It's "I Hate Technology Day"!

I got a new iPod. Well, a used one, from ebay. My computer doesn't like it. I spent two hours last night trying to get them to communicate, but they didn't want to. Well, eventually they did, but not in a way that I wanted. It's a long, boring story, so I won't get into it. Let's leave it at this: my computer doesn't like new things, and thus it didn't like my new iPod.

Today at work, I find that over the weekend, all of my shit got erased from my work computer. Well, it might be erased, and it might just be in a user account that I can't access anymore, and that tech support can't seem to access either. All five days' worth of music I had saved on it. All my documents, including old time sheets and work-related stuff. All my fancy widdle programs that make my life easier, like Trillian and Firefox. All gone. I called tech support, and they can't figure out what happened. They're "working on it." We know what that means. All gone.

And they're painting today. Mmmm, paint fumes.

But it's not all bad news! Here! (Link stolen from mimi smartypants.)

Michigan Is Exotic Too

I spent this past week in glorious northern Michigan. Michigan is just as fascinating as Thailand or England (he told himself), so I thought it was a good fit for a "travel" entry.

My favorite art historian's car was broken, so we rented a car, a brand-new Chevy Malibu that was smarter than some people I have known. It turned the lights on automatically as soon as it started getting dark; it raised the volume on the radio when I sped up, so it continued to sound just as loud. When I asked what kind of car it was, it said, "I'm scanning your interrogatives quite satisfactorily. I am the voice of Knight Industry 2000's Micro processor, K.I.T.T. for easy reference, KITT if you prefer."

The ride north was uneventful. The car could go really, really fast, and it didn't feel like it, so I had to set the cruise control to keep from accidentally speeding. It's much better to speed on purpose. I got to Mesick, Michigan, where my parents spend all summer camping, at around 9:00. My parents were both there, and we sat around the fire chatting. The fire is always my responsibility. I'm very protective of it. I will yell at you if you pile too many logs on, or waste kindling, or—shudder—use lighter fluid to start it. I like to sit for hours, staring into it, poking it with one of the designated fire sticks. It's the most peaceful I've felt in quite a while.

I must clarify what I mean by "camping." I wasn't roughing it; we didn't sleep on the ground or anything. My parents have a trailer with a queen-size bed for them, a pull-out couch, a recliner, and a television and VCR. They have a stove inside, a double burner outside, and a gas grill for the serious cooking. There's running water, a small toilet in the camper, and electricity available on all sides. There are several places to take nice, hot showers. Many of the campers lining the paved roads have satellite dishes sprouting from their roofs.

Monday morning I went with my stepdad, Bob, into Mesick for breakfast, where I met one of the species that can be found in the area: the redneck racist. Upon hearing that I lived in Chicago, this old cracker regaled us with stories of the year he lived in Chicago as a young teenager—stories of "coloreds" and other quaint epithets, stories of the horrors of getting on the wrong bus and going into "their neighborhoods." I don't even want to type some of the things he said. I sat there mutely. What do you do in a situation like that? I could have argued with him, or called him a racist, but it would have pissed him off, embarrassed by stepdad, who thinks of this guy as a friend, and basically I was afraid to make a scene.

Mom and Bob left me alone on Monday, and it was a great day. I took a nap. I sat out on the dock looking at the lake, which was created in 1926 when the Hodenpyle Dam was built, blocking off the Manistee River and flooding farmland and forest. You can still see stumps sticking up out of the water in some places, and there are houses and barns underneath the deepest parts of the lake, sort of like Northfork, only without James Woods. After a while I went into Cadillac, the closest population center. Cadillac is one of those northern Michigan towns balanced uncertainly between failed industry and tourism. I wandered around downtown, went to a used book store and bought a pile of mystery novels, and went to see Wedding Crashers (2.5 goats) at the local theater. Later, I went back to the campsite and built a fire, then sat next to it, with tiki torches on either side of me, and read The Moving Target by Ross Macdonald, who is one of the best of the hard-boiled school of writers.

Tuesday I got up late, ate breakfast, took a nap, then left for Kalamazoo, where I was to pick up Rebecca at the train station. The ride down was really, really long. We went back to Muskegon to stay at my parents' house, and we left reasonably early the next day for Ludington and Manistee. We stopped for lunch and a visit at my aunt Marsha and uncle Chris's restaurant in Ludington. Aunt Marsha has always been my favorite relative, and she's the only person on my dad's side of the family that I ever see, not that I see her that often. Apparently the high gas prices are really hurting the tourist industry up there, and something like 56% of respondents on a survey said they were cutting down on eating out to compensate for the higher prices, which is two strikes against the owners of a restaurant in a tourist town.

Then it was on to Manistee, where I grew up. We did a quick driving tour, I got to play the "that wasn't there when I lived here" game, and we went into my old house on Hughes Street. It's the house where four generations of my family lived, until my birth father "forgot" to pay several years of property taxes, and my mom had to sell it. Now it's a rental awaiting tenants, and while it's all fixed up inside (remember the library at the front of the house? It's now a staircase to the upstairs), it was sad to see it sitting empty.

We made it back to the campground by early evening, and my older sister and her new boyfriend were there. Her new boyfriend was basically a younger, louder version of the guy described in the fourth paragraph. They stayed long into my fireside time, and the new boyfriend really pissed everyone off with a story of how he defrauded some Mexican migrant workers. But finally they left, and Rebecca and mom and Bob and I sat around the fire and chatted.

The next morning, Bob took us on a tour of the lake on our pontoon boat. We were so tired out by the exertion of sitting in the fresh air that we took a nap when we got back. We dawdled around the campsite, then went into Cadillac to eat lunch and look around. That evening my mother took us on a tour of Crystal Mountain, the resort where she works three days a week. Then it was back for more fireside time. We got up late the next morning, had breakfast, and drove home. It was a good week, with few problems, and it was nice to get away.

Play the Word Count Game!

This site claims to list the 86,800 English words used most often. I don't know about their methods, and I don't know how accurate it is. I don't really care! What's best about it is the word count game! Here's how to play: type in a random word, and try to find the best four or five words in a row. How about some examples?

Words 2629–2633 are "bush admit specifically agent smell." Obviously about the Valerie Plame leak.

Words 21,110–21,113 are "Shane vacated Sinatra extravagance." This is about when my good friend Shane gave up his dreams of being a famous crooner.

Words 1367–1370 are "eat foot opinions decisions." Obviously a contorted way of expressing the old "open mouth, insert foot" phrase.

Words 2316–2320 are "Steve stick kids stayed unique," which, although it doesn't make a lot of sense, seems to fit anyway.

Or keep it short: words 2246 and 2247 are "Brian funny." When he wants to be.

Words 9493–9495 are "Rebecca impaired retailer," which is an obvious reference to her anticapitalist tendencies.

And, of course, we end with me: words 1073–1075 are "Michael campaign understanding," which is a reference to my vocation of convenience—editing—and words 2303–2306 are "Mike manufacturing nation channel," about my growing media empire.

Leaves of Grass Day

One hundred fifty years ago yesterday, Walt Whitman published Leaves of Grass, sounding his barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world and into high-school lit classes. How did you celebrate the big anniversary day? Here in Chicago, they had several parades, and lots of people shot off fireworks, which I think would have made Whitman happy.

I edited for most of the morning. I have a 200-page freelance project that I have to get done by Thursday. (I should probably be working on it right now.) Around 1:00, my favorite art historian and I climbed aboard a series of public transportation vehicles (her car being a $700 brake job from running safely) to get to Evanston, where we were to meet the Katherines, Nicole, and Brian for a 4:00 viewing of Howl's Moving Castle, the latest animated film by Hayao Miyazaki. It was really great to look at, but it didn't make a heck of a lot of sense. I really loved Turnip-Head the scarecrow.

After that, Brian and the art historian and I headed back down to Hyde Park. We ordered pizza, and then Brian and I watched Rabid Grannies, which is three things: Troma's best-made film, not a zombie movie, and almost watchable. Then Brian drove me over to the building where my bike was chained up, and I rode home in a mix of rain and fireworks that made me feel like the kid in Hope and Glory. Then I watched three-quarters of the silly dream episode in season five of The Sopranos (three-quarters because it started to skip), and then I went to bed.