. By the time I got to Amish country, I was following a Saab that was fish tailing all over the place at around 20 MPH. I made my way around the Saab, waved to the Amish commuters and continued along my daily trek, arriving to work five minutes late.

I did the best I could.

Honestly, I’d rather have a big snowstorm where temperatures are in the 20s instead of doing this ‘hover around freezing’ thing. It’s much easier to drive in snow than it is to drive in slush and it’s not quite so heavy when it has to be moved.

But on the bright side, at least January is looking like the part today.

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Maintain.

Back during tax return season in 2008 Earl and I treated ourselves to a couple of new computers. At the time I had an Apple PowerBook G4 and Earl had an iBook. Both were good machines that had served us well, but they were quickly falling behind on their abilities to keep up with the latest operating system, so we decided to use our tax returns to buy new MacBook Pros. My choice was the 2.5ghz model, Earl went with the slightly slower 2.4ghz model. Both used the same chassis as my old PowerBook G4. I liked the feeling of familiarity.

A couple of years later I lost my mind and decided to get rid of my MacBook Pro and go with a Linux laptop instead. I ended up using the iMac a lot and used the Linux laptop in my spare time. It wasn’t my happiest moments of technology. In the meantime, in late 2010 Earl dropped his MacBook Pro, bending the corner nearest the optical drive and giving the laptop a bit of a wobble whenever it sat on a flat surface. We decided that his computer wouldn’t be around for much longer and opted to replace it with a new 15-inch MacBook Pro. That was quickly replaced with a 13-inch version, as the bigger laptop proved to much for his travel. The 15-inch MacBook Pro went to Jamie.

I am proud to say that I decided to keep the bent, older style MacBook Pro in the family. I bent the corner back into place so that it firmly sits on the table or desk as I’m using it. The keyboard is just lovely; I prefer the older style keyboard much more than the newer style, and quite frankly, when I take the older style laptop to Panera or something, the young hipsters whisper about me because I’m all retro with my computing flair.

I didn’t know how long the MacBook Pro with a cracked up case would last, but I recently replaced the power adapter and gave it a fresh battery. It feels as good as new. The retro, rainbow “Apple Computer” sticker completes the look and vibe that I am striving for.

It is my intention to keep this computer around for as long as possible. I hope to make it to the end of the Mayan Calendar and beyond, in retro Mac bliss.

It’s the little things that make a geek like me happy.

Macbook pro