My new computer is a custom job, all crazy, kid-cool. Its face is about as sleek, I think, as a box with an on-off button could be: black with just a hint of chrome—very Bauhaus, though I’m guessing that’s not the appropriate term. You turn the corner and one side is almost perfectly clear, they say, so I can see that the fans, of which it has three, are running, although, I’m kind of thinking that it’s more so computer people can show of their handiwork to other computer people, who might actually know what computer bling looks like. For me it’s just another woodland diorama, with wire and soldered doo-dads for branches, in which I will forever be searching for a hidden tree frog. But how could I possibly care about all that cool stuff, when in the center of said clear panel, with two laser-cut, black metal swooshes, thin as paper, radiating from it as if it were the very wind source of a cat-five hurricane, is the chromiest chrome fan ever, which, when doing its business, lights up and turns the dark underside of my desk into a discothèque, worthy of a younger and thinner and Angel Flight-wearinger John Travolta? How can I? I ask. How? I can’t. I’m mesmerized. I’m hypnotized. My feets are on the floor. And… Oh dear god! Am I doing it? Yes! Yes I am! I’m, ‘Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Staying alive, Staying alive…’ Because that, after all, is how old cats roll. Cha-ching.