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Step 1: With a Finder window open, click on the Library folder that’s in your home directory.

Step 2: Drag it onto your desktop.

Step 3: Make it log off or reboot the iBook in question.

The end result: all of your preferences, your keychain of logins, your Safari bookmarks, your entire world has vanished.

The fix: put Library back in your home directory, not on your desktop, after you’ve logged off to make sure already-opened files don’t make you actually lose everything. We accomplished this by making an SSH connection from another computer. Another fix could be logging in as another user and opening up an Applications->Utilities->Terminal window and doing it manually.

I don’t know if there’s an elegant way to recover from this startlingly crippling little step.

Oh, I forgot: Step 0: Do all of these steps as a four year-old boy. Patrick Kehoe, über-hacker.

With the kind permission of children’s advocate and former child acting star Paul Petersen, following is an Editorial written last June by Mr. Petersen, Founder and President of A Minor Consideration. Formed more than a decade ago, the Non-Profit exists to help young performers and their parents literally survive the stresses, pitfalls and potentially devastating effects of a childhood which, for want better words, is quite abnormal.

Much of the group’s work is devoted family education and the development of solid parenting skills — and the points they raise about the dangers of pushing children too quickly into the adult world are as applicable to kids in all sorts of other situations as they are to the young artists. It is for that reason that I asked for and received the go-ahead to share this Editorial with all of you. Both Mr. Petersen and I would be very grateful for any comments you’d be willing to add. TIA 🙂

WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?
by Paul Petersen

In advance of the Michael Jackson verdict I think the time is right to weigh in on the role our culture has played in the growth and development of “the Child Star Syndrome” in all its distasteful manifestations.

For many years A Minor Consideration was a highly visible component in the Press coverage every time a former child star got in trouble. In fact, no less than Time Magazine called me “the predatory spokesman for kid actors.” It was a ghoulish pursuit, I grant you, but there was a public argument to win…and I believe we have accomplished that early goal of educating America to the fact that all was not well in the world of celebrity children. There is no longer any question in the public’s mind that early fame has long-term consequences.

Life in “the public eye” has an impact, and not just on the person who must suffer the effects of a loss of privacy. Fame also distorts the perceptions of those who for better or worse make up the adoring public. People’s behaviour is altered when they come face to face with a celebrity of any age. The person who wears the public badge is also affected by his or her Fame in ways both subtle and profound.

In short, the ordinary awareness of reality goes out the window in the face of Celebrity. Long-held societal rules are bent beyond recognition when even the youngest celebrity is involved. Worse, what we know of character development is suspended in the face of Fame.

Think of Drew Barrymore being allowed into raging nightclubs at age ten. Think of Michael Jackson working seven-day weeks on the road without relief for nearly two decades. Remember Danny Almonte, the Little League pitcher who, at fourteen, cheated his way into the World Series with the knowing support of an entire community? Close your eyes and picture Jon Benet Ramsey. Who allowed these and other abuses but us?

In Catholic doctrine, Silence is Acceptance. The absurdity of a six year-old saying “I always wanted to be in Show Business” is manifestly apparent if you would just step back and consider the situation. When you distort a person’s childhood you distort the resultant adult. It’s axiomatic. We are all, each of us, the product of our younger years, and every day we live is connected to the past.

It is a fact of life that each of us is capable of overcoming our past. With the dawn of every day it is within our capacity as thinking, reasoning beings to start fresh…to put even the worst abuses behind us…to forego the consequences of being forced to eat those fabled “green beans.”

It helps immeasurably if there is a support group around us to solidify these changes…or a group of uncompromised friends who can serve as our Fire Alarms when things start to get hot.

Our contemporary culture is an ocean of influences that is constantly bathing us in behavior modifying pressures, and when we ignore the obvious negative impacts delivered like hammer blows on our children we do so at our own peril. It’s the future you’re trifling with.

Rap Music is an example. Parental misconduct at sporting events involving young athletes is another. Elevating a young person to celebrity status for their misdeeds is going to have consequences, and not just on that individual, but on all those who remain mute. Excusing misconduct by anyone involved with children is poisoning our future.

Robert Blake’s trial and the subsequent circus surrounding Michael Jackson’s on-going tribulations have created a dilemma for many people who have themselves been through this process, even as we witnessed the young tennis star, Mary Pierce, re-emerge from her demon-infested past at the French Open. News of Danny Bonaduce’s return to Rehab came at the same time the young television star of “Desperate Housewives” is arrested on a New York street for smoking a joint by an undercover, star-struck policeman who really just wanted to know how the season’s finale turned out.

And we blame the victim, forgetting that we played a role in their unusual development.

What did you expect?

What, exactly, do you expect of children who are asked to excel scholastically when we are sending them to schools without paper and books…whose entrances are guarded by metal detectors…and where there is no toilet paper in the bathrooms?

How many times can you turn a blind eye on conduct you know to be detrimental before the consequences affect you?

What did you think Michael Jackson would become as we all stood by and demanded performance excellence as we mutely accepted the troubling plastic surgery, and permitted unescorted children to attend sleepovers at Neverland Ranch?

Where were the whistle-blowers? At what point are we called to break the glass on the Fire Alarm?

If you doubt for an instant that fame, even fleeting fame doesn’t have an impact, turn on any televised sporting event and watch what happens the moment the cameras are turned on the fans in the stands. Do they know they’re being watched? Does their behavior suddenly change?

Children all over this world are going to work instead of to school. Parents are paying hard-earned money for video games that are absolutely ghastly in their violence and disrespect of women. Movies that employ young performers to act out the fantasies of adults who should know better litter the media landscape, even as advertisers market harmful if not useless products to an ever-younger consumer base.

I am reminded of my Grandpa Burr who was always consistent in his belief that people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

“Every time you point a finger at someone else,” he told me, “remember that four fingers are pointing back at you.”

So I’ll close with the same question that began this essay on the predicament faced by celebrities who came to fame too early to resist its blandishments and now find themselves in trouble with the law or who are living lives of not-so-quiet desperation:

“What did you expect?”

PP on June 7th 2005

It was just past 8pm, and I went into the kitchen with P following close behind. Next to the sink was our wine decanter, almost empty of its well-aired bottle of 1997 Château Musar, a truly gorgeous red wine made in Lebanon. As I set my glass down on the counter, P’s voice spoke up behind me.

“You have to finish that,” he instructed. As I turned around, the expression on his face made it clear I shouldn’t question this.

Trying my luck, I asked, “Why?”

“So you can grow big and strong,” he said, then paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “So you can run.”

“Run? Where?” I asked, puzzled.

He gave me his family’s patented eye-roll of contempt and replied, “To the park, Dad.” Oh.

Putting the remainder of the wine into my glass, I asked,”Would you like to taste it?”

My sommelier gave it a gentle sip. “Yuck!” he proclaimed, his face scrunched up like he’d found red wine vinegar. “The rest is for you.”

I just looked at him for a moment, trying to hide my smile.

“Really,” he insisted. Nodding with a brief “yes,” he dismissed me and returned to the livingroom.

This weekend I watched a beautiful dance making its own music and moving in perfect harmony. All of it happened in a clean and healthy green park in Ireland with the rich blue of Dublin Bay as its backdrop. Our four year-old son P was one of the performers proudly sitting astride his bicycle.

We gave it to him for his birthday last month. He’d been using a tricycle for a long time, but really enjoyed a “grown-up” bike (with training wheels) when we were in the US. It seemed to make sense for him to have something similar in Ireland, since he’d pretty much lost interest in using his ever-shrinking tricycle. He’d ridden on it a few times, but not for very long.

About a week ago he took a turn on the corner too sharply and fell off. Despite my efforts, he refused to get back on and instead chose to push the bike for the rest of the time. I didn’t know what to expect.

On Saturday we spent a good two hours over in the park. It gave me lots of free exercise trying to keep up and let P increase his confidence as a bike-rider. Plenty of other kids around the park with bicycles made him feel driven to take part. While he insisted he only wanted to push his bike around, soon enough he was again willing to sit on the seat and pedal himself along.

P caught sight of one boy near his own age on a bike quite like his: flame red, same tires, same training wheels. Turning around, P made a point of riding by him a couple of times. Rider #2 did the same sort of exercise, driving in a wide loop along the different walking areas to reach a common point. On a third pass, P (now Rider #1) used a thumb to make his bicycle bell ring out: brrrring, brrrring. His compatriot quickly responded with his own: brrrring. Both boys got silly grins on their faces as they spread further apart.

They raced around the park for a good hour like this, but none of the movements were truly random. Instead, they took the form of an intricately coordinated exercise using a pattern of signals and movements they both understood (but, as I will only continue to learn as he grows older, I could only begin to grasp it).

At one point they rode next to each other down one of the wider paths. I immediately had a flashback to when I was about 10 years old. John Starkey and I were Ponch and Jon from the television show, CHiPs, racing our bikes up and down the “old road”, a stretch of aging tarmac through our really small Maine town. I still hold those memories with great fondness, and can’t wait to see P have the same sort of fun with friends he’s still yet to meet.

The two professional bicyclists did a wide circle together around one of the larger water fountains, followed by a perfectly executed merge of paths on the other side. Separating down other paths, each looking back with curiosity as though asking, Where are you going? As they swung around to head up a path, some sort of signal was exchanged. The agreement was to park by a small step that goes up onto a raised bit of grass. Each dismounted and began to check his gears, make sure chains were tight, and check the tires for air.

Satisfied their pit-stop was a success, they mounted their hogs and continued the journey across the park. I expected them to call out to each other over the noise of their engines in a new version of Easy Rider. Away they went, their bikes not too far away for me to hear periodic laughter and calls of vroom, vroom.

Finally, the performance had to finish. P’s new friend went back to the dad who’d also been in the background, waiting patiently on a bench and watching the exchange. With a comfortable nod and smile across the distance, the other father and I acknowledged our small role in what our children had just completed.

As he saw his playmate leaving, P looked a little disappointed that the fun was over. But it didn’t stop him—we were there for another half-hour before finally going home ourselves.

When we’d parked his bike back at our house and were inside taking off our jackets, I asked P if he enjoyed all of his biking today.

“Yup!” he shot right back, his beautiful eyes glowing brightly. “And Dad, thanks for giving me the bike for my birthday. I really like it!”

P’s decided daddy-long legs spiders are okay. He asked me to keep him company in the bathroom because of a spider in the corner. When we got there, I explained they’re like Grampy Spiders who are just fishing for bugs.

He looked me right in the eye. “Does it have a fishing rod?”

I told him the web was like a bunch of fishing poles all out waiting for bugs to show up. He nodded in agreement as he put further thought to the brilliance of this approach, and continued back into the dining room to play. At the time, I wondered if he’d use the bathroom by himself next time now that he knows old Grampy’s not the swiftest.

About half an hour later, he got up and went back to the bathroom, peed, flushed, and came back into the room. Not a word spoken.

I hope this sort of thing sticks…

So, I did my turkey today. We did one for Thanksgiving (finally found one at Lidl), which was deeeeelicious. And not just cause I brined it. But the turk itself was…I think B used the word rich. Rich flavor. Compared to today’s turkey (from Tesco), it was. The Lidl turkey was by far better. Amazing.

Yes, I did a turkey today. I roasted one. It’s done. Freezing it in zip top bags while dunked in chicken broth. That way, even tho we’re going to an aunt’s house for Christmas, we’ll have turkey whenever we need it (and for the killer Turkey Noodle Soup recipe that we have). Plus we needed the room in the fridge. 🙂

P wants to make sugar cookies also. I keep forgetting to make the dough, since it needs to chill for a while before you roll it out. I did find a good vegan recipe, but I just have to plan ahead. Plus we have some broken candy canes that P can have (and has been begging me for since we hung them up) that we can sprinkle on the cookies and I found some sprinkles on sale that would work. I still have powder food coloring that I’ll just toss with some sugar for other colors.

The TRUCE Guide to Toys was a really excellent read for me. I might not agree with everything, but I sure learned some stuff, and got a few good ideas for presents…

“Dad, I want to do lots of work.” Patrick announced. “So I can learn some money. So I can buy things.”

“What would you buy?” I asked.

“I need a remote control helicopter,” Patrick replied.

“So you can make it fly up into the sky?”

“No, it might fly up in the house, and then into the lantern—that lantern,” he said. pointing at the light in our livingroom.

“So how much money do you think you’d earn doing this work?” I asked. “Like lots of money or a little money?”

Change of context: he now looks at our wedding picture and says he sees his cousin; the image is much younger than the 12 year-old boy he met this Spring.

“Where was me?”

“You weren’t there yet,” Elana told him.

“I was in your tummy?”

“You weren’t there yet.”

He stared intently at the framed photograph. “I was scared being in there.”

“You remember being scared?”

“I was screaming,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You were screaming in there?”

“Yes. I liked it outside cuz I’d never been outside.”

“So you liked going new places?”

Patrick proclaimed with finality, “Uh huh.” Next topic.

Random conversations are so much fun.

It’s been beautiful weather in Ireland for the last few days, even if it drops near enough to freezing at night to leave frost on our grass for hours in the morning. Today in particular is gorgeous, as evidenced by the vast number of people enjoying the farmer’s market over in the park.

Yesterday (Saturday) was equally enjoyable. It was so nice, in fact, that Patrick and I took out the lawn mower (and his dump truck) to finally cut the back yard. It’d been growing for a good 6–8 weeks and started to feel a bit bashful about being obviously in need of a trim.

At the start Patrick followed me closely as I worked the mower from the top all the way to the rear wall separating the different properties in our neighborhood. As I cut the grass, he pushed behind with his dump truck.He carefully picked up the bits of chopped grass that didn’t make it into the mower’s grass-catcher.

About half way through his efforts began to wane. Finally he and his dump truck retired to the set of steps used to access the back yard from the path next to our house. He watched, I pushed (slowly, that grass was pretty thick and, to my surprise, still a bit damp with dew). I started to make a dent into the second half of the effort. Soon I noticed he was calling out to me, repeatedly and fervently. His dump truck just sat there staring off into the distance like it always does.

Through the roaring sound of the mower I could make out Patrick’s words: “Dad! Dad! Dad? Hey Dad!!” I cut the engine and looked up at him expectantly in the now dramatic silence.

“Yeah? What do you need?”

He asked with all honesty,”Are you done yet?”

I needed a moment to regain my composure before I could respond.

VH1-Classic was on the TV as background noise while P and I played in the livingroom. We’d just flown back from the US, and our body clocks were still trying to come to grips with what was being asked of them.

On came Van Halen and their 80s video for their hit “Jump”. On went Eddie & Dave leaping around. Patrick, about four years old, looked up at the screen. “Look at the girl man!”