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unsubsidized by criminal activity
Friday, August 17 2001
The network trouble in my workplace continues, so I came home in the early afternoon eager to work on some of the Flash stuff I've been reading about. But then I was in the bathtub reading an article in The New Yorker about Radiohead and suddenly I wanted to be a rockstar again. It's very easy to want to be a rockstar. When does this desire ever end? But then again, for some strange reason my Dad never wanted to be a rockstar.
This weekend Gretchen is visiting her folks down in Silver Spring, Maryland, so I'm all by myself with the various critters of the household. They all seem to like me, which makes things fairly pleasant, although both Noah the Fluffy Grey Cat and Sally the Dog can be rather needy at times. Things that Noah likes to do include drinking from a trickling bathroom tap (something he and I have also taught Edna), eating catfood, going out to explore the wilderness in the backyard, and having someone rub the fat deposits on his belly. Things Sally likes to do include going for walks, eating dog food (or spilled cat food), being allowed to lick my face, nibbling on Noah's fat deposits (something Noah seems to like), and joining Noah on missions to explore the backyard wilderness, such as it is. Edna is much less needy; she frequently finds ways to entertain herself. She plays with her favorite toy (a tuft of feathers attached to a stick). She gets licked in various parts of her body by a not-always-terribly-eager Sally. She digs around for (but never finds) buried treasure in the cat box or the potted plant atop the bookshelf. She dives into the many wires behind my computers. She chews on the plastic sleave containing the Moth CD that I bought for $5 one night at the Hollywood Knitting Factory. But most of all she just yearns to go outside like her big step-brother Noah. I tell her that there's no real wilderness out there, but she won't be satisfied until she finds out for herself.
Perhaps in an effort to gain access to my tender 33 year old bottom, a gentleman in Prospect Park asked me this evening what breed of dog Sally is. I was perfectly friendly as I answered, "A mut." Indeed, it would be safe to say that Sally is bursting with hybrid vigor.
Later this evening I was out walking around, looking at the trash of Park Slope, piled as it was on the sidewalk awaiting the arrival of union-organized sanitation workers. I came upon the remains of an old Mac IIsi computer and monitor, complete with a PostIt note reading "Yes! it works." This would have been quite a find back in the day, I can tell you. My main computer, from 1992 to 1996, the one on which I wrote most of the Big Fun Glossary, was a Mac IIsi that I stole, I won't say from what or whom. But back in 1992 I didn't have any money and, if I thought about my future at all, I viewed computers as the only ticket out of life as a slackerly college drop-out. I was so convinced of a need to upgrade my old Mac SE that I took an incredible risk. Though the theft succeeded, for several weeks afterwards I was paranoid that I would eventually be tracked down by the Man. In the height of my paranoia I remember telling my mother, without any real provocation, that I might soon be moving to California, something I didn't do until six years later.
The statute of limitations on that crime has long passed, of course, and for years that generation of computer has been the sort of thing you find in the trash. Still, as a consequence of things I began learning on that IIsi, I can now afford to live a life unsubsidized by criminal activity. When I think of how greatly my fortunes fluctuate with each unexpected supplemental real estate tax, with every nuance of change in the fortune of my employer, and throughout the arduous process of negotiating a real estate transaction, the idea of theft as a means of material life fulfilment and financial gain seems ludicrous. But when you're stupid and poor and have nothing to lose, it's really the only choice that makes any sense. Believe me, I speak from experience.
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