I met someone last night who said they are working on implementing something similar to HAL 9000 of the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey.

me: “I remember that movie not ending well.”

him: “Right. But it’s been 20 years and we’ve learned a lot about the laws that govern robotics since then.”

me: “I also saw ‘I, Robot’, that movie with Will Smith where all the robots went crazy because the Three Laws lead to a dangerous conclusion…?”

him: “Right. How come movies always show the dark side of robotics? Robots don’t kill people. People use robots to kill people.”

me: “I supposed I shouldn’t get one of those robot vacuum cleaners then.”

This weekend we drove to Padre Island National Seashore to go camping. This may not sound stupendous, perhaps like a nice weekend out of the city. You might say, “Oh, camping! I love camping!” You would say this because you are the type of person whose parents probably took them camping every summer at least once. You would say this because you have been hiking and maybe fishing. Maybe you spent a summer at camp and did outdoors things. Or you dated that guy who took you to the cool parties in the woods where all the kids went “camping” aka drinking beer and getting high.
For me, however, the concept of camping is entirely foreign. I never spent more than a week at camp and it was gymnastics camp. My parents took us to Civil War and Independence War battlefields, and we stayed all together in one room in a cheap hotel because my mom was not going to trek three kids to the bathroom in the woods in the middle of the night one after the other. As my friend J’s mom so eloquently puts it, “My idea of camping is a Holiday Inn without a bar.” Agreed, fully and completely. This is why I love visiting them in Las Vegas.
At any rate, I have been wanting to go out into the nature for some unknown reason, and the nature is almost always too far away for a single day and too remote for even the lowest Motel 6. Nature seemingly requires camping. I picked the ocean side of nature, rationalizing that soon it will be too crowded with people escaping to the beach for a weekend. I miss the ocean, having now lived out of Los Angeles for three years in places that are tauntingly close to the coast but not quite close enough. The ocean keeps me sane–it is a predictable and soothing force with substantial motion and a distinctive smell that reminds me of being 7, eating toasted marshmallows after a long day splashing, swimming, playing in the tidepools. Do not tell me that Town Lake is a good substitute; it is not and you know it.
It took us a long time to get out of Austin, but the drive there was beautiful farm country. While we knew there would be a lot of cows, we were unaware of the amount of corn growing, though with ethanol prices being what they are, not surprised.  We were perplexed by the very declarative “Maintain Your Vehicle” signs and that Lockhart is the “Barbecue Capital of Texas”, when nearly every town seems to claim that title as well. We arrived at the Seashore well after dark, located the Malaquite Beach campground, and parked the car. We set up the tent. Actually, I set up the tent. No, really! I’ve set up the tent before, arugably under better conditions at Burning Man, in full daylight. We blew up the air mattress, got the pillows and the blankets settled, and lay down without really knowing what time it was. (Yes, of course I brought an air mattress and pillows. Did you really think I was going to sleep on the ground?)
We could hear the ocean from the tent area and see it from the nearby picnic table, so we knew it was close. However, nature being that close means… Nature is loud. Incredibly loud. What were we thinking camping next to the giant ocean with its giant waves crashing on the shore? And then, it got windy. Very windy. Soon the tent, which we had decided not to anchor since it hadn’t been windy during setup, was starting to pick up like a kite. After it flapped around for awhile, B anchored the tent and duct taped the jingly zippers. Neither of us got very much sleep. I am apparently not the first person to make this mistake, as I have now read half a dozen accounts of wind-related tent trauma. The next morning someone told us it is windy until nearly July at that beach. Consider yourself forewarned.

When we woke up in the morning, we saw that we were 200 feet from the ocean. And the beach was covered in a foot of seaweed from the water to the dune. Our weekend plan of chairs in the sand with an umbrella and books were entirely dashed at that point.

We decide to take a drive on the beach–I’m glad we bought that truck! We drove out as far as we could, watching the birds pick over the seaweed (Pelican & Breakfast), which covered the 5 miles of the beach we did see and the 58 miles we didn’t. I tried taking photos, but it was too windy to get out and too bumpy on the sand while driving. After a nap back in the tent, we decided to head back to Austin, stopping for shrimp at Snoopy’s Pier along the way, with a plan to go kayaking the next day.

And then I got food poisoning.

Look, I physically got in the car, drove to the nature, stayed in a tent for a night, and survived. Let’s call it a successful camping trip, however it all transpired.

I returned from New York, had a relaxing weekend, and promptly developed a nasty case of bronchitis, from which I am still recovering. My first full week off the job and I had to spend it on the couch, barely awake and feverish!

While sick, I watched the entire set of “Bleak House” DVDs.  Highly recommended! I also started to work with the photos I took for a trial run at HDR processing. The $99 cost of Photomatix gave me pause though.

I’ve been slowly pursuing leads for a new job. I hate the question, “How’s the job hunt going?” I’m still unemployed–how do you think it’s going? It seems that my timing is off just about everywhere. I woke up this morning thinking about it, which is never a good sign.

• Picked up sign at 1211 Ave of Americas. Kinkos appears to be a front — workers in purple shirts asking customers if they need any help, but when customers say yes, the worker walks away to do something else entirely unrelated and to ask another customer if they’ve been helped yet. Sign is in good shape, but takes 15 minutes to get for no apparent reason.
• Stopped to get OJ and pastry, spilled OJ all over myself in a fit of “I’m not cool enough to not live in NYC.” Point proven.
• Dropped everything off & changed. Went to pick up shirt at dry cleaners and snacks for hotel room. Love the Amish Market down the street though it’s not exactly ordnung. Bought apples, granola, chocolate, and my favorite tea, which isn’t being sold in Austin any more.
• Met C. for lunch at a place called The Crooked Knife, which pretended to be an English pub, only it served salad. I’ve never been to an English pub that had an unfried vegetable.
• Met K. at 401 Projects to see Baryshnikov dance photos/coffee afterwards. Photos were excellent except for the 2 “recapturing the heyday of 70s video art” red pieces. Love the piece above and this, which I’d pair with a photo I have of jellyfish at Monterey Bay Aquarium like this. Not as connected to the people I knew in my 20s as K. is to them now–interesting to see them through her eyes, which didn’t experience them in the “young & stupid” years. Keep forgetting that people are still going to Burning Man en masse.
• Raced to get ready for the cocktail party. I’m always so nervous before these events–what if no one comes to the party? After enough parties, I should be over that by now, but no.
• Dinner with the entire team after with a sweet goodbye toast from my boss and her boss and tasty blood orange fizzy drink. I hope we’re done with the goodbye dinners, because I don’t think I can take another one without getting publicly sentimental/sad. Return to the hotel to find it infested with 14 year old Canadian kids on a school trip. I took that trip when I was 14. I am sentimental, while also knowing I better get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow comes earlier and earlier.

Giorgio Vasari, an Italian Mannerist, is better known for writing Le Vite, an encyclopedia of artist biographies, and then for his architecture more so than his art. He did well enough at the latter two, though, to build himself a fine house and buy a decent position in Italian society.

whenever anyone mentions something they’ve read by clive thompson, i picture clive owen and think clive davis. it would be confusing, but i don’t mind picturing clive owen.