What Happened to the Clamshell iBook? The Age of the Cute Computer

Before everyone emailed and texted, before the invention of the talking refrigerator, most of us lived more or less off the grid, Our idea of high tech was the princess phone. But until I got a laptop computer, my life revolved around the typewriter.  I happily typed papers, articles, essays, reviews, letters, and lists on a Royal typewriter. And I would still be typing on the Royal if everyone had not suddenly bought home computers. They urged me to get one.

“But what is it?” 

AND THEN I GOT A LAPTOP

Some people fall in love with their chatbots.  Gemini pops on on the screen and asks: “Do you need help?” Of course you do need help, but not from Gemini.  You prefer your more distant relationship with the laptop.

You don’t fall in love with your laptop, but you treat it like a casual friend or a cordial maiden aunt. You may think it’s a big phone, but it isn’t really: you can think on a larger scale when you read and write on a larger screen.  You can take it to the coffeehouse to write The Great American Novel, or sit at a picnic table taking notes on a bad translation of The Lusiads, a Portuguese epic poem. At the end of a day as a tourist in a strange city,  you can click on a museum website to read about what you missed: you only glimpsed the Elgin Marbles because it was too crowded.

An evening at a hotel can end in tears or numbness. We recommend winding down by watching a video on how to cut your bangs (but don’t do it!), your favorite band videos, or a soothing book vlog. Also, you should drink the herbal tea in your room. Of course, the savvy traveler brings her own.

 AND NOW FOR A FEW WORDS ON MY FAVORITE LAPTOP COMPUTER:  The iBook Clamshell, released in 1999, was a very cute computer, with a handle like a purse, and made in bright colors (tangerine, blueberry, graphite, Indigo, and key lime). It looked like a charming plastic piece of performance art. Unfortunately, ours broke down years ago, and, for whatever reason,  the charming Clamshell was never revived. And so our computers are gray, or brown. I would prefer something colorful…

Did you have a Clamshell iBook?  Did it break down like mine? What’s your favorite laptop computer?

Air or Water?  Living in Polluted Cities

When we moved into a 100-year-old bungalow in a lovely midwestern town, I was delighted.. The sun was brighter and the sky bluer than in the bustling post-industrial city where we used to live. That city was referred to as  “the big dirty” by truckers.  And the air was dirty, sometimes filthy, though the water, surprisingly, was very good. 

In fact, the air used to be very bad there. Black smoke puffed out of the factory stacks and it looked like burning hell from the highway. Before Nixon founded the EPA in 1970 (I know: Nixon), there was no regulation of air or water pollution. An elderly scientist told me stories about the bad quality of the air when he was growing up:   black smuts on the sidewalks, front stoops, walls, drapes, and rugs.  It was a housewife’s nightmare.

Steel company

But now things are better.  Not great, mind you, but the EPA and other environmental agencies have cleaned things up quite a bit. Their job is to enforce regulations, not to eradicate pollution, but they do their best. One Saturday, four of us, two men and two women, drove over a bumpy back road to examine the smoke and emissions from  a steel mill. 

Well, honestly, Lulu and I listened to the radio while the guys read smoke, estimated emissions. and did their thing. “Is this legal?” I asked. I worried that we were trespassing.  

Lulu sighed. “They  can’t go anywhere without reading smoke.  It’s such a drag, but you’ll get used to it.”   

Finally both of us got fed up listening to the radio.  Lulu stuck her head out of the window and said, “If you don’t drive us out of here NOW, we’ll walk to the factory and call a taxi.”

I could picture Lulu in her heels and me in my sandals crunching and wobbling over the gravel. 

And so they drove us reluctantly to a shop in a tourist area that sold objects made or food grown in the state. I bought some maple syrup. Lulu bought a gift basket.  And it was a relief to do something pleasant after our smoky ride.

Later, I had an opportunity to tour a steel factory. I had to wear a hard hat. Much to my surprise, it was a beautiful, if terrifying, process, with flames flickering high and iron melting into steel.  My guide explained the process, but I’m hazy about it, and took no notes. But I did make me realize that these factories make one-third of the world’s steel and provide jobs. 

The city where we live has good air, bad water. It has few factories, but there is agricultural run-off.  In some parts of the state, the water is unpotable.  For instance, my dad always took bottled water out of the refrigerator for us. 

“The water is not too good here,” he said apologetically. 

It startled me that the water would be so polluted in such a tiny town.  But it’s not surprising, after all, because it is surrounded by farms: there is agricultural run-off, nitrates, sediment, pesticides, and waste. Sometimes it even poisons the ground water.

I don’t want to moralize, but there is no place on Earth free from pollution. I wish stronger measures were taken to battle pollution. For the Earth, yes?

Welcome to Hairdo Hell:  A Memoir

Several years ago, I won an award for an essay.  It’s lovely to win an award, even if you just get a plaque or certificate, which you immediately lose, and which surfaces years later in a filing cabinet.

Later, I won an award I’d never heard of. Of course it was an honor, as all these thing are, but it seemed to be an award for winning OTHER awards. And I  may have been called a Person to Watch.  Now that made me nervous.  If I were a Person to Watch, I needed good hair.

I ran to the mirror.  All I can say is, the hair was very short. I considered it wash-and-wear.  That was the only description for it.

I tried combing my hair, tried brushing it, stuck a barrette in it, and that was as good as it got.

I’ve got to do better than this, I thought. So I got on the phone to Mom. “There’s this award. And I have to get my photo taken.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to get a photo!  You’ll be the most adorable one there.”

Of course I wasn’t adorable, but she gushed about us kids all the time, and naturally she was pleased with the award that  seemed to me a disaster.  The hair issue didn’t register with her.

Then I consulted my loveliest friend.  She thought I should forget the hair and concentrate on a makeover.  A makeover?  On TV the before is always better than the after!

I confided that I was allergic to makeup.  Years ago after studying Clinique ads in a women’s magazines, I purchased Clinique makeup and applied it thoroughly. Unfortunately, I developed a horrible rash. The dermatologist gave me an ointment, told me I was allergic to Clinique, and advised me not to wear makeup again.

 My friend pooh-poohed that – “What do dermatologists know?” -and before I knew it I was sitting on a stool at the makeup counter, and a clerk was applying various magic powders, cremes, and mascara, then brushed my hair up high on my head.

My friend and the makeup artist looked uneasy.  I had known it would go wrong!  Actually, I didn’t recognize myself:  I looked like a low-end hooker at the Holiday Inn, with high teased hair and too much eye makeup.

My friend said not a word about the makeup, but we went upstairs to scrub it off.

But one good thing came out of it: Mom loved the photo.

Date Night: The Wardrobe

 Last night I went on a date. 

We went to a movie, or you could say two movies.  At the first theater they wouldn’t let us in because we were 30 minutes late. At the second theater we were an hour late and still got tickets.

“Now it’s date night,” I said to Captain Nemo.. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said. He was tolerant, but the concept was alien. He prefers at night to stay home and listen to the Jayhawks, and if you think I listen to the Jayhawks, or know who they are, you’re a fantasist.

Back in the car, I gushed about Date Night, though I admit, I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t left my coffee in the car.

And then, while musing on the first theater’s eviction of us, I theorized that it came down to women’s fashion.  It didn’t matter for men, but I was too shabby in hiking clothes

HERE’S WHAT I SHOULD HAVE WORN FOR DATE NIGHT

1. The classic black dress which, in  theory, is perfect for all occasions. I wore it in the ’90s, and last saw it on the bedroom floor in 2005.  But would I have felt comfortable in a black dress at the movies?  I think not…

2.  My mother sent me her elegant white wedding negligee, which would have looked fabulous if I had been a Size 2. Surely Mom knew I’d never been a Size 2, but she happened to be getting rie or wedding albums, etc. However, I would have worn the negligee everywhere if it was the right size. I would pretend I was Sally Jay Gorce in The Dud Avocado, who wears an evening gown to breakfast in Paris because it’s the only thing not in the laundry.

3. In fact, the only stylish part of the wardrobe is my sneakers.  If I may say so, they’re good to go with everything. Everyone compliments everyone’s sneakers. Everyone loves everyone’s sneakers.

On future date nights, I’ll wear something classic: black pants, a long white shirt, and slingblack flats. But I’d look like a server, and people would want me to take their order. “A three-egg omelet with two eggs… ” I’d probably take the order and deliver it to the cook before going to the movie.

I feel I should end this with “Peace in our time,” so I will. 

A 20th-Century Classic:  Thomas McGuane’s “Nobody’s Angel”

Thomas McGuane, a neglected American writer, is still respected, but his books were better-known in the 20th century. His style is graceful, his characters complex, and he has an offbeat vision of what it means to be an American in a troubled period of history.  

And Nobody’s Angel, published in 1979, is a masterpiece of alienation. Even the blurbs on back of the paperback are excellent: “The thinking man’s Western… McGuane is meticulous with his metaphors, as precise and witty as a Renaissance poet.”

I wouldn’t call it a Western, but I see the critic’s point. The hero, Patrick Fitzgerald, “a fourth-generation cowboy outsider,” has left Germany, where he served in the army, and returned to the family ranch in Montana. Although he loves the ranch, he is often angry. We have the feeling early in the novel that something, someone, or someones will explode.

This strange, gorgeously-written novel, set in Montana in the 1970s, teems with rage (probably PTSD).  However, the novel begins humorously.  On his first day back,  Patrick goes to town to look for his grandfather, Francis X. Fitzgerald, and finds him trying out for a movie, Hondo’s Last Move.  (The movie is never made: the studio decides to go with science fiction.)

When the director, Duxbry, tells Francis X. that he’s in the movie, Francis, who has been begging for the role, shows no gratitude: “On the basis of what?”

They’re a peculiar family.

This book is very “horsy,” but these scenes are enjoyable even for those of us who aren’t.  On the ranch most of Patrick’s duties are horse-oriented:  he breaks horses, rides horses, feeds horses, shoes horses, and watches a horse give birth. 

And eventually he meets and falls in love with Claire, a rich married woman from Oklahoma who has rented the ranch nearby – with her husband.

That said, this isn’t just a man’s novel. And it certainly isn’t just a love story. There are six women:  Patrick’s pregnant sister Mary, just out of a mental hospital; their estranged mother, who shows up at exactly the wrong time; three good-natured prostitutes who make quiche; and, yes, we must talk about Claire. 

Claire is the perfect woman for Patrick, but from my point of view, she is the least believable character. (I also have this trouble with Hemingway’s women, so that shows you where I stand.) Claire is a fantasy figure, not especially vivacious, constantly peeling off cotton dresses, while Patrick admires her breasts. In all fairness, Claire knows horses. She trains them, I think. Patrick is in love with Claire, but she is perhaps less in love: she says she won’t leave her husband.

There are rocky times ahead.

There’s darkness, there is humor, there is sex, there’s a state I’ve never been to (Montana). The writing is lyrical, and I look forward to reading his later books. I believe McGuane is still writing.

Trivial Regrets:  The Price of Aging

Sometimes I play a game called “Trivial Regrets.”

Why didn’t I dye my hair blond in my 30s? Why did I wait till my 40s?  Why did I stop dyeing my hair? (Because we didn’t have a shower?)   Why be so sensible about everything? 

The other day I realized: the only shoes I have are sneakers. 

There’s more:  Why did I allow the holes in my pierced ears to close up?   Why don’t I get them repierced at the mall? But piercing ears is a rite of friendship, not a kiosk procedure. Years ago a friend numbed my ears with ice cubes, then pierced them with a sterilized needle. A year later, another friend pierced them, because the first time the holes were crooked.

Why, you may wonder, am I thinking about pierced ears? Well, I found my earrings in a tiny Papier-mâché box: cat earrings, crescent moon earrings, demure gold hoops, peace sign earrings, and clip-on fake jade earrings that matched a green scarf.  Once, when my apartment was burgled, the thief dumped my worthless jewelry onto the bed. (I only like costume jewelry.) He did take my VCR, though.

Why didn’t I accept a limited edition of D. H. Lawrence’s The Virgin and the Gipsy ? It seems so harmless, doesn’t it?  During an interview with a 95-year-old book collector who was selling off his collection, he offered me the book because I am a keen Lawrence fan. I regretfully declined: It was conflict of interest.  I thought it unethical to take gifts while working. And so it is. But maybe I could have bought it. That didn’t occur to me.  But perhaps that, too, would have been crossing a line.

Yes, once I dyed my hair; I wore earrings; I turned down the gift of a book; and my preferred footwear was/is sneakers. Now I know what Nora Ephron meant when she wrote, “I feel bad about my neck.” I don’t feel particularly bad about my neck; it’s my slantwise crinkly arms. WEAR SUNSCREEN.

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    Anthony Trollope’s “The American Senator”: The Anguish of Three Couples

    Anthony Trollope’s little-known novel, The American Senator, is a blend of comedy, romance, and satire.  It’s a gorgeously- written book, and the characters are portrayed in such detail that they become our best and worst friends.  Some are ethical and good, others intelligent and charming, still others shallow and unscrupulous.

    The title is inexplicable, but let’s get it over with: Mr. Gotobed, the senator, has a very small role. He is a figure of satire:  he has come to England to study the institutions of English life and always draws the wrong conclusions.  But the strangeness of the senator perhaps sheds light on the strange misinterpretations of the art of love: there is true love, love unprofessed, unrequited love, and unsavory plotting on the marriage market.

    At the center are four “lovers” – no, actually there are six, because two suffer from unrequited love. Two of the main characters are cousins:   John Morton, a diplomat, is serious and just, a man of the world.  His cousin, Reginald, the fun one (everything is relative), is a solitary man, a voracious reader, and an avid walker. He is in love with Mary Masters, the charming, sweet daughter of a lawyer, but Reginald hasn’t declared himself because he thinks he is too old for her.  Mary is in love with Reginald, but her family is pushing her to marry a farmer, Mr. Twentyman, who is devastated when Mary turns him down, but she cannot marry a man she does not love.

      John Morton is proud of his fiancée. He met the beautiful Arabella when he was a diplomat in Washington, D.C. Arabella and her mother are now visiting his ancestral home. Curiously Morton sees very little of them: Arabella has never been so bored in her life, so they hide in their rooms.

    Trollope can’t help being fascinated by wicked Arabella: he makes her so bad that we can’t look away.  The bored beauty has been on the  marriage market too long: she accepted Morton’s proposal because she is almost past her expiration date. She also must marry for money: Arabella and her mother are nearly penniless. They travel from house party to house party, squandering their  money on cheap glamour, and working hard to be charming. it’s their job.

    Arabella’s mother thinks Arabella could do much better than marry Morton.  And then there is a ray of hope for the unscrupulous women: They are invited with Morton to a house party at Lord Rufford’s house.  If only Arabella could “catch” Lord Rufford! Without first breaking off her engagement to Morton, and indeed denying that she is engaged, Arabella flirts with wildly flirtatious Lord Rufford, and even rides “to hounds” in a fox hunt, in the hope of entrapping him by mad courage. Well, we are sure the that Lord Rufford has no intention of marrying, but as far as calculated out-of-control flirtation – we’ve seen nothing like it since Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair!

    This is one of Trollope’s most entertaining novels. The Victorian critics loved The American Senator and considered it better than The Prime Minister, the fifth in Trollope’s brilliant political Pallisers series. Trollope was astonished, since he considered the PM a great novel, but perhaps the critics wanted entertainment. The American Senator is a joy to read. Why read anything but Trollope?

    More Thoughts on Homer’s “The Odyssey” & Why Not Make a film of Virgil’s “Aeneid”?

    Last weekend, during the heat wave, we went to  the much-touted movie, The Odyssey, based on Homer’s epic poem. I wrote about this in a previous post, but bear with me for a minute. The director Christopher Nolan’s offbeat special effects exploded on the screen, and the actors’ interpretations of their roles were excellent.

    And now a week later I find myself reading Homer’s Odyssey, my third reading of this splendid epic poem. At my time of life, it is fitting to read epics: that’s what life is like, when you look back, an epic struggle to survive, to take charge of your fate, and to revel when you succeed. I am reading Robert Fagles’ powerful translation of The Odyssey in the Penguin edition.

    Epic poetry is posh but accessible, because there is a clear narrative, a story.. The theme of Homer’s Odyssey is homecoming, which, in Odysseus’ case, takes 20 years. After a decade spent fighting the Trojan War, it takes ten more years for him to sail home. On the way back to Ithaka, he fights monsters, accidentally enrages Poseidon, and is waylaid for seven years by a besotted nymph.

    At home, Odysseus will have to fight again, because the slackers and suitors of Ithaka have occupied his home, each hoping to marry his wife, faithful Penelope, who contends that her husband may still be alive..

    I think we can all identify in some way with Odysseus.

    But here’s a thought: why not also make a film of Virgil’s Aeneid, the great Latin epic poem? In T. S. Eliot’s essay, “What Is a Classic?” he says that the Aeneid it is the only classic in the Western canon. He argues that it was written at the height of Roman civilization, when the Latin language and literary tradition were mature and sophisticated. (N.B. Virgil wrote in the first century B.C., in what was deemed the Golden Age of Latin literature.)

    And The Aeneid is a homage to Homer’s The Iliad and The Odyssey. The first six books of the Aeneid are the equivalent of Aeneas’ Odyssey: Aeneas, a reluctant, often whiny, post-war general is fated of to lead the Trojan survivors to Italy, where they will establish a new homeland, Rome. He has no wish to do this. He tries to fob the job off on his father, but it doesn’t work out. Finally Aeneas accepts his fate, but it means leaving Dido, a queen who has fled from her country to found Carthage and fallen in love with him. They are happy together: he even does construction work in her growing city. Why can’t Aeneas stay with her? The goddesses, his mother Venus, and Juno, Dido’s patroness, won’t allow it.

    The last six books are Aeneas’ Iliad: he and the other Trojans fight a civil war in Italy over a woman, Lavinia, who is fated to be Aeneas’s new wife. Another man from a different region, Turnus, contests this, and thus war breaks out.

    I am considered Aeneid-crazy. “No one will ever make a movie of The Aeneid,” they say. Yes, I don’t really see it in the stars, but Aeneas has depth, because he is an ordinary man, a hero who isn’t much of a hero, though he is the the son of a goddess, a post-Trojan War hero who is burnt-out and wants to live in peace.

    By the way, I recommend Robert Fagles’ translation of The Aeneid. The Latin, of course, is moving and gorgeous, but if you can’t read the Latin, Fagles is your man.

    I Was a Bibliophile!  “A Spell Is Cast “and Other Classics

    I was two when I learned to “read.”  Mom claimed that as a toddler I woke her up at 5 a.m. to read alphabet books. Certainly we had plenty of books. Every time we went to the store we bought  Golden books, inexpensive editions of fairy tales, nursery rhymes, and animal stories. 

    Mom, disheveled, reading to me.

    No one was ever more relieved than Mom when her child learned to read and she could sleep in.

    In the early mornings, I lost myself in Nancy Drew, Louisa May Alcott’s An Old-Fashioned Girl, Lord of the Rings, Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles, Nobody’s Garden (recommended to me by the children’s librarian), Black Beauty (the saddest horse book ever), and George MacDonald’s At the Back of the North Wind.

    In fourth grade, I discovered E. Nesbit (stuffily catalogued under her married name, E. Bland, at the library). The library only had two of her books, but a local bookstore carried them, so I requested them for Christmas and birthdays. And I also loved  Madeleine L’Engle’s Austin series, and one year received The Moon by Night, a chronicle of the Austin family’s camping trip across America. Vicky gets her period!

    Reading is a comfort, especially in these tough times. Below is a list of favorite comfort books for all ages.

    I loved Anthony Trollope’s The American Senator, a brilliant, plot-driven novel, with many, many fox-hunting scenes, and even a lawsuit involving poisoned foxes. Perhaps there are too many fox-hunting scenes, but it is well worth reading for Trollope’s portrait of Arabella, a pathological liar who schemes to trick wealthy Lord Rufford into marriage- without first breaking up with her fiance, Mr. Morton. He is her back-up plan!  There is also a wicked Arabella in Hardy’s Jude the Obscure, the coarse older woman who seduces and marries him when Jude is is a young, hopeful aspiring classicist.

    E. Nesbit’s The Wonderful Garden. Most of Nesbit’s books are fantasies; this one is not. In this whimsical novel, the three C’s, Caroline, Charles, and Charlotte, find a secret door in a walled garden and come upon an old book, The Language of Flowers. They consult it when they want to communicate via bouquets. Whether by magic or coincidence, the flowers and herbs alleviate distress.  In some ways, The Wonderful Garden reminds me of Nesbit’s adult classic, The Lark, the story of two young women who have lost all their money and now sell flowers from their garden.

    Were you a fan of Eleanor Cameron’s Mushroom Planet series? They are in-print, but I much prefer her realistic novels, which, alas, are out-of-print.  She began her career with an adult novel,  The Unheard Music (1950), which was well-reviewed, but did not sell well. It is partly based on her experience as a librarian, but there is also at least one down-and-out musician. I had to track it down by library loan. I may have borrowed the only copy in America!

    And then Cameron began to write successful children’s books. A Spell Is Cast, a kind of homecoming nostos novel, is a strange, splendid example of her ability to weave adult themes into a children’s book. The protagonist, Corey, an orphan raised by a ditzy guardian, is sent to California to live with her grandmother and uncle – yet no one picks her up at the airport, so they’re not off to a good start. No wonder she falls ill in this strange house, though she has friends out of the house. While she is ill, she has a dream reminiscent of Salvador Dali’s dream scene in Alfred Hitchcock’s Suspicion.

    If you’re fond of animal books, I recommend all-ages books like Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, the charming story of Mole, Rat, Badger, and Toad; and Clifford D. Simak’s forgotten science fiction classic, City.  In Simak’s charming novel, the last beings on earth are talking dogs and robots. The dogs are archivists, puzzled by eight extant human tales. They wonder, Did humans ever exist? In the faux preface, a scholar of doggish literature quotes the scholar Rover.  “Rover believes that in the first tale we are dealing with is almost pure myth and that as a result no situation or statement can be accepted at face value, that the entire tale must be filled with symbolism to which the key has long been lost.”

    Let me know your favorite comfort reads!

    Don’t Forget Elvis Costello: “Every Day I Write the Book(er)”

    In my recent post, Should the Booker be Quirkier?, I suggested that the Booker Prize folks invite a rock star to perform a Booker-themed song,

    A friend brilliantly says, “Don’t forget Elvis Costello: ‘Every Day I Write the Book(er).’ Yah, why not Elvis as kind of a Booker Muse(r). He’s a wordsmith.”

    A stroke of genius! I couldn’t agree more.

    And here’s the video of “Every Day I Write the Book(er.””