October 9, 2001

Greetings, Friends:

A new and dangerous phase of current events is underway. Our unelected President and his British butlers have unleashed the Dogs of War on a suffering world.

They will fail to achieve their stated goals, but unless they are resisted at home they will achieve their unstated goals at our expense. Always, but especially from the morning of September 11, I have tried to be a voice for rationality and compassion – as opposed to joining the chorus of ‘U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A….’ In that spirit, I offer the following thoughts:

The Guilt or Innocence of bin Laden

The videotape released by bin Laden a couple of days ago has convinced millions of Americans that bin Laden is guilty of being the mastermind behind the bombings of September 11, despite the fact that he has denied responsibility and did not take credit for the attack in the tape. Certainly, our designated bad guy celebrated the attacks in NYC and DC and predicted more to come; he called on Muslims to fight America. What did you expect him to do, say he’s sorry and commit suicide on camera?

The US Secretary of State promised the world “convincing evidence” of bin Laden’s guilt three weeks ago. If they had it, we’d see it. They don’t. Prime Minister Blair’s long list of “evidence” comes with an up-front disclaimer that the contents aren’t good enough for court. I’m gravely unimpressed and deeply suspicious.

Suppose I’m a gangster. Suppose I’m sitting in a cave, and somebody, we’ll call him ‘Fred’, comes up to me and asks, “Should I kill Officer Bob?” I reply, “Sure, of course you should! Officer Bob is a pawn of the White Man and his Jewish masters. Go kill him.” Then, Fred goes and shoots Officer Bob. What crime am I guilty of? Answer: none, unless I do something to actively assist Fred, such as taking an active step to help him plan the murder or give him money to buy a gun. So if the State Department wants us to accept proof of bin Laden’s cheer leading as evidence of his guilt, I’m not satisfied.

Now please suppose for a moment that bin Laden is guilty. Let’s say he invited all the hijackers over for tea, and let’s say the get-together was video taped, so now we can see bin Laden standing at an easel pointing at a photo of the WTC with a big red X for where the airplane is supposed to hit. What then? The use of force, both in domestic law enforcement and in war, is carefully regulated. It is these regulations that draw the boundary between lawlessness and the rule of law. We ought to follow the law if we purport to “fight for justice”.

It is precisely at times such as these that we must aspire to our highest standards, as opposed to surrendering to our deepest passions!

A Million Casualties by Christmas

Our medal-encrusted “experts” and their civilian “leaders” are making much of the so-called humanitarian aid – less than 40,000 servings a night, dropped randomly into mine fields and elsewhere. What they don’t tell us is that the air strikes have mandated the evacuation of civilian aid workers who were helping feed several million people. I can already hear Tony Blair and his less-articulate American counterparts: “The million civilian hunger casualties are more blood on the hands of bin Laden and his terror networks. Our resolve will never weaken until the threat of international terror networks is ended…”

We’re hearing of “targeted” bombing. It’s nonsense. That’s why journalists are not allowed to cover the action in person, unlike WW2. Legally speaking, there is no such thing as an “unintended consequence” of dropping bombs – there’s just damage, and none of it is “collateral”.

What Are We Fighting For?

The stated objective of Bush and Blair is to “Root out and destroy networks of international terror.” This is not a coherent goal in the abstract; it becomes laughable when we notice that the American Administration is full of veterans of the Contra war, folks who waged a number of covert terrorist wars. The administration wants to have more covert actions. What does the covert arm of western intelligence do for a living? It funds and supports ‘unsavory characters’ (terrorists) who are tasked with the mission of murdering opponents – in Vietnam and in Latin America, many of our targeted victims were civilians who were sympathetic to or active in liberal politics. (See Operation Phoenix, etc.) Now, if Bush and Powell and Rumsfeld were serious about “destroying terrorists of international reach” they’d do something about the nut-case Cubans in Miami, wouldn’t they? Oh wait – those Cubans use violence to stop American Presidential Ballots being counted, so they must be lovers of freedom after all.

The true goals of the Administration are quite apparent: they want to further militarize American society and further protect the financial interests of the corporations and the richest 5% of Americans. Upon his “election”, the President called for a big tax cut for the rich because the economy was doing well. When the economy tanked, the tax cut became necessary because we weren’t doing well. Now the President is trying, cynically, to get another tax cut whilst spending emergency dollars on war. The result is as predictable as gravity: we’ll have deficits again, with higher unemployment and an accelerated transfer of wealth from the poor to the rich, all in the name of Security. That’s the True Agenda of the Bush administration. They want to enrich themselves and entrench their power, and they want to do it at our expense. If they were opposed to terrorism they wouldn’t have spent their careers practicing it!

Martin Luther King and John Lennon

You don’t hear too much about these guys during times like these. That’s why Clear Channel, the corporation that owns about a quarter of US radio stations (thanks to the Clinton Telecommunications Act) “advised” its stations not to play “Imagine” after the bombings.

Now we see why those men are so beloved: they had the courage and vision to speak, boldly, of peace and compassion at a time of war. Hindsight shows that they were visionaries, as well as flawed human beings. It is not easy to keep one’s head and face an angry and frightened society with words of compassion and reason. We oppose war and corporate power because it is necessary, not because it is easy.

“I hope one day you’ll join us, and the world will live as one.” He was singing to you. Get busy.

Hope

The most potent drug is hope. It’s more powerful than any legal or illegal intoxicant; it fills one with energy and an awesome sense of the possible. Sure, I argue that American democracy has largely been thwarted by laws like the National Security Act of 1950 and the power of organized money. But during that same period we saw the Civil Rights movement come off the streets to lead the “leaders” – so even Ronald Reagan had to read scripts that spoke reverently of the memory of Dr. King and used phrases like “give peace a chance.” American society still is segregated and racist – but it’s a hell of a lot more integrated now than it was in 1950. Social activism ended Jim Crow, it ended our criminal war in Vietnam and it ended Apartheid.

Many of the causes that came to prominence in the 1960′s and 1970′s have moved from the fringe to the heart of today’s politics, and they are as vibrant and important today as they were ‘back in the day.’ Environmentalism, the liberation of women, the support of ‘liberation struggles’ of oppressed peoples such as the blacks in South Africa, the recognition of kinship in non-traditional family arrangements – these causes have done enormous good and offer a way out of our present troubles.

Since the Second World War, a lot has been done to try to codify – to put into writing – exactly what rights one ought to have as a birth right of being human. These are best expressed in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, a document I have circulated in the past. These values ought to be at the heart of all international treaties, particularly those dealing with international trade and investment. Presently, these treaties are designed to protect corporate profits and investors. It’s not hard to fix the problem – all that is needed is the insight and political will.

Suppose I’m wrong about the administration not having good proof of bin Laden’s involvement with the bombings. Suppose I’m also wrong about judging them as being violent hypocrites. Let’s assume for a moment that they’re sincere human beings trying to do their best at a time of crisis, against a vague but deadly enemy. Okay, what should they do? They lead the richest and most powerful nation in history. It seems to me that the military buildup and the hugely expensive use of force is not likely to damage the terrorists nearly as much as it will damage our political and diplomatic standing in the world. I just don’t see how a million or two civilian casualties is going to advance the cause of freedom or hurt terrorism. Certainly it won’t be a very satisfying vengeance for the 6,000 dead in America. Even when viewed most sympathetically, our leaders’ actions fall far short of what is needed to protect us and to advance the cause of freedom at home and around the world. They need our help.

So, my friends, it’s up to us. This is our country, and even the least well off among us has been blessed with great wealth and freedom compared with most of the world’s population. To me, patriotism means standing up as an American and insisting that our nation live up to its highest ideals – because it is right and because it is in our best interest!

Peace, love and strawberries,

Scott

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Do you need a quick test to find out if other people are going to be able to tell? Even if you color your hair and “get work done” you’re still not going to be able to hide. Certain things will give you away to your more youthful and less annoying friends and acquaintances. This is one of them.

How many spaces do you put after a sentence?

It’s a pretty simple question, isn’t it? The fact that I’m asking it at all is proof that I’m fighting a losing battle against unplanned obsolescence. Young and Sharp people don’t ask this question, because they are blessed with the certainty of their age and the consistency of their life experiences.

I’ve been using HTML for more than 15 years. Finally, today, after noticing that every on-line editing program I use, including WordPress, requires one space after a period in order for the justification feature to work properly, and after noticing that I still choose to put two spaces after a period into all of my other written work, I decided to ask the question. I typed, “What happened to putting two spaces after a sentence?” into my browser and hit ‘enter.’

The first article I got was entitled “Space Invaders – Why You Should Never Ever Put Two Spaces After a Period.” Then I read a considerably more gentle, less dogmatic piece called “One Versus Two Spaces After a Period.” Finally, desktop publishers argue that you should Use One Space Between Sentences. They also offer constructive help in removing the extra spaces from old documents.

Sometimes it pays to ask the question, even if it takes a few years longer for the question to come to mind than might be ideal. OK, so now we put one, not two, spaces between sentences. Why? Because we no longer use old-fashioned typewriters with fixed-width fonts! Very good. Got it. I’m going to Make Change My Friend.

Oh wow, man. I’m like, totally spaced out. Or maybe it’s more like being “spaced in” since now there’s less room…

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It’s odd to live in a world in which a 45 year-old photograph shows up suddenly, yet thanks to the modern miracle (or curse) of technology this picture arrives unexpectedly, and I get snatched up for a quick trip back in time. Time travel seems to be an increasingly common preoccupation on these pages. You might as well come along, so return with me to the fall of 1965.

My second grade classmates and I are in what is now called the Michael Jackson Auditorium at Gardner Street Elementary school. I am standing to the extreme right of the next-to-back row, an uncharacteristic position. My sister-in-law Debbie is in the center of the same row.

Just a couple of years ago, I stood in roughly the same place in that old auditorium. It looked exactly the same, except smaller.

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I’ve been hunting these guys with various cameras for years. More than 15 months ago, I got a shot of several of these birds on a power wire, but that wasn’t exactly the nice nature picture I always had in mind.

“Birdsong” is not a word that comes to mind when a flock of parrots begins an animated conversation. I heard a loud parrot gossip session begin just as I was sitting down to work. I took three steps out of my office and looked up. Half a dozen of these fine birds were in the neighbor’s tree.  I took this shot by leaning back and pointing the camera up.

It’s nice to see this blog leaning away from reptiles and focusing more attention on birds.

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Most of us have seen video of hummingbirds flying in slow motion. In real life it’s amazing how fast they are. I’ve been hunting these guys with various cameras for years, and this is the first picture I’ve managed to get that’s vaguely worth sharing.

We think of these tiny birds as being little and cute, but in fact they are mean. Their call is a distinct clicking sound, and they aren’t shy about buzzing people, dogs, or much larger birds who get too close to a place the micro bird is defending. This year there are several active hummingbird nests within 15 yards of the sliding glass door to the back patio.

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Gerry Pearce loved the water. He told stories of swim meets at Baghdad College in the mid-1940′s, and although he never tried to teach me to speak Arabic he did teach me to swim. Those early lessons were during the summer of 1962.

My dad and I spent untold hours together in various pools over the years, though he never had a pool at home. We went to West Hollywood Park, Hollywood High, Jen Loven’s pool, and whatever hotel pool was available during various Westercon or other science fiction conventions. During the 40 years we swam together, not once did he join me in the ocean – the Pacific was just too cold. Even during the many years I lived footsteps from Venice Beach, I couldn’t entice him to so much as get his feet wet.

This photo of my dad is from July 1963, taken by my mom at West Hollywood Park. He died the morning of April 27, 2003. I am lucky enough to have constant access to a swimming pool that he likely would have found warm enough. The flash of sunlight off moving water in an outdoor swimming pool reliably brings him to mind. At this point in my life, every time I go back and forth across the surface of the water it feels like a victory lap. See you in the pool!

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Yet another amazing creature showed up to pose for pictures early this afternoon.

It feels good to be getting back to taking pictures of dragonflies; maybe it means lizards are done following me for now. I’ve been hunting dragonflies with a camera for years, with some great results! Check out these dragonfly centerfolds from July 2007, July 2008, and September 2010.

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Instead, return with me now to October of 1976. Here I am in Forest Grove, Oregon, the garden spot of the Pacific Northwest. I spent most of my time in the fall of ’76 talking into microphones or pointing them at other people who had something to say.

Here’s a recording from that glorious month. In it, your resourceful teenage reporter, thirsty for the truth, looks for a few honest words from the student body of Pacific University about a topic of great interest: the food service!

I’m sure you’ll be surprised to discover that the college kids of the Jerry Ford era were entirely satisfied with how kindly they were being taken care of.

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That was part of the training I received as a pool lifeguard, way back in the distant past when swimming pools still had diving boards.

Here’s a recent picture of me taken at Kapaau, close to the northern tip of the Big Island of Hawaii, during my recent audition for the Darwin Awards. This black sand beach is one of the most beautiful places on the planet for somebody to drown. You’ll notice that I am the only swimmer in the picture, despite the fact that it’s a glorious beach day. Why do you think that is? The National Weather Service has a nice explanation of what rip currents are, how they form, and why you shouldn’t go swimming in them.

Even an untrained eye can see that the waves are choppy and that they’re breaking in different directions at the same time, but who cares? I’ve been swimming for almost 50 years! (This is the kind of thinking the trainer had in mind – Notice how the ex-pool lifeguard turns his greatest liability into some kind of asset? Anybody who has been doing anything for almost half a century shouldn’t get his ankles wet when the surf is this dangerous!)

It’s a good thing that my Guardian Angel hasn’t reached the mandatory retirement age.

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Regular readers have come to expect some serious journalism from me once in a while. This is where a waiting world learned of the 1972 zombie invasion of Hollywood. Here the public finally received confirmation that the twin towers were moved to New York from West LA, where they were originally built. I also published compelling evidence that UFO’s are responsible for San Diego having the nation’s best weather. You don’t have to thank me; I consider it part of my duty as a citizen.

Here is a single frame from the famous video from the 1928 opening of Charlie Chaplin’s 1928 movie “The Circus.” Folks have been debating whether or not this woman is speaking into a cell phone. Obviously this is ridiculous, since there were no cell towers in Hollywood in 1928. The truth? She’s speaking into a satellite telephone! We all know that UFO’s have been a fact of life for centuries. Satellite telephone technology has been in use among select human beings since at least the time of Ancient Egypt.

I am prepared to suggest an answer to what is really going on here.  To begin with, let’s get one thing straight: this is not an isolated incident. For the first time anywhere, let me be the one to connect some very important dots for all of you. Our second example of time travel caught on film comes to us from Canada, in1940.  This isn’t some video off of YouTube, either – it’s a photograph from the Bralorne Pioneer Museum in British Columbia, Canada.

OK, now take a look at the above image.  Can you identify the time traveler? It’s worth noting that this photograph had been available for years as part of an exhibit “Their Past Lives Here” before anybody noticed the conspicuous guy from the future.

Who are these people? Why have they chosen to go back in time? It’s quite simple, really. A couple of intrepid, determined radio artists are doing everything they can to bring their listeners pristine examples of ancient recorded music! They go back in time to collect old discs and cylinders to bring back to the present for the entertainment of their listening audience. Let’s take a closer look at each image:

A careful look at the 1928 image strongly suggests that our first time traveler is not a woman at all! Scroll back up and take a look at the full image. Look at how big “her” feet are! It seems pretty obvious to me that, for whatever reason, Andy Senior felt the need to dress as a woman while talking on his satellite phone in Hollywood, back in 1928. He must have had his reasons. Maybe he felt the need to try to avoid being too conspicuous, which is more than we can say for the second time traveler, isn’t it?

Radiola is a weekly, two-hour podcast that features jazz and pop music from the 20′s and 30′s. Most, but not all of the music featured on this tremendous program comes from the “electrical era.” The sound quality of the recordings Andy presents is spectacular. It’s pretty obvious that he’s playing pristine copies of records he bought in Hollywood during trips back to the 1920′s and 1930′s, isn’t it? Incidentally, the Radiola shows offer subtle evidence that frequent time travel might be harmful to one’s health. That might explain how “Wake Up, Chill’un,” by Willard Robison and the Ipana Troubadours, was chosen as the show’s theme song.

The Antique Phonograph Music Program, on WFMU, is presented by Michael Cumella. In the color photo, Mac is explaining the fine points of acoustic recording without electricity to Nipper (the RCA Victor dog).

Mac clearly isn’t afraid of publicity, as proven by the nice article about his show from the Wall Street Journal.

The Antique Phonograph Music Program specializes in acoustic-era records and cylinders, played on original equipment. This is another brilliant program, where music from 100 years ago comes to life as if it had been recorded a few weeks ago – because, in fact, that’s how old some of the recordings really are!

It’s evident that Mac was caught on camera when he was visiting Canada to join the crowd at the famous cylinder record liquidation sale that was held in British Columbia in 1940. Once again, it’s not hard for a trained listener with a good ear to be able to tell that, although the recordings played on the Antique Phonograph Music Program are authentic, neither the cylinders, the discs, nor the record and cylinder players Mac uses are very old at all. On occasion Mac brings his son on to co-host the show. Rumor has it that, technically, Mac is younger than his son, the consequence of a birth control accident in a time machine. If true, this would be only the second documented case. (The first was Zaphod Beebrebrox.)

As one who appreciates the lively timelessness of good old recordings, here is one of my favorite spoken word pieces by Eddie Cantor, recorded at the very end of 1929.

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In times of economic uncertainty, it’s important to sharpen all of one’s skills. After all, you never know when you might have to change jobs or even take on a whole new career. More and more people are finding this out the hard way. Personally, I believe that work is overrated. Clowning around always has meant a lot to me. I don’t mind being called a ‘clown.’ Clowns have more status in our society than lawyers, and rightly so.

Many of us feel that our lives are spent juggling contradictory roles and complicated tasks. Why not take the logical next step and learn how to juggle physical objects? It’s fun, and I imagine I have made more money from juggling at parties than most young lawyers make during their first couple of years out of law school.

What is the secret of juggling? Well, you have to have a photographer capture your act during one of the rare moments when you look like you know what you’re doing! Thank you, Jeffrey Gothard, for pushing the button at just the right instant!

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Years ago when I started this blog, I did not expect that I would be spending so much time photographing and writing about lizards. Life is like that sometimes. It’s like I always say: “When life gives you lemons, sometimes you have to break some eggs.” I think it goes like that. Anyway, as far as I can tell, I have written about Elgaria Multicarinata here and here, and I have published a magnificent picture of what I think is a nice representative of Sceleoporus Magister Uniformis (the yellow backed spiny lizard).

No, I never did intend for this to be a Lizards of Southern California website, but sometimes you’ve got to go where life takes you. Probably you can relate to the sentiment – after all, I don’t suppose you started your day imagining how great it would be to read the observations of some guy who thinks lizards are following him.

I guess it’s about time for all those science classes I took at the USC Law School to pay off a little bit. It was a long time ago…but I do remember spending a lot of time at law school studying reptiles, although none of those issues turned up on the California Bar Examination.

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San Diego is a nice place in January, warm and mild compared to most places, but nobody would argue that it is a tropical paradise. For example, this Gold Dust Day Gecko is not native to America’s Finest City. The picture was taken in the Kohala region of the Big Island of Hawaii.

It turns out that the gecko is no more native to Hawaii than I am. Here’s a nice action shot of me taken in a gentle undertow just a few days ago off the Kona coast. Somebody has to do it.

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Hot beads of sticky sweat were trickling down my forehead and dripping off my eyelashes. I stood silently, listening for the naked teenage boys who were hunting me in the boys’ locker room at LeConte Junior High School. The aerosol can of Right Guard was in my left hand. My bare back was against the cold lockers. I was determined to make it to the shower without being ambushed. The deodorant was my only weapon – and the only weapon of my pursuers.

I became aware of somebody just around the corner, beyond the edge of the bank of lockers I was cornered behind. Rather than submit I decided to go on the offensive, to lash out against those who might try to humiliate me. What other option is there for a naked 13 year-old boy?

I jumped out from my hiding place and fired the deodorant at the kid who was about to do the same, scoring a direct hit in the belly! “That’s right,” I thought, “Nobody is going to bully me and get away with it without a fight!”

Coach Robert Hills was the head Boys PE teacher at LeConte Junior High. He was a crew-cut disciplinarian, and like most of the men of his age and experience in 1972, Coach Hills did not like scruffy-haired boys. I thought Mr. Hills was fair and honest, though, and eager to recognize a good effort or an improved performance from any of his students. I had concluded a long time ago that the safe thing to do was to obey him to the letter (except about getting a haircut) and otherwise stay out of his way.

I knew I had made a serious mistake when I observed that the target of my aerosol assault was fully dressed. Looking up, I became aware of just how dreadful a mistake it really was. I saw the angry eyes of Coach Hills looking down at me, shiny and black, like the openings of a double-barreled shotgun pointed at my face.

The coach’s reaction was instant and automatic. He grabbed my long hair with his right hand and used it as a leash with which to guide me to the coaches’ office. Coach Lamb, the eldest coach on the staff, looked up and raised an eyebrow.

“That boy needs a shower and a haircut, Coach.”

“He needs some swats first. He just fired on me with deodorant. I’ve got enough troubles. I don’t need f***ing naked longhair punks jumping around shooting me with s*** they oughta be using on themselves.”

Coach Hills pulled a couple of possible weapons out of a drawer, selecting what looked like a ping pong paddle with a long handle and holes in the paddle. He looked at it and swished it through the air a couple of times, with a tiny smile on his face, then he looked me in the eye.

“Son, do you understand it’s wrong to spray your coach with deodorant?”

I looked back into his eyes. They didn’t look all black anymore.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I understand…”

I could tell that I was getting in more trouble but I wasn’t sure why. Coach Hills repeated his question, with a little more anger and contempt. Coach Lamb offered a quiet suggestion.

“Yes, sir…”

Sometimes I need a helpful stage manager to feed me my lines, especially when I’m naked and about to “get swats” from the coach I just doused with deodorant. Again I looked up into Coach Hills’ eyes.

“Yes, sir, I understand it’s wrong to spray my coach with deodorant.”

The coach gently tapped the edge of the paddle on the counter, no doubt to get a better grip and to remind me of the swatting I had in store. He looked into my eyes and asked,

“Do you understand that it’s wrong to run around naked in the locker room, that it’s against the rules to run in there when you’re dressed?”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

“Good. To make sure you remember, put your hands on the counter.”

I obeyed. The first swat came about three seconds later, preceded by a fairly loud swoosh sound. Two other swats followed, separated by about five seconds each. I was impressed by how loud they were. They hurt, too, a lot. A few seconds after the third swat, the coach said,

“OK, turn around.” I looked up into his eyes. “Take a shower. I’ll see you tomorrow – you guys are running a mile and we’re gonna time you.”

“Yes, sir.”

I walked back into the locker room in high spirits. Sure, I had an acutely sore and completely naked butt, yet I figured I was going to be received like a hero. After all, hadn’t I just taken three swats that easily could have gone to just about anybody? Didn’t I just spray deodorant on Coach Hills, a wildly brave and impressive act of resistance? I figured they’d probably treat me as if I’d just hit a home run in the bottom of the ninth. At least I’d be getting a wild round of applause.

Instead, it was quiet like a funeral home after closing hours. A few guys looked at me as I came in, but in silence. Everybody knew that when the coaches were dispensing swats it was a good idea to keep still, so as not to tempt fate. I was one of the last ones to the showers. I got washed off and dried in time for my next class, but I had to borrow some deodorant. I’d left mine in the coaches office and I didn’t think it was wise to go back.

Nobody – including me – felt that the punishment didn’t fit the crime. We might not all have thought it “wrong” to spray Coach Hills, but we unanimously agreed it was highly unwise and dangerous, definitely something an intelligent lad wouldn’t do. I didn’t tell my parents because I was ashamed of what I’d done – and because I figured they’d agree with me that I’d basically got what I had coming. The swats did no real damage, and the fact that the coaches judged that I “took my punishment like a man” seemed to raise my status in their esteem.

This incident happened in the spring of 1972, when I was in 8th grade. Here’s a picture from May ’72. You might think that a public junior high school in Hollywood, California in 1972 would be a bastion of hard-core leftist politics, or at least some real adolescent rebellion – and you’d be wrong.

At the start of every day of classes, first thing in the morning, the school PA system would play a bugle call! Everybody had to stand at attention, in silence, while the melody played. This was before the Pledge of Allegience. At the end of the school day, another bugle call played, and again everybody was supposed to stand at silent attentnion throughout the melody.

Why do you think we were subjected to this kind of treatment? These rituals probably did quite a bit to inhibit most kids from even thinking about joining me and some of my very young friends who opposed the war in Vietnam, both in school and in the streets. I can say for sure that being forced to behave like a military cadet helped teach me that most authority is arbitrary and stupid. In that case, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

A lot has changed since 1972. Coaches and other teachers aren’t supposed to hit students anymore. That’s fine. I don’t want the kids I’m helping raise to be beaten by their teachers. I have never struck any of them myself (although I did bite one of them once, and trust me, she had it coming). And yet, sometimes I think we’ve made a lot of things in life more complicated than they need to be. Back in the spring of ’72, I ambushed one of my coaches with a can of Right Guard. He gave me a spanking. The whole incident couldn’t have taken more than five minutes. What do you think might happen if the same chain of events unfolded today?

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The image to your left is an example of the former. This is a fine screw indeed, for one simple reason: it goes out as well as in. Let me explain. If you’d like to learn a couple of lessons about the value of persistence and stubborn devotion to duty from a guy with the sort of keen intellect and clever “outside the box” thinking of smart men like Shemp Howard, this story is for you.

Since the mid-1990′s, my life has been a series of Fujitsu laptops. Not surprisingly, the first one I owned ran Windows 95. The computer at the heart of today’s little parable is a C Series Lifebook, running Windows XP. I like it and it has a lot of expensive programs installed. Sadly, the 40 GB hard drive that came with the unit was showing signs of getting ready to give up the ghost, things like being 42% fragmented at the end of running all the defrag and disc maintenance programs on hand.

No problem. I’ve been sliding new hard drives into laptops since before a lot of you were born. I went out and bought a nice 650 GB drive and came home to enjoy the smooth and easy transition that has been my standard experience in these matters. I attached the new drive externally and ran a cloning program with no problem. After that the first screw securing the hard drive caddy – the one depicted with such loving and sharp clarity in the photo – came out with no problem. Sadly, the second one stripped and remained in place, mocking me, a part worth a fraction of a penny telling me my computer soon would be worthless and that I likely was powerless to do anything about it.

I presented this situation to my beloved wife, who cares about my wellbeing and happiness, and who doesn’t enjoy life so much when I am lying on the floor, biting the carpet with frustration and misery over some computer mishap.

“How old is that laptop?”

“Four and a half years.”

“You know, I think probably Santa would get you a new laptop for Christmas if you were a good boy.”

“That’s nice, but I’m not going to need it because I’m not going to be getting screwed by this screw. I’m going to sort this out and this new hard drive over here is going to be in that laptop over there, working fine, really soon.”

Over the subsequent couple of weeks, I learned about screw extractors at the local hardware store and I watched how-to videos. I checked out the family power drill, which I brought into the house and started to examine. I tried to use the screw extractor. I didn’t get the screw out. On the other hand, I did not damage the laptop further. My wife appeared to be relieved that this setback left me undaunted but I could tell she was worried it all would end in tears.

I slept on the problem, and decided to escalate the level of violence. I  waited until nobody but the family dog Rainbow was in the house with me.  The laptop found itself face down on a pillow on the dining room table, its battery out and its AC cord unplugged. I put the smallest bit into the drill and brandished the power drill at the prone laptop.

“You’re not mocking me anymore, are you? You’re gonna give up that screw right now and like it, or it’s gonna hurt you a lot more than it’ll hurt me. If you continue to defy me, I’ll bring Lana and Em’s brother Jason in here with his hockey mask and power saw. You’ll look back and wish you’d surrendered that screw a long time ago.”

It’s important that you show the laptop who’s boss. That’s something they don’t tell you in the computer user manuals, at least not in the ones put out by Fujitsu.

I got to the business of cutting a little doughnut in the plastic around the bad screw. I figured if I could cut away a bit of the plastic I’d be able to use tweezers or needle nose pliers to remove the screw. As I was completing the task, the drill bit touched the side of the screw and turned it. I was able to remove it with my fingers. The hard drive caddy slid out without further delay. My delight was tangible. I sent Alexis a text, telling her about what a tech-savvy spouse she’s married to.

The first three of the four screws that attached the old hard drive to the caddy came out with no problem. The fourth did not. It instantly stripped and remained in place. The last thing that could have gone wrong went as wrong as it could go wrong! Somebody explain the justice of that! Something inside me started to snap. Slowly, deliberately, I walked up a few of the stairs toward the bedroom and I got down on all fours to start chewing at my favorite spot in the carpet, when I noticed Rainbow at my side.

“Don’t do it. Your teeth are in no shape for that kind of work, and you know I’m going to get blamed for it anyway. That’s not fair. Go back and finish.”

Sometimes you have to take your dog’s advice. I went back to the table and looked at the hard drive caddy, with three screws lined up neatly to one side and one screw keeping the old hard drive held fast. I decided to do what any experienced, mature grownup would do: I grabbed that damned hard drive and began twisting it furiously until I was able to break the old hard drive off the caddy entirely. Ha! That’ll teach the #$%@& thing to mess with me for sure! I threw the old hard drive to the table with contempt and with a sense of triumph. Then I noticed the hard drive caddy in my other hand and looked at the twisted, broken piece of metal that once housed the fourth screw. That part was going to require further careful, delicate surgery. I got out a pair of pliers and flattened out the shredded piece of aluminum as well as I could.

To my delight, the new hard drive slid in with no problem and the three remaining screws mounted it straight and solid. It went into the computer and the surviving external screw, the one pictured in all its glory at the top of this post, smoothly went back into place. I plugged in the laptop, hit the ‘on’ button, and the computer booted up perfectly and has been working like a champ ever since.

Perseverance Furthers.

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