Sherlock and Mycroft are brothers, both are exceptional but as in life, one candle outshines the other. Throughout their childhood one was always more capable, more insightful and more observing than the other. That's right, Sherlock was always second fiddle.
For those of you not familiar with the Sherlock Holmes stories, allow me to shed a little light. Sherlock's brother appeared in a couple of stories and it was always mentioned that his brain was much larger that of his baby brothers. His only trouble was that he was lazy. While Sherlock would occasionally go and ask a question of him, past that he wasn't much use.
Laziness is the sapping kryptonite of potential. You can have all the potential in the world, but if your don't apply yourself, what good is it? Anyway...what was I typing? Mercy... 500 words is looking like a thousand to me right now. I think I'm just going to throw in the towel. Maybe tomorrow I'll have the desire to finish this...
...yawn
Okay okay!!
Anyway. The point is simple. Sherlock was the better of the two, not because of all the potential that he had been blessed with, but because of all the tenacity that he applied to a situation. He cataloged the various dirt's of London, had exstensive knowledge of ballistics and took a painstakingly tedious amount of time investigating a crime scene. He rarely slept while on a case and was able to overcome an opiate addiction on his own. He is the pinnacle of the fictional self made man.
So exceptionalism isn't a birthright. It's a choice. Just becuase you were born with potential doesn't mean you will amount to anything. We see people throw away their lives everyday, who had buckets of potential. Potential is nothing compared to tenacity.
We make choices every day. Good ones, bad ones and benign ones fly at us all the time. We have a choice to apply ourselves or not. Tenacious people fail frequently. They fall on their faces time and time again. The difference between tenacious people and potential people is getting back up. I've heard so many sob stories in my day, "I've had it rough." or "You don't know what I've been through." or "I'm just not as exceptional as they are."
Guff! Hogwash! Malarkey!
Doing isn't easy, but it's motion. You cannot progress without motion. All the brains in the world can't make someone go if they've got no motivation. So get up, and do it.
Go. Try. Fail. Learn. Do.
Showing posts with label editorial. Show all posts
Showing posts with label editorial. Show all posts
8 Years & Counting
"Peter if you find yourself in the same job after 5 years you have to stop and ask yourself, 'Why are you still here?'"
Chris Robertson was the first IT boss I ever had. He loved to talk, he could type 90+ words per minute and he had me convinced that IP Subneting was the hardest thing I would ever have to learn.
His theory was simple on jobs though, "In IT we aren't in it for the long haul. You should invest about 3-5 years per job. If you are looking to move on, an employer will want to know why you either left too early or stayed too long."
I've been at my current job for 8 years. That's the longest I've been anywhere. It's hard to stay in one place for so long, I feel like I'm losing my edge. Like I'm getting numb to this one environment and this one way of doing things. After a while you stop questioning why you are building networks the way you are and just accept it.
"That's the way we've always done it," is a sure sign that you don't have a clue why your design hasn't changed.
I like it here. I have an office, a stable network and I'm finally comfortable with my co-workers, but there is always a part of me looking to move on. Chris Robertson's words ring in my ear. "Why are you still here?"
His advice was given almost 15 years ago. It was the reason I left that job and the next two. I was reaching for the moon and stuffing my matress with stock options that were going to make me rich. I was trading my 9-5 Win95 knowledge for 60 hour weeks and the promise of learning network design and telecom troubleshooting.
In all reality, I owe Chris my career. If not for him I would have stayed a PC tech at a giant company and could see myself there today.
I love networking. So I made the right choice, but I wonder what he would say today. In this new economy there are people who would kill for a steady job. I suppose I should be happy, content and learn to live with this new phase.
I suppose it could be a lot worse. I could have ended up as a manager...
Chris Robertson was the first IT boss I ever had. He loved to talk, he could type 90+ words per minute and he had me convinced that IP Subneting was the hardest thing I would ever have to learn.
His theory was simple on jobs though, "In IT we aren't in it for the long haul. You should invest about 3-5 years per job. If you are looking to move on, an employer will want to know why you either left too early or stayed too long."
I've been at my current job for 8 years. That's the longest I've been anywhere. It's hard to stay in one place for so long, I feel like I'm losing my edge. Like I'm getting numb to this one environment and this one way of doing things. After a while you stop questioning why you are building networks the way you are and just accept it.
"That's the way we've always done it," is a sure sign that you don't have a clue why your design hasn't changed.
I like it here. I have an office, a stable network and I'm finally comfortable with my co-workers, but there is always a part of me looking to move on. Chris Robertson's words ring in my ear. "Why are you still here?"
His advice was given almost 15 years ago. It was the reason I left that job and the next two. I was reaching for the moon and stuffing my matress with stock options that were going to make me rich. I was trading my 9-5 Win95 knowledge for 60 hour weeks and the promise of learning network design and telecom troubleshooting.
In all reality, I owe Chris my career. If not for him I would have stayed a PC tech at a giant company and could see myself there today.
I love networking. So I made the right choice, but I wonder what he would say today. In this new economy there are people who would kill for a steady job. I suppose I should be happy, content and learn to live with this new phase.
I suppose it could be a lot worse. I could have ended up as a manager...
Stalking Minotaur's
I used to love stalking minotaurs. There was a certain patch of earth not far from my house where one could test their mettle against that voracious beast. As you lay there on your belly, inching ever closer, you could hear the sound of their hot breath as they guarded their plunder. The steady clomping of their hooves tapping out a warning cadence to any would be harassers. "This way is trouble. Steer clear mortals, if you know what is good for you."
The way the wind played at their thick mane sending the overbearing odor of sweat and blood right to your nostrils. The smell of death heightened your already keen senses. The thrill of the hunt sent your heart beating a thousand beats per minute and there was nothing in your life that could even begin to excite you as much as that did. You leapt out and seized the creature by the horns and fought will all your being until you brought the monster down!
Then one day you woke up and said to yourself, "Are you ready to catch a minotaur today? Are you ready to leap onto the back of that sweaty beast and hold on to his perilous horns and not let go?" Knowing that any failure when mounted on his back means certain death from both his ferocious prongs or giant iron axe.
"So, do you want to go stalking today?!"
"Naw... Not really feeling it. I think I'll just go throw some rocks at fawns."
Fawns. Fawns are nothing like minotaurs. They have no fire, no thrill and they are nothing to be afraid of.
They're so sheepish that they just stand there and pretend like it isn't even happening. Like some beaten down man in line at the grocery store. There he is holding on to his basket of with female sanitary napkins, soy milk and all-bran cereal. He is already humiliated by the selection of his basket and now, he is also abused. He tries to ignore the strangers child that is wildly thrashing and bumping into him. The fawn man just stands there, taking it, hoping the checkout will be over soon. He would never have the fire in his belly for simple confrontation with an irresponsible parent, much less and all out brawl with a rock tosser.
As the rocks fly there is no hunt, no thrill. He barely even raises his head in protest. He just gives you that sheepish look, as if to say, "I'm not sure what I did to deserve this attack. All I wanted was a cup of tea and some all-bran cereal. Why don't you go pick on the centaurs?"
Picking on fawns passes the time and at least you're out in the open air. But then one day you realize that months have gone by without really challenging yourself. Without a hunt, without the possibility of death, your senses have dulled and the clomping sound of hooves is now a terror inducing sound.
Why have you come back to this patch of earth? Do you really think you have what it takes to tackle a foe this large? As you lie in the grass and listen for the sound of hooves you wonder, will his be your last hunt...
Confessions of an Agressive Driver
I hate the way you drive. It actually makes me crazy. I think you're stupid, incapable and slow. If you are in my way, you are nothing more than an imbecile who I would gladly do away with if the missile launch button glued to my steering wheel was anything more than wishful thinking. I confess, I am an aggressive driver. I'm a full throttle, bumper sucking, loud mouthed, road hog. I also know that you are a lousy driver.Why is it every time I get in my car, some geriatric, Cadillac driving jerk decides to pull out right in front of me? You know the one, they drive at 10 miles BELOW the speed limit, looking outside their windows like they're hunting for garage sale signs so they can swoop in and buy some happening depression glass or a 1970's brown checked kitchen apron they're been hankering for?
When the light turns green they're still checking their perm in the gigantic rear view mirror instead of riding that accelerator, like it says to do in the drivers handbook. No use honking, it will only slow them down, as they look around bewildered until they finish adjusting the bench seat or talking about the bridge game with their dying spouse. IT MAKES ME CRAZY.
I can honestly feel the muscles in my shoulders tightening and the red glow rising up my neck.
"MOVE YOUR BOAT GRANDMA! WE STILL HAVE PLACES TO GO BEFORE WE DIE!"
And it's not just the extremely old. It's also all you loonies with your iThis and eThats in the car. Why are we taking pictures from behind the windshield or talking to Mary-Lou when there is driving to do? You don't see Richard Petty or Michael Schumacher chatting with the pit crew about which weight of oil they'd like to try on the next stop, cause, THEY'RE TOO BUSY DRIVING!
sigh... [exhale] ...okay. Calming down. I'll just pull over into the slow lane and take a quick breather....
Why are you braking?! What... Why are you. I cannot even see around you. What possessed you to buy the largest black SVU in the FREAKING WORLD anyway?! All I see are shadows of bodies moving inside. Are you having a picnic in there. Are you bathing your children. What could you possibly be slowing for when all the other lanes are speeding by... too fast for me to even merge. Now me and this colossal line of followers are stuck behind you...
An accident. You were inspecting an accident. Fantastic. Were you able to lend assistance? Did you help the wounded? I'm sure the police and fire department appreciated your assistance. No. You just needed to SLOW DOWN AND LOOK!? YOU know what! I didn't even glance at it. I stayed cemented to your bumper the entire time. You know why. BECAUSE IT HAD ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH ME?!) #)%$ *&@!
I hate the way you drive. All of you. People slower than me are jerks and folks who pass me are maniacs. I think I just stole that from someone, but right now, I don't care. I just want to get off this road before I start ramming into Hondas and Fords....
Monday's Passing
I just had a very good Monday. I came in to work today, wondering what I was going to be doing, and ended up spending 8 hours shooting trouble on an elusive issue. At 4:16 the solution was acquired and the inevitable clarity of hindsight clicked into place. I looked up and realized that I had consumed 1 liter of coffee, a banana, a smoothie and most of my day. I found that I was completely happy. If you don't have a job you enjoy to do, I'm sorry. I've worked in plenty of places where jumping ship was always on my mind. There were days that I spent at Best Buy were I just wanted to punch someone square in the jaw. Of course, there were also great days. Days when I learned something new, or enjoyed the company of my co-workers. The trouble is, it's much easier to recall the bad days? Why is that?
I suppose it is because, we tend to appreciate them more, in a way. You can recount them to friends. You garner sympathy or laughs depending on how you tell it. You use them to build a little castle of woe, that can then be showed off to your family and acquaintances. It makes you feel good to wallow in the bad.
You get the attention of others, "Look at all I had to endure today." Attention is addicting (Ask anyone with a blog) and people tend to dwell on the negative rather than the positive. It's our culture, where sarcasm and cynicism are rewarded as wit and humor. Or sympathy is doled out while we simultaneously elevate ourselves as better over those who's woes we are listening to.
Believe me, I understand it. In fact I'm a master of it. I need to curb that tendency.
Why is it that no one shares with friends if they had a good day?
"Had this horrible customer that called me a 'sniffle stiffing jerk-off' in front of my boss!"
"What?! That's horrible!"
"Yeah, and I'm not even sure that I know what that means. What about you."
"Me? I had a great day! So-"
"Oh... Sue? What about you?"
So why can't a near perfect work day not be worth noting? We should all get excited when we say, "I had a great day." Instead of just thinking it's no big deal.
Most of us have to work for a living. Considering the sheer amount of our lives that we will spend working for our paycheck, we should be actively looking for the good in that day. Today was good, and I hope I remember it the next time I have a bad day.
Monday was good. I've got great hopes for Tuesday...
For the Love of Ants
They aren't slimy like a worm. They aren't poisonous like a millipede. They don't consume their spouses like a preying mantis. They don't sting like a bee or stink like a beetle. I've never heard them disturb my peace like those loud, good for nothing grasshoppers. They don't suck your blood like a tick or make you itch like a louse. They are just devoted to their work.
They are true blue and loyal. They always obey their mother, and work tirelessly for the betterment of their colony. Ants can carry things much heavier than themselves. As any entomologist will tell you, that makes them the perfect Sherpa to scale any mountian with a pack full of food.
"Wait. Where did you guys get all that food?"
"My counter top!"
"How many of you are there?!"
"Thousands!"
What can be more lonesome than an ant? A filthy dirty scavenger! What creature could be a better example of a low life bottom feeder? Bees are like the farmers of the insects world. Cultivating pollen which will be converted into honey for their nourishment. They work the plants and add to the food supply of other animals. Worms recycle garbage into rich useable soil. And while quite macabre, at least the preying mantis supplies her own dinner. (I still hate grasshoppers though, nothing is changing that opinion.)
But ants?! What do they do. They invade! They steal. They do it so blatantly that you cannot ignore them. One or two become dozens. Dozens become hundreds and hundreds become thousands, until your entire kitchen counter top is black shifting mass of larceny!
STOP TAKING MY FOOD!
Ants. There is no reasoning with their kind. All they understand is violence. I am a murder. I've killed hundreds. Thousands. They keep coming, but I will be victorious. I plan to eradicate an entire civilization. I have no remorse. How can you? If you show any weakness they will exploit it. There are no treaties, boarders or agreements. No, there is only one option; the ants must die.
The Mayans Were Right
I have been neglecting my blog, not because I have nothing to say, but because I cannot think of anything amusing. The truth is lately I've been rather depressed. As far as I'm concerned 2012 has lived up to all its dire predictions and I will not be the least surprised if the world came to a fiery end before I complete this posting.March 2012
Dear Diary,
I have to admit, I'm feeling pretty good. I've lost over 30lbs of nasty clinging body fat since January 1st. My clothes feel better, I wake up on time and work has become rather interesting. 2012 is looking like a fairly good year!
April 2012
Dear Diary,
The wife thinks she's pregnant. I was supportive. but honestly I have to say, When a man spends a week recovering from a painful operation that will 'stop you from producing any more offspring' you presume all that pain and suffering had a point! It's like a contract. You let them slice open a sensitive area, while you're awake, and in return you don't have to buy any more diapers! I feel like someone is in breach of contract. Dear Lord in heaven, I think I need to go throw up again...
May 2012
Dear Diary,
Even though it turns out that I am completely infertile (thank you all that is holy) we have decided to sell our house. Hopefully it will all go according to plan...
June 2012
Dear Diary,
When I said hopefully it will all go according to plan, I meant my plan. Not some crazy persons plan! Some lunatics, going-to-walk-through-your-house-every-4-hours-and-make-you-leave-for-an-hour-at-a-time-but-not-put-a-offer-in-on-your-house, plan. That's not the plan I was working from. I cannot imagine this can go on forever.
August 2012
Dear Diary,
Apparently it can go on forever. Actually that's not completely true. We did get an offer, that after 17 days into escrow was pulled out from under us like the proverbial rug. I have nothing but good thoughts for Jose and Nubia with dreams of dry rot, infestation and adjustable rate mortgages with a non reputable leading houses in their immediate future.
September 2012
Dear Diary,
After two more deals have fallen through, we've decided to take the house off the market. I suggested we burn it to the ground in celebration. Patricia seems against the idea. Maybe she'll warm up to. Get it?!
September 2012
Dear Diary,
Work sucks. I had to skip a training, got bumped off the one interesting project this year and now I cannot find a single reason to be motivated to come in and work. Well... I do have to pay my mortgage. Is that irony or just a terribly sad truth of life?
September 2012
Dear Diary,
It's a good thing I lost those 34 lbs in March because if I hadn't I would be 70lbs heavier right now and not just 36lbs....
November 2012
Dear Diary,
The election is over. I don't want to talk about it...
November 2012
Dear Diary,
December is fast approaching. I'm looking forward to 2013. Or an asteroid falling on San Francisco and sending us all into the drink. I'm not sure which sounds better at this point.
Another Day At The Office
As I sit here in my office staring at quad core computers, large LCD monitors, high end speakers, company laptops and friendly office white boards all I can think is, "I really want to steal something!" Must be September 19th again...Pirates are a free and happy bunch. Back in a time when men in powdered wigs, breeches, high heels and ruffled collars ruled the land what was a free thinker to do if you wanted to get away from it all?
Not working meant ruining up debts, and debtors prison in the eighteenth century was not a friendly sort of place. If you didn't live among the gentry you could always try your hand at manual labor, but the outlook offered a fairly diminishing return.
Well, you could pack your bags, move to Brazil and start up a coffee plantation! But that took a fair amount of money. You had to buy the land, buy the trees, buy the slaves. Spend, spend, spend. Plus, think of all the responsibility it requires to tend to an enterprise such as that? No...after a quick assessment the idea was really beginning to look a lot like work.
So? Ditch the hygiene and grab your cutlass.
A pirate ship offered something for nothing. Much like the modern welfare system only without the hassle of government forms, nagging dependents or pesky calls from social services inquiring into your supposed daily job hunt. No, piracy was real freedom.
No rules, no regulations, no disinfectants and a projected lifespan shorter than the average celebrity marriage. Plus if anyone wanted half of you booty you could just cut his throat and be on with it.
Sure there were some drawbacks. First you were on ship filled only with men which means you had to wait until you set into the slip before you could find someone to wash your duds or darn your socks. But at least you never had wipe your feet to enter a room, figure out which towels were for the guests, decipher complex emotional states or let your mates have 'just a sip' from your mead mug.
The good though, far out-weighed the bad. For as the stiffs on land, with their powdered wigs, were just a few coins richer for their days labor, you had accomplished so much more.While your dirty shipmates sing songs and eat roasted pig, you sit comfortably gulping down your rum and telling the bar wench of your day. A day ended by you burning that trim young sloops mast to a smoldering heap and then loading up all the heavy trunks into your waiting hold. Sure, you tell her, It was hard work relieving the passengers of all those shiny bits and expensive clothes before bidding them off this mortal coil with a lead ball from your blunderbuss but you managed to get through it. She exchanges you a refill for an ill gotten coin from your ever diminishing purse and you sit back and bask in the glow of your life choice.
Ah another workday is done and you're eager for the spray of salt air in your lungs, the smell of burning timbers at your nose and cries of those poor saps who will be supporting the next evenings purchases and slightly embellished stories ringing in your dirty pirate ears.
Giving Myself An Ulcer
I'm giving myself an ulcer. It's an early birthday present. I haven't done anything nice for me in a while and thought maybe I should correct that. So this is what I came up with. Loads of unnecessary stomach acid churned with my doubt, anxiety and penchant for eating away all my troubles. A truly unique present, that is presently always present.So... We bought our house in January of 2005. What many now realized to be the highest peak of the California housing market in the last 20 some odd years, if not ever. We sunk in about $100,000 of money that we made from a previous sale. After 7 years of blissful homeownership we have turned that $100,000 worth of equity into -$30,000. I put it in red becuase it's so much more festive that way...
Hang on, I need a Tums.
Sigh. Okay, where was I? Right, drowning in a sea of former equity and listening to the sound of my stomach digesting its own lining.
One morning, in the not too distant past my lovely bride of 14 years turns over in bed and says, "Peter. I want to sell our house"
Not exactly what I was expecting, but okay. We had walked this path before about a year earlier and I had already decided that we couldn't possibly get what we needed to out of this place this we lovingly refer to as, "The place where our future died a cold and meaningless death." It's hard to put that on envelopes so we normally just abbreviate it as "home."
"We looked at the market just recently"
"I know, but I think it's possible."
After a brief conversation, I decided to acquiesce. I mean who cares what I think? If I'm right nothing will come of it and if I'm wrong... well, then we can sell this place and move into something more suitable.
"Let's try it."
So we did. And we are. The house has been on the market for about 10 days or so. I had forgotten what selling was like. The last time we sold we were in a boom market. We put our house on the market and had to beat away buyers with a stick. In fact we even got a bidding war and accepted an offer above our original listing.
That isn't what we've got now. In 10 day's we've had about a dozen and a half people come and look at it. Which means that at a moments notice we get two kids in the car and scramble around making the house look as inviting as possible. Counter tops are cleared of toys, towels, trinkets and tchotchkes.
These things are crammed in drawers, the dishwasher, the refrigerator or anywhere it will not be noticed by potential buyers. Including in the car with us.
Anyway that's been the last 10 days. Loads of lookers and no buyers. I feel like a retail clerk at the Neiman Marcus store. I have no idea what will be happening or if we will be moving or not, but the worrying about everything and stressing over things I cannot help to control is turning me into a nervous wreck.
I NEED CONTROL! I MUST HAVE THE REINS OF POWER!
*thud*
Sorry, I just passed out there.
Okay...
Calming down...
Phew...
Breathe...
I'm not sure how I'm going to top this gift next year. Maybe I'll just give myself a lobotomy...
Giving Away The Internets
When did we start giving away the Internet? Who decided that we couldn't charge for this anymore? Why is everyone convinced that free Internet is what we need more of in this world? Not that I'm complaining. Well, maybe I am.
Do you remember the sound of dial-up? That sweet minute or so of anticipation while you waited with bated breath for the connection protocols to finish their handshake?
"Hello, sir"
"Good morning!"
"I'm looking for 33.6k"
"Sorry best I can do is 3200 baud"
"Ah.. are you sure? I can try back later?"
"No, no... that's the best we can do."
"Alright. Shake on it?"
"Agreed. Welcome to the Internet"
And then you were on the Internet and all else was near utopia. Chatting with people halfway around the world, electronic mail and text based gaming. Could the world possibly get any better? For me this experience cost me plenty. @ 16 I bought an AST computer for $2,100 from Circuit City. I paid for my own phone line in my bedroom and paid monthly for my Prodigy service. And it was worth every red cent it cost me.
Now here we are in 2012 just giving it away.
Yesterday I spent most of the day setting up free WiFi in our buildings. Free. No strings attached. You connect, you get on and then browse the web for nothing. No $2100 computer, no phone line no prodigy service.
What do they think people in my office are going to use this for? Edification? Looking up facts for clients? Searches for how to replace commas in Excel spreadsheets with a return carriage? No. They can already do that on our corporate Internet connection. They will use free Internet browsing for all those things we are blocking on our corporate LAN. A direct stream to all the stuff I spend months of time try to protect the network from.
Who needs anti-virus, anti-spam, web filtering and IPS level protection when folks can now connect their corporate computers to the free Internet and get all that unhindered via the free Wi-fi?
Because people need the Internet, for checking Facebook, Googling pictures of Abraham Lincoln and reading stupid blogs...
Wireless Installation
These are little square devices that connect to the metal frameworks that support false ceilings. It allowed me to learn a couple of things.
1. Ceiling tiles are evil
2. People love to watch other people work
I have enough ceiling tile dust in my eyes, hair, ears and collected in my shoes and open pockets to tile the ceiling of a new building. I also have a pretty fare idea that I don't like the way ceiling tile dust tastes. Who needs fiber cereal when you could ingest ceiling tile dust.
"CST- The REGULATOR!"
Plus the little buggers take a downright maniacal pleasure in not functioning as designed. You can pop one out but have you ever tried to get one to re-seat properly in the framework? Impossible. Not going to happen. You need pop out an adjacent tile in order to wrap your finger around to push down the first one. Now of course you have a different tile up. Give it a wiggle. Nothing. A tap. Nada. Then you pry it, push it, squeeze it, grab it, force it, jam it and curse it. All the while teetering back and forth on your ladder trying to get some leverage on this horrible little beast!
So you end up having to pop up some 20 odd tiles moving the wedged up corner from tile to tile hoping that the next one will be slightly loose and just fall back down in place. As it was, of course, designed to do.
Luckily though, you're not alone. No sir, you've got an audience. A whole building of workers who never say hello, but will watch you out of the corner of their eye. If you turn around to look their heads whip back and they pretend that they didn't notice you.
"What? A 230lb tech wrestling ceiling tiles for the last 20 minutes? In this building?!"
Not that I really want to chat with anyone when I'm busying playing Whack-A-Mole with the tiles.
"Whatcha you doing?"
"Installing stuff"
"What kinda stuff"
"Cisco 1400 Wireless Access Points."
"For what?"
"Wireless. It's even in the name..."
"Why do you have to plug them in if they're wireless?"
"..."
So, I was on my last one of the day with very few interruptions. I'd gotten through almost all of my ceiling tile madness when someone rounds the corner and looks up at me.
"Whatcha you doing?"
Sigh... Here we go.
And then out of nowhere it came to me and I spurted this off without missing a beat:
"As part of the new green initiative we're installing these new collectors. They absorb negative thoughts from the employees and we turn that into energy to power the servers."
He looked at me, looked up at the wireless controller and said, "Wow. What will they think of next." And then he walked away.
Unbelievable. Or, apparently not.
Kludge Klassic: A Sneaker Suspicion
I was sitting comfortably at my desk, earning my living, when something tickled my ankle bone. This unknown then began to work its way down between my shoe and foot towards my sole. There was only the thin cotton of my sock protecting me from this unknown thing. I looked, very calmly down at my shoe, and didn’t see anything. There could be no real doubt about it though, there is something in my shoe. I have an unnatural fear of bugs, and while some of you will not understand, the idea of an insect in my shoe makes me uneasy. I have visions of spiders, or ear wigs burrowing down into my canvas. Making themselves at home in my cross trainer, and dining on the only available meat when the urge hits them. Add to this the fact that these shoes are on thier last leg and there is a fairly large hole in the one sneaker I'm focused on. After a slight hesitation, I shoved my finger in between the shoe and sock.
“All clear Capitan”
“Proceed to Shoecom 4”
“Captain, what about the smell?”
“Move it soldier!”
I removed my shoe. Nothing. Nada. I shook the shoe violently; I know that there is something in my shoe!
“Peter…” The Boss!
“Hey Boss” I usually call him ‘boss’ especially when startled, “I was working on that TPS report you wanted for…”
“You okay?” He questioned, eying me with a slight suspicion.
“Oh… my foot hurt…that’s all.” I said, looking as nonchalant as possible. This is a little difficult with a shoe in hand.
Once the coast was clear I attacked my right sided smelly shell with a new ferver. There was something in my shoe. I was now looking for a nylon thread, or similar lifeless explanation. I've had this happen before and I was sure I would find something to explain the uncomfortable feeling from earlier. Nothing. Nada.
I left it off for a few minutes in case whatever was in there was hiding and I would soon catch with my well honed spy skills. I waited and it waited. I waited longer and it waited longer. This worked out much the way you would expect. I decided it was ridiculous.
So I put my shoe back on. It was not more than ten minutes later when something tickled my ankle bone. There is something in my shoe!
The Practice Of Dovetails
As everyone with half a brain knows, dovetail joints are the hardest joint to make in woodworking. People with whole brains however, dispute this fact and are generally more articulate at expressing their views.I like power tools. They're fast, reliable and make for cuts that are highly repeatable. When it comes to working with hand tools, none of those things can be said about me. I'm slow, sloppy and highly erratic. Still, I'm also stubborn and pig headed, so that makes me want to continue trying something until I get it right.
Enter in the dovetails. This is a joint that proves that you have the skills required to be a craftsman. A good clean dovetail makes people want to get up a cheer. So that's the goal. cheering crowds of people when they see my joinery. I like to set reasonable expectations on all aspects of my life.
The trouble is it's actually hard. It's really hard. I don't know what I expected it to be, but hard wasn't on the list. Tricky, challenging, fun. Right fun was on the list.
Shrug. Where do we get these ideas from anyway? You see people doing this all the time.
(Two minutes into marathon) "What the hell was I thinking!?"
(On third coat with paint in your eye) "What the hell was I thinking!?"
(45 minutes into chiseling out waste on a set of pins) "Don't I have a machine I could do this with?"
And in fact I do...
Three Short Months
Three months is a long time. It funny because it doesn't feel that long but it is. Three months ago I did something kinda crazy. I went on a juice diet. I drank my breakfast lunch and dinner for 10 days. 10 days sounded like a piece of cake when I started. I was such a fool back then.
It's been almost three months since my first juicing diet. (Jan 8th 2012) Since I started I've lost a total of 31lbs. It's a great start, and I feel good, but I'm a big guy and still have another 30-40 lbs to go.
So, I started another 10 day juice fast last Saturday. It's amazing how you can tend to forget how horrible something really was with just a few short months of time.
Trackballs and the Promise of the Future
Trackballs look like the future. They are sleek, odd and different. They do exactly what mice do, but do it while looking awesome. Trackballs are a vision of tomorrow. Except......they don't quite live up to that hope. They don't work any better than mice, in fact in some ways they are less useful. They tend to gum up pretty easily, and require frequent cleaning. In addition to that, they're kinda gross. Rolling your hand over nasty germs, dirt and all those dead cells from other people who might have rolled your trackball.
But...the ball is really fun to play with. Sometime you want to take it out and just roll it in your hand. You sit there playing with it and rolling it around and start to think to yourself, "I wonder if I do that thing that the Goblin King did in Labyrinth, and roll it up and over my fingers?" You then think about David Bowie in really tight leather pants. After you force breakfast back down your throat, you grab tightly to your trackball ball and give it a try. Surprise, surprise...
...it drops. With a loud THUD and rolls across the ground and under a metal filing cabinet and there you are. Metal filing cabinets are NOT anything like the future. They are the past.
They hold the relics of a part remembered memory. Those sections of your your mind that you printed out in hope of preserving knowledge. Knowledge that got edged out of your brain in desire to retain more useful information. Information like the all the dialogue in Star Wars: A New Hope, and every IP addresses of DNS servers from companies that have long since been dismantled. (216.174.194.53) There is nothing new to be learned from a filing cabinet except what you might have already forgotten.
So you find yourself down on all fours; face to the ground, on your dirty office floor peering under a filthy filing cabinet searching for your future. How is this anything like the promise you were offered not mere moments ago? See the overly simplified analogy? The future is like a trackball, and if you're not careful you'll find yourself stuck in the past wondering what happened to your hope.
The Book Parade
My wife loves is when the local library has their book sale. She spends hours perusing and then comes home with a load of grocery bags full of books we never read.The Outdated Western Farms Garden- How to maintain your garden in bell bottoms and leisure suits.
The Router Handbook- 100 completely unsafe things to do with your 1/2 hp fixed base router in a series of poorly drawn diagrams.
The Jello Book - A disturbing collage of chiffon dresses, pipe smoking dads and lobster shaped jello molds.
The English Breakfast Book- Jellied Eels and everything else you never wanted to know about what British people will put on toast.
The Whispers of Tarnis- Book 25 of a 85 book fantasy series, that you will never understand without the 24 previous books.
Discovering Inner Failings- A self help book written to show you why you need another self help book.
Silicon Valley in 1979- How boring people can take a boring subject and craft it into the definitively useless coffee table book.
How To Clean Practically Anything- Whisk aways hours you could be spending with your kids or spouse agonizing over a stain that no one ever even noticed.
Anything by Charles Dickens- Why even your worst childhood memories are better that anything that ever happened to people in a Dickens novel.
The next one is coming in April. I'll try to contain myself...
Fantastically Lacking Post Collage
In looking over the suggestions remaining in the Will Work For Posts post I decided to combine them into a fantastically lacking post collage. Why a collage? It sounds better than hodgepodge....I don't think this was so much a suggestion as just a reader being polite. Sort of, "I kinda liked it when you lost your mind and driveled on about nonsense for like 400 words." I'm glad you liked that and equally surprised that you got through the post in it's entirety. These posts are a main reason why I blog. To get this stuff out of my brain.
My wife used to have to listen to my hair-brain theories at length while driving in the car or lying in bed. She too is glad that I now post them instead of talking to her about them. Don't fret, more like this will always be supplied by my semi-broken brain. Stick around...
No. I would actually die. I have enough embarrassing stories, I don't need my eulogy to be one as well...
Totally got this one... I uh... because aliens...er unicorns...no...ah because they're stupid. Yeah. They're a bunch of dummies.
I honestly don't know. I really want to make something cool out of this one, but I'm failing. You win, Tim. I got nothing. Sorry.
Having two kids I have found out that they really don't make any sense. Who programs the new kid models coming down the pipe?! Has it always been like this? Did our parents just pretend that we were smart because they didn't want to lose face in front of their friends?
For a while I thought it was just my kids. My eldest girl, Alexis has down syndrome. More often than not Alexis makes sense. You can't explain things to her, and she's not caught up developmentally but she rarely behaves in a matter that doesn't make sense. We turn off the TV and she gets mad. We tell her we have to brush her hair, she cries. We tickle her and she laughs. It's not easy, but it is logical.
Hannah, my five year old, on the other hand is broken. She refuses to go to the bathroom until the last possible second. She has to scream and run in an effort to 'keep the pee in" She likes corn, peas, salad and refuses to eat pop tarts.
She can fall and scrape up half the skin on her legs and be fine. "No big deal Dad, see? It doesn't hurt," but put a fly in the room and she'll start bawling and freaking out.
They're all broken models with buggy code. I can't think of any other explanation. We have to keep upgrading them with knowledge and hope their little processors can handle the strain...
Thanks everyone for the ideas! I appreciate it!
Slamming Headache
Suggestion by HMC4ever12 : "What are your thoughts on slam poetry? have you ever been in/seen a performance?"I have a headache. Not one of those little nagging ones. I mean a real mother-lode type headache. The type where you can feel the blood pulsing through your skull "thump-thump. thump-thump" It's rhythm is haunting, its beat is entrancing and the pain of it is just at the edge of bearable. It hurts you but in a strange way...you almost like it. You wear it like a badge of honor, a shield of office. I'm tough enough, I'm strong enough to feel all this pain and keep on going. I can handle the harrowing, throbbing, pulsing, pushing, pain that is Slam Poetry.
I know that's the cause this headache. It all started with HMC4ever12's comment to my "Will Work For Posts" entry. Seriously. I looked at that comment for a week straight thinking to myself. Yeah, maybe I'll try to tackle that one. I seems like a fun premise for a post. I was thinking of some 1960's stereotype, sporting a goatee, black turtleneck and round dark sunglass. There he is in his beret, sipping a latte snapping his fingers and yammering on about nonsense.
That is not slam poetry. Slam poetry is a headache waiting to pounce on you. I watched about a dozen performances on the net at various Slam Poetry Soapboxes. Apparently the heart of this competition is the urbanizing of poetry. You dress casually, grooming is optional and the audience is allow to hoot or hail with interruptions. Walt Witman, Lord Byron and Odgen Nash would have no place here. Slam poetry isn't for the aristocrat, it's for the great unwashed.
Yeah that's right, it's for the little guy! A way to let his voice be heard by the man! You can't rhyme, but you are allowed to yell. Yelling means you're passionate. Oh and swearing. Swearing means you're REALLY passionate. You would think that poets would be able to find more descriptive words to relate their meaning to the ever 'hooting' crowd but not so. Adjectives, it seems, are a tool of the upper crust and not for use in Slam Poetry. The more swearing the more hooting from the gallery and the better your score.
So, while it might not be for me I can certainly see the appeal. I used to perform poetry in completion very similar to that. In college I was in many interpretive speech competitions. It was fun. I liked the crowds, the other competitors and the way it felt to bring life (or death) to a piece of poetry. Besides the microphones, hooting calls, swearing, yelling and dreadlocks it almost took me back to my college days...
...almost.
Is There Pork in Heaven?
Suggestion by QueenBear: "Why don't you tell us what happens to people when they die? Do their spirits stay with us? Or are they in some other dimension where they don't have anything to do with us? Or do we just turn to dirt? What do you think?"Thanks for the question! We've all heard stories of ghost sightings and strange occurrences regarding the great beyond. Houses where people swear they are haunted by the spirit of a soul unwilling to ascend into heaven. Seems strange to me a soul not willing to climb the steps to the pearly gates in order to remain on this mortal plane, and then it occurred to me. The truth of it depends on a single question, "Is there any pork in heaven?"
We all know that Jesus said that his Father was busy making houses for us in heaven. Apparently it wasn't only his Earthly dad that was a carpenter, but also his heavenly one. This means that if we're game then we have digs in heaven. Golden mansions in a perfect world. Considering God's other creations it should be pretty boss up there... where ever that may be.
But we also know that Man was created after God's own image and that the Jewish people are Gods chosen people. We also know that Orthodox Jews don't eat cloven toes animals, a category that three of my favorite animals are included in; the ham animal, the sausage animal and the bacon animal. That of course begs that next question... is God down with pork? Maybe that's why he outlawed it among his people.
"This one is no good."
"What do you mean God, this animal is perfect. Eve and I love the pig!"
"No. It's too good, too much flavor and possibilities. It's banned, off the list. Got it?"
"Okay... What are we going to do with all these?"
"You can keep them around in case we need to send an evil spirit into it or something..."
I know that the possibilities of the lack of bacon topside one of my primary concerns and so I figure it's something on the minds of all my readers. Lets delve further into this...
We know that in the book of Acts Peter claimed a vision that told him it was cool to eat pigs. Something that apparently was a bit of a shock to him. In addition it told him it was cool to dine with Gentiles which was even more of a shock. Peter had a lot of crazy ideas (yeah I kind of liked him) including going Van Gogh on some soldiers ear and hanging to death by his feet. (not my first pick method of leaving this world)
So the question is, was Peter right and did God say he was fine with the idea, or was Peter just smelling some amazing pork BBQ at the Centurions house and had an episode? I don't rightly know. (as you can probably guess, theology has never been my strong suit) I would like to believe that even if God didn't like pork, lamb, goat or other unclean animals he would suffer us having them. Sort of like the way vegetarians all look down at us critter crunchers but still will dine with us.
So that's what I think. People go to heaven, and hopefully when we get there we can have pork chops, apple sauce and a big hunk of leavened bread.
Peters Theorem of Domestic Relativity
Albert Einstein said lots of stuff. I'm sure most of you are aware of that. Some of the things he said makes sense to me. Most of what he said made sense to no one but the most brilliant minds on Earth. Odds are if you are reading this blog, you're not too smart either. Which means that no matter how much I screw up his theories no one reading this is ever going to know!Now that we have established a baseline for this post, let me continue. One of Einstein's big ideas was that all motion was relative. Which means that time was relative to motion as well. Which means that although we perceive time as being a constant it could change depending on how fast you get going. In grade school we were told that if you could travel at the speed of light you would perceive the passage of time differently then those who were not traveling at the speed of light. A week to you traveling at light speed might be equal to a decade or so for those not traveling that speed.
This is getting complicated...let me try again.
You go fast -> time slows down.
You slow down -> time speeds back up.
So what if this were true when you weren't traveling at light speed? What about other times in life?
Two people can perceive time totally differently. For instance, when you have no obligations doesn't time seems to fly by? Like vacation?
"This is the longest day of vacation I've ever had in my life!"
"I know. I just sit and relax, sit and relax and it's still only 9 O'clock!"
Never. Lets be honest, vacations always fly way too fast. Am I right? And work seems to drag on till there is no end in sight! If it didn't who would ever complain about having to go to work?!
"Off to work! See you soon!!"
So if we all experience the same perception of the passage of time relative to our situation then who's to say it's not true? If it is true then there a few things to take note of.
First is that when time is moving more slowly you are moving more quickly and therefore aging less. Which means that on vacation you're just dying quicker than you would at work. That's a nice way to think of it when others leave for fun in the sun and you can't. Replace jealously with pity and know that your life just got longer relative to theirs.
Of course if the corporations ever got hold of this information the propaganda campaigning would be unbearable.
Some of you are saying to yourselves right now, "How much younger do you think I am, now that I've just mucked through 500 words of this crap?" Well, instead of contempt, you should be thanking me for all those wrinkles I just saved you! Of course right now it's just a theory, but hey you never know...
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