After the launch event, Jobs was energized.
He came to the Four Seasons hotel to join me, his wife, and Reed, plus Reed's two Stanford pals, for lunch.
For a change he was eating, though still with some pickiness.
He ordered fresh-squeezed juice, which he sent back three times, declaring that each new offering was from a bottle,
and a pasta primavera, which he shoved away as inedible after one taste.
But then he ate half of my crab Louie salad and ordered a full one for himself, followed by a bowl of ice cream.
The indulgent hotel was even able to produce a glass of juice that finally met his standards.
At his house the following day he was still on a high.
He was planning to fly to Kona Village the next day, alone, and I asked to see what he had put on his iPad 2 for the trip.
There were three movies: Chinatown, The Bourne Ultimatum, and Toy Story 3.
More revealingly, there was just one book that he had downloaded: The Autobiography of a Yogi,
the guide to meditation and spirituality that he had first read as a teenager, then reread in India, and had read once a year ever since.
Midway through the morning he decided he wanted to eat something.
He was still too weak to drive, so I drove him to a café in a shopping mall.
It was closed, but the owner was used to Jobs knocking on the door at off-hours, and he happily let us in.
"He's taken on a mission to try to fatten me up," Jobs joked.
His doctors had pushed him to eat eggs as a source of high-quality protein, and he ordered an omelet.
"Living with a disease like this, and all the pain, constantly reminds you of your own mortality, and that can do strange things to your brain if you're not careful," he said.
"You don't make plans more than a year out, and that's bad. You need to force yourself to plan as if you will live for many years."