Entropy (noun): a process of degradation or running down or a trend to disorder.
Rayne has become a PC defector, at least from an investment standpoint. I can't blame her; I walked by the new Apple store in the mall at Christmas and drooled, and I'm a hard drooler. Those are some sweet machines, and even though I'm not currently in need of a new one (like that's ever stopped me), and I've never quite been tempted, it's hard to break a boy of his toy dreams.
And now I'm living vicariously through Beth, who got an iPod for Christmas. It's a mini, actually, with a lot less of a hard drive and missing some bells and whistles, but she now takes her music with her and for a musician I suspect that's a cool thing. Dad thinks it's cool, too, even though I spend a grand total of maybe 10 bucks a year on music, mostly one song at a time off of iTunes. Mostly Dad music, too, which means eclectic, if you're going to be nice, or bizarre, if you're not.
My other daughter, Laura, who is not really my daughter but I sort of adopted her mentally last August on a sweaty day in Denton when her father and I moved both of the young women into a dorm room, gave Beth a wireless transmitter for the car, so now when she makes her 45-minute boonie commute to work Beth tunes her radio to a certain, top-secret setting and listens while the iPod sits in her purse. What a country.
I am seriously thinking I need an iPod now. I could take it with me on my (as yet) non-existent walks and everything. I am thinking I would need this by Valentine's Day.
On the other hand, there is yet another Chuck Corollary, this time to the Second Law of Thermodynamics. That is, the potential use of any electronic device will maximize within the first year and then minimize until it disappears. Entropy happens. I have a dusty video camera to prove it.
I also think that a T-shirt with "Entropy Happens" on it would be a big seller among middle-aged men who might try to start walking soon and thus validate some essential physics.
For example. A former computer of mine, which I'm sure cost me at least a thousand bucks, now sits in my son's bedroom. He pulls up the word processor and puts instructions and codes for video games on it so he can refer to it easily. In other words, this wonderful piece of machinery (in 1999) is now functionally a really big Post-It Note.
Another example. About 10 years ago, when I had a business and still printed out a lot of paper, I bought a laser printer. It was quiet and bulky and nice, and one day it broke and I took it to the repair shop and they said it might take a few days and never got back to me. They may still have it. Sometimes I don't follow up as well as I should. Then again, entropy happens.
This is on my mind today because I miss my scanner. I've had two scanners, two hilarious scanners now. One was a DOS version, a little hand-held that you rolled across a picture or a document very slooowly. The other was a sheet feeder type, which produced odd images if the scanned object had so much as a wrinkle. Both are now defunct, although I have no idea where they are. Maybe in the closet. Maybe not.
I've never felt justified in buying another one, although I guess one of these days I will. But right now I wish I had one.
My friend Cliff sent me a picture yesterday. It was in his Christmas card, which was surprising to get since it's not February yet, but then he's pushing 80 and recuperating from bypass surgery and maybe he's moving his particular agenda up a bit.
Those of you who've read my book know about Cliff. He's the guy in "The Measure of a Man." I love him dearly and have known him since I was 18. He resists entropy for the most part. Some people do.
I used to have a copy of that picture, but I misplaced it so was glad to get another. It was taken at Cliff's retirement party in 1992 from the faculty of Northern Arizona University, although I'm not sure he ever really retired. I think mostly he went through the motions to fool the administration or Social Security or something.
Former students came from all over to wish him well. I flew in from Seattle. Richard came from somewhere in the Midwest or maybe Idaho, I can't remember. Doug drove over from LA. David was in the general area, as I recall.
There were others, but they aren't in the picture.
In the picture, Cliff stands in the middle of the four of us. We're all smiling, Cliff the broadest. We're his students, after all, not particularly special except that he seems to cherish a particular group of us, late 1970s and very early 1980s. And that we knew that, in a significant way, our futures could be traced to him.
Three of us met our wives while studying under him (David never married), and last I heard we're all still married (I haven't checked with Julie this morning). All of us were theater majors, a questionable choice at any age but at least idealistic when you're still a teenager. Cliff knew and knows the odds, of course, knew and knows the future must be tenuous and uncertain and the chances awkward and almost not there, so he taught us to love, is all. Taught us to love the art, the choices, the technique and the talent, and hope for the best.
And here's what happened, by the way. David got his MBA and works year-round in Tucson at a dinner theater; not a lot of money but he works six days a week, 12 months a year, doing what he loves.
Richard went on to get his doctorate (at Cliff's alma mater in Michigan) and followed footsteps.
Doug went into industrial films, small parts in TV shows, and is now the spokesperson for SelectQuote, an insurance...something. Watch cable channels, particularly Headline News, and you'll see Doug a lot.
As for me...Cliff directed me several times in challenging roles, but he always said, "You seem to want to write," and he was right, as it turns out.
I really wish I could show you this picture.
We are so young. So cuspish, on the edge, past student age but not quite middle. And our eyes are looking forward and backward at the same time.
Except for Cliff. He's just looking at the camera.
If you ever end up in Flagstaff, Arizona, wander over to the university. It's sort of a focal point; it's really a college town, after all. Find your way to the creative arts center. Go inside the theater lobby and look at the posters of plays. I was in some of those.
And if you see a tall, grey-haired man walking around, making corrections or suggestions or dusting or folding programs or something, talk to him. Ask about me, if you want. And I'll tell what he'll do.
He'll roll his eyes. He'll smile. He'll grab your arm, laugh, and say, "I could tell you stories," but he won't, he'll be nice, he's a nice man. If you ask, he'll show you around the theater, show you the new seats and the stage and the design shop and all the rest. It'll be fun.
I lived there, once.
And when you say goodbye, when you leave, when you walk out the door, turn around and look at the building. There will be an inscription.
It will say: "Clifford White Theater."
And take a picture.
11:42:22 AM 
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