He's a divider, not a uniter
Singeth The Boy:
"This land is your land/This side is my land ... "
Monday, August 30, 2004
Saturday, August 28, 2004
It's not really a new post
Mostly, this is just typing exercise. I just need to loosen my brain a little bit. And lucky you; you get to watch.
I'm on vacation this week, for the first time in a long time. It doesn't mean I don't still have a pile of work to do; that pile's still there, and it's still laughing at me every time I look at it. This vacation, for me, basically just means I work when I want to, and I can lean on my, "Well, I'm on vacation," reply if anybody asks anything about anything.
A smart person would have taken the battery out of his laptop and stored it somewhere off-site. But my intellect can certainly be called into question.
In totally unrelated events, my son is playing flag football. He's 5. I've ranted about the folly of organized youth sports before, but hey, when in Suburbia, do as the Suburbanites do. He doesn't get much playing time; he's a lot smaller than the other 5- and 6-year-olds on his team, and it's very possible he's a victim of his genetics in that he's not exactly blessed with natural athletic talent. His only appearance Saturday was on the kickoff team after his team's second touchdown. He did chase the returner with abandon, and almost ran him down, but it didn't matter, because the ball had been blown dead 30 yards back.
There was a little bit of miffedness among the family unit about The Boy's lack of playing time. Dragging him out of bed at 6:45 on a Saturday morning so he could play for one kickoff seems a little silly. But, as that discourse was being discoursed, the usual Perspective Builder came into sight: The team's waterboy, a crew-cut 5-year-old in an electric wheelchair, gamely wheeling himself around and spraying the players with water. Bet he'd be really happy to get in for one kickoff. Bet his parents would be positively giddy.
So, no more whining about The Boy's playing time. We can still whine about the coaches, for whom it seems to mean a lot more to be 2-0 than it does to make sure all the kids are learning how to play football. But I'll keep that waterboy in mind.
Saturday, of course, followed Friday, at which The Wife had to attend a hastily called parental conference for The Old Daughter, who had an incident of speaking out in class. This followed days of warnings about speaking out in class. She is genetically programmed to be a talker, and she's learning how to use that switch that tells her mouth to stay shut when her brain comes up with something it thinks needs to be said. But sometimes that's a tough lesson to learn.
And the Very Cool Mother-in-Law is visiting this weekend. We're about to launch another enhancement to The Freelance Gig in a couple of months. I'll be working my ass off -- while I'm working my ass off -- but the result is going to be very good, I think.
Finally, the 5-day forecast track for Frances is now touching the southern tip of The Edge. It's too early for action, they tell us, but you might want to check your hurricane shutters just to be sure.
There. My typing fingers feel a little looser, and more comfortable now.
Mostly, this is just typing exercise. I just need to loosen my brain a little bit. And lucky you; you get to watch.
I'm on vacation this week, for the first time in a long time. It doesn't mean I don't still have a pile of work to do; that pile's still there, and it's still laughing at me every time I look at it. This vacation, for me, basically just means I work when I want to, and I can lean on my, "Well, I'm on vacation," reply if anybody asks anything about anything.
A smart person would have taken the battery out of his laptop and stored it somewhere off-site. But my intellect can certainly be called into question.
In totally unrelated events, my son is playing flag football. He's 5. I've ranted about the folly of organized youth sports before, but hey, when in Suburbia, do as the Suburbanites do. He doesn't get much playing time; he's a lot smaller than the other 5- and 6-year-olds on his team, and it's very possible he's a victim of his genetics in that he's not exactly blessed with natural athletic talent. His only appearance Saturday was on the kickoff team after his team's second touchdown. He did chase the returner with abandon, and almost ran him down, but it didn't matter, because the ball had been blown dead 30 yards back.
There was a little bit of miffedness among the family unit about The Boy's lack of playing time. Dragging him out of bed at 6:45 on a Saturday morning so he could play for one kickoff seems a little silly. But, as that discourse was being discoursed, the usual Perspective Builder came into sight: The team's waterboy, a crew-cut 5-year-old in an electric wheelchair, gamely wheeling himself around and spraying the players with water. Bet he'd be really happy to get in for one kickoff. Bet his parents would be positively giddy.
So, no more whining about The Boy's playing time. We can still whine about the coaches, for whom it seems to mean a lot more to be 2-0 than it does to make sure all the kids are learning how to play football. But I'll keep that waterboy in mind.
Saturday, of course, followed Friday, at which The Wife had to attend a hastily called parental conference for The Old Daughter, who had an incident of speaking out in class. This followed days of warnings about speaking out in class. She is genetically programmed to be a talker, and she's learning how to use that switch that tells her mouth to stay shut when her brain comes up with something it thinks needs to be said. But sometimes that's a tough lesson to learn.
And the Very Cool Mother-in-Law is visiting this weekend. We're about to launch another enhancement to The Freelance Gig in a couple of months. I'll be working my ass off -- while I'm working my ass off -- but the result is going to be very good, I think.
Finally, the 5-day forecast track for Frances is now touching the southern tip of The Edge. It's too early for action, they tell us, but you might want to check your hurricane shutters just to be sure.
There. My typing fingers feel a little looser, and more comfortable now.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
The happiest day of their lives ... so far
Otis and Mrs. Otis welcome a new addition to the world. We welcome him as the newest addition to our family. They're 24 hours in, so I know they're all three tired -- but not too tired to know that they're about to embark on a wonderful journey.
Congratulations to Otis and Mrs. Otis. And congratulations to us, too, because our world just became a better place.
Otis and Mrs. Otis welcome a new addition to the world. We welcome him as the newest addition to our family. They're 24 hours in, so I know they're all three tired -- but not too tired to know that they're about to embark on a wonderful journey.
Congratulations to Otis and Mrs. Otis. And congratulations to us, too, because our world just became a better place.
Friday, August 13, 2004
We're hiding over here
Go to eyeofcharley.blogspot.com for ground-level updates, courtesy of us, on the progress of Hurricane Charley as it approaches the Western Edge of America.
And wish us luck. For you praying types, we'll accept those too.
Go to eyeofcharley.blogspot.com for ground-level updates, courtesy of us, on the progress of Hurricane Charley as it approaches the Western Edge of America.
And wish us luck. For you praying types, we'll accept those too.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Monday, August 02, 2004
Friday, July 23, 2004
Wondering here in Allentown
Business this week has brought me to the Allentown-Bethlehem-Easton area of Pennsylvania, and of course, I have Billy Joel stuck in my head. And it's getting very hard to staaaaaaaaayy ...
In my quick tour of the area, I have to question why anybody did stay. It's a shell of a city. The local section of Thursday's newspaper was essentially a six-page crime report. The downtown Bethlehem area has some very cool architecture, but it morphs quickly into a depressing neighborhood of dilapidated row houses, places whose occupants would apparently rather mill around outside than inside. A city government official in Easton made news earlier this week by calling a newspaper reporter a "stupid bitch" in the middle of a public hearing. (To his credit, he did resign the next day.) Some of the surrounding area is very pretty, but it doesn't take long to wind up in another depressing little town where nothing has happened since 1940. And normally, I like small towns.
In a word: Yuk.
The last thing you see before the little regional jet lands at the Lehigh Valley International Airport is a big hole where a strip-mining operation kept families fed for the first half of the 20th century. The hole's still there, and there's nothing anybody can get out of it and nothing anybody can do about it. It said to me, "Well, we got ours; you go find a way to get yours."
It's a shame. Small cities in the United States should be centers of innovation and ideas and creativity. Industry and the trades should provide a living wage (Everybody had a pretty good shot/To get at least as far as their old man got). I understand how capitalism works, but I think we're starting to see some of the long-term effects of capitalism on humans. I hope I'm not right about that.
Business this week has brought me to the Allentown-Bethlehem-Easton area of Pennsylvania, and of course, I have Billy Joel stuck in my head. And it's getting very hard to staaaaaaaaayy ...
In my quick tour of the area, I have to question why anybody did stay. It's a shell of a city. The local section of Thursday's newspaper was essentially a six-page crime report. The downtown Bethlehem area has some very cool architecture, but it morphs quickly into a depressing neighborhood of dilapidated row houses, places whose occupants would apparently rather mill around outside than inside. A city government official in Easton made news earlier this week by calling a newspaper reporter a "stupid bitch" in the middle of a public hearing. (To his credit, he did resign the next day.) Some of the surrounding area is very pretty, but it doesn't take long to wind up in another depressing little town where nothing has happened since 1940. And normally, I like small towns.
In a word: Yuk.
The last thing you see before the little regional jet lands at the Lehigh Valley International Airport is a big hole where a strip-mining operation kept families fed for the first half of the 20th century. The hole's still there, and there's nothing anybody can get out of it and nothing anybody can do about it. It said to me, "Well, we got ours; you go find a way to get yours."
It's a shame. Small cities in the United States should be centers of innovation and ideas and creativity. Industry and the trades should provide a living wage (Everybody had a pretty good shot/To get at least as far as their old man got). I understand how capitalism works, but I think we're starting to see some of the long-term effects of capitalism on humans. I hope I'm not right about that.
Summertime blahs
My recent reticence is not attributable to anything other than that I'm receiving an awful lot of input these days. But that's a good thing:
This job, about which I was so worried two months ago, is starting to pan out very well. I'm enjoying my little adventure into the real world, and learning a lot that has nothing to do with software. (Thankfully, I'm learning a lot that does relate to software, in an effort to actually keep the job.)
We're getting settled on the Western Edge. The house is good, the yard is good, the neighborhood is good. Kids like it, The Wife likes it, I like it. Nothing about which to complain, or expand upon.
And my life is a large step forward toward completion because I now, like 94 percent of the rest of the world, have an iPod. (Happy birthday to me! and thanks, guys.) From you, I seek recommendations for new stuff to put on this little white box of joy.
My recent reticence is not attributable to anything other than that I'm receiving an awful lot of input these days. But that's a good thing:
And my life is a large step forward toward completion because I now, like 94 percent of the rest of the world, have an iPod. (Happy birthday to me! and thanks, guys.) From you, I seek recommendations for new stuff to put on this little white box of joy.
Saturday, July 03, 2004
A decade of delight
Here in a few minutes, as I write this, I'll be the parent of a 10-year-old daughter. Time flies when you're having fun.
The Old Daughter has seen a lot in 10 years. She has moved 10 times. She has so far only spent one full academic year at the same school. She's been in the tailwind of our pursuit of the Best Possible Situation, and thankfully, she has been very adaptable. I hope to not have to be testing that adaptability again any time soon.
Along the way, she welcomed a brother and a sister after spending almost five years as an only child. She adapted to that well, too, and has been a wonderful role model for both of her siblings.
Sometimes I forget she's a few minutes away from being 10. She can analyze thoughts and concepts in nearly adult fashion; you can tell there's a lot going on behind those eyeglasses, and it's fun to run ideas past a brain that performs at a high level and is unburdened by years of preconceived notions. She also has a maddening tendency to act half her age sometimes. She's a wonderful and complex person, and it's fun to watch her become a person.
I don't have a favorite child. No parent of multiple children does. But each of our children is special in his or her own way. The Young Daughter will always be the Baby. The Boy will always be the only boy. The Old Daughter will always be the first.
A couple of our regular readers are going to become parents soon. I don't claim to be the least bit qualified to give out parental advice, and wouldn't for a second think of doing so. But I do hope they feel a little bit better about their impending parenthood by participating in this forum, and following along as I muddle my way through it -- if nothing else, hopefully, they'll gain the security of knowing that if I can do it, they certainly can.
Anyway, happy birthday, Old Daughter. And thanks for being you.
Here in a few minutes, as I write this, I'll be the parent of a 10-year-old daughter. Time flies when you're having fun.
The Old Daughter has seen a lot in 10 years. She has moved 10 times. She has so far only spent one full academic year at the same school. She's been in the tailwind of our pursuit of the Best Possible Situation, and thankfully, she has been very adaptable. I hope to not have to be testing that adaptability again any time soon.
Along the way, she welcomed a brother and a sister after spending almost five years as an only child. She adapted to that well, too, and has been a wonderful role model for both of her siblings.
Sometimes I forget she's a few minutes away from being 10. She can analyze thoughts and concepts in nearly adult fashion; you can tell there's a lot going on behind those eyeglasses, and it's fun to run ideas past a brain that performs at a high level and is unburdened by years of preconceived notions. She also has a maddening tendency to act half her age sometimes. She's a wonderful and complex person, and it's fun to watch her become a person.
I don't have a favorite child. No parent of multiple children does. But each of our children is special in his or her own way. The Young Daughter will always be the Baby. The Boy will always be the only boy. The Old Daughter will always be the first.
A couple of our regular readers are going to become parents soon. I don't claim to be the least bit qualified to give out parental advice, and wouldn't for a second think of doing so. But I do hope they feel a little bit better about their impending parenthood by participating in this forum, and following along as I muddle my way through it -- if nothing else, hopefully, they'll gain the security of knowing that if I can do it, they certainly can.
Anyway, happy birthday, Old Daughter. And thanks for being you.
Monday, June 28, 2004
Where the hell is everybody?
Suddenly, I'm alone with my thoughts. I'm looking at the buddy list of the IM program on the left side of my screen; everybody's offline. What are the chances of that happening? I'm looking at the list window of the IM program on the right side of my screen; "mdgradyfl," a co-worker, is online, but "Away." I try her anyway, and the cyber-brushoff comes back, "Auto-reply: I am away from my computer right now."
The kids are asleep. The wife is in bed with a head cold. It's 9:50 p.m. EDT and everybody who I might call is in bed or headed that way soon. I'm not a big phone guy anyway, so I'd only resort to that as a last option.
But I'm suddenly having a night where I don't really want to be alone with my thoughts. I don't have anything particularly profound to share, really; I'm frankly a hell of a lot more interested in what you're thinking. I know what I think, although it helps me sometimes to bounce it off a few other people to make sure I really think it.
But I'm inspired by knowing what you think. My thoughts are more complete when they're enhanced by the thoughts of other people.
I've been seriously considering the idea of launching another forum, a collaborative in which people can expound on their places in the world through any medium necessary: words, shapes, colors, sounds, photography. I know an awful lot of people all across the country who are incredibly creative, but who are getting paid for something other than their creativity. I'm one of those people. I need an outlet, but more important, I need to know it's not just going into a vacuum.
If you'd be interested in contributing to such a thing, let me know. There's nothing in it for you but the chance to share your thoughts and feelings and skills with a few other people who would be incredibly supportive. I'm sure there's some value in that.
Suddenly, I'm alone with my thoughts. I'm looking at the buddy list of the IM program on the left side of my screen; everybody's offline. What are the chances of that happening? I'm looking at the list window of the IM program on the right side of my screen; "mdgradyfl," a co-worker, is online, but "Away." I try her anyway, and the cyber-brushoff comes back, "Auto-reply: I am away from my computer right now."
The kids are asleep. The wife is in bed with a head cold. It's 9:50 p.m. EDT and everybody who I might call is in bed or headed that way soon. I'm not a big phone guy anyway, so I'd only resort to that as a last option.
But I'm suddenly having a night where I don't really want to be alone with my thoughts. I don't have anything particularly profound to share, really; I'm frankly a hell of a lot more interested in what you're thinking. I know what I think, although it helps me sometimes to bounce it off a few other people to make sure I really think it.
But I'm inspired by knowing what you think. My thoughts are more complete when they're enhanced by the thoughts of other people.
I've been seriously considering the idea of launching another forum, a collaborative in which people can expound on their places in the world through any medium necessary: words, shapes, colors, sounds, photography. I know an awful lot of people all across the country who are incredibly creative, but who are getting paid for something other than their creativity. I'm one of those people. I need an outlet, but more important, I need to know it's not just going into a vacuum.
If you'd be interested in contributing to such a thing, let me know. There's nothing in it for you but the chance to share your thoughts and feelings and skills with a few other people who would be incredibly supportive. I'm sure there's some value in that.
Wherever I go, there I am
The idea goes something like this: Write a little bit about your place in the world. How you got there, why you're there, why you won't leave, why you would leave.
I've been thinking about this sort of thing quite a bit lately. I've had a run of "How did I get here?" moments in the last month or so. How did I come to be driving a Lincoln Town Car down Washington Highway 16 with Mount Rainier looming in the sunrise? How did I come to be getting out of that Lincoln Town Car and into a first-class seat on a cross-country flight? How did I come to be eating on the roof of the Hotel Washington, looking down at the snipers (at least we thought they were the snipers) perched atop the White House? How did I come to be speaking Danish while drinking Czech beer in a bar in Washington, D.C.? How did I come to be living in a 2,400-square-foot house with a tall, beautiful, fun wife and three kids who are already smarter and funnier than me?
See, this story started out to be a story about geography; how a guy from Anytown, USA, could wind up on the west coast of Florida via Cincinnati, Orlando, Texas and Orlando again. How a guy who didn't cross the Missouri state line until he was 12 and who didn't own a home computer until 1999 could find himself jetting all over the country, telling people how to use their computer systems.
It's been a strange run, and I'm wondering how I got here.
For the first time in my entire life, I'm not wondering what's next.
This could be because I'm fast approaching my 36th birthday. The line marking "old" is now behind me, at least by my standards.
This could be because I actually enjoy what I'm doing now, something new and fun and challenging (and at the same time frustrating and frightening). I'm learning a lot about a subject in which I'm intensely interested, and I'm getting paid. Kind of feels like I'm beating the system.
This could be because I don't really care what's next; because I'm trying to milk the very most out of right now.
This could be because what's next kind of scares me. I'm closer to 40 than I am to 30. Like it or not, the clock is ticking. Forty years from now, there's a very good chance I'll be dead.
Yeah, that's kind of a blunt way to put it. But that's kind of my point. The end comes eventually. When my end comes, I'll be ready to answer the question, "What did you do with your life?" in the following way:
I did whatever I wanted to do.
They say happiness is wanting what you have, not having what you want, or something like that. I don't claim to know what happiness is. That's for greater minds than mine to decide. But right now, I'm doing what I want to do. I'm living the life I want to live with the people with whom I want to live it.
How did I get here?
It doesn't really matter, as long as I'm where I want to be. And I am.
The idea goes something like this: Write a little bit about your place in the world. How you got there, why you're there, why you won't leave, why you would leave.
I've been thinking about this sort of thing quite a bit lately. I've had a run of "How did I get here?" moments in the last month or so. How did I come to be driving a Lincoln Town Car down Washington Highway 16 with Mount Rainier looming in the sunrise? How did I come to be getting out of that Lincoln Town Car and into a first-class seat on a cross-country flight? How did I come to be eating on the roof of the Hotel Washington, looking down at the snipers (at least we thought they were the snipers) perched atop the White House? How did I come to be speaking Danish while drinking Czech beer in a bar in Washington, D.C.? How did I come to be living in a 2,400-square-foot house with a tall, beautiful, fun wife and three kids who are already smarter and funnier than me?
See, this story started out to be a story about geography; how a guy from Anytown, USA, could wind up on the west coast of Florida via Cincinnati, Orlando, Texas and Orlando again. How a guy who didn't cross the Missouri state line until he was 12 and who didn't own a home computer until 1999 could find himself jetting all over the country, telling people how to use their computer systems.
It's been a strange run, and I'm wondering how I got here.
For the first time in my entire life, I'm not wondering what's next.
This could be because I'm fast approaching my 36th birthday. The line marking "old" is now behind me, at least by my standards.
This could be because I actually enjoy what I'm doing now, something new and fun and challenging (and at the same time frustrating and frightening). I'm learning a lot about a subject in which I'm intensely interested, and I'm getting paid. Kind of feels like I'm beating the system.
This could be because I don't really care what's next; because I'm trying to milk the very most out of right now.
This could be because what's next kind of scares me. I'm closer to 40 than I am to 30. Like it or not, the clock is ticking. Forty years from now, there's a very good chance I'll be dead.
Yeah, that's kind of a blunt way to put it. But that's kind of my point. The end comes eventually. When my end comes, I'll be ready to answer the question, "What did you do with your life?" in the following way:
I did whatever I wanted to do.
They say happiness is wanting what you have, not having what you want, or something like that. I don't claim to know what happiness is. That's for greater minds than mine to decide. But right now, I'm doing what I want to do. I'm living the life I want to live with the people with whom I want to live it.
How did I get here?
It doesn't really matter, as long as I'm where I want to be. And I am.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Thursday, June 17, 2004
The best songs ever
Some of these probably don't appear on too many others' lists of "best songs ever." Some of them you've probably never heard. Some of them are not even on my usual list of favorite songs. But, my memory having been jogged by having heard one of these songs yesterday for the first time in a long time, I offer you a list, not ranked in any order, of what I believe to be the greatest pieces of modern songwriting.
"Don't Stand So Close To Me," The Police: You know this girl. And this man. Every time I hear this song, I get a really clear mental picture of a cold, rainy day in the mid-1980s at Central High School in my hometown. The girl is standing in the rain on Benton Avenue, waiting for the teacher to stop and pick her up. His car, after all, is warm and dry.
"Downstream," The Rainmakers: One of the best second verses of all time can be found in this song.
Well, we picked up Harry Truman
floating down from Indepedence
We said "What about the War?"
He said, "Good riddance"
We said, "What about the bomb?
Are you sorry that you did it?"
He said, "Pass me that bottle
and mind your own bidness"
The song weaves 20th-century history through a float trip down the Mississippi with Missouri historical heroes Mark Twain, Truman and Chuck Berry. You're not going to find many songs with Mark Twain, Truman and Chuck Berry playing starring roles. Plus, I love songs that are musically simple, and it doesn't get much more simple than F-sharp, F-sharp (rest) B-F-sharp. And, this band's drummer has my e-mail address. Nobody else who appeared on MTV in the 1980s has ever sent me e-mail.
"Freebird," Lynyrd Skynyrd. Go ahead, laugh at me. And then go find me a song that connects better with its intended audience.
"Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning," Alan Jackson. Major tragic historical events are fertile breeding grounds for maudlin or jingoistic tunes, sappy songs about heroes and Go-America-Kick-Some-Ass rockers that instantly vault to No. 1 despite being complete crap. This song was the exception: A song that captured what all of us thought at one time or another in the immediate aftermath of Sept. 11, 2001, and did so without being overdramatic. I love a song that tugs at the heartstrings without intending to do so.
"Seminole Wind," John Anderson. You have to 1/have lived in Florida and 2/know that John Anderson was born in Florida to fully appreciate this love song to his home state.
Your turn.
Some of these probably don't appear on too many others' lists of "best songs ever." Some of them you've probably never heard. Some of them are not even on my usual list of favorite songs. But, my memory having been jogged by having heard one of these songs yesterday for the first time in a long time, I offer you a list, not ranked in any order, of what I believe to be the greatest pieces of modern songwriting.
Well, we picked up Harry Truman
floating down from Indepedence
We said "What about the War?"
He said, "Good riddance"
We said, "What about the bomb?
Are you sorry that you did it?"
He said, "Pass me that bottle
and mind your own bidness"
The song weaves 20th-century history through a float trip down the Mississippi with Missouri historical heroes Mark Twain, Truman and Chuck Berry. You're not going to find many songs with Mark Twain, Truman and Chuck Berry playing starring roles. Plus, I love songs that are musically simple, and it doesn't get much more simple than F-sharp, F-sharp (rest) B-F-sharp. And, this band's drummer has my e-mail address. Nobody else who appeared on MTV in the 1980s has ever sent me e-mail.
Your turn.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
May you have a day as good as this one
It started ominously, late Monday night, with a call from the wife at 11 p.m. PDT, which was 2 a.m. at the computer screen at which she was sitting. She was calling to tell me about the wonders of online shopping, in which, at 2 a.m., one could decide to send flowers to one's grandmother and nobody batted an eye.
Well, American Express batted an eye. American Express wouldn't let her send flowers at 2 a.m.
This did not bode well for me, because I was 2,600 miles from home with our American Express as my only financial instrument.
A glitch between our bank and American Express had rendered my only financial instrument temporarily useless. The problem would be fixed, but it couldn't be fixed until the American Express offices opened at 5 a.m. PDT. My problem was that I had to check out of my hotel room at 4:30 a.m., drive 63 miles from our customer site to Seattle, and return a rental car on which the trip computer read, "47 MILES TO EMPTY" in time to catch my 7 a.m. flight.
But, of course, I had nothing to worry about.
I checked out of the hotel promptly at 4:30 a.m., ready to try to explain away the American Express issue. The desk clerk said, "We're in the process of our night audit ... can we just mail you a receipt?" Why, yes, you can.
At the gas station, I managed to find $3 in singles and change at the bottom of my bag. In my wallet, however, I found a credit card that I thought I had forgotten to bring. It doesn't have much on it, but it had enough to get me enough gas to get to Seattle.
At the airport, I was prepared to deal with Hertz and the American Express. Instead, I got, "Our computers are down. Can we mail you a receipt?" Why, yes, you can.
Along the way, I saw Mount Rainier at sunrise, a sight that was too beautiful to put into words.
Along the way, Delta Air Lines' computers gave me my first free first-class upgrade as a Medallion member.
And at the end of my journey, The Wife was looking as beautiful as ever, the mini-humans were as loud and as fun as ever, and I am home.
It started ominously, late Monday night, with a call from the wife at 11 p.m. PDT, which was 2 a.m. at the computer screen at which she was sitting. She was calling to tell me about the wonders of online shopping, in which, at 2 a.m., one could decide to send flowers to one's grandmother and nobody batted an eye.
Well, American Express batted an eye. American Express wouldn't let her send flowers at 2 a.m.
This did not bode well for me, because I was 2,600 miles from home with our American Express as my only financial instrument.
A glitch between our bank and American Express had rendered my only financial instrument temporarily useless. The problem would be fixed, but it couldn't be fixed until the American Express offices opened at 5 a.m. PDT. My problem was that I had to check out of my hotel room at 4:30 a.m., drive 63 miles from our customer site to Seattle, and return a rental car on which the trip computer read, "47 MILES TO EMPTY" in time to catch my 7 a.m. flight.
But, of course, I had nothing to worry about.
Along the way, I saw Mount Rainier at sunrise, a sight that was too beautiful to put into words.
Along the way, Delta Air Lines' computers gave me my first free first-class upgrade as a Medallion member.
And at the end of my journey, The Wife was looking as beautiful as ever, the mini-humans were as loud and as fun as ever, and I am home.
Friday, June 11, 2004
Long time gone
The worst thing about letting this forum go stale for too long is trying to re-start it again. Not because there's nothing happening; far from it, in fact. The problem is: Where the hell do I start? So many topics:
We've moved -- one more time -- in pursuit of Home. We like where we've landed, certainly. We're now sharing a city with the Stanley Cup Champions, for what that's worth ...
My new job -- which by this time is not so new anymore -- both fascinates and stymies me. It's a lot more like the real world than my newspaper jobs ever were, which is both bad and good. I'm learning a lot and getting from it what I want to get from it, both in knowledge and in fringe benefits (for instance, I just qualified for Silver Medallion status on Delta. First class, here I come.) ...
I'm in the Pacific Northwest one more time, fine-tuning a project that didn't get off to the flying start the company hoped it would have. It wasn't a disaster, but we were looking for better; so I'm here with a Danish co-worker (meeting yet another Danish co-worker) trying to make it better. At this point, I'm actually capable of helping. That's a good thing.
I'm going to have to miss the Party of the Year (I refer you to the link to A Night in South Carolina in the links list at right, because I'm too lazy to add the link here) because I'll be at a trade show next weekend in Washington, D.C.
I miss my wife and kids and house. I enjoy the travel part of traveling; it's the not-being-at-home part that sucks.
But really, the question is: Do you have any real interest in hearing any more about any of that stuff? Probably not.
So I search for something instead in which you might be interested. The search so far is proving futile. I can't imagine you care about what I think about Ronald Reagan's death (enough coverage, already!) or the NBA Finals (maybe a 12-second shot clock might be a better idea, not that it would help the Lakers any) or the current state of the media industry (I'm certainly enjoying the hell out of looking at it from the outsider's point of view; it's a lot less scary.)
Then, it occurs to me that this is my forum, not yours. I'm not supposed to care what you think. I'm supposed to articulate my thoughts and present them in the written word as a catharsis for myself, not as some sort of weak source of entertainment for you. This is supposed to be All About Me.
But there's something empty and selfish in that, and I certainly don't want to be empty and selfish, especially not on your time.
Now you see my quandary. Help me through it.
The worst thing about letting this forum go stale for too long is trying to re-start it again. Not because there's nothing happening; far from it, in fact. The problem is: Where the hell do I start? So many topics:
But really, the question is: Do you have any real interest in hearing any more about any of that stuff? Probably not.
So I search for something instead in which you might be interested. The search so far is proving futile. I can't imagine you care about what I think about Ronald Reagan's death (enough coverage, already!) or the NBA Finals (maybe a 12-second shot clock might be a better idea, not that it would help the Lakers any) or the current state of the media industry (I'm certainly enjoying the hell out of looking at it from the outsider's point of view; it's a lot less scary.)
Then, it occurs to me that this is my forum, not yours. I'm not supposed to care what you think. I'm supposed to articulate my thoughts and present them in the written word as a catharsis for myself, not as some sort of weak source of entertainment for you. This is supposed to be All About Me.
But there's something empty and selfish in that, and I certainly don't want to be empty and selfish, especially not on your time.
Now you see my quandary. Help me through it.
Monday, May 10, 2004
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
It does too smear the entire effort
Warning: Hard left turn ahead. Hang on, or jump off now.
As a visual journalist, I've looked at a lot of really disturbing images, and have been party to decisions whether to run those images or not. The incoming photo wire shows us everything, and it's up to the editors to decide what to show you. In a run of really disturbing images from the last three years of my journalism career, one sticks out in my mind. It was from the Liberia scuffle last year, the mini-civil war that erupted. It was a picture of a skinny black man, clad only in his underwear, being worked over by uniformed members of the opposition. His face showed the fear and the humiliation in clear detail. I was very shaken up by what I saw -- I saw pictures of wars overseas every day, but this one had particular impact. They weren't just trying to hurt this guy. They were cutting him down to his very soul, and then slashing through it. It chilled me to the bone to believe that people could be that evil to other people, here in our supposedly enlightened age.
But that was Liberia. Thankfully, I live in a country that's above performing such humiliation to its enemies.
Right?
Condoleeza Rice, one of the few remaining members of the Bush Administration for whom I still have a great deal of respect -- and yeah, it's waning, too -- said this of the atrocities allegedly committed by U.S. military officials minding the Abu Ghraib internment camp in Iraq: "The actions of a few should not overshadow the many good works that are being done."
I'm sorry, Ms. Rice. I've been a strong defender of yours for nearly three years now. But you could not be more wrong.
These actions do overshadow whatever good we've allegedly done in Iraq. These actions lower us to the level of Saddam Hussein himself. We were on shaky ground, anyway, frankly. Our job was to go over there and depose Saddam and find those elusive weapons of mass destruction. We should be happy with our 1-for-2 and get the hell out. We shoudl leave so we don't waste any more American lives, and we should leave before any more crap like Abu Ghraib happens again.
High-ranking U.S. officials have been quick and strong in decrying the alleged abuses. But is that message getting through to the Arab world? You think they're broadcasting that part on al-Jazeera? Let's say the message is getting through (the Arab press is known for its objectivity and fairness, right?); one has to guess that probably something is being lost in the translation. I doubt know if there's an Arabic word for "isolated incident,"
especially not when something of this gravity is involved.
I was very much in favor of getting the job done, getting some sort of stable government set up in Iraq and getting out by June 30. Of course, I keep hearing this "June 30" date being bandied about, and I can't help but notice nobody's specifying June 30 of what year. Screw June 30. It's time to get out now, before any more stupidity occurs, before any more people die.
Look at it this way: If a few hundred thousand Iraqis swooped in and took over our shores and installed some benevolent white guy who was sympathetic to the cause as president, and then they decided to hang around for a while after that and break a few more things just to make sure we got the message that a Muslim theocracy was the best form of government ever invented, would you pick up arms against them? You'd be an "insurgent," of course, if you did. And let's say a few thousand Mexicans and Canadians decided to come in and help you out against those occupiers. Surely you'd welcome their help. But they'd be "insurgents" too, and their presence would be used as an argument that "well, we've got the Americans under control; it's these damn Mexicans and Canadians who are coming in here causing problems. The Americans welcome us with open arms."
And let's say that, despite all the good they've done in convincing us that a Muslim theocracy was the best way, some renegade Iraqi unit decided to take a few American "insurgents" prisoner and strip them down to nothing and slap hoods over their heads, and then take pictures.
If they don't like us on the "Arab street," wherever that is, we've sure as hell earned it.
Please feel free to try to convince me I'm wrong on this one. I understand what I'm saying is extreme, and I understand what I'm saying undercuts my previously stated support for our troops. And for God's sake, don't give me any crap about how "they" killed 3,000 of our innocent souls on Sept. 11, 2001. "They," the Iraqis, didn't have a goddamn thing to do with the Sept. 11 attacks. Don't cheapen the deaths of the Sept. 11 victims by saying that gave us an excuse to invade a country just because we had to bomb somebody. And sure as hell don't cheapen the deaths of the Sept. 11 victims by suggesting it's OK for Americans to become terrorists themselves.
I do support the guys who are over there just following orders and trying to get a job done and trying to leave a good impression of the United States.
And I'm sure someone, years down the road, will say that the people who committed these atrocities were just "following orders."
If that's the case, whoever gave those orders should face the ultimate punishment.
War is indeed hell. And it apparently brings out the worst in military units which are being sold to the world as being virtuous and noble.
It's time to end it. Now.
Warning: Hard left turn ahead. Hang on, or jump off now.
As a visual journalist, I've looked at a lot of really disturbing images, and have been party to decisions whether to run those images or not. The incoming photo wire shows us everything, and it's up to the editors to decide what to show you. In a run of really disturbing images from the last three years of my journalism career, one sticks out in my mind. It was from the Liberia scuffle last year, the mini-civil war that erupted. It was a picture of a skinny black man, clad only in his underwear, being worked over by uniformed members of the opposition. His face showed the fear and the humiliation in clear detail. I was very shaken up by what I saw -- I saw pictures of wars overseas every day, but this one had particular impact. They weren't just trying to hurt this guy. They were cutting him down to his very soul, and then slashing through it. It chilled me to the bone to believe that people could be that evil to other people, here in our supposedly enlightened age.
But that was Liberia. Thankfully, I live in a country that's above performing such humiliation to its enemies.
Right?
Condoleeza Rice, one of the few remaining members of the Bush Administration for whom I still have a great deal of respect -- and yeah, it's waning, too -- said this of the atrocities allegedly committed by U.S. military officials minding the Abu Ghraib internment camp in Iraq: "The actions of a few should not overshadow the many good works that are being done."
I'm sorry, Ms. Rice. I've been a strong defender of yours for nearly three years now. But you could not be more wrong.
These actions do overshadow whatever good we've allegedly done in Iraq. These actions lower us to the level of Saddam Hussein himself. We were on shaky ground, anyway, frankly. Our job was to go over there and depose Saddam and find those elusive weapons of mass destruction. We should be happy with our 1-for-2 and get the hell out. We shoudl leave so we don't waste any more American lives, and we should leave before any more crap like Abu Ghraib happens again.
High-ranking U.S. officials have been quick and strong in decrying the alleged abuses. But is that message getting through to the Arab world? You think they're broadcasting that part on al-Jazeera? Let's say the message is getting through (the Arab press is known for its objectivity and fairness, right?); one has to guess that probably something is being lost in the translation. I doubt know if there's an Arabic word for "isolated incident,"
especially not when something of this gravity is involved.
I was very much in favor of getting the job done, getting some sort of stable government set up in Iraq and getting out by June 30. Of course, I keep hearing this "June 30" date being bandied about, and I can't help but notice nobody's specifying June 30 of what year. Screw June 30. It's time to get out now, before any more stupidity occurs, before any more people die.
Look at it this way: If a few hundred thousand Iraqis swooped in and took over our shores and installed some benevolent white guy who was sympathetic to the cause as president, and then they decided to hang around for a while after that and break a few more things just to make sure we got the message that a Muslim theocracy was the best form of government ever invented, would you pick up arms against them? You'd be an "insurgent," of course, if you did. And let's say a few thousand Mexicans and Canadians decided to come in and help you out against those occupiers. Surely you'd welcome their help. But they'd be "insurgents" too, and their presence would be used as an argument that "well, we've got the Americans under control; it's these damn Mexicans and Canadians who are coming in here causing problems. The Americans welcome us with open arms."
And let's say that, despite all the good they've done in convincing us that a Muslim theocracy was the best way, some renegade Iraqi unit decided to take a few American "insurgents" prisoner and strip them down to nothing and slap hoods over their heads, and then take pictures.
If they don't like us on the "Arab street," wherever that is, we've sure as hell earned it.
Please feel free to try to convince me I'm wrong on this one. I understand what I'm saying is extreme, and I understand what I'm saying undercuts my previously stated support for our troops. And for God's sake, don't give me any crap about how "they" killed 3,000 of our innocent souls on Sept. 11, 2001. "They," the Iraqis, didn't have a goddamn thing to do with the Sept. 11 attacks. Don't cheapen the deaths of the Sept. 11 victims by saying that gave us an excuse to invade a country just because we had to bomb somebody. And sure as hell don't cheapen the deaths of the Sept. 11 victims by suggesting it's OK for Americans to become terrorists themselves.
I do support the guys who are over there just following orders and trying to get a job done and trying to leave a good impression of the United States.
And I'm sure someone, years down the road, will say that the people who committed these atrocities were just "following orders."
If that's the case, whoever gave those orders should face the ultimate punishment.
War is indeed hell. And it apparently brings out the worst in military units which are being sold to the world as being virtuous and noble.
It's time to end it. Now.
Monday, April 26, 2004
The Man
Just after a Pacific Northwest dawn on Friday, I was sifting through pages of documentation I had written for software I don't know, with Soledad O'Brien giving me the morning's news in the background. Then her sidekick, Bill Hemmer, came on with his solemn, well-we've-got-breaking-news tone.
A book was on the nightstand next to my hotel-room bed. When Hemmer finished his sentence, I threw the book across the room in genuine anger. The sentence was punctuated by 200 pages of Random House hardcover flying into a hotel-room wall.
I was really hoping for a happy end to the Pat Tillman story. You know, guy gives up promising NFL career to join the Army after Sept. 11. Guy refuses all interviews, gives up his $3 million contract, leaves his new bride behind in Arizona to join the Rangers.
It wasn't just that, though. Pat Tillman was no dumb jock with an uncontrolled aggressive streak. He graduated summa cum laude from Arizona State in 3 1/2 years, while ascending from walk-on to starter on the football team. He was picked in the seventh round by his hometown Cardinals, who were willing to risk a low pick on an undersized defensive back. He had worked his way up to a starting spot, and then to a $5 million free-agent offer from the defending champion St. Louis Rams in 2001. Out of loyalty to the Cardinals, he turned it down and took $3 million from his hapless hometown team.
After Sept. 11, a lot of us were pissed, and wanted to go kick some Taliban butt. Most of us got over it. Tillman didn't. His brother joined the Rangers. Out of loyalty to his brother, he did the same.
Some -- many -- of us might question his decision-making skill. We might question the fact that he didn't capitalize on his status as an NFL player to make a splashy entry into the service, only to take some low-risk duty so he could make a triumphant return to the field in a couple of years. The Army would have been fine with that. Would have been a great morale booster. The NFL, of course, would have been fine with that too, in the age of Terrell Owens and no-names like Joe Horn pulling out cell phones in the end zone.
I had to question myself about why the news of Pat Tillman's death threw me into a book-throwing rage, while the other 700-some deaths have simply made me sigh deeply and say a little prayer for their families. It's selfish, really. I wanted the Pat Tillman story to have a happy ending. And it just makes me angry at the monsters who created this situation in the first place.
Even without the happy ending, though, the Pat Tillman story sure as hell has a beginning and a middle that we can all respect.
Rest in peace, Man.
And that capital "M" is not a typo. It's there for a reason.
Just after a Pacific Northwest dawn on Friday, I was sifting through pages of documentation I had written for software I don't know, with Soledad O'Brien giving me the morning's news in the background. Then her sidekick, Bill Hemmer, came on with his solemn, well-we've-got-breaking-news tone.
A book was on the nightstand next to my hotel-room bed. When Hemmer finished his sentence, I threw the book across the room in genuine anger. The sentence was punctuated by 200 pages of Random House hardcover flying into a hotel-room wall.
I was really hoping for a happy end to the Pat Tillman story. You know, guy gives up promising NFL career to join the Army after Sept. 11. Guy refuses all interviews, gives up his $3 million contract, leaves his new bride behind in Arizona to join the Rangers.
It wasn't just that, though. Pat Tillman was no dumb jock with an uncontrolled aggressive streak. He graduated summa cum laude from Arizona State in 3 1/2 years, while ascending from walk-on to starter on the football team. He was picked in the seventh round by his hometown Cardinals, who were willing to risk a low pick on an undersized defensive back. He had worked his way up to a starting spot, and then to a $5 million free-agent offer from the defending champion St. Louis Rams in 2001. Out of loyalty to the Cardinals, he turned it down and took $3 million from his hapless hometown team.
After Sept. 11, a lot of us were pissed, and wanted to go kick some Taliban butt. Most of us got over it. Tillman didn't. His brother joined the Rangers. Out of loyalty to his brother, he did the same.
Some -- many -- of us might question his decision-making skill. We might question the fact that he didn't capitalize on his status as an NFL player to make a splashy entry into the service, only to take some low-risk duty so he could make a triumphant return to the field in a couple of years. The Army would have been fine with that. Would have been a great morale booster. The NFL, of course, would have been fine with that too, in the age of Terrell Owens and no-names like Joe Horn pulling out cell phones in the end zone.
I had to question myself about why the news of Pat Tillman's death threw me into a book-throwing rage, while the other 700-some deaths have simply made me sigh deeply and say a little prayer for their families. It's selfish, really. I wanted the Pat Tillman story to have a happy ending. And it just makes me angry at the monsters who created this situation in the first place.
Even without the happy ending, though, the Pat Tillman story sure as hell has a beginning and a middle that we can all respect.
Rest in peace, Man.
And that capital "M" is not a typo. It's there for a reason.