Archive for the 'Technology\' Category

Dodgeball: When New York City Is Your Playground

Wednesday, April 21st, 2004

“We think of it as technology facilitating serendipity. As to whether anyone is going to get laid from it, all I can say is that our engineers are working day and night to make this happen.”

Beep beep
11.45pm
Dodgeball Alert:
Dens @
Bowery Bar
555 Bowery

Four years ago, my cell phone partied every night, thanks to Dennis Crowley. Dens worked with me at Vindigo, and was truly excited about the possibilities when people could communicate on the go. He is rare: a gadget freak with a genius for people.
“I just want to call up his mother and tell her what a good job she did,” said a senior colleague not given to overpraise.

He made Dodgeball for his friends. If Orkut is what you build when you’d like to collect people like stamps, early Dodgeball was for the real, beer-on-the-floor world. Clouds of people floated around Dennis, and for fun he built them tools to get more Best Days Ever™ out of life.

The idea was simple. Make a list of your friends’ phone numbers, or join someone else’s list. “Check in” when you get to a bar or a club. If they’ve agreed to it, they get a quick text message saying you’re there. The service supplies the address. Dodgeball kids didn’t talk pompous talk about Virtual Social Networks four years ago; they just used it to make real ones. In New York City we pay fat rents to live near good stories, but people shoot around the place like pinballs. Dodgeball made sure friends—and now friends of friends—collided once in a while. It’s not a lot to ask, and the geeks and phone company apparatchiks will pick it up eventually.

Seems Dens has been working hard since I last checked in to his Dodgeball Circle. He went back to college, and turned a hobby into an NYU Interactive Technology Program project. Now Clay Shirky, his NYU professor (and my favorite technology essayist), says Dodgeball is ready for the big time. Duck.

Alice Stewart and Sudden Infant Death Syndrome

Tuesday, February 17th, 2004
“I have two of the ingredients for success in epidemiology—longevity and persistence. Sheer doggedness. I’ve hung on and here I am, still quietly going on.”
—Alice Stewart, quoted in The Woman Who Knew Too Much by Gayle Greene
Chase Cringely sounds like the name of a NASCAR driver. Chase Cringely was my son. He died this week after 74 days of life, a victim of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). He literally stopped breathing lying in my lap while I did e-mail. There was no sound, no struggle. I just looked down and he was no longer alive. I have no idea whether he had been dead for one minute or 10, but we were unable to revive him. He was never sick, he just died, and now there is a void in our lives that we can never fill.
—Robert X. Cringely, Finding Meaning in a Lost Life, April 2002

Alice Stewart was a doctor and a scientist who was one of the first practioners of a new post-war discipline, epidemiology. For what became the Oxford Study of Childhood Cancer, she drew up questionnaires, recruited volunteer interviewers, and assembled by hand enormous amounts of data about thousands of children. Her methods were unorthodox. She started the questions from conception, not birth. She tracked forward, from a healthy population, not backwards, from the sick. She did what none of the lofty, eminent men of her day had thought to do: “I asked the mums.”

She asked the mums. She gathered data, a beginner’s mind, and one brilliant statistician. With little funding, and sometimes active hostility in place of support, she and George Kneale coaxed stories from her facts and figures. Fifty years later, that data is still talking.

The most famous of her many discoveries was the link between x-rays and cancer, though it took decades for her findings to be accepted and for shoestores to stop x-raying for fit. Her later work on radiation and cancer was systematically squashed by the nuclear industry. Epidemiology, with its thirty-year studies, is a science for the long-lived. Alice was working right into her nineties, fighting suppression by powerful lobbies. As consolation for the Nobel Prize she may have deserved, she won the Right Livelihood Award, the “Alternative Nobel” awarded in Sweden. The British Embassy in Stockholm did not even take her out to lunch.

Her theories on leukemia epidemics were grounded in her background as a working doctor, not an academic. She realised, for example, that antibiotics had unmasked the true incidence of leukemia. It was the healthiest children who succumbed to leukemia, early doctors often noted. Leukemia dramatically compromises the immune system, so long before the disease visibly manifests, these children used to die of minor infections. When these infections were cured by antibiotics, they lived through long enough to develop cancers of the blood.

Her childhood cancer data also turned up a peculiar finding: twice as many children who died of leukemia under six months old were born between January and June than between July and December. Yet these periods are climatically the same in Britain—both half summer, half winter. The difference, she noted, was whether a month-old child was surviving into warmer or colder weather.

Alice, true to her name, looked the mirror image of this information and thought about SIDS deaths, which occur more often in winter.

Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) kills between 6,000 and 7,000 babies a year in the United States alone, or between 2 and 3 cases per 1,000 live births. Nobody knows what SIDS is, or why it’s on the rise. What is known is that it happens more often in winter than summer and that it occurs mainly between four and six months of age.

“My theory is this: the reason we aren’t finding myeloid leukemia in children is that the child with myeloid leukemia is dying of a sudden, unexplained death, if he hasn’t already died of anoxia during the second stage of labour. Most SIDS deaths occur within one and six months of age, which is just when the child is losing its mother’s immunity and achieving its own. While the normal child is gradually acquiring his own immunity, the child with leukemia is gradually losing immune competence. Since you get from your mother defenses against infection in the form of passive immunity for one month or more, the weakness in the system doesn’t get put to the test until you go off your mother’s immune system.”

Myeloid leukemia is more acute than lymphatic leukemia. It has a shorter latency, manifesting between one and three years of age rather than two to four, and it involves the red blood cells as well as the white. Children who are incubating myeloid leukemia are—like all pre-leukemics—more infection sensitive than normal children. But they are also born with a defect in their hemoglobin, they have something wrong with their red cells as well as their white.

“While in the womb,” Alice explains, “the fetus produces fetal hemoglobin, which is geared to receiving oxygen through the placenta; but soon after birth this is replaced by adult hemoglobin, geared to receiving oxygen through breathing. At birth you have both kinds of hemoglobin present, enabling you to breathe through both the placenta and the new apparatus of the lungs; then you gradually get rid of the fetal hemoglobin. But children who are incubating this kind of leukemia don’t make the changeover from fetal to adult hemoglobin and are left with too much fetal hemoglobin. This hemoglobin fails to take up oxygen from the lungs, so that when they go into a deep sleep, or have the first effects of respiratory infection, the oxygen level falls to a fatal level and they’re liable to go into anoxia—shortage of oxygen.

“There have been studies showing that children who die of SIDS have an exceptionally high ratio of fetal to adult hemoglobin—though this is difficult to measure after death, and it’s not something all hematologists accept.”

Alice’s theory is that SIDS children have difficulty replacing passive immunity with active, and fetal hemoglobin with adult, and the two effects combined might be sufficient to cause a sudden death. SIDS children die when they’re sleeping, and the mechanism of death seems to be respiratory obstruction—purple bruises are sometimes present, tiny bleeding points called “petechiae”, perhpas resulting from the infants attempts to take deep breaths against some obstruction in the airways. […]

SIDS deaths are more common in winter than summer, which is when the immune-compromised child is more likely to succumb to infection. They often occur in a family situation where an older child brings an infection home, or where everyone in the family has a cold and the child goes to bed with sniffles and doesn’t wake up. You have no defense of your own, so you meet with an infection and go out like a light. […]

“It’s also known that SIDS children have an easy delivery with a short second stage of labor. The second stage of labor is when the baby becomes dependent on its own hemoglobin for breathing and when any defect in its system could be fatal. These babies would have to have got into the world fairly easily because if they’d had a difficult labor, they’d have died.”

Alice’s theory of SIDS has been there in the literature since 1975 but no one has picked it up. This is the more remarkable, since it could so easily be tested. “There’s a blood test done on all children shortly after birth—the same test should be used to look at fetal hemoglobin. Then when the mother gets the follow-up exam at four weeks, do a second test for proportion of fetal to adult hemoglobin—then monitor the population for all causes of death in the next eleven months.

“According to me, you’d expect children who died of SIDS to have shown a high proportion of fetal hemoglobin at one month of age. You can’t test for this after death, since the blood count can only be diagnosed by flowing blood, but you could monitor children while alive—and you could easily establish whether SIDS children have a disproportionate amount of fetal hemoglobin.

“I tried to launch a study of SIDS in America through the Childhood Cancer Research Institute, but there wasn’t enough funding, and nobody in England has shown the slightest interest. I simply can’t understand why. No one knows anything about this mysterious syndrome—they’re stuck—so why not test my theory. As long as SIDS remains a mystery, my theory is as good as any other.”

Bob Cringely’s account of his son Chase’s death from SIDS two years ago is hard to forget. As a parent he desperately wants answers:

I can’t do it by myself. I need your help. I need hardware engineers, software engineers, I need people experienced with biomedical sensors and sifting mountains of data. I need folks who make tiny processors and RAM chips. I need people who know more about this stuff than I do. Yet they must also be people who are willing to believe that there is an answer, since the medical establishment seems to have given up.

Well, here is the theory of an extraordinary scientist who doggedly proved herself right so many times while she was alive. It seems to me, as laywoman as they come, to show all Alice Stewart’s practicality, intuition, and good science. Why is nobody testing this? For her memory, and for Chase’s, I’d like to think that someday someone will dig out those journals and try.

Reference: All Alice Stewart excerpts are taken from Chapter 15 of The Woman Who Knew Too Much: Alice Stewart and the Secrets of Radiation by Gayle Greene. (Many thanks to Alice’s granddaughter, Elly, for lending me her copy. )
See also “Our Brilliant Careers”, a 1996 documentary on Alice Stewart produced by Channel 4.

A Dork’s View of Orkut

Wednesday, February 11th, 2004

The most distracting thing about early Orkut is Marc Canter’s open marriage.

Orkut, if you don’t know, is a social networking website. There are several of these services, of which the best-known are LinkedIn, good for professional networking, and Friendster, for turning friends of friends into “activity partners” (snicker). I’m waiting for Dumpster, myself.

Orkut is the private bootstrap project of a Google engineer, which was enough to start buzz when it launched last month. Cunningly, at launch it was invitation-only, creating further ripples of vanity. I don’t know how the original Orkut Mayflower community was chosen, but here’s how it works now:

Someone lists you as their friend on Orkut. You get an email asking you to visit the site and acknowledge that person. “Is Chris Locke your friend?” Orkut asks, like MacCarthy’s Senate committee. Shyly, I admit that he might be. “Are you sure Chris Locke is your friend?” it demands. Oh God. When I was seven, the wrong answer to that kind of question meant social death. It still gives me the playground heebie-jeebies. I press on, hoping the world won’t shun me.

Invitation in hand, I now create my own Orkut profile. I puzzle out the Brand Called Me with the help of leading questions. Which religion are you? What ethnicity are you? List your favourite books, movies, and music. Have kids? Do they live with you? Check boxes to describe your sense of humour. (There is no box for ‘None’.) What lesson did you learn from previous relationships? Orkut, it seems, is the hectoring date I’d send straight to voicemail the next day.

When my profile has been polished I can invite friends of my own, though mostly I prefer to wait to be asked. My flesh-and-blood friends aren’t online types, and anyhow I know how to find them. But of curiosity I invite some far-flung friends to join my gang, hoping to balance the current tilt towards American tech-workers. Doesn’t work. They send email excuses.

Tiny photos of my Orkut friends are tiled on my home page, a little mosaic of love. They are listed in order of who has most friends.* In most cases I’ve never met them. They can write testimonials, or rate my coolness and sexiness. This makes me anxious. Perhaps I should write a voting-bot to inflate my rankings. Below my friends’ photos are their names, their availability, and their number of friends, which for entertainment value I choose to read as age instead. Betsy is married and 78. Peter is committed and 26. I am 11.

I click on Jeneane’s name and see her mosaic of love, tiled in self-reinforcing popularity order. Marc Canter is top-left. Marc is 442 and has an open marriage. His photo shows a slight Salman Rushdie leer. I click on another name and there he is again, top-left, looking relatively fresh for his age. And up he pops on Frank’s page. Who is Marc Canter, the Orkut MVP? I start to think about his open marriage, which seems like none of my damn business except that the fact of it occupies prime real estate on every Orkut page I visit. In my mind, ‘Marc, Open Marriage, 442’ becomes the Orkut tagline. (In fact, the real tagline is even dorkier: “Expand the circumference of your social circle.”) I am slightly disturbed by this brand, and feel, perhaps unfairly, that friendship is the wrong term for 442 connections.

The directness of Orkut and Friendster is clunky. Real people don’t say “Are you my friend?” and, past the playground, they don’t get others to ask on their behalf. Worse is the lack of shading, the Friend/Not Friend binary that belongs in a videogame. And the popularity-contest aspects make me regress to touchy adolescence (which, granted, doesn’t take much).

Yesterday I got a plaintive group message: “Can someone explain what Orkut is all about and how I can use it properly? I’m feeling a little lost right now.” Good question. Orkut wants to be a bottom-up, emergent technology. Members can self-organize into interest groups, for example, Writing, Burning Man, Pet Shop Boys, etc. You’re allowed to send blanket messages to friends of friends, and you get to see how people are linked to you, which is fun. So far I am connected to 23,442 people through 11 friends, presumably thanks to the keeners. If I could control the minds of 23,442 people I could take over the world. More usefully, I could find kindred spirits no matter where I am.

Orkut and Friendster aren’t services I’d use much myself, given that I lurk in the kitchen at parties. I meet plenty of people here at Ego HQ, and if distance were on my side I’d spend more time with real people, not thumbnail photos. But the online world is a great source of likeminded people, even for cannibals. Those who don’t keep personal sites—and many of those who do—still want to tap into that. The strength of these services is that they takes the friction out of expressing interest, both in individuals and in groups.

*Update: They have now fixed the bug that sorted friends in descending order of their number of connections. Much better, Orkutters.

How Can We Help?

Saturday, January 31st, 2004

From the Comments to “A Problem From Hell”, below. Justin is an Irish software engineer based in California; Caitríona is an Irish human rights worker based in Iran.

The question I keep asking myself is, is there a way to help human rights without full-scale immersion — that is, without going over there, cutting off links with your family and friends, and dedicating your life to it?

I try to do little bits to help these causes here and there — like developing open source software that’s useful for everyone; I’m ecstatic when I hear of an NGO getting good use from one of those apps. I keep contemplating doing more. But I haven’t — yet — and the idea of breaking away to such a degree is the big problem.
Posted by Justin at January 30, 2004 03:15 PM

Every little bit helps Justin. In fact, the most important person in our little office in Tuzla was Andre, our computer expert. He designed a special software to match postmortem data from the bodies we exhumed with ‘antemortem’ or ‘living’ information from the surviving families. His work alone reuinted countless families with their missing loved ones.
Posted by Caitriona at January 31, 2004 03:57 AM

So how do we do a better job of putting the Justins in touch with the Caitríonas? We need a matchmaking service to hook up tech professionals with the dedicated field workers who need help. (New York Cares is a good example of a matchmaker service for volunteers.)

The open source community is engaged and civic-minded, and clearly capable of building tools remotely. Product managers (like me) could ask NGO field workers what they need, helping them to build a collection of “user stories”, Extreme Programming style, for volunteer engineers to work on in their spare time.

Any examples out there of this working already? Perhaps the ambitious JHAI Remote Villages project, where Linux meets Laos.

In the Beginning was the Text

Friday, January 9th, 2004

My sister Caroline’s thumbs blur as she pecks out text messages at the dinner table. Claire is tutoring my parents on how to text each other. They are late adopters. Ireland sends more SMS or text messages per person than any other country in the world: two million on New Year’s Eve alone, 100 million over the Christmas period. There are only four million pairs of thumbs here.

Ireland sends more data by phone than any other country except Japan. They are ahead with their camera phones, but barely, and not for long if sites like FoneBlog take off. In the toilets in Nancy Blake’s pub, there are posters advertising pre-made SMS messages sent with grainy grayscale illustrations and jingles: Christmas greetings, cracker jokes, and pickup lines. Dial 544545 to send the greeting

whats ur name or will i just read it off ur phone in the morning.

People pay for this stuff.

Irish email style is infected by the much-more prevalent texting form. Even from a full-sized keyboard people send text pidgin: punctuation-free phone slang that takes longer to parse than to peck. “Let’s see now what’s come in on the email,” they say reverently on the radio, like 1930s Mayo men talking about The Electricity. Most people I know don’t check email daily, yet “Text me, hon” is as much a part of life as “Give us a ring”. And texting has not replaced the chat. Phones chirp constantly, and they’re answered mid-conversation in restaurants, on the train, at the cinema, in the car. In confession, too, for all I know. “Let it go to bloody voicemail for once,” I keep wanting to spit, but no one else seems to find this crack-monkey behaviour annoying.

Last night RTE News reported the new mobile phone usage statistics with the headline “We love to talk”. We do. Just not to the people we’re sitting with.

Data Dieting

Friday, September 26th, 2003

Two weeks ago I switched to a policy of rodent repatriation rather than murder, since this seems like a poor time in history to train in hardness towards suffering. And this is my reward for a bleeding heart: the fecking mice chewed through my life phone line, depriving me of my blistering 19.2K AOL connections.

I’d never relied on a dial-up connection before I left New York, even though I spent two years working at a dial-up ISP. At home I wrote on a unconnected laptop and up-and-downloaded at work using a WiFi card. Broadband, baby, broadband all the way.

Joining the beep-beep-crackle-beeeep masses has changed my internet habits, especially as I’m also sharing a phone line with homesick rangers and building contractors. Connecting has become an event.

I switched to Mozilla, despite their ugly logo that was poorly-designed for icon size. I switched not because it’s faster, though those who are wise in the ways of browsers claim it is. An eager-beaver browser can’t much improve a connection that never grabs more than 19.2 bits of information per second. But Mozilla has tabbed windows, a feature Internet Explorer lacks. Now I launch a Salon article, for example, and while it’s loading I flick pages two and three open in adjoining tabs. I scan my list of favourite blogs, and pop the updated ones open in another set of tabs. While the daily 90-100 spam emails crawl into my inbox, I zip around the internet like rat on crack, trying to grab everything I might want to read that day before I log off. It’s never enough.

I write emails offline and try to batch up the chatty ones into a weekly session to curb my addiction. It doesn’t work. I’m a reformed instant messenger: now I check my buddy list just to picture old friends at their desks, then disappear before I get an excuse to hog the phone line. (The few times I’ve left it on in the background no one flashed a message anyway. IMing after a long silence has all the friction of a phone call.)

I write these entries offline too, and have always done so. It affects the texture. I eat other peoples’ words like a locust, but I’m not much of a linker. This site is a series of (sometimes cranky) love letters to the people who read it, not a thread in a conversation between bloggers. I’m not connected enough for that conversation, and I write too slowly anyway.

Dial-up breeds idiosyncrasies and complaints. I look for the printer-friendly version of any article I read, to get it on a single page with no heavy sidebar images. I’ll scroll text to the bottom of the sea, but please don’t make me click. I’ve waited twenty or thirty minutes to download photos from the many besotted parents among my friends. (You’re worth it! Your babies are by far the best-looking babies in their age-group.) It needs to become much, much easier to edit all the new digital photos out there—most people I know can’t do it, and they don’t know how to upload them to a website, either.

There are still “designers” who forget alternative text on fancy graphic navigation—come on, people! At least if I wait, though I probably won’t, those lazy links will appear eventually. A blind person’s reader software will never get them. And I send special bad ju-ju to those who make fat Flash home pages with no alternatives. On shopping sites, yet! Flash is intrusive and irritating to casual surfers on a slow connection, and I’ve yet to see an exception. Skip. Goddamn. Intro.

In the US no one listens to the complaints of digital peasants. Who cares, cabin girl, you’re not buying from us anyway, and nor are the Vietnamese kids who crowd the internet cafés in Saigon. But the dial-up experience is remarkably similar to the wireless toys I worked on when I last drew pay-cheques. Connecting for data on phones and PDAs still requires patience and crafty information thrift, both from designers and customers. The gadgets are not optimized for freeform data yet, but it’s also because because the connections are as slow as AOL in the woods, if not slower. They will get faster eventually, despite phone company bumbling, but it’s good to have this period of forced simplicity. Scarcity breeds elegance, at least some of the time.

In the meantime, I’ve cobbled together another phone line, and am back digging (information) for victory.

Form Versus Content

Wednesday, August 20th, 2003

I finished a wilderness hike. Got my computer back. Redesigned my site. My email isn’t working, so I have no electronic distractions unless you count dialling up obsessively to see if it’s back. But I am not writing.

I have a list of writing ideas jotted in my notebook, longhand. It turns out that now that I’m back in the tech/design world, however peripherally, I’d rather futz with my templates, figure out how to archive my sidebar links separately, set up my scanner, worry about how to redirect my site feed from its old URL (help?). I am catching up on Cascading Style Sheets and reading up on accessibility. Specifying plugins I want people to build.

Movable Type is a procrastination engine.

A Geek Entry

Tuesday, August 19th, 2003

Welcome to the new-look dervala.net. Now that I am reunited with my precious ThinkPad I celebrated by finally setting up Movable Type. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, even though I paid for Blogger Pro. Why?

  1. MT has features Blogger lacks. In particular, I wanted to be able to categorize entries. Blogger treats chronology as the sole defining characteristic for the split-file web format. This is appropriate for a strict ‘Today my cat/kid did X’ journal site, but too limited for what is becoming a collection of short essays. I’m just as interested in sorting my entries by, say, countries I visited as by months I wrote.

  2. MT has other good stuff. Integrated comments. Trackback. Integrated update email notifications. Ability to create multiple additional templates, so you can manage static content as well as chronological entries (so that, for example, I can manage an About page or a résumé page using MT). Pre-defined, editable cascading style sheets—a great blessing. Innumerable useful plug-ins, such as a version of Dean Allen’s Textile text-formatting tool (which I haven’t been able to get working yet). Batch-editing for multiple entries. Global search-and-replace. Integrated site search.
  3. The MT user interface is more elegant. The Blogger Pro back end has improved substantially with the latest redesign, but it still can’t touch MT.

  4. Sites published through MT are generally far more elegant. Most users rely on or at least start with the default templates, and Blogger’s templates are not beautiful. My previous design made me cringe every time I looked at it, but over the last year of hurried internet café access I didn’t have the opportunity to clean it up (even though my friend Max kindly volunteered to design a new header, which I’m still hoping we can work on). No excuses now.
  5. MT doesn’t use the term ‘blog’. I know most, well, bloggers are gung-ho about the word, but it makes me queasy.

So why didn’t I just set up my own database-driven site? Well, I’m lazy. And rusty. And not interested enough in content-management for its own sake to ignore excellent, existing tools that will teach me plenty as I stumble through them.

MT is reasonably well-documented, but it isn’t for novices. I found that setting up the tools, importing my entries from Blogger, and building a site was harder than it needed to be, even for a savvy user. It bears the signs of a small company that relies on Macs: for example, the most basic (and most popular?) default template is broken on IE for Windows. I discovered this after happily testing on Mozilla all morning. There are also import problems with IE. I know IE is not a fabulous browser. I know it should support certain CSS tags. But it doesn’t, and for now at least, it’s an IE/Windows world.

There are other UI bugs and lacks that are just plain annoying: I can’t find a way, for example, to search for uncategorized entries in the batch-editing mode. I wanted to be able to assign sub-categories (e.g., Travel->Bolivia) but haven’t figured that out yet either, though I can assign an entry to multiple categories. The default search function is not great.

Nits and gripes aside, though, I’m looking forward to using MT. You may notice formatting problems with some entries (particularly older ones), which I haven’t got around to fixing yet. Current categorization is also very basic—I’ve simply dumped every entry into a single default category for now. I suspect these issues will bother completists only…

I’ve added a few things in the left-hand column: a list of books I’m reading, music I’m listening to, quotes I’m ruminating on. I’m hoping to add some photos from my travels soon. I’d love to hear your suggestions for other additions or subtractions.

Polite Request

Monday, August 4th, 2003

Subsistence fishing with a twig and string is not as easy as you might think. And there’s not much meat on the deer mice. I need a job. A real, grown-up, sit-at-a-desk-and-type-and-go-to-meetings job. Can you help? Do you know anyone who might know anyone who can help?

I am a software product development manager. A fairly good one. I like working with engineers, and I also like making things clear to non-technical customers like myself. I’ve worked on some award-winning applications that people actually use. (One of the minor joys of my recent travels was chatting with fellow gringos in darkest Peru, or Cambodia, or even Burma, and hearing them say ‘You worked for Vindigo? Everyone I know has it!’)

I’d work happily in any English-speaking country and could probably manage a Spanish-speaking one, too. If you would like to matchmake my résumé/CV with some dashing organization in need of a product person, please let me know. It’s dervala at dervala dot net.

The Blue Screen of Death

Saturday, August 2nd, 2003

A storm came in over Lake Superior. Rumbles shook the little cabin until the logs shivered. Crack! Blue. Crack! Blue.

I ran to the staff kitchen to make lunch, a newspaper over my head, watched by sodden hares. Cold noodles with Vietnamese dipping sauce. The kitchen window framed the lake, hills and sky, all in shades of pearl grey like a Japanese painting, and the rain was too heavy to go home. I made baked beans on toast for dessert and settled in with the police blotter from the Sault Star. Eventually the drumming on the porch grew fainter.

The path back to the cabin was now a small stream. On the desk where I’d left it, my laptop sat in a puddle. A new laptop, new to me at any rate. A sleek, elegant ThinkPad, bought for $950 loonies from eBay Canada four weeks ago. I loved it already, fussing around the desktop like a Fifties bride in a tract house. I’d dragged the toolbar up to the right hand side, where I like it and nobody else seems able to bear it. I’d downloaded CuteFTP, CD-burning software, overrated Mozilla, other bits and pixels. I’d restored all the photos and documents that have languished in storage on my server for a year. I made neat manila folders and filed my new life. For a vagrant who forever leans a backpack against a borrowed couch, it was home.

And then the roof leaked.

The screen flickered bravely. Feck. Feck. Feck. I turned it off, and shook the keyboard out. A cupful of water dribbled onto the desk, followed by some gunge. There was a smell of something that shouldn’t have been fried. I turned it on again, foolishly, cooking the motherboard. The hard drive cranked painfully. The résumé I’d been working on appeared, then slowly faded out as the screen went dark. No credits.

I wanted to cry, but I didn’t have an audience. So I turned it upside down and left it to dry. I paced around the one-room cabin, unable to think of something to do without my ThinkPad. It was the middle of the day, too early to knock off with a novel, too wet to go out, too phoneless to call someone. I was out of wine. I didn’t feel like studying the Ontario Driver’s Handbook. Bitterly, I tallied all the work I’d lost, all the software I’d patiently downloaded on a glacial connection, the $950 just forked out. I shook the laptop, and drops hit the wall.

Tim called IBM from the office because I was too deep in sullen mourning to be what the Americans call ‘proactive’. Stupid woods. Stupid cabin. Stupid rain. They answered immediately, as if his call really was important to them.
�It stopped working,� he said, lying by omission as smoothly as a Jesuit. �I turn it on, I hear some hard drive activity, the three green buttons light up, but the screen is dead.� He did not say, the owner lives in a condemned log cabin from the 1920s and didn’t realise there was a hole in the roof until five gallons of rainwater almost washed Model T409773 into Lake Superior. The nice man offered to send somebody out to pick it up. Tim explained that the service agent would have to paddle across the bay to reach me. They agreed that I would drop it off in town, an hour and a half south down the highway.

That was Wednesday. It showed some signs of life on Thursday morning, but was still gravely ill. It’s in Sault Sainte Marie now, wearing a paper gown, and might be discharged by the end of next week if I’m lucky. Today I finally finagled the loan of a nine-year-old Tecra. The keyboard has to be bashed as if I were spewing an Ann Coulter fembot rant, and my wrists hurt already. Stupid cabin. Stupid rain.