Here’s another tidbit from my old Cinemark padfolio, a quote that I apparently found inspiring or at least interesting back in the day:

Writing, like film directing, is a matter of making endless decisions. Every word, every sentence, the order of the paragraphs — everything is a decision. There are an infinite number of possibilities in putting something together as you write. Because of this, if a person is not decisive, he will never write anything.

–Lawrence Kasdan

If the name isn’t familiar, Kasdan is a screenwriter and director best known for the ensemble dramas The Big Chill and Grand Canyon. He also wrote the screenplays for The Empire Strikes Back and Raiders of the Lost Ark, based on outlines by the Great Flanneled One. Click here for his filmography.

In my roamings on the InterWeb, I’ve seen lots of Web sites devoted to “case mods,” i.e., computer housings that are custom-built by their owners to be something more interesting and unique than the basic off-white rectangular box you get when you buy a new Dell. I think of case mods as the geeky equivalent of the hot-rod automobiles my dad and his friends love to build, a sort of folk art that enables the builders to express themselves through technology. I’ve seen some cool ones, too, everything from a TIE fighter computer with an integral desk surface between the wings to a PC built into an antique Philco television. But now I think I’ve seen it all:

Yes, that is exactly what you think it is: a mannequin of a pretty, vaguely anime-style girl in a bikini with a computer sticking out of her back.

While my first reaction upon seeing this was a vague sense of irritation — to paraphrase Cedric the Entertainer’s line from Be Cool, must you play into the stereotype (of the geek who can’t get a date)? — but the more I studied the photos on the builder’s Web site, the more I started to admire the craftsmanship and effort that went into this. The “girl” is actually pretty not-creepy-looking when seen from the front, and having your very own “femputer” (as opposed to a fembot) would definitely make for an interesting conversation starter. Assuming that you’re the sort who could get anyone to come over to the house in order to have a conversation, that is. (Hey, just because something is a stereotype doesn’t mean it isn’t true…)
I don’t know — I think I like it after all. And no, not just for the obvious prurient reasons. It really is a kind of art work, just like a cherry T-bucket. Go have a look at the site and see if you don’t agree. The text is all in Japanese, but there are lots of photos showing the construction of the, um, casing in exhaustive detail.

For the record, I harbor no particular animosity toward Microsoft, at least no more than I do for any other gargantuan corporation that seeks to dominate the universe. Nor do I have any unusual affection for Apple products — to be honest, I’ve never used any Apple products and find something vaguely disquieting about the evangelistic zealotry of devoted Mac afficionados. And while I am impressed by the technical capability of the iPod to hold an entire record collection (yes, I know I’m dating myself by using the term “record” instead of “CD”; that’s just me, though, what can I say?), I have thus far been insufficiently intrigued by them to actually go out and buy one. I’m just not that much of a trend-follower, I guess.
Neverthless, I can positively declare, based on my professional experience, that the following parody hits the nail on the head. And it’s funnny, too. Really. Even if you don’t get it, trust me, it’s funny. Just go ahead and laugh already…

In case anyone is interested, I’ve added two new snapshots to the gallery, both of my parents. View the new shots here and here.

Before you ask, no, my parents don’t dress like rhinestone cowboys all the time; these were taken at an Old West costume party they attended recently in Milford, Utah. Where’s Milford, you ask? It’s west of Beaver. Seriously, we have a town in southern Utah called Beaver. Look it up, if you don’t believe me. As for why my parents would drive all the way down there for a fancy-dress party, ya got me. But then, I once flew all the way to Los Angeles to go to a Highlander convention, so who am I to talk?

Here’s something kind of cool: This morning, a fellow blogger named David left a comment in my entry on those curious scopitone thingies, informing me that today is Joi Lansing’s birthday. (She would’ve been 78 years old, if she hadn’t died 34 years ago.) He also linked to my humble site in his own entry on the subject. I don’t think I’ve ever been linked to before; it’s rather flattering. Thanks, David!

On a related note, I learned from David’s blog that someone has written a novel that revolves around Joi, or at least the idea of Joi:

…Comfort and Joi records one weekend in the life of a man suffering a “low-grade obsession” with real-life bosomy blonde bombshell, Joi Lansing. He shuts himself away in a borrowed house on the coast of California to try to write a book about the minor glamour girl who appeared in such “classics” as Hillbillys in a Haunted House and Queen of Outer Space. But the deeper he goes into her career, the more questions he asks about himself. Offbeat movie history from the fringes of Hollywood triggers haunting personal memories as he follows this “beautiful beacon in a Sargasso of bad filmmaking” and finds an unexpected path to his own past.

I have, of course, added this volume to my wishlist.

I am like Switzerland when it comes to the eternal grudge-match between cat people and dog people: officially neutral and trying to be everyone’s friend. Or at least no one’s enemy. I’ve owned both of common varieties of four-legged companion mammals, as well as rabbits, horses, cows, a pair of pocket parrots, and an extremely territorial one-footed duck, and I’ve loved them all. Cats and dogs obviously have very different personalities, but I find neither to be superior than the other. They are merely different.

Of course, cats do have a slightly sinister quality. Read on to see what I mean…

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It was an absolutely beautiful day in the SLC today. An overnight storm had scoured the air until it seemed to sparkle, and the sky was tall and blue behind drifting rafts of silver clouds. The mountains always seem closer on days like this; a trick of the clean air, I imagine, some kind of optical lensing effect or something. They loomed close over my shoulder as I ran around the valley, gleaming white beneath their blankets of snow, and the temperatures were high enough that I could walk around without a jacket and drive with the windows down. Just beautiful.

One of my errands took me to Target, and there I impulse-bought a CD compilation of 80s-vintage guitar rock. Because this was the sort of day that called for a little Warrant on the car stereo.

I am such a dork…

Lileks articulates my greatest frustration… and fear:

I have a large project that needs to be done. It’s the novel…. Part of me wants to give in to the Elves of Self-Doubt, who show up by the score and bang me over the head with small hammers until I realize there’s no point to writing the damn thing, but I really like the idea. It’s a matter of finding the time. This is where “not winning the lottery” is a major impediment, because I cannot stroll back to the Writing Hut at the edge of the Manor and type uninterrupted. Everything else I can do with constant interruption, both external and internal — but it’s hard to get into the groove when something else is always nipping at my heels. No matter how good the idea is, enthusiasm is evanescent, and I worry that this one will just evaporate with time.

As far as I’m concerned, there are few things as sad-looking as a book that has been under water. The pages swell but the more rigid binding does not, so the book fans itself open and loses its nice, compact form-factor. Sometimes, especially in older paperbacks, the ink will run or bleed through from one side of the page to the other. The cover boards turn queasily flexible, transforming hardcovers into softcovers. Then, as the pages dry, they get crisp and wavy, taking on the texture of autumn leaves instead of actual paper.

Ordinary printed volumes, novels and such, at least remain readable, if no longer pleasing to look at or handle. But what happens to expensive coffee-table books is downright tragic: the glossy coating that makes photographs and art reproduce so wonderfully gets sticky when it’s exposed to moisture, and it effectively glues the pages together into a solid, useless lump.

I’ve just learned these things the hard way, through first-hand experience. The legendary Bennion Archives, which have been referenced often on this blog and which reside in the basement of my ancient farm house, flooded four days ago. I’ve spent the whole weekend and this Presidents’ Day holiday on damage-control and clean-up duty. And I have to tell you folks, it’s been a rough handful of days for a sentimental old pack-rat like me.

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