New, used, old, made

I just got a brand new MacBook Pro. It’s a lot more machine than I need, but the one it’s replacing lasted a decade, and I’m hoping this new guy’s still usable ten years from now too. Plus I’m a bit of a hobby hopper, so I can envision getting real value (in the long run) out of a computer that can comfortably edit high-res photos, cut together video projects, build video games, run local LLMs, and compile large software projects. So yeah, it was expensive, but if you amortize the cost over 10 years of occasional creative fulfillment… shit, that’s still a lot of money.

A refurbished older model would certainly have done the trick for much less money. But then I wouldn’t get to stare at this matte screen. Seriously, every time I’ve cracked this thing open I’ve been blown away by how good it looks, how personal and soft and futuristic it feels, how sharp-without-glaring the text in my terminal is. How do you put a price on that pseudo-electric joyful feeling you get from using something that just feels nice? By buying it, I guess.

Apple put a price on my old computer for me. They’re going to give me $20 for the privilege of recycling the computer I’ve loved for the last 10 years—apparently there is “cosmetic polariser/delamination damage on the display” which prevents them from giving me the original estimate of $110. Four months ago they charged me $250 to put a new battery in it and restore it to barely-working condition. That was a repair I was happy to pay for at the time, since I expected it to meaningfully affect the lifespan of that dented old silver bullet. Instead it just got a little less hot during its single hour of wireless playtime before I had to plug it in again. And now my best course of action is to pocket a crisp Andy Jackson for a machine with a processor that would probably fetch more than $100 on its own if I could figure out how to pop it out of its aluminum tomb.

This is not the first time I’ve bought more machine than I needed. A few years back I stupidly bought a Sony A7R, a camera whose sensor has 42 million pixels, shortly after it launched. I had no need for a new camera, regardless of whether we take “new” to mean not-preowned or to mean top of the line. I certainly did not need that camera, the kind of thing used by professional product or portrait photographers to shoot magazine spreads or billboards. I don’t know why I bought it; I fear I might be a sucker. After a year or two of unhappily editing its massive files on my dusty MacBook, I ultimately sold it and found a used A7 with half the pixel density from a stranger on Craigslist. We met in a parking lot on the outskirts of Albuquerque and chatted about what he’d been using it for and what he’d be upgrading to, and then I handed him an envelope of cash and never saw him again.

Digital cameras are computers of course, but they aren’t quite like computers in the way they age. Barring wear and tear, my A7 will still produce the same images in 5 or 10 years as it does today. No one’s shipping software to my camera made to take advantage of specs on newer models—hopefully I’ll probably never update its software again—so it shouldn’t degrade over time in the way that phones or PCs or (ugh) TVs do. I use so much enshittified software these days that it’s easy to forget that electronics aren’t all intrinsically cursed to become steadily more useless. Not too long ago, I found my old Game Boy Color in a closet. This thing must be 25 years old, it’s never been cleaned or repaired, and I couldn’t tell you when I last put fresh batteries in it. I picked it up, flipped the switch, and immediately started a new game of Shaq Fu. I love my Steam Deck, it’s truly a marvel of technology, but I can tell you with certainty that its usable lifespan won’t come close to that of the Game Boy Color, which could be purchased in 1999 for $80.

The hard part, of course, is taking care of things so they can last long enough to surprise you with their longevity. Not everything is built like a Game Boy. Most of my jeans have holes in them, buttons are barely hanging onto some of my favorite shirts, all of my ceramic and glass coffee gear is cracked or chipped, I’ve broken at least 2 of my wife’s vases, our car is missing random plastic pieces on the inside and outside, and I’m on my second backpack with a lifetime warranty because I lost the first one. And even if something can withstand the ravages of time, you still might not even appreciate it a few years later. It’s not easy to avoid the trap of trends or your own whims. Boy do I cringe every time I catch a glimpse of an expensive coat that looks like the 2000s or an unworn pair of shoes that reminds me too vividly of what it felt like to want other guys in my school to think I was cool.

With clothes, at least, a solid shortcut to regret-avoidance is to buy vintage. If something’s fashionable and still in good shape 10-20 years after it was made, it’s already well on its way to being timeless by the time I pull it off a rack in a store in the hip part of town with wobbly floors and no AC. This also has the advantage of offsetting some of the waste-related guilt I feel from chucking bags full of old clothes into those big blue “donation” bins in random parking lots that realistically probably just get taken to a landfill. I do find, though, that used clothes still bring their own emotional burden. Part of what makes vintage stuff feel so special is the history it embodies; the passage of time imbues it with a sentimental weight. So when I notice that my Carhartt jacket is fading and fraying, I’m not just sad because I don’t want to stop wearing it—I’m sad for coat itself, for the years it’s survived and the people who got it to me in such good shape to begin with.

The effects of age can be stayed, but the effort varies, and I do love flinging wet clothes into a dryer. Before I picked up certain habits, I had some romantic notion that the act of doing a chore might feel good. I am sad to report that oiling leather boots is not fun, nor is brushing fines from a grinder’s burrs, nor is changing your bedsheets more frequently, nor is dusting the inside of a PC. Using a paperclip to dig gunk out of your phone’s charging port? That one does actually rule. Maintenance’s only real reward is continuance, an imperceptibly shallower curve of decay. If it does make a difference, I’ll rarely notice it against the white noise of everyday life, though noticing can become a habit too. I like to log some of my purchases in a text file, so that every once in a while I can remind myself how much value I’ve gotten from my Blundstones and feel like the occasional time taken to clean and oil them is worth it.

Boots are relatively easy (rag, oil, tiny circles), as are grinders and damaged ceramics, but once I venture outside the range of superglue, toothbrushes, and tiny circles, I’m more or less helpless. The most I’ve ever done to a car is change its battery, an embarrassingly paint-by-numbers task that made me feel ever so macho as I dimmed my dorky little headlamp to watch a third, fourth, fifth tutorial on YouTube. I work professionally with computers, and have even built several from parts, but I couldn’t bring myself to try replacing my old laptop’s battery on my own. When I feel that I ought to be able to fix or build something but don’t know how, I picture my high school baseball coach who, watching me tamp the batter’s box during some pre-season field maintenance, said, “You haven’t done much manual labor, have you?” and feel my cheeks flush just as they did that day (though I do wonder how many suburban 16-year-olds have done much manual labor). Even putting aside the stupid male shame of it all, I would like to be able to repair or modify my own belongings, just to be a slightly better citizen of the world. It feels worthwhile to pick up more of these skills and habits before I have kids, to try and live a better example for them.

I cannot even come close to comprehending how much garbage our species produces, and I know that repurposing an item or two around my house will have absolutely no effect on the fate of our planet. But I do like to think (hope?) that habits behave a bit like genes on the sociological scale, and that the humans and coyotes and salmon and owls of the future may eventually have a chance at making it if enough thoughtful decisions percolate into the collective consciousness. I probably shouldn’t have purchased this computer. I probably should have kept my old one and tossed it in the closet next to the other PC components I’ve not found a use for yet. I probably ought to get comfy eating spinach after it gets a little slimy. I probably should learn how cars work, and how to patch my own jeans. Probably none of this matters, but some of it might.