Working with computers for a living, I occasionally get to see them at their very best, though, admittedly, it is a far less often occurrence than seeing them at their worst. I get to be the first one to play with the new models that show up, but I also spend valuable moments of my life fixing, nursing, and pleading with the ancient residents of our network.

I remember back to my first experience with a computer, long before I ever contemplated joining the Marine Corps, much less switching from the infantry to data communications. I was in kindergarten, and my teacher, Mrs. Klagge, had brought my class up to the library to check out books. As I passed the computer lab, I saw the big third-graders working with enormous Apple IIs, some playing Number Munchers or Oregon Trail, others practicing their typing with wooden stands concealing their fingers so they would learn to type by feel instead of sight.

Of course, it’s almost strange to think of a household without a computer today, but back then I only knew one kid who had one - Chae Zeller. His dad, a stockbroker, owned a Commodore C 64 and a beautiful, brand new Toyota Supra. Chae was my best friend all through elementary, not because of the Commodore or the Supra, but because he was a scrappy little Korean kid who had a good fastball, was interested in the same things I was (baseball cards, riding our bikes around Winona State and jumping them off loading docks, kickball - the important stuff). He was the popular and athletic one, I was the bookish sidekick. Occasionally, when we weren’t playing catch or cruising around the neighborhood, Chae and I would mess around with the Commodore, but most of it was out of our league.

My mom and stepdad got a computer a few years later, a Macintosh SE SuperDrive, with a 10 inch black and white screen and a 40 MB hard drive. Along with Finale (a program for writing musical scores) and MacDraw Pro, they bought three games, “Where in the USA is Carmen Sandiego?,” ”The Hunt for Red October,” and “Earl Weaver Baseball.” I played them on rainy afternoons, learning geography and nifty state facts, hiding from the Soviets, managing a team with Harmon Killebrew, Mickey Mantle, and Rico Petrocelli. Hard to believe that rig cost $3700 back then, but it did.

The Mac still lives, almost twenty years after it was first screwed together. My little brother plays Earl Weaver Baseball with the same teams I did years before he was born. The computer is by no means fast (though there is an Mac SE Web Server out there), but for years it has been an incredibly stable, useful, loyal tool. I’ve written countless term papers on it, most late at night a day or two before they were due, and all of which are saved somewhere on that tiny hard drive.

It was an attractive piece of equipment, too, very minimalist and futuristic for the over-the-top 1980s. That classic style still looks good to the eye today, even though you realize the second you look at it that the thing is a refugee from a time long since past.

I’ve never personally owned a Mac or Apple product in my adult life, though I’d love to if the price wasn’t prohibitive. Instead, I’ve suffered through a succession of Dell laptops which aren’t nearly as durable or well-engineered as that old Mac, either in ergonomics or actual electrical layout. It seems to me a little bit of planned obsolescence is designed into every Dell product.

Naturally, the technology industry is a constantly evolving beast, with innovation and progress often outstripping the actual production of consumer products. The joke that buying a new computer is a classic lesson in depreciation is funny because it is so entirely true. Likely, by the time you’ve bought your computer, it’s out of date.

That said, I know I’m not the only one out there wishing these substantial investments of cash would last just a little longer, not to mention look just a little nicer doing it. The quest for ingeniously engineered computers, machines that are more than just an ugly plastic box plugged into the wall, led me to case modding.

Most case modding involves water-cooling computer systems, installing lighting into cases designed to show off the contents, and painting them exotic or retina-burning hues. There is an interesting minority of case modders who realize a computer can be a functional instant conversation piece, a beautiful piece of furniture, or simply an example of incredible engineering skill. Heck, people are even turning old Mac SEs into high-speed new computers.

I’m all for the idea that computers should look as well as they work, and that they should be made to a high enough standard to last me a decade or more, regardless of how cutting-edge it is near in the final days. As substantial an investment as they can be, one shouldn’t have to buy a new computer system every two or three years simply because the old one is about to shut down forever.

One area where computers are making incredible inroads is the home theatre system. Media center computers hold entire music and video collections, but most of them are pretty unattractive and don’t mesh well with the refined look of high-end home electronics. So maybe when I get my next computer, which likely will be one of these media center types, I’ll purchase the components myself, then install them into an old radio like Mashie did. Bakelite is much more pleasing to the eye and touch than the plastic most computers are encased it these days. Or better yet, maybe I’ll find an old Victrola and modify that.

I’d originially intended to make a lenthy post here today, but during a game of basketball this afternoon I jammed my left thumb. The swelling isn’t incredibly horrible, but typing isn’t exactly enjoyable at present.

If the thumb is back to normal tomorrow I’ll update, but for tonight, I’m out of action.

But when we’re driving in my Malibu,
It’s easy to get right next to you.
I say, “Baby, scoot over, please.”
And then she’s right there next to me.

- Cake, “Stickshifts and Safety Belts”

While Glen and I were out getting haircuts and dinner tonight, I happened to see a large black and white photo of a drive-in theater in the area. The photo must have been taken in the late Fifties judging by the style and height of the tailfins.

In the foreground was a couple, probably in their late twenties, sitting on a bench seat in a hardtop coupe. The guy had his arm around the girl, she was leaning her head on his shoulder, and they were staring intently at the screen. This scene was repeated in all the other cars around them, big, rocket-themed American living rooms on wheels with couples skootched up against each other, watching the movie, as comfortable and relaxed as if they were lounging on their couch at home.

That drive-in is closed these days, the land owned by the city, waiting to become a Sam’s Club or Costco. Those chromed, highway-cruising yachts are quickly receding into history. And the bench seat is disappearing along with them.

There are only three new cars available for purchase today in our country that offer a front bench seat - the Cadillac DTS, the Buick Lucerne, and the Chevrolet Impala. Toyota offered one in the Avalon as late as a year or so ago, but dropped it when they restyled the model.

How did we let this happen?

I understand, of course, the convenience of the bucket seat when the car is equipped with a manual transmission. Most of my favorite cars have sticks, and driving one on a winding country road is a joy. Benches get in the way of the shift lever. Most cars these days come with some sort of automatic, though, and yet they’ve retained the center console and parking brake lever of the manual transmissioned car.

The majority of modern cars are also front wheel drive, of which one of the original marketing points was the resulting flat floor in the front, making bench seats all the more comfortable because the hump for transmission and driveshaft wasn’t there anymore.

So why have we forsaken the bench seat? Are we uncomfortable with the thought of three people up front, a by-product of our large personal space bubbles, no matter the amount of room afforded by the bench?

Years ago the youngest child would have occupied the middle of a bench on family outings. With the advent of airbags this is no longer possible, as all children below the age of 12 are confined to the rear seat. But if safety were the reason to eliminate the bench seat, then safety would also be a bigger consideration in the purchase of a car by the average individual. If safety were really that big a deal to the average American, we’d all be driving Volvo 240s since there wasn’t a single fatality in one in the United States until the final year of its nineteen-year production run.

But I digress.

Provided I had the money, it would really be nice to sidle on down to, say, a Chrysler dealer and pick up one of those gorgeous 300s with a bench in the front. I’m not asking for them to tack on tail-fins. I don’t need a push button transmission, satellite navigation, or even power windows. But I would like one car with a bench seat in my fleet, a car Jo and I can take down to the local root beer stand for some floats on a Sunday afternoon.

Stickshifts and safety belts,
Bucket seats have all got to go.
When we’re driving in the car,
It makes my baby seem so far.

I need you here with me,
Not way over in a bucket seat.
I need you to be here with me,
Not way over in a bucket seat.

One of my favorite reads is The Baseball Card Blog, devoted to one of my childhood hobbies. I’ve not collected cards in over a decade, but I was hooked by the fresh, sportive, whimsical approach.

The March 15 entry was largely a continuation of the “Perfect Pack” series, but there is a great little bit about a shortstop by the name of Coot Veal. This is what Ben has to say about Coot:

“As with other Topps cards where a nickname is used in lieu of a real name, the story behind the nickname is never explained. And really, with a nickname like ‘Coot’, nobody cares that your name is really Orville. In fact, it would be better if you signed your name ‘Coot’ and left Orville at home with the other Nineteenth century names. What would really take the cake would be if you went to the courthouse and had your name officially changed to ‘Coot’. Because really, if you were born with a name like Orville Veal, you’d be doing yourself a favor in changing it.

This is one of my favorite cards because the guy looks relatively normal but has an unbelievably ridiculous name. Every so often a guy pops up like this: Bake McBride, Shooty Babbitt, Razor Shines, Toe Nash and Stubby Clapp come to mind immediately, though there are others. I would argue that most great players are born, not made, but I think everyone would agree that unless your name is Cal McLish or Randy Ready, great names sometimes need a little help.”

There are two basic types of nickname, those spun-off the original name, and those that have next to nothing to do with the actual name of the owner. Most folks have a nickname or two of the first type, a familiar one they go by, used by family members or co-workers, though it wouldn’t be likely to appear on their driver’s license. I’ve gone by Billy, Bill, and through three different spellings of Will (Will, Wil, Wyl), but it still says “William” on my license.

The second type seems quite a bit more rare these days. My dad had a circle of friends (my “uncles”), nearly all of whom had a nickname. But, for some reason, my dad didn’t have one that stuck with him, and neither do I. I suppose we could just go by Deuce and Tré, respectively.

Giving or receiving a good nickname is like exchanging gifts. Finding just the right one requires careful consideration of the personality and interests of the person getting the name, along with some creativity to get others to use it. Giving yourself the nickname doesn’t really count, either. You can buy yourself something nice, but it’s not quite as meaningful, is it?

My roommate, Glen, has one of those gift nicknames. Our buddy Marty bestowed “Royale with Cheese” upon him based equally on Glen’s last name (Royer) and his penchant for Quarter Pounders. It doesn’t hurt that Marty got “Royale with Cheese” from the famous conversation between Vincent and Jules in Pulp Fiction.

But since Glen is one of the few people I know with a nickname like that, it leaves me wondering - where did they all go? Are they still out there? Can I hope to meet a Hoss or Mudcat or Lockjaw in my lifetime? What if I started calling my 6′0″, 125 pound little brother Slim instead of Little Guy? If I do, will he introduce himself as “Slim Ryan” fifteen years from now?

Every year since 1998 I’ve read Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd. Until about ‘98 I’d never been much for the British classics - I think I’d only been exposed to a handful of them, and not always with spectacular results. To this day I have no intention or desire to finish Gulliver’s Travels.

But Hardy pulled me in somehow, though I couldn’t tell you if it was originally through his characters or simply the story itself. I remember devouring the book, though, over the course of a few nights, then delving into Tess shortly afterward. After Tess came most of Emma, then Pride and Prejudice. Basically, I credit Hardy for being there to spark my love of Brit Lit at just the right time.

So, for seven years I’ve kept the streak alive, and recently I’ve been thinking of adding a couple more books to the list of regulars, sort of yearly touchstones or waypoints. I always read Hardy in the autumn, a fitting time, and when I read him it brings back memories of autumns past. Each time I read it, I’m reminded how I’ve progressed (or regressed) in that year, I take stock and then try to imagine where I’ll be when I’m reading the book a year from that point. I’ve never once been right.

In my head I’m making up a rough list of books I’d like to read every year. If I could, I’d try to do a minimum of two novels a month, plus whatever else I fancy at the moment. At this point, I think that’s realistic, though I’ll have to be more flexible with goals like that after I start school again.

A rough list of books I’d like to read annually (besides FftMCwould include the following:

Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome
Larry McMurtry, Moving On
Jack Kerouac, On The Road
Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited
Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep
Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

Actually, there is one other book I read on a regular basis, sometimes more than once a year - Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential. I’m continually charmed by Bourdain’s prose, by how pared down yet lush it is, like biting into a freshly peeled tangerine. I go back to it for a number of reasons - the descriptions of a lifestyle and career path I’ve left behind (and still miss in parts of my heart), the endurance and pacing of the narrative, the crazy characters only possible in the culinary world, and the best descriptions of food I’ve read anywhere.

Will I ever find time to read all those books every year? Probably not. I could manage three or four of them, perhaps, but eventually they might stunt my intake of new material.x So I’ll have to devise a rotation of some sort which will allow me to keep them fresh in my mind, a sort of semi-regular reminder of who I am and where I’ve come from, an occasional chance to take time out to reflect on what I am and what I hope to become.