nobody asked…

And now, girls and boys, a little change of pace as we cruise into the weekend…

Thanks to Jackie Sue and her cousin Big Tex for holding the lantern while I found this.

1. Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than going to a garage makes you a mechanic.
2. Artificial intelligence is no match for natural stupidity.
3. If you must choose between two evils, pick the one you haven’t tried before.
4. There is no evidence to support the notion that life is serious.
5. It is easier to get forgiveness than permission.
6. For every action there is an equal and opposite government program.
7. If you look like your passport picture, you probably need the trip.
8. Eat well, stay fit, die anyway.
9. Men are from earth. Women are from earth. Deal with it.
10. Junk is stuff you keep for years and throw away the week before you need it.
11. Experience is a wonderful thing. It enables you to recognize a mistake when you make it again.
12. Blessed are they who laugh at themselves for they shall never cease to be amused.

Actual conversation I overheard today in a convenience store while trying to pay for a cup of coffee. The young woman cashier was enmeshed in what sounded like a quiet, defensive argument with an olive-skinned gentleman, who I took to be her supervisor. The subject had something to do with an earlier transaction by a woman who was paying for lottery tickets with a $100 bill. As the clerk waved her hands side to side, from the lottery ticket cabinet to the cash register, back and forth, explaining the details of those proceedings, she made a statement in a somewhat higher volume and pitch than she had previously used. This certainly persuaded me…

I know I did it, because I don’t remember not doing it.

The prosecution rests…

[URGENT UPDATE: Dr. Weevil made a comment over at CGHill's dustbury site (Thank you CG for the memorial link...) that he believes September, 1997, was 10-1/2 years ago and not the 11-1/2 years I mentioned below. I gently reminded the good Doctor that he had obviously not taken three things into account:

1. Y2K
2. Daylight Savings Time
3. Here, we count using the admittedly controversial Tennessee rules.

However, in keeping with my Southern Gentlemanness, I acknowledge Dr. Weevil's eagle eye and promise not to try improving upon future calculations...]

[Hum to the tune of Simon & Garfunkle's Sound of Silence ... "Hello darkness, my old friend..."]

Have you ever had a wart or mole removed? One that had been with you for many years? One that was as familiar as it was ugly? A couple of weeks ago I had such a bittersweet experience when shutting down the last of the Novell Netware Servers that we built, sold, and supported.

When I got into the business in the mid-eighties, Netware was all the rage for small as well as big businesses. At first it was Netware 2.xx through a couple of iterations. Then came Netware 3.xx, with the almost usable 3.22 being a soft landing spot. But before we could get too cozy with that, Novell in their stupidity wisdom delivered the 4 series, partially in response to a pesky upstart in the network server business, Microsoft, who dominated the desktop, where Novell did not compete. But now, that arrogant Redmond, Washington, gang had the audacity to challenge the arrogant Provo, Utah, group with something called Windows NT Server 3.51, aimed squarely at eating Novell’s Netware lunch in the small and medium business market. 3.51 was about as big a dog as the current day Vista, but it rattled a lot of cages and paved the way for Windows NT Server 4, which ran Novell’s Netware out of town on a rail.

The Netware Server pictured here was IntraNetware 4.11 for Small Business, running on a box built by my little company. Except for shutdowns every 2 to 3 years for replacement of batteries in the UPS (battery backup), this system has stood there spinning, serving up files and managing network printing since September 15, 1997! That is 11-1/2 years, friends! They just don’t make ‘em the way we used to!

Netware was clumsy, cryptic, difficult, ornery, and unforgiving. And stable as a friggin’ boulder. This little single purpose network, with server as described, and three MS-DOS 6.22 workstations, was about as solid and trouble-free as a network can be. There was not a mouse in sight and no internet connection. There was no way for viruses to get in and no need for routine patches and fixes. Life was simple. Life was good. Enter Microsoft…

[All photos can be dimensionally exploded with a single click.]

For the terminally curious, the server box was built around an Intel Server Board with a genuine Intel Pentium 166 MHz Processor, a whopping 32 MB of RAM, and a 1.2 GB Seagate IDE Hard Drive, housed in a heavy-duty server grade enclosure with 200 Power Supply. Network was 10BaseT Ethernet, all 3Com gear. And with that pitifully low horsepower, which would not be enough to display Windows’ opening splash screen, this server ran like a scared rabbit…

The way I figure it, I get a free bottle of Jack Daniels every year. Age has a way of diminishing consumption, or at least shifting preferences, meaning I drink far less Jack than I did in my earlier days, but it remains my favorite booze for the occasional celebratory shot. Whether taken neat or on the rocks, it is the perfect way, for me at least, to celebrate — whatever — the fact that it is Tuesday, or my birthday, or that it is not a special occasion of any kind. A bottle of this local product, what we call the nectar of the gods, costs about $20, so a freebie is not to be scoffed at.

A few pennies here, a quarter there, and oh… a dime over there. I make a lot of stops at convenience stores as I travel the highways and byways, sniffing out computers and networks in distress. Sometimes I stop for an infusion of coffee, other times to unload earlier consumption. I frequently pull into a parking lot to use the cell phone in safety. And I find money. Everywhere. Most of it is in pennies, but all the larger coins are there too. Recently, I even found a $1 bill fluttering around in the parking lot behind a branch bank.

Where does this orphaned currency come from. Is it there in the parking lot of the convenience store by accident? Was it purposely left there for reasons I could not understand? Perhaps this is a manifestation of some Intelligent Design scheme that is playing out just for me, with the aim of keeping me supplied with Tennessee sipping whiskey. But mostly, the loose change that can be found almost everywhere can be attributed to teens and young single adults. They have no respect for coinage, don’t want to be bothered with it, don’t like how it weights them down, so they just discard it wherever they happen to be. They throw away money! If it is not plastic or at least a $5 bill, it is trash to them. Don’t believe me? Ask them. Check out a parking lot at places they frequent, after they’re gone. As inflation and exchange rates continue to devalue the dollar, I expect so soon find more paper money. A few $5s or a couple of $10s each week would take care of my chardonnay thirst…

One estimate a few years ago calculated Bill Gates income at about $250 per second, concluding that he would not bother picking up anything less than a $1,000 bill since it takes about 4 seconds to stop, pickup it up, pocket it, and move on. Whether the numbers are close or not, it’s just a silly little story that does make a valid point. But it doesn’t apply to me. I’ll pick up pennies, even out of the mud or dirt of a parking lot. Over the course of a year, I figure my found money totals around $20. My bottle of Jack Daniels.

[The kernel of this post has been knocking around in my head since finding a discarded or lost $1 bill a few weeks ago. Thanks to Joy for helping kickstart it with her post about pennies. Check it out.]

Trudging through life, coping with the day to day challenges and turmoil, we sometimes need a reminder that we too can survive, even beyond all odds. Those little reminders come in various packages. Sometimes it’s a child with a serious affliction who is happy and smiling; other times a warm, frisky puppy that has not a care in the world except to please you; and occasionally it will be the totally unexpected. Such was the case one day last week.

Arriving back at the office in late afternoon, something caught my eye as I walked from the car to the office entrance. Pausing, it took a few seconds for it to register that I was seeing an empty styrofoam cup in the center turn lane of the the busy street out front. There was a push of air from heavy traffic in both directions, causing the little truncated cone to roll in an arc first one way, then the other. The occasional draft of a larger vehicle would move it up and down its chosen lane a few feet. Then more rolling in arcs around its new pivot point until another large draft moved it a few feet forward or backward.

Becoming quickly mesmerized, I stood for perhaps fifteen minutes watching the struggle, the close misses, the movement to and fro. At some point I realized I was cheering the little cup onward in its quest to survive against the impossible odds of the multi-ton monsters bearing down on it from every side. And then it occurred to me how much like life that is. Wishing the dancing traveler well, I went on into the office. Half an hour later after checking email, washing up, and shutting down for the evening, I emerged to find the cup still at it. It had moved about 20 or 30 feet down the turn lane and looked to be slightly damaged, but not enough to keep it from rolling and arcing, performing its death defying dance. After watching a few more minutes, I had to leave the cup to its unique brand of madness, knowing full well that it would be flattened or completely gone come morning.

Imagine my surprise and delight to arrive back at the office the following morning to find the cup, not squashed by one of the many behemoths that passed this way during the night, but intact, resting gently on the grass a few feet from the street. It had a nick, but was otherwise alive and well. I thought of placing the cup back in the middle of the turn lane for another go, but decided it may prefer the resting place it had chosen and worked so hard to reach. Then I was tempted to take it in and leave it sitting on my credenza as a reminder. But such an adventurer needs freedom and would not fare well in captivity. So I left it where it was.

I do not have the cup, but I do have the memory of its struggles and the lesson it taught, which was the same as the message delivered so fervently by the late Jimmy Valvano

Never Give Up!… NEVER!

[This is one of my favorite posts, originally published September 26, 2006. I hope you enjoy it, whether anew or again.]

The major difference between a thing that might go wrong and a thing that cannot possibly go wrong is that when a thing that cannot possibly go wrong goes wrong, it usually turns out to be impossible to get at or repair. — Douglas Adams

Did I dream it? Maybe read it somewhere? Perhaps on April Fool’s Day? For a couple of days I’ve had this idea in my head that the much maligned leisure suits of the 70s are making a comeback. Most folks who remember them will groan. But as tacky as they were, they were comfortable (I’ve been called a creature of comfort), practical (above all else I am a practical man), and relatively inexpensive (those who know me well would readily agree that I am cheap a man who recognizes and appreciates value). So, I for one would not loudly object if the sleazy leisure suits reappeared on the American scene.

These artful uses of leftover upholstery and drapery material were popular back when I was. In the day, I owned three — a baby blue, a lime green, and the requisite beige. All were some kind of stretchy knit material that was a blend of polyester and highly combustible flame thrower fuel. Smokers had to take special precautions lest they spontaneously ignite on the disco dance floor. None of the jackets were lined, and as I recall, the workmanship was not up to Brooks Brothers level. The typical leisure suit had top stiching and they were worn with those gaudy shirts with the collars that looked ready to take flight. Nevertheless, we all had them and wore them. That is, until someone decided they were no longer hip or cool or jivin’ or whatever. Never has an entire genre of clothing disappeared so quickly. First, they went into garage and yard sales. Next stop was Goodwill or other second hand store. Finally, most found their true calling as chopped up pieces were used for wiping down diesel engines in one of those bigass truck wash-o-matic palaces.

Still, if they really do appear once again on the haberdasher’s radar, I’ll probably get in line. But please, no lime green, and no bell-bottoms. I see stove-pipe legs, no cuffs, and Nehru (no lapel) jackets with lots of pockets (think photographer’s vest). Those of you who are groaning, just you wait. You’ll be lime green with envy when you see how hot, hot, hot I am…

[This is adapted from a great little story from Zig Ziglar's motivational book, See You At The Top.]

Zig noticed his wife would cut a small amount off the ends of the Sunday roast before putting it in a pan and roasting it, so he asked, “Why do you cut the ends off the roast?”

“Because my mother was the best cook in the world and that is how she did it.”

When they went to visit her mother he asked the same question. He received the same answer.

Several months later, at a Thanksgiving dinner hosted by his wife’s grandmother, Zig asked the grandmother, “All of the ladies in your family certainly make excellent Sunday roasts, and everyone in the the family cuts the ends off the roast because that is the way they were taught. Please tell me, why do you do it?”

She replied, “Because my pan was too short.”

How many habits and routines do we blindly and unquestioningly follow without ever once thinking about why? How many rituals are no longer necessary and serve no purpose. As you make your way through the rigors and tedium of another day, think about your “could do it blindfolded” path. I am not suggesting you should change — just think about it and understand why you do the things you do. Chances are you will find a few things that you want to change. Some might save you time, some money, some just make you feel better. You might find some things don’t need to be done at all. But it is also comforting to know and understand that many of the things you have been doing for years are done for the right reasons and do not need to change.

We get ideas and habits so ingrained that we too often take our way to be The Way, The Right Way, The Only Way. Take time to understand and remember that with most of the things we say and know and do, there are usually multiple ways of achieving the same results. You and your mate, or boss, or co-workers, or neighbors, may have very different ways of doing something, but neither of you may be necessarily right or wrong. Just different. And different can be good…

Our little abode sits in the middle of Fieldstone Farms, a large Planned Unit Development in Franklin, Tennessee. Historic Franklin is the heartbeat of Williamson County, one of the fastest growing and most affluent counties in the country, 15 miles from Nashville. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder at the affluent part and why we’re here, cause we ain’t. If we had not bought almost 14 years ago, just prior to the start of the boom, we would not be here.

As much growth as the area has seen, there is still a significant amount of green space, some of it virgin forest, some of it pastureland. Little is farmed for crops now, other than as food and silage for the area livestock. It is amazing that within one mile of the house, we see these sights every day. Lots of beef cattle and horse farms, and the occasional buffalo or llama. Much of this agrarian activity is conducted by gentleman farmers who may be corporate executives, bankers, music or sports celebrities, or just some of the numerous old money folks around here. Some of them made their millions by selling off their back-forty acres, or four-hundred, for development of all that we’ve seen spring up around us over the last 15 years. Regardless, I for one am glad they are here and have their hobbies of cattle, horses, and exotics. As long as they are here, we’ll have plentiful green space, and kids will grow up knowing what horses and cows and buffalo and llamas and barns and tractors and silos and forests look like.

I found this little jewel over at Joared’s Along The Way:

How come we choose from just two people for President, and fifty for Miss America?

She found it on a Wikipedia page dedicated to Alfred E. Neuman’s quotes. If you are old enough to say, What, Me Worry?, raise your hand.

Last night I finally found the time to sit quietly and read the entire text of Barack Obama’s March 18, 2008, speech, A More Perfect Union. Having heard snippets of it aired by the media over the last couple of days, I already knew that it was delivered with Obama’s singularly powerful oratorical skill. He eloquently and effectively delivers with the same style as Dr. Martin Luther King, a passionate style that captivates an audience with deliberate, methodical rhythm and repetition. The effect is indeed powerful and convincing. Not all leaders have this ability, but all truly great leaders are masters of oratory. They use their talents to persuade and motivate people to dream, to hope, to achieve. Barack Obama is such a leader.

The short clips I have seen and heard do not do justice to the power or intent of Obama’s speech on race. As I read the full text, I caught myself frequently nodding agreement, tensing when the truth cut too close to home, and frowning when confronted with the ugly reality that in 2008 there still exists in the United States of America, a deep dark chasm separating what we say we believe from the way we live. Being a 60-something white male who spent an important part of my life working for equality of opportunity for my black, brown, yellow, and red brothers and sisters, I know, for I have seen, how very far we have come in the last generation. And it rips at the core of who I am to know that we still have so very far to go. But I have hope…

Barack Obama’s campaign to become the Democratic nominee for President of the United States is, in and of itself, a living proof of the changes that have occurred in the fabric of American culture over the last few decades. The racially charged slurs and attacks on him confirm that we have so very much left to accomplish. The broad based support of Obama’s campaign signals hope that we are on the right track. The promise of his campaign is unity. The message of his campaign is hope…

Concluding his speech is a vignette about a young white woman named Ashley. I do not want to deny you the emotional impact of that story, except to say that my chosen title was a remark made by an elderly black man in response to the question of why he attended an organizational meeting in support of Barack Obama. I’m here because of Ashley. I urge you to read the entire text of Obama’s defining and historic speech. By the end you may shed a tear or two. I did…

Barack Obama gives me hope…

THERE IS A PLEASURE IN THE PATHLESS WOODS

by Lord Byron, (George Gordon)

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

The first few lines of Lord Byron’s poem appeared on screen at the beginning of the movie, Into the Wild, which Roomie and I watched over the weekend. The film is based on a true story about a young man, Christopher McCandless, who died in the wilds of Alaska while seeking adventure, searching for himself, and probing for true meaning in and of his existence. This is a much better movie than I expected, and I do recommend it.

Reading and pondering the meaning of Lord Byron’s words brought to mind a couple of other writers who also sought their own individualistic experience and expression of life. In The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost addresses the value of independence and personal freedom in making choices at the forks in life’s road. And, of course, one cannot view the movie without thinking of Thoreau and his desire for simple living and self-reliance by embracing and becoming one with nature, as expressed in Walden.

Many other writers, philosophers, and thinkers over the centuries have expressed similar or companion notions that opt for freedom of the individual over the bonds and trappings of society and government. Whether it is labeled transcendental idealism, pragmatic existentialism, rational individualism, or some other construct of human seeking, there remains a strong romantic appeal to a simpler life free of the shackles of society.

Now, I must go to work because the mortgage is due again next month…

If you had a pulse in 1967, you knew this song by Buffalo Springfield. It was written by Stephen Stills (yes, that Stephen Stills), one of the founders of the group, after he witnessed police actions against a crowd of young people gathered on Sunset Strip to stage an anti-war protest. The song was recorded in December 1966, and by March 1967, Buffalo Springfield had a Top Ten Hit. The group was together just over two years, but was an influential folk-rock group that served as a springboard for the careers of Neil Young, Stephen Stills, Richie Furay and Jim Messina. Understanding that this is a protest song, enjoy Buffalo Springfield performing For What It’s Worth. The lyrics are below the video window in case you want to sing along…

There’s something happening here
What it is ain’t exactly clear
There’s a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
I think it’s time we stop, children, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down

There’s battle lines being drawn
Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong
Young people speaking their minds
Getting so much resistance from behind
I think it’s time we stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down

What a field-day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side
It’s time we stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down

Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you’re always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away

We better stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
Stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
Stop, now, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
Stop, children, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down

To remind those who lived it, and to reveal it to those too young to remember, here’s another rendition, creatively crafted into a collage tapestry of images of the day. This is what it was all about. This is what we did in the ’60s to protest another ill-advised war in a land far away, another war we could not and did not win. Where are the young people today? Why are there no protests in the streets? Roomie and I have talked about this on several occasions and we are in agreement — if there was a draft today, it would be the ’60s all over again. Protests. Rallys. One-way trips to Canada. A President and other high-ranking political and military officials with broken spirits. Maybe even free love and nickle beer… nah, not likely.