Ah, nothing like digging into a full-scale internal renovation project. Not of an apartment, mind you: I’m overhauling my laptop.

Note that I am not particularly technical when it comes to computers. Despite 15 years on the Internet, I am not far above average when it comes to opening boxes, deciphering configuration ambiguities, or otherwise maintaining a machine.

So it was with more than a little hubris that I went to the hardware store, bought two sets of screwdrivers, and went to work on my 2004 Mac G4 Powerbook.

First up: a new hard drive. Ten days ago, our factory installed 40GB drive stopped working. A top-notch visit by Amy to the Apple Soho Genius Bar gave our drive a 72-hour stay of execution, and I was able to back up nearly all our data before it failed completely.

A replacement drive came in the mail Thursday, and armed with my new screwdrivers and a shiny new Seagate Momentus 5400.3 80GB HD, I spent my Saturday night—and a good portion of Sunday—on the install (instructions with photos here). I managed to perform the install without any issue, until I tried starting up the computer off my original CD-ROMs and ran into a kernel panic, which I managed to troubleshoot and resolve (I tell ya, I’m on a serious roll). Once equipped with the proper OS installer, I discovered that in my laptop reassembly, I didn’t properly connect the trackpad, which led to another round of unscrewing and tinkering and nearly breaking the keyboard and the connecting pins before triumphantly resolving things.

With Humpty Dumpty back together again and Mac OS X 10.4 installed, step two (which is mid-process) is the data and application transfer. Imagine the unbridled joy that comes from moving, rearranging, and reinstalling dozens of programs, hundreds of folders and thousands of MP3s! So far I’ve lost the last three weeks of my email and a few registration codes, but I have capably pulled archives, preferences and bookmarks from old system to new. Once everything is installed, the backup data will be ported to a new Western Digital 250GB external hard drive in preparation for the next hard drive failure.

Step three will be a comparatively simple memory upgrade to boost processing capacity and performance. Our Powerbook has always felt a bit sluggish, due to both a lack of memory and a lack of hard drive capacity, and with increases in both HD space and RAM, I hope to create a noticeable boost. Upgrading memory in a G4 Powerbook is relatively simple, so that will be a home install as well.

When all is said and done, I will have gone from a laptop with 512MB of RAM, a 40GB hard drive, and 80GB of external storage to one with 768MB of RAM, 80GB internal and 250GB external. Total cost: just over $300 plus my time (which, with the missus away on business, wasn’t all that precious). Compared with Apple’s $330 starting fee just to replace my dead hard drive, that’s a bargain. And it will give our computer a few more years of usefulness before needing a replacement.

Just wait’ll we buy our next home and I tackle the electrical system.

Con Ed executed a remarkable hands-on power-saving strategy to avert disaster yesterday (emphasis mine):

“In the two electrical networks that make up that area, high-voltage feeder cables began to fail. … The utility took the extraordinary step of taking its own headquarters, at 4 Irving Place near Union Square, off the electrical grid and putting it on generator power, and having crews race door to door on the East Side, urging businesses and residents to shut off power.”

In a swift reaction, my building—across the street from Con Ed headquarters—powered down almost all of the commercial and residential space for several hours. Power was restored before the end of the work day, and a crisis was avoided. Nice work.

In the winter of 1994 I dragged two friends into Manhattan to see “Clerks” at the Angelika. It was in a tiny theater with six people in it, including the three of us. Little did we know that the movie was an absolute riot that would launch the (well-known if only marginally celebrated) career of Kevin Smith and become a cult favorite in the years to come.

So it was with a mix of skepticism and joy that I threw myself into deja vu Saturday, walking to the Angelika to see “Clerks II” in a theater with eight people in it (granted, it was 1:20 in the afternoon). And I’m happy to report that the sequel was a lot of fun. Not particularly good filmmaking, and not hilarious—I smiled a lot and laughed a little—but fun. The upbeat on-set attitude was palpable and contagious, the references to the original film amusing and touching and with the right perspective.

Also: Trevor Fehrman is a riot. Someone get this boy a pilot.

Our story begins with the cancellation of my flight from Paris to JFK Wednesday afternoon.

Four thirty p.m. Wednesday. Arrive Paris Charles de Gaulle Aeroport, proceed to American Airlines check-in, observe AA 121 FLIGHT CANCELED announcement on gate monitors. Call New York travel office, discover seats have been switched to Thursday flights to compensate, home agent updates and confirms the switch. Approach counter to review situation with agent, discover that home agent’s updated reservation removes us from make-good status for canceled flight. Supervisor gets involved, smoothes out situation, switches home agent’s reservations to earlier Thursday departure, confirms overnight stay at airport Hilton.

Five-thirty. Proceed smoothly to Hilton via shuttle bus and check in. Discover empty water bottle in front of door and someone else’s body hair on bathroom towel, begin to suspect that room was tidied (nicely) but not changed over following departure of previous guest. Interminable line at front desk and surly housekeeping staff give strong hint that I must make do.

Six. Assess clothing situation: one day added to trip, 12 hours of travel forthcoming, just completed four days in hottest Paris heatwave in three years. Out of clothes. Decide new garments must be purchased to maintain morale during travel. New clothes are in Paris; I am not in Paris. Proceed to airport train station, board citybound RER train. Train is not air-conditioned. Train gets virtually no ventilation from small open windows. Temperature in Paris is roughly 97 degrees. Temperature inside train is somewhat more than that, and stuffy. Train ride is supposed to be 40 minutes.

Six-thirty-five. Train stops two stations outside of Paris Gare du Nord. Train does not restart. Apologetic-sounding conductor speaks several times about an apparent electrical failure. Not knowing much French, am unable to tell whether the train or the entire RER is broken; sitting on an unventilated train, am unwilling to ask the woman sitting next to me if she speaks English. People disembark, loiter, smoke cigarettes on the platform. Sit on step of train, pass the time with 10-year-old French girl practicing her English on my clothing (“Blue! Orange, white, blue!”). Watch RER security guard board train with masked, energetic pit bull terrier. Wonder if the stopped train is such a bad thing after all.

Seven. Security has departed but train has not. Send desperate email via BlackBerry to Paris colleague looking for options. Three minutes later, train regains electricity and doors shut. Send “never mind the urgent email” email. One hour later, miss call from colleague; shortly afterward, receive email: “Still alive?”

Seven-fifteen. Arrive Gare du Nord, shirt nearly soaked through with perspiration. Want to go to Chatelet les Halles but train seems to have stopped working again. Wander station in a daze looking for clothing store. Peek in Monoprix and leave without discovering large and inexpensive clothes aisle. Hail taxicab, ask to go to Printemps, realize wallet is empty, ask driver in broken French to wait curbside at an ATM so he can complete his fare. Nice driver agrees. Taxicab is air-conditioned and cold. Driver receives huge tip for this fact.

Seven-thirty. Printemps is motherfucking closed. Wonder if maybe Galleries de Lafayette will have underwear. Discover strange Euro-style urban-and-sportswear store on walk, waste entirely too much time looking for desired items, buy the only non-branded T-shirt and white underwear in the building, somehow spend $50 on basics. Try to go to Galleries anyway but it is closed, making expensive-odd-sportswear decision suddenly seem wise. Walk around looking for cold water and find none. Stomach is starting to rumble.

Eight-fifteen. The Italian restaurant discovered in April, which would really be perfect to fix this wreck of an errand, is two metro trains away. Take the trains to St. Germain, discover they are pleasantly hot as opposed to the oppressively hot RER. This is somehow progress. Exit the Metro, look in another Monoprix, find T-shirts for 10 euros and boxers for 7. Buy a surprisingly bad baguette. Walk down rue du Cherche Midi, find Italian restaurant with ease. Restaurant is full. “No reservation? Maybe nine-forty-five.” Ask for recommendation, get pointed to another Italian restaurant not far away. Fatigue is starting to set in.

Eight-forty-five. L’Alto has room, is fairly priced, is attended by welcoming wait staff, and even has an air conditioner. Sit directly in front of A/C unit, commandeer vents, risk pneumonia without care. Order and drink a one-liter bottle of San Pellegrino, am so dehydrated that 33 ounces of water do not create any urge to urinate. Dinner is good enough. While paying for meal, weather turns and thunderclaps ring out. Wonder if at any point I subconsciously thought “It could be worse—it could be raining” and created a jinx.

Ten. Sprint to taxi stand. Paris assumes resemblance to Manhattan as rain intensifies and taxis suddenly disappear. One arrives, climb in, tell driver, “L’hotel Hilton, Charles de Gaulle Aeroport.” The reply: “[French] non.” In best “don’t give me that, I know it’s law” voice: “Oui!” “Non…!” “Oui.” “Ahhh.” Taxi heads to hotel, its passenger thoroughly worried that cab will pull over, take wallet, and leave me for dead (or at least soaked). Rain turns into incredible storm with cloud-to-ground lightning for the duration of the drive. Arrive at airport, taxi driver cannot find hotel. Sees sign, pulls into the service entrance of hotel, apologizes. Pay driver, tip well, run halfway around hotel in downpour to find front door. The worst is over.

Eleven. Home at last, room not quite cold, want water, minibar is locked, Parisians don’t drink tap water, call room service. Eight euro for a bottle of Evian, they say. Perhaps you should go to the bar, it is cheaper. Five euro for 50 centilitres, says the bartender. Perhaps you should just order the room service. Return to room, call room service back. “I just remembered, it is now nine euro fifty.” “Since when?” “Since I just remembered.” Give up, get ice. Watch no television as satellite is down. Unpack, repack, prepare for early morning.

One a.m. Thursday. Sleep.

Five. Alarm sounds, time to go. Head to airport on first shuttle. Arrive so early that the staff isn’t even at the counter. Check in, get breakfast.

Eight. “You’re going the wrong way,” an American woman tells us as we walk from breakfast toward security. “There’s a bomb scare. Unattended luggage.” Wait outside for security to blow up luggage. Proceed to Admirals Club lounge, enjoy a moment of cold air and hospitality.

Ten. Flight takes off on time. In business class, we are treated like the royalty we pretend we are, and the rest of the day proceeds smoothly at last. And thank goodness for upgrade fares, because in the back of the plane, the entertainment system is broken, giving the coach cabin an eight hour flight without a movie. Oh, and a malfunction during takeoff releases their oxygen masks….

Ha! You thought I was home? (The missus is in Cali, too, so we’re nine hours and 6500 miles apart, neither of us within half a day’s reach of home. I wonder if we’ll ever grow up.)

So yeah, Paris since Sunday until Wednesday night. Highlights: the Tour de France finale, which was fun and exciting and entertaining, and not unlike marathon day, but more on that when I am home and can upload my photos; traveling to Amiens on business, which is not exciting but is a great way to see some of the French farming countryside; excellent dinners at Les Gourmets des Ternes (the steak! the dessert! the owner!) and TokyoEat (save our anti-Americanistic waiter) and one amusing meal at AirGrill in the Amiens airport, which struck me as not just the nicest restaurant in the area but also the hottest. And probably the only.

And, of course, as I’ve chronicled many times in this space, tearing into a warm baguette in the evening sun while meandering around Paris is, while uncultured, one of life’s simplest and purest pleasures.