by Michael Finley
Copyright © 2001 by Michael Finley

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A Master of the Wired World?

I just got my author's copies of a new book from Financial Times Management (London), MASTERS OF THE WIRED WORLD: Cyberspace Speaks Out.

What's remarkable is that this collection of manifestos about the new age a'dawning contains proclamations by Tony Blair, Al Gore, Charles Handy, Nicholas Negroponte, Arthur C. Clarke, Alvin Toffler ... and me.

To order, click here. Discounted price is $18.87 from Amazon.

A Day

I wake up around half past six this morning. I slide out of bed, grab some clothes, and tiptoe up to my office. This is where it all started, two years and a week ago.

I have been heartsick all week because an article I agreed to write has been killed by the editor. I thought I could write it my way -- broad, persuasive, imbued with the spirit of gee whiz. But the editor, whom I haven’t worked with before, wanted it more rigorous than I could make it.

Why couldn’t he have looked at my writing before he hired me, and seen what I am good at? Ironically, the story is about choosing the right people for projects.

I tiptoe onto the snowy porch to drag in the two Sunday papers. I lay them out on the table with my cereal. But it's February. The election is over, the Superbowl is over, and I can’t bring myself to look at the travel section. All this paper and no real news.

It's time for the first of the dog's three daily walks. Lately I have kept him away from the big public dog yard by the airport. He is hopelessly dominant and has cabin fever so bad that within a few minutes he is always in some bare-toothed showdown with some other snow-crazed animal. The field is white from the night's snow, but it only masks a few hundred dog turds. This year people have picked up after their dogs better than last year. Surprisingly, Beau behaves pretty much like a gentleman today. I only have to call out to him a few times over the course of an hour. Poor dog, he can’t help being a jerk.

When I get home, the phone rings, and it's Carol. "Mike," she says, "Don passed away."

Poor Don -- nearly everyone abandoned him, including his kids. He could be such a pistol. Yet he managed to live a life at the home. The funeral will be the first I have been to in along, long time.

Rachel is having some women over tonight to talk about the emotional climate at Jon's school -- a teacher and another parent. She was up all night cleaning for them. My contribution is to vacuum the floors and straighten the downstairs up.

Daniele calls me around two and asks me to pick her up at her friend Michele's where she spent the night. The streets are foggy and bumpy from packed snow. When I get to Michele's four kids, 16 to 19, climb in -- Daniele, her boyfriend Roy, Michele and her boyfriend Ted. Daniele thanks me for the lift. They are splendid in their black leathers and attitudes. Michele and Ted want to be dropped off at Ted's house. Fine with me. I decided a long time ago that I like them. Still, I turn up the NPR station on the way home -- Michael Feldman is muttering out the side of his mouth -- partly to make them factor him into their worldview.

Back home Daniele and Roy sneak up to her room and close the door behind them and turn up the stereo. Jon and I sit and watch TV, which seems very interesting today -- Steve Martin movies all day on Ch. 29, and Bill Murray on another. Then we switch back and forth between the Pro Bowl and the XFL game in San Francisco. We agree the XFL game is more fun to watch, but it's like watching a train rocking on its tracks. The players exhibit great anguish trying to win, and you find yourself worrying about them just a little.

The second walk of the day is at Como Park. Beau and I stroll past the snow sculptures, and through a little grove of woods. I do not let him pee on the art. Beau seems more patient to me now. He will be five in August. I have finally realized that he is happiest when I run his life. That without me, his life is completely confusing to him. He isn’t an especially good dog -- especially in public. But I am sometimes touched by how this arrogant, fastidious creature has nevertheless placed himself entirely in my care. He has given his life to me. Despite being peculiar and proud, he is also very dear to me, and the day is coming when I will miss him.

I heat up a frozen pizza for Rachel and me. It is terrible. The house is ready for her meeting now, and when the women arrive, Beau and I slip upstairs, to give them privacy. Beau goes to sleep on a big plaid pillow, his chin on his paws. A few feet away I hear Jon blasting away in his game world, and the dying cries of his victims.

I check Napster, and program it to download a duet between Duke Ellington and John Coltrane -- "In a Sentimental Mood." We all watched the jazz special on PBS the last couple of weeks. The music is still in my head.

After it downloads, I double-click it and the room fills with the plaintive sounds of piano and sax, and occasional exploding asteroids.

I push myself away from my desk and step to the window in stocking feet. Snow is falling again, like it has fallen almost every day. The departing red lights of a station wagon turn silently left at the corner. Time for the day's last walk -- maybe under the twisty oak trees at Newell Park, or just a quick walk by the railroad tracks near home.

And it strikes me that everything that matters to me is breathing with me right this moment, under this gently heaving roof.

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