I’m typing this directly into Blogger.com tonight – instead of the usual ritual of writing in Word first – because my beloved Tangerine iBook got a new lymphatic system. Post-surgery, it still doesn’t know who I am, doesn’t respond to my usual sweet nothings, can’t remember any of our secret little sayings. My dear little buddy got rid of his puny 3 gigabyte hard drive and now has a 30 gigabyte drive, almost as much memory as I have, but I have yet to install myself into it. This is a computer that has seen me through a major cross-country move, three job changes, countless jaunts around the country and the last drafts of my first produced script. It was with me mere blocks from Ground Zero when our country was seismically jolted, and deflected the pounding rain of typhoons during an evening where a bolt of lightning nearly killed our movie crew. And now it doesn’t know who I am.
It sits on my floor tonight like an Alzheimer’s patient, a best friend that has to ask your name. I wonder how many rounds we’ll have to go through before it allows me to put Word on it, maybe a smattering of Eudora, or even a truckload of Photoshop. Until then, I’m on Tessa’s computer, a foreign little place where the buttons are like those in Europe: small, curious, and don’t do what you expect them to. The hot water is on the right, here on Tessa’s little machine, and the plugs look alien. I long for the Tangerine-fried goodness of my old iBook. I don’t care what they say: that it looks like a toilet seat, that it makes me less of a man. If keeping my creamsicle-colored gay iBook is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.