Are my eyes really blue?

“Hope for the future has basically been reduced to the dream of retirement – somehow, somewhere, someday – and the desire to just survive to the end of the week. Three hours, a pint or two, a book to read. A full half hour to cuddle in the morning before having to drag out of bed and go to work. The occasional pleasure of stopping in for a Guinness on the way home, or going out to an actual pub for an evening, or driving over the hill to see the closest of our friends who all moved away. Small things. Simple things. Things that can be replicated when needed, that don’t require elaborate planning and don’t come with the crushing disappointment of cancellation because you don’t know if or when you’ll get another chance.”

-Dec 31, 2019

 

As we enter “Year Of Hell, Part 2” it’s hard not to look back on this and wince. The bar was so freakin’ low. I conceded the misery of work and the existential terror of this election season and set the sights as low and simple as they could go, and then everything past the front door got taken away. No stopping in for a pint, no going down the pub, no driving over the hill to see friends. No minor league baseball on streaming audio. No cheeky beach visits. No Marvel movie matinees. No long-awaited vacation trips with friends. Even the morning meander around the farmer’s market once a week has turned into a hit and run mission, and a leisurely cold brew at the local coffee spot or a bagel breakfast sandwich and a Coke for lunch or a casual downtown alfresco dinner feels too fraught with peril to actually undertake.

And you see the incompetence and the malfeasance – virtue punished and vice rewarded and the utter shamelessness of stupidity and calumny and you wonder what happens next. A 10% lead in the polls feels as safe right now as walking through Hell in gasoline panties, and if it doesn’t hold up, we basically lose the country. And if it does hold up, there’s an immediate pivot to scorched earth as the GOP once again buries their crime and assumes the world began anew on January 20 as the sole fault of the new President, who is to be resisted at all costs.

You can already see the groundwork. Pardons and commutations. The Supreme Court rules that the President is not above the law and is subject to Congressional subpoena and investigation – and then, as Josh Marshall pointed out, sets the delay fuse on the ruling to go off for the next guy. Congressional Republicans time the aid package to run out just in time for the election, so they can suddenly revert to deficit hawks again out of nowhere. Roger Stone gets the first get out of jail free card of presumably many to come, assuming Agent Orange doesn’t somehow preemptively pardon himself – or try to, anyway, with the kind of jurisprudential understanding you’d expect from a senile bag of guts who does nothing but watch Fox News all day.

They’ll assume that losing power is punishment enough, and then devote themselves to regaining it. They won’t go quietly, they won’t sit it out for a couple of years, they’ll fight tooth and nail to sabotage recovery and blame the failings on the new guy. Just like in 2009. They will assume forgiveness for their sins – and that’s the real problem, isn’t it? You can only ask forgiveness. It is not automatically granted to you. And it shouldn’t be, for this. No forgiveness for anyone who doesn’t beg for it. No forgiveness for anyone who doesn’t repent and remediate. Show that you understand why you were wrong and show how you’re working to make it right, and then we’ll talk.

After November 3, we’ll know exactly how many people should be written out of the American political process for good. The New York Times and its catamite allies made such a show of “listening” to the Tr*mpists…and all they’ve shown is how right we were not to listen to them. Now, and ever again, amen.

By the time I turned 16, I’d been outside the South exactly twice -once at age 12 to Cedar Rapids, Iowa for a future problem solving competition, and once at age ten months to San Diego and Disneyland (arguably wasted on someone who had just learned to walk). There were occasional convention trips to Florida or Atlanta or South Carolina, and relatives in East Tennessee, and occasionally even Opryland or Six Flags, but most of my life was centered in Birmingham.

When the Birmingham Barons were brought back in 1981 as a farm team of the Detroit Tigers, they adopted the old-English-style B on the hat to match the D of the parent club. Even after the affiliation switched to the White Sox in 1986, they kept that B, and have ever since. Made famous by Michael Jordan, it’s the trademark of the most successful professional sports team in Birmingham in my lifetime, the only one to play uninterrupted from childhood to whatever this is now. But in the last couple of years, they have a new hat. It goes with a specialty jersey that says “Magic City” instead of Birmingham or Barons, and it has a plain block B. By default it’s a white B on a black cap with a red bill, and that’s not an accident – it’s a deliberate homage to the three-B logo of the Birmingham Black Barons, 1948 champions of the Negro American League and as close as the city ever had to a major league franchise.

It’s reflective of days gone by, a callback to a time when a fifteen year old Willie Mays patrolled the outfield in Rickwood or when the likes of Mule Suttles and Piper Davis and Harry “Beans” Salmon and Satchel Paige plied their trade. Or a time when the Barons of the Southern Association were broadcast by four different radio stations and were so profitable that their management magnanimously sent a $5000 check to the Boston Red Sox. And yet, it’s a logo that is natively of the present moment. Of Railroad Park and Randall Woodfin and food halls in loft apartment buildings, of electric bike share and local brewing and “Excuse The Birmingham In Me.” Of a bright blue spot in a red state, the fourth most African American city in America, a town and a vibe and a people unapologetic about reaching for modernity despite the influence of their county and their suburbs and surroundings.

I’ve gone on a bit of a hat-buying binge during lockdown, mostly in the name of supporting minor league baseball. I bought new his-and-hers San Jose hats for our family, mine a Churros logo and hers with California poppy-ish flowers. But I also bought three Barons hats, one classic BBB lid and a couple with this new 21st century retro B. Not because I’ve lived there full time since 1994, because I haven’t, but because for the first third of my life, I wanted to live in the kind of place that Birmingham is now. There’s something going on there, something that hasn’t yet been ruined or commodified or reduced to self-caricature, and in spite of everything, I still want to identify with it and feel a connection to it despite five years since so much as crossing the state line there.

And so here it sits, sandstone cotton dad hat with red brim and red B, the daily wear from a world where I bike home from the grocery store and pick up a growler at Good People before sitting on my balcony overlooking Regions Field and listen to Curt Bloom streaming roughly one batter behind the noises coming up from the ballpark, in a Birmingham I can know and love and call my own.

Wouldn’t that have been something.

It occurred to me today driving south on I-280 that I have effectively lived a third of my life in California. It was sixteen years ago this week that we were on our fortnight drive from DC to here, and I’m 48 now, that’s close enough. The exact one-third mark is probably somewhere in autumn, but since NorCal doesn’t have “autumn” and the weather now is more or less what it was then, I’m marking it now. Because driving along the scenic route, golden hillsides and scattering of trees, East Bay hills rising in the distance, blue sky for once dappled with a dash of wispy cloud instead of glaring sun, it looks so much like I remember those earliest days being.

So much is different from those days, and I’m sure I’ll remember a lot of it again next spring when Brood X hatches in DC, but it’s amazing to think how different the world looks now. I mean, I had a smartphone when I arrived, but it was a P800 that was barely usable (and which I sold to a guy in Daly City for a couple hundred bucks as quick as I could manage). I would only keep driving my Saturn for a little over two years. “Social media” was a niche and limited thing mostly for millennials, and limited to the computer; the notion that any adult would naturally have a cellphone was still pretty new. Streaming was barely a thing, especially for video; the main desire of my move was to get DirecTV with the TiVo tuner. Hell, half the public places that had Wi-Fi charged to access it, and I was still smoking cigars shipped from DC. My principle cell phone number, which never changed in DC from January 1998 until the day I left, has turned over five or six times depending on who was paying for it and what I could afford myself.

What’s remarkable in retrospect is how much has been stable. Same home phone number since we got here. Same address for almost fifteen years. Same place of employment for almost twelve. For a decade now, we arguably make one big trip a year and don’t otherwise leave the state. And for the last seven years or so, a steady sense of dread as the world slowly deteriorates around us. Some of it is political decay and malfeasance. Some of it is the Wall Streeting of Silly Con Valley, as VC money tech-washes taxi companies and home rentals while ratcheting up the asshole factor and driving real local people underground – or away. I used to say that this was where the future comes from, but that seems more like a threat than a promise these days. And now, thanks to the pandemic, it’s tougher than ever to enjoy the Northern California that lies beneath the superficial gloss of the Valley. 

I want to go over the hill and ride down the PCH. I want to go have a pint in my favorite pub. I want to ride the light rail down through San Jose and take the MUNI Metro all the way out to the Riptide. I want to watch the San Jose Churros playing in their WPA-era park and sit behind the Ultras at the San Jose Earthquakes as planes land behind the scoreboard. I want to take the Coast Starlight to Santa Barbara and go up to the top of the courthouse. I want to catch the Pacific Surfliner from there and go to Disneyland and ride Rise of the Resistance at Galaxy’s Edge before cocktails at Trader Sam. I want to go to the beach with my goddaughter and I want to drink Rum Runners on the patio at the Beacon looking out at Lake Tahoe. And after almost four months of trying to diligently shelter in place, wash hands and wear masks, I’m no closer to any of that than I was on St Patrick’s Day.

It’s infuriating. At the beginning, it felt like a chance to practice living my best life: working 100% remote and wearing only my cozy American Giant gear and alternating between a quiet cozy pint at home and a quiet cup of coffee in the morning. Then the sun came out and the temps went up and the world went haywire and too much of this country stopped trying and just decided that the pandemic was over because they were tired of it. And now the death toll rises and the prospect for things getting better gets dimmer every day. Without the ability to travel or see friends, the buying of stuff – mostly hats, of which more later – has flared up again as the only way of achieving novelty or diversion. Which is not really sustainable – how much stuff do I need, where do I put it, and what do I do with the old stuff? – but we’ll sort that out later.

I locked the door. Not because I was up to anything untoward, because I genuinely wasn’t, but because I wanted privacy. I wanted it to be my own space, my trifling room with he red carpet older than I was, the guest room until I turned 12 and started spending time in it – and then my mother got the clever idea to swap around the furniture “so I would have more space.” If there had been more space every time she rearranged, I could have hosted NFL football in that room. That was probably part of my motivation, the endless furniture rearranging. So was the fact that every now and then she would “clean” and then, say, a whole binder of Dungeons & Dragons campaign notes and characters would go missing for good. As long as I was in the room and awake, it was mine, and that meant that I could lock anybody out I wanted to. And so I did.

There were bunk beds, pointlessly, the top one mostly used to hold dirty clothes or things I’d pulled off the floor. There was a stolen highway barrel in the corner, devoid of purpose, and a speed limit sign that had come out of my grandfather’s barn. Speed Limit 35, it said, my self-chosen number and also my ACT goal. I usually had it propped over the air conditioning vent, to keep the cold air blowing out to the sides instead of straight onto me, and it made a space where I could put an unopened can of Dr Pepper and be assured of keeping it mostly cold. There was a desk and chair that were part of the bookcase set, but they weren’t any good to sit at, and I had a card table on which I would do most of my actual work.

And the walls, pinned with all manner of stuff. Newspaper clippings of particularly pointed letters to the editor, of incisive cartoons, of random magazine quotes. The letters 7 C 6 off one of those changeable signs out front of a fast food place, which happened to be hex for 1990. Stuff from school, entire campaign signs from particularly amusing student government efforts. One person running for President based on the slogan “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.” Arguable, but it made me laugh, and up it went.

And there was the chair. A light-colored-wood directors chair with teal-ish fabric, from Pier 1, which to my primitive brain registered as the height of cool. Something in which I could sit with my feet up, on the phone with one of my tiny handful of friends or playing CDs on the boom box at a time when those – or cassette singles – had completely replaced the archaic practice of taping off the radio, in a market that had one classic rock station and no outlet for alternative music aside from a Sunday night show on Z102. 

I didn’t have a computer – wouldn’t have, until I got that first PowerMac 6100 in the summer of 1994, by which point half the stuff was missing from the room as carpet and curtains got replaced. I didn’t have a television either, until the summer after high school and before college, although I would occasionally grab the tiny 5” black and white TV that was meant for travel and use it to watch…what? Moonlighting? Max Headroom? It’s not like there was ever much on TV that I wanted to watch in those days. And staggering to think that I’ve spent the last two and a half years walking around with a bigger screen in my hip pocket. No computer meant no BBS dialup, no participation in the antediluvian “online” like my friend Scott. Which meant that for the most part, my world was bounded by four walls, a phone, and imagination.

I never snuck out. Not once. The nearest frenemy was a good two or three miles walk under the best of conditions, the nearest friend almost a ten minute drive at best, and my actual gang reposed mostly on the other side of Birmingham from me. You don’t have to worry about your kids sneaking out if there’s nothing for them to sneak to, and by never having school closer than ten miles away, I was free of the temptation of local friends. And most of my friends were far enough away that the phone was the only way I saw them after hours or on weekends…at times when all of them were closer to each other and could more easily do stuff. It would be well into 11th grade before I was routinely able to head their direction.

And then, senior year, when all my friends had graduated already, and the only people I wanted on the phone were all long-distance calls, and I could drive across town but those folks weren’t there any more, and the realization that I needed to get away to college and stop marking time anymore. That this wasn’t my room anymore, this was the place I slept when I was here and not there…wherever there was.

The problem, of course, was that I made the wrong call, and there turned out to be nowhere for a long, long time.

Mac OS X Public Beta was installed on a PowerBook G3 in my backpack one night in September 2000. I had been playing with it for maybe a week, in the middle of living in a corporate apartment after having been turfed out of my house and my relationship by a “tornado-like event” (I think they call that a derecho in the DMV now). And one drunken night at the Four Provinces, I forgot my backpack, which disappeared forever. I’ve never taken my work backpack to a bar since.

I suppose at some level we’d been waiting for Mac OS X ever since it was a notional System 8. Copeland, then Gershwin, then maybe purchasing BeOS, then the NeXT acquisition and the return of Steve Jobs, who turned System 7.6 into MacOS 7.6 and turned versions 7.7, 7.8 and 7.9 into Mac OS 8, Mac OS 8.5 and Mac OS 9. And NeXTStep became Mac OS X, coming Real Soon Now, and finally providing the modern features like protected memory and preemptive multitasking and multiple users and a POSIX-compliant command line environment. Mac OS X was supposed to unlock the potential of the G3 processor, the OS to match the futuristic new iMac hardware, the spark that would light the fire of Apple’s comeback. The huge photorealistic icons, the translucent dock, the whole look and feel that was different from anything in computing…it really felt like the future, just in time for the twenty-first century.

I didn’t think at the time that we’d have twenty years of Mac OS X. I guess technically we didn’t, because they started referring to it as macOS a few years ago. But the version numbers remained the same, from that original 10.0 all the way to the 10.15.6 beta on one of my work laptops.

Until today.

Sure enough, there it was, and I had a little bit of a moment when I saw the “About This Mac” dialog box in the demo that read “version 11.0”. At long last, after two decades, this one finally goes to eleven. And fitting, I suppose, because this is the one that will bring ARM hardware to the Mac and complete Steve’s ultimate vision in so many ways. He was fond of that Alan Kay quote about how people who are serious about software should make their own hardware, and he meant it – before he died, the iPhone and iPad were running on Apple’s own A-series system-on-chip processors. The last decade has basically been about getting Apple silicon good enough to become “Apple Silicon”, and I don’t know at what point it got good enough for the secret squirrels on Infinite Loop to try to build the macOS for the A-series – 

– but wait, didn’t the iPhone originally run on a cut-down version of Mac OS X? And hasn’t every release of macOS ever since they went to an annual schedule more or less corresponded one-to-one to an iOS release? And don’t the “this one is good/this one is shit” tick-tocks generally work the same? iOS 11 and macOS 10.13 were both shit on toast, iOS 12 and macOS 10.14 were both refreshingly stable, iOS 13 and macOS 10.15 could both have used a little longer on the smoker? If we’re honest about it, hasn’t the OS already been running on Apple’s own silicon from the day that Gray Powell lost that prototype iPhone 4 in Redwood City?

There may just be the ultimate tweener on the way. Look at the iPad Pro with the wackadoo new folding keyboard, and then look at the MacBook Air with the prospect of an ARM processor, and tell me this doesn’t end with a 12” touchscreen laptop running one OS that can run macOS or iOS apps interchangeably with an interface that can work like either the tablet or the desktop, depending on how you feel…and that’s almost certainly called a plain old MacBook.

Wherever you are, Steve, they finally got there. It’s only a matter of time.

The Dynabook is the vision. It always was, going back to the days of the original Macintosh team. Steve Jobs famously wrote “Mac in a book in five years” (it took longer; the Portable doesn’t count). He asked Alan Kay if the iPhone was good enough to criticize. And when that first iPad was launched in 2010, it really seemed like Himself had finally caught the car.

Ten years on, it’s become apparent the the iPad is the goal toward which everything is converging. iOS is arguably now a subset of iPadOS for slightly smaller displays. And the Mac is transitioning not only to the look and feel of iPad OS but to actual iPad processor SoCs under the hood, starting this Christmas. “Apple Silicon” is very nearly a back-to-the-future move, a RISC architecture like PowerPC was in 1994 with similar promises for running cool and fast. If an iPad Pro with an 18W power supply is faster than a MacBook Pro with a 61W power supply, then you could theoretically double up on the performance for even less power. And make no mistake: macOS has probably been running on ARM somewhere in Infinite Loop for years now, just like Mac OS X ran on Intel from the very beginning. “As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again” – Apple is closing the last piece of the puzzle. Make the OS, make the hardware, and now make the actual chip. No Intel, no Qualcomm, this is going to be 100% Apple’s stuff, thus the “Apple Silicon” label.

iPad OS looks more like the Mac, with its drop-down menus and sidebars. MacOS looks more like the iPad, with its bubble notifications and free-floating dock. And hell, Catalyst be damned, you’re about to be able to run iPhone and iPad apps directly on the metal on the new Macs. There is one vision for Apple computing, whether it’s on your wrist, in your pocket, on your desktop or in a tablet or laptop under your arm. Love it or hate it, this is the way it’s headed, and you can merely choose the form factor that suits your needs.

A lot of the other changes in iOS seem to be mostly around closing the remaining gaps with Android. AppClips and Widgets are things that have existed on the other platform for a long time – widgets were a thing on my Moto X in 2014 – but a nice clean presentation that works with the rest of the OS will be good to have. And native sleep tracking in watchOS is the last piece of the puzzle for me to ditch Fitbit once and for all, now that they’re owned by Google. And this is not an idle thing – Apple is steering ever harder into privacy, with more disclosures for what data apps share and things like approximating your location.

The other stuff, like Siri improvements and spatial audio in my AirPods Pro and the overhaul of the springboard in the iPhone, is all stuff that if nothing else will feel like an actual change. Hopefully one with more functionality than the great iOS 7 flattening, when they did nothing but change the paint job and somehow manage to make everything less usable along the way. Hell, if the new Translate app can work with my AirPods and let me carry on a conversation with somebody, that would feel like we finally made it to the future.

That’s what it’s all for at this point, right? Feeling like we actually got to the 21st century. The first twenty years were not what I was promised in the My Weekly Reader.

In attempting to get free of Instagram, I’ve tried several different things, with what can charitably be described as “varying degrees of success.” Nothing has been an obvious solution, not least because of the platform lock-in that keeps most of Facebook’s apps on the top of the Free Apps chart in the App Store. But there have been some lessons.

For starters, the group chat is exactly what it says on the tin: a chat, among a group. It’s oriented toward text, not photos, and among a pre-defined group. Like it or not, the ability to be found and followed serendipitously is a big part of the social media experience. It’s how you find friends of friends and ultimately make them friends of your own, ideally. And that group model is a big part of where these pre-defined group apps run on the rocks: all your friends are not one big group, and in some cases you wouldn’t even want them in one big group.

So that kind of sticks a fork in building atop Signal, or Slack, or other chat-based apps. And the need for privacy kind of prevents building atop simple RSS or micro.blog or the like, because otherwise you’re just blogging. And honestly, the appeal of Instagram is in the pictures, seeing what your friends are up to. So that basically leaves you with other photo apps – things like Flickr or Cluster or the like.

Honestly, Flickr would get the job done, it’s been around forever, and it’s not in hock to the big powers. But it costs money now, and coaxing people back to it is a bit of an ask. The only pictures I see there are from people who have piped their Insta into Flickr with IFTTT. So it becomes a question of getting people to come back to an app and a website that hasn’t been at the forefront of thought for a decade.

And really, what I’m learning through this is that what I want isn’t a more perfect social media. What I want is to have my friends in my life, despite the fact that so many of them are over the hill or in another time zone or on another continent. I want to have a crew and a team around me the way I did in 1989, or 1994, or 2003. If I have fond memories of Vox, it’s because it included people from DC as well as the local high street dining club at a time when I had friends at work at Apple. There were years when we had friends living with us, none of whom are closer than Santa Cruz now. Drinks after work, club hockey at Logitech Ice, Sundays spent at Dan Brown’s Lounge or in front of NFL Red Zone at Farmer’s Union, or even the ability to just text and say “who feels like dinner downtown?” – all part of the past, even if the world were fully open for business.

Social media sucks. This is a fact, and it is indisputable. But in my case, I’m merely trying to find a way to treat the symptoms.

On the face of it, it really looked like they were going to spin this as 1968 redux. Cops vs agitators, the police are the new Troops, and the virus was under control until Those People started spreading it again, and the triumph of the Administration over the Foreign Virus was undone by the Axis of Evil of Antifa, Illegals and Negroes. It sure seemed like they were lining it up, and that the usual Very Serious People were going to co-sign it.

But something funny happened. The protests continued. And they had an impact. All of a sudden the NFL is all for somebody signing Colin Kaepernick. There are huge block letters on 1st Avenue South in Birmingham hard by Railroad Park reading BLACK LIVES MATTER. Companies are falling all about themselves to give people Juneteenth off. Something snapped, and it’s hard not to feel like people are suddenly puking up the faux populism they’ve been overserved for the last five or six years. People who looked dourly on the notion that we had a racial problem after Ferguson or Charleston because “we have a black President, what more do you people want” are suddenly realizing that what we want is for everyone to enjoy the same expectations of life and safety that a rich white guy from Alabama has just going around with his normal life. And I think what people are finally reacting against is the plain evidence that such a life is not on offer for people of color in this country, and it’s been legitimized by four years of abject racism as the face of the GOP.

And, as I predicted, Facebook has more or less done for the First Amendment what the NRA did for the Second. It turns out that most people’s idea of “freedom of speech” doesn’t involve a nihilistic free-fire zone where harassment and abuse is “just the price of freedom” – and where the worst sort of toxicity is waved away under a flimsy banner of “satire” or “entertainment.” The problem is, when you build your whole philosophy on trolling – from Limbaugh to Beck to Jones to 4chan, and going further down the sewer hole with every turn – it’s like misusing opioids. What starts as keeping the rest of the bottle of Tylenol 3 just in case eventually winds up with Russian krokodil sloughing your scaly flesh off in chunks. And as Bush 43 alumni raise money for the Biden campaign and one prominent inside-the-Beltway pre-Trump Republican after another endorses the Democrat and campaigns for the Democrat and tells his fellows “suck it up and vote for Joe, it’s important”, all you’re left with is the people who got high on racism until the body rotted away.

That’s how you get to where we are now: where in the middle of the biggest public health crisis of the 21st century, a simple and obvious solution that costs very little and has a better preventive effect than any drug gets turned into a shibboleth of machismo for the smooth-brained idiots who gave us the current occupant of the White House. Wearing a mask in public is the easiest goddamn thing in the world, unless you are somebody whose identity is bound up in believing that whatever you hear from other than the Sacred Source is automatically bad. We have a good solid 27% Crazification Factor drowning in their own oppositional defiant disorder, and on current form, the people who were willing to hold their nose and pull the lever for Not Hillary are revolting at being confronted with the prospect of four more years of “how bad could it be” now that it’s really bad. 13% unemployment, a hundred thousand surplus dead, a joke to the rest of the world except for the dictatorships that Agent Orange begs to help him get re-elected?

Joe Biden just needs to pick a nice pleasant woman of color who will do exactly what he’s done: sit back, watch this Administration shoot us all in the face, and at the right moment, ask “are we done here?” Because it really looks like a solid majority of Americans want to say “yes, yes we are.”

Tonight is the first night since receiving my new SE that I did any playing around with the other iPhones under my purview. I made sure my old SE was up to date and backed up, then put it in the drawer, possibly for good. It might go in the memory box with my original iPhone, my Moto X, my Z520 and my MOTOFONE F3 – the phones that captured my imagination and have memories attached to them – or it might get donated, assuming it gets updates to iOS 14. Which is why I pulled out the work-owned iPhone X, made sure it was wiped clean, then fitted it with my personal SIM and restored the contents of the old SE to it.

The SE had been configured as a shutdown-night phone, only equipped with the things I need to get through a pub evening: Kindle, notes apps, music apps (both RTE and SomaFM alike), something to stream minor league baseball games on if we ever get those again, basic stuff. No local media aside from Kindle books, no work or productivity software to speak of, none of the extra bells and whistles. I updated everything and topped it all up, charged it to 90%, and turned it off to await next week. Because with WWDC on June 22 will come our first look at the next iteration of Apple’s OS, whether the long-debated 10.16 for work or the equally-debated iOS 14. And I need a reasonably current device capable of running the developer beta, with enough software that I can usefully test against, but not on a production device or one with a bunch of iTunes content. I learned my lesson the hard way last year, when the highly-suspect iOS 13 beta basically duplicated my entire music library. Won’t be going down that road again, and glad of it. The X is still a reasonably cromulent device – it has all the modern accoutrements that Apple is looking for, an A11 processor, 40 GB of free space to work with, FaceID and the like – but is unlikely to compete with my sidearm SE.

For one thing, it’s still too big. The 5.8” display still looks good, but there’s so damn much of it and the main benefit is being easier to read some things, while the hand size is still uncomfortable in a way the SE actually isn’t. (The old gold SE is obviously one-handed and feels sleek and modern, but an A9 processor and clicky physical home button and 4” display are finally all too old for me to deal with.) This all ensures that the X will be the tackling dummy, the sacrificial device, something I use to see what’s doing and not to get serious work done. Which might make it a shutdown night device again, if I really want to get away from it all (there’s a lot to get away from these days, of which). 

But for another, it’s not mine. I’m happy to wreck someone else’s phone, even if it has my own SIM in it. I also took the opportunity tonight of putting all my work-required apps on the SE into a single folder, so when the time comes, I can delete that folder, delete the AirWatch profiles and app, switch the SIMs out and toss the X on my boss’s desk and walk away. And I could happily do so…on a mobile device. At home, the iMac is still viable enough for me to be typing this, and it’s my Zoom machine during the workday and the font of all media for my iTunes and the base station for iCloud and the like…but it’s a desktop iMac. And if I were to quit, I don’t know that I could get through life with just an iMac and an iPhone.

So what goes in between? I would have said iPad for a long time, even though my iPad mini is six and a half years old and my full-size iPad even older (and an 8-inch iPad is doubly worthless when you have access to a Kindle Paperwhite and your iPhone has a 5.8” display, as I learned these last two years). If I needed a personal portable computer, I would probably have just bought an iPad Air and maybe a Logitech Crayon and paired my cheap Amazon bluetooth keyboard to it for text work…until the rumors came out about what’s coming next week.

Cut to the chase: much as the Pope is assured of the existence of the Blessed Virgin, I am assured that macOS has in fact been running on ARM-equipped hardware somewhere on Infinite Loop for years, just as it did on Intel for years before the jaw-dropper at WWDC 2005 (and the fifteen year old giveaway backpack from that conference presently reposes on my windowsill next to the iMac). I am further assured that there will be some sort of transition device; just as there was a PowerMac G5 body with Intel Pentium 4 processors, there is probably a Mac Mini configured with some sort of ARM chipset that will be available for developers who want to write close to the metal. I am even further assured that there will be an update to Xcode and it will have a tick box for compiling your app to run on ARM, just as there was once a tick box for Intel next to PPC in earlier versions. 

And this is where things get interesting. I’ve had the peculiar privilege to be on the bleeding edge of every Mac processor transition. My first Mac was a Power Macintosh 6100, the original PPC 601 pizza-box. When I was at Apple, I wheedled for – and got – the original MagSafe-equipped, camera-in-the-lid MacBook Pro with an Intel CoreDuo processor (which ran hot as balls) as my personal device. And now…what? Is it possible Apple might bring back something like the 12” MacBook, only with ARM under the hood instead of the feeble Intel CoreM? The old 12” PowerBook G4 was known as “the blogger’s delight” in the days when it first took off, and that size device has always held sway with me. I had the MacBook briefly at work, I never passed up an opportunity to trade down from 15” to 13” on a work laptop, and the 13” MacBook in black polycarbonate was my lovely parting loaner from Apple for years. 

So if there were to be an ultralight 12” ARMbook, something without a fan that could still run for 10 hours on a charge, something suitable for FaceTime calls and blogging and web browsing – would that be a better use of my money than an iPad at this point? Especially with the likelihood of more iPad apps making their way to the MacBook with ARM under the hood? A lot would depend on the backward compatibility for Intel apps though…if only because I would insist on Kentucky Route Zero being available on my new ARMbook before I spent my own cash on it. 

Tim Cook has insisted for years that there is no great convergence coming in which macOS and iOS (and hell, tvOS and watchOS) will be merged and converged and made one in a sort of appleOS to rule the all. Those denials are getting harder to credit with every passing year, as macOS becomes ever more security-restricted by default and MDM dependent for enterprise management and iOS gains file browsers and mouse support and multiple user options. But it’s possible we could settle on one confluent appleOS and be happy with it.

Not quite yet though. I would be content to still have iPhone, ARMbook and Apple Watch by Christmas, each with their own distinct OS. Easy does it, Auburn Man.

flashbacks of the cell phone ringing in the car on the way to work, the counter at Dulles, the halls of a hospital long since closed, the small dim room where they bring you to tell you the worst…and then waking up on the hill looking out over the old family church and the sprawling graveyards next to the fields, under a luminous purple sky full of puffy white clouds.

I’d want to ask what it was like all those years ago, whether the world really felt like it was coming apart at the seams in 1962 or 1963 or 1968. If that played any part in the nine year wait between marriage and childbirth. (I’d have a lot of explaining to do about the last twenty-two years.)

I’d ask about those evenings of piddling around the storage room with leather-working tools ,or melting lead and tying feathers for fly-fishing lures, or a jigsaw and C-clamp, whether that isolation was meant to be meditative and whether it paralleled what I’ve attempted for years with books and pints and streaming audio from Ireland as I attempt to punch out of the world for a while.

I’d ask about the motivations behind staying in a rural exurb instead of going closer to the city like my mother wanted – a more human scale? Just comfort and familiarity? Something as simple as lower house prices in a world where the interstate wasn’t going to be finished until 1985 anyway?

I probably wouldn’t have the heart to ask what it was like looking out an office window at the marchers in Birmingham, or seeing the world change completely in the South, or whether they were making a deliberate choice to try to bring me up in a way that would be a break from what I once heard him snap on in anger as “the redneck mentality” on election night in 1990. I would like to think he would be appropriately horrified by seeing the jump from 1998 to 2020 in one fell swoop, instead of being frog-boiled like his wife and taking the Host of the Beast (in Heinrich Böll’s famous formulation), but there is relief (if no comfort at all) in the thought “at least I’ll never have to know.”

And I guess at some point I’d just want to know about getting old. If you ever stop regretting the decisions you got wrong. How you plot a path forward as the doors slowly close one after another. How it’s possible as the years go by to keep doing the best you can and don’t be a horse’s ass…as each of those becomes ever more difficult with the passing of time.

It’s mind-bending enough to know that I’ve been in California for a third of my life, but it’s more unsettling to know that in four years, I’ll have lived half my life without him in it.