I have been using a Nikon D7000 to shoot video at 1080p and it is brilliant, but I found that my Mac tower cannot deal. I just completed a longer project that nearly killed my computer (and me). It is a piece regarding a proposed High School building project for the Ayer Shirley Regional School District (you can view it here, if you want) that runs 32 minutes, 49 seconds. Until this piece, I had not attempted to edit anything longer than 5 minutes or so and had not experienced any huge issues with my computer. I have been worried about my computer for a bit now, however, as it is a 2009 Mac tower (geeks: 2x3GHz Dual-Core Intel Xeon, 10GB RAM, ATI Radeon X1900 XT 512MB, running Mac OS 10.7.5); sometimes the fan runs non-stop or I have to start it twice to get it to boot and there are other little funky things that cause me to fret about the potential of a failed motherboard or some other catastrophe. I have been walking a thin line with the machine and have had my fingers crossed that it will continue to survive because Apple seems to have forgotten the creative professional in its zealous product releases. The iPad was released April of 2010 and there are four generations already (five if you count the iPad mini). There have been no significant upgrades for the towers in a couple of years. One unhappy professional has created a Facebook page demanding answers from apple — Joe Marine writes about the issue on the nofilmschool site. Every time I go to Apple’s site to check on purchasing a new machine, I become quite frustrated. They are expensive and are not really all that much better than the tower I currently own. Worse, when I look through the refurbs, they often list 2009 models (I usually buy refurbs because the price on towers from Apple is so high).

When I tried to edit my hours of 1080p footage on my old tower, the shortcomings of my old Mac became all too evident. Of course, I left the edit to the last minute so I was already in a panic and then when my machine kept choking on the file sizes, I thought I would pull every last hair out of my head. Anyway, I finally completed the piece, but not without a lot of heartache and pain.

Shortly after I complete the project, I am at my oldest son’s soccer game and I start talking to the parents of another child on the team. It turns out Dad, Mike, works for Lens Pro To Go in Concord (check them out — it’s a very cool business that rents photo/film/video gear through the mail). I had never talked with them about work, but it turns out that they are media pros and Mike clues me in about what folks who are frustrated with the lack of professional level Macs are doing — building their own machines, dubbed “hackintosh.”

I search the information superhighway for “hackintosh” and am delighted to find exactly what I am looking for on the nofilmschool web site — a build, step-by-step, for a video editing hackintosh. I have never built my own computer. Generally, I like to use technology rather than build it. But, in these trying times for pros who continue to want to use Mac, it is the only solution. So, off I go to start building my hackintosh, which I have dubbed The Frankentosh Project.

I am getting ready to leave to lovely east valley of Phoenix — Gilbert, Arizona, to be exact.  Aside from an odd encounter at Rubio’s and the insane heat, this has been a great visit.  The flight to Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport on US Airways was ridiculous. I recommend avoiding this airline.  Although the encounter at Rubio’s is disconcerting, I cannot in good conscience recommend avoiding the establishment.  I look forward to frequenting each time I visit — awesome fish tacos.

My sister, my boys and I were eating lunch at the wonderful Rubio’s.  I think it was my third visit there already and the woman who takes your order at the cash register, Graciela, recognized me when I entered.  When I began to request my usual fish taco plate, she said, “same as yesterday?” This happens to me a lot.  People remember me. I want to be anonymous, but it usually does not work out that way. I guess I should never commit a crime because I could be easily identified (note to self).

Graciela brought our food out to us at our table.  She slowly looked at me, my sister and my boys and then turned and went back to the counter.  About five minutes passed and Graciela returned to the eating area under the guise of cleaning tables; however, no one had left and so there were no tables to clean.  She walked slowly past our table toward the back of the eating area.  Then she turned to come back.  On passing the table the second time, she inquired, “are these you [sic] kids?”  She was looking at my sister. 

My sister answered, “she is their mom,” pointing toward me.  Graciela then presented a perplexed expression, looked at each boy — back and forth at least twice — then said to me, “they you [sic] boys?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Really?” She seemed incredulous.

“Yup” (now will you leave so that I can enjoy my fish taco?).

She gave me a disbelieving look and slowly walked away.  My sister and I exchanged a few words in an attempt to ascertain her motivation for harassing me about my children.  We could not really come up with anything solid, but thought maybe…

• she thought I had kidnapped them
• she thought that maybe she should call the police so that I could “show their papers”
• she thought I was lying
• she had nothing to do

I do not know.  But, I think maybe, sadly, it was the difference in skin color between the boys and I.  I hope not, but it seemed as such.

Anyway, I really want to write about US Airways.  Aside from overly expensive tickets, $50 to take two bags, $45 each to “upgrade” our seats so that we could sit together, absolutely no food service (not even a measly bag of peanuts or pretzels) and generally bad service, I had this experience:

Traveling by plane with two young boys is difficult, at best. By the time we get to our seats and I get everyone situated — blankets and pillows out, games ready, coloring ready and such — I am exhausted and relieved to finally sit down in my cramped little seat. Whenever I travel by air with the boys, I bring their car seats (initially I did this to insure that I could contain the youngest, but now they like to sit in their booster seats so that they can see out the window better).  I have both boys seated in their booster seats and excited for departure.  The flight attendants begin the “what to do in the unlikely event of an unexpected landing” performance as the plane taxis to the runway.  Right after they finish, a shrewish, thin flight attendant approaches me and asks, “Are those seats FAA approved?”

“Huh?” I ask.

“Are those FAA approved?”

“I have no idea. We travel with them often and I have never been asked that question.”

“Well, if I had noticed sooner, I would have stopped the flight to check.”

“Uh, well, we travel often and have never had a problem. Besides, what’s the difference, really?”

“I know. But, it is FAA regulation.  Anyway, how old is he?  Seven?” She points at my oldest, Roberto.

“Umm…he is six, soon to be seven.”

“Yeah.  That’s what I thought.  He doesn’t need a car seat — after seven or (some number I do not remember) pounds, they no longer need a car seat.” She declared.

(“Uh, no.  Incorrect,” I said in my head).  I just look at her.

“Well, when we land, you should look to see if they are FAA approved.”

I nod.  She leaves.  Finally.  I want to swear and call her names and eloquently and with verbosity explain what an idiot she is, but I cannot because I have only my children with whom to converse. So, I save my story.  But, it does not end there.

————

We are in the air and the flight attendants begin the “in-flight drink service.” I rarely drink alcohol. Airline travel is one of those rare occasions.  My luck holds and the same caustic flight attendant — I will call her ‘Betty’ — is serving us.  I ask for a Vodka and Cranberry Juice, my standard in-flight drink.  Betty openly assesses me and squints her eyes.  “Can I see some ID?”

I think she is kidding, perhaps an attempt to cajole me from any potential hard feelings I might have over her schooling me about my kids’ car seats. Wrong.

“Seriously?” I ask.  I have gray hair and two kids.  I am 40+.

“Yes,” she answers a bit harshly with emphatic self-righteousness.

“Okay,” I say, as I take out my wallet and produce my driver’s license.

She takes it and studies it for a while, looking at it and then back at me.  Suddenly, her attitude suddenly shifts drastically.  She smiles.  “Oh, are you their mother?”

“Yes.”

“Ha ha.  I thought that you were an older sibling and I was wondering why you were traveling alone…” she states, seemingly, with an attempt at lightheartedness.

I smile, with some effort. I can be generous.  Sometimes. She gives me my drink and even comes back later to inquire if I would like another (no).  At the end of the flight as I attempt to gather my things, my boys’ things, the booster seats, and the boys so that we can get off the plane, Betty comes by again and asks, smiling, “Did you get a chance to look at those seats to see if they are FAA approved?”

“No.”

“Well, check.  It should say right on the bottom if they are FAA approved.” (I bitch slap her in my head.) Then she merrily moves on as I continue to struggle to gather up all of our gear.  I suppose I should feel flattered somehow that Betty thought that I was younger than twenty-one years old.  I am not.  I am more concerned about the disparity in treatment between the time she thought I was quite young and the time she found out I was indeed an “adult.”