I was born the same year as the Macintosh. I played Number Munchers on an Apple IIe in early elementary school and Oregon Trail on color Macs later on (MECC forever). And Mavis Beacon. Mavis Fucking Beacon. In 1994, my dad, tired of me hogging his IBM, bought me a Mac to have in my room. The Performa 575, which was a full-color revelation in comparison to Dad’s old DOS machine. I pushed the power button and the magical Mac noise sounded and this screen came on and I felt like I’d *Made It*. I have so many fond memories of that computer and all the ridiculous games, and this big red plastic CD-ROM binder that came along with it. And then of course my old friend ClarisWorks, which provided me with an outlet, for the first time, to write stuff that other people couldn’t find and read. I can’t imagine what those dark years of middle and high school would have been like without that outlet. I found out tonight’s sad news on a MacBook Pro, I work on an iMac with an iPod Touch plugged in to make it through the day, I had resolved, yesterday, while everyone seemed to be panning the new iPhone for not being innovative enough (we are spoiled children, y’all), to finally get one with my upgrade once the crowds die down… Even my mom, who is sure computers are secretly out to get her, has a MacBook. We, those of you around my age and those of us collectively on the internet, are lucky to have lived through this time of life-changing innovation. Especially those of us involved in creative pursuits: designers, artists, filmmakers, writers like me. Not that I haven’t done writing on a Windows machine ever, I had one for awhile, but Apple understands, and Steve Jobs understood very well, that creativity isn’t just about providing the tools to do something. It’s about inspiring you to do something with those tools. Everyone’s been calling him the Edison of our time, but I think he’s more of the Disney, myself, reminding us to get out of the box of numbers and specs and think about what could be possible if we let our imaginations run wild. Thanks for everything, Steve. I’ll miss you.

I was born the same year as the Macintosh. I played Number Munchers on an Apple IIe in early elementary school and Oregon Trail on color Macs later on (MECC forever). And Mavis Beacon. Mavis Fucking Beacon.

In 1994, my dad, tired of me hogging his IBM, bought me a Mac to have in my room. The Performa 575, which was a full-color revelation in comparison to Dad’s old DOS machine. I pushed the power button and the magical Mac noise sounded and this screen came on and I felt like I’d *Made It*.

I have so many fond memories of that computer and all the ridiculous games, and this big red plastic CD-ROM binder that came along with it. And then of course my old friend ClarisWorks, which provided me with an outlet, for the first time, to write stuff that other people couldn’t find and read. I can’t imagine what those dark years of middle and high school would have been like without that outlet.

I found out tonight’s sad news on a MacBook Pro, I work on an iMac with an iPod Touch plugged in to make it through the day, I had resolved, yesterday, while everyone seemed to be panning the new iPhone for not being innovative enough (we are spoiled children, y’all), to finally get one with my upgrade once the crowds die down…

Even my mom, who is sure computers are secretly out to get her, has a MacBook.

We, those of you around my age and those of us collectively on the internet, are lucky to have lived through this time of life-changing innovation. Especially those of us involved in creative pursuits: designers, artists, filmmakers, writers like me. Not that I haven’t done writing on a Windows machine ever, I had one for awhile, but Apple understands, and Steve Jobs understood very well, that creativity isn’t just about providing the tools to do something. It’s about inspiring you to do something with those tools. Everyone’s been calling him the Edison of our time, but I think he’s more of the Disney, myself, reminding us to get out of the box of numbers and specs and think about what could be possible if we let our imaginations run wild.

Thanks for everything, Steve. I’ll miss you.