DOAB Week of February 12, 2001

This morning, I stepped out of my apartment into the parking lot, and began to chip the quarter inch of ice off the windows of my car. For some reason, this morning, scraping was the last thing I wanted to do, until I thought of people like Kaycee, who would kill to be able to be outside, even in twenty-degree weather, just having the ability to scrape. I thought of how fortunate I was that both my wife and I have running vehicles, and we can get where we need to go without serious logistical planning.

I got into my little Tempo, and as I was nearly squashed by another resident's huge Ford Expedition, I thought back to last week, when I found out that the family of a person I knew was flipped upside down, six times, as their vehicle rolled over and over through a ditch. They found out how good the seatbelts work on a vehicle that's slightly less than a month old. While I'm sure I would have been very frustrated with the sixteen year old who was driving my month-old Expedition, I would also be quite glad that my family had survived. As it was, I was quite glad I didn't have to fill that tank with gas at $1.659 a gallon.

As I drove carefully down my hill to the city streets that lead me to the freeway, I was quite grateful that I had enough sense not to go roaring down the hill like that Expedition, and end up with two bent wheels sitting on the side of the road at the bottom of the hill. I was thankful as I proceeded slowly to the stoplights that I wasn't the fellow behind me, with the front bumper of his relatively new Miata only a few feet off mine. I was especially joyful when this fellow roared past me, fishtailing, and rushed off through traffic to where ever his day might take him (probably his death, but I don't have to pay for his funeral - chalk up another thing to be thankful for).

Then, as I passed a husky dog standing in the snow, attached to a leash, straining, in that familiar crouched pose, I was again thankful for both opposable thumbs and indoor plumbing, along with clothing and the ability not to have to dangle one's "goolies" into a snowbank in order to relieve myself this time of year. And I was also thankful for the inability to be as flexible as dogs and cats are, so I had to work much harder to find the pleasures in life.

When I got to work, I reminded myself again what a wonderful thing it is that people pay me to come to a building where I get to sit down behind a number of different computers and figure out problems that I didn't know existed four, six, or even eight weeks ago. It certainly is more fulfilling for me than sitting at home, sending out resumes. I was especially thankful I wasn't the e-mail administrator for my company as the "here you have" e-mails kept piling up in my deleted file. They were there because I knew how to create a mail rule to dump them all out, rather than try to wade through them to find the useful messages, and run the risk of accidentally exposing myself to one of them (and getting my name well-known in the company as the "goof who clicked on the stupid picture of Anna Kournikova").

And all was well, even when I read Al Hawkins' post for today, especially the bit about the Viagra-spiked drink. And I rejoiced that someone other than me had stooped to those horrible bits of wordplay. It needed to be done, but not by me this time, fortunately.

I also learned that it was someone's birthday, and I sent him a little encouragement. He's given me a few smiles and knowing nods over the last few months; it's the very least I could do.

And then, I went to pick up my children from daycare. I reminded myself how lonely a life I might lead if I didn't have children, and how quiet (and clean) my home would be. While they're far more expensive than any drug, thrill, or any other form of physical abuse in the name of fun you can think of, they're also far more fun than any other form of physical abuse or fun, even that of creating them. Even when my son gave me the small-child-forehead-to-the-groin hug I wasn't ready for, I reminded myself I could be bedridden, or paralyzed below the neck or waist, and be unable to feel that pain, and all of the pleasure as well. Though at the time, the thought occurred... Though the ability to scream in ranges above human hearing is certainly overrated.

And when I got home and listened to them whining about what they could have for a snack and whether or not they could watch Disney, I counted my blessings that I had food to feed them, a television for them to watch, and the ability to listen to them as they hollered.

For some reason I was especially thankful today. Gee, I hope that doesn't mean tomorrow's gonna suck...

Of course, at that point, I realized that things were bound to go south sooner or later. While I fully agree that Bill Clinton might well be the most moronic former Rhodes Scholar ever to bear the title, it's pretty painfully obvious that Arlen Spector, that dick-nosed butt-faced sorry excuse for an ugly bag of mostly water there ever was is so bitter about the whole Clinton thing that even on his birthday he can't let go of the damned thing.

I'm sure Mark Rich could be nailed for fines and such - jail time for a schmuck such as him is pretty well a waste of time; they'll bargain down and diddle and fiddle until it's all country-club time. It's better to force the bastard to work so that he's got to pay his fines. But to impeach Clinton after he's left office, so he can take away the pension and protection Clinton has earned, I dunno.

Oh, wait - "Clinton has earned" I said? Yes, well, there is that little bit. You see, if you want to complain about how he makes his living after being president, that's fine - unless you're willing to pay him for the privilege of using him up and tossing him out early. You see, Former Presidents live on average eight years less than their equivalent peers. No, not the population at large, and I suspect those numbers might be slightly off with Reagan still kicking, but it takes a lot off their lives.

And let's stop and think for a second - aside from the whole "where are the damned 'W' keys" question, Clinton probably knows a little bit more than that. Let's face it - up until about four weeks ago, it was his fat, greasy thumb on the button where Dubyah's now got his empties stacked. So do you think that Bin Laden or someone else wouldn't just love to embarrass the US by blowing up the ex-president - or better yet, kidnapping him?

Bill Clinton might not have been everyone's cup of tea. He certainly wasn't someone I looked up to. But he was President, and he is a former President - let's just leave him alone now and move forward, eh, Mr. Spector, you bitter, old, constipated, prune-faced fart, you?

There. End of rant, and I feel so much better. And yes, I owe you an explanation. The wonderful woman who rules my life, my very own bride, was torturing me last night as she made the nametags for the children in FIRST GRADE. My daughter and her male friend that makes her tummy feel funny were in the same group for the party, and she kept threatening to put the candy hearts saying "first love" on the nametags. Good Lord, woman, remember I'm nearing 37 1/2 years old, the warranty's well out, anything that breaks now we've got to pay for, and the replacement parts aren't yet ready in the vats (let alone those few upgraded replacements I've specifically requested, you filthy-minded perverts, you).

I guess, all in all, I'm having a much better day than Mr. Walder today. Though I could have sworn Mr. Hough filled in for Mr. Walder yesterday, today it looks like the Grim Reaper himself has taken a shot. Gee, I hope Lynne hasn't snapped from the remodel stress...

Well, today was one of those days that I think I'll probably remember for quite some time to come. This morning, per usual, I went in to wake Rhiannon for school. She got up with only relatively minor ruckus, and came out. Both she and Jack were feeling under the weather last night but she seemed perky enough to handle it. After I was ready, however, Ann came back in and said that both kids would be staying home, and she would too.

Well, OK. I guess that's fine by me. She needed to make a couple phone calls - the doctor's office to move their appointment from tomorrow to today; her office to let them know she wouldn't be in; school, to let them know, daycare, to let them know... Good grief. But that was her worry, not mine.

So I went to work and got to sort through a problem of my own making. You see, I know some about computers. This job has convinced me that I don't know nearly enough to be able to pull off what is being asked of me. First two months I was there it was replication-Replication-REPLICATION. Now it's FIREWALLS-FIREWALLS FIREWALLS. The problem is I'm not sure I'm understanding what I'm seeing.

I modified my TCP.BAT and ZDATE.BAT files to do some other tricks. Basically, I set variables called DOWK (Day Of WeeK), RDATE (Run DATE), and RTIME (Run TIME). I then took the NS_OUT.TXT file from the client and turned it into a batch file. I had it call ZDATE.BAT and TCP.BAT, and then I modified both. When they initially create the LONGLINE variable, instead of setting it to %0 I set it to the date, time, day of week, and client or server - uh, let's try this -

SET DOWK=%2
SET RDATE=%3
SET RTIME=%6
SHIFT
SHIFT
SHIFT
SHIFT
SHIFT
SHIFT
SHIFT
SET LONGLINE=%RDATE%, %DOWK%, %RTIME%, , CLIENT,
:HEAD
IF %1!==! GOTO :DOOR
SET LONGLINE=%LONGLINE% %1
SHIFT
GOTO :HEAD
:DOOR
ECHO %LONGLINE% >> MINED.DAT

That's from ZDATE.BAT. The only difference with TCP.BAT is that the line SET LONGLINE=%LONGLINE% %1 has a comma after the %LONGLINE% to put each parameter into a separate cell when I import it into the spreadsheet.

Yes, grasshopper, you're getting the idea. After running this process with the client stuff, I change the line

and then process the output from the server computer. Yes, I synchronized the clocks between the two to within a tenth of a second (seemed easier to hit enter at the same time on two keyboards than to download and install two packages on two different machines and then verify the clocks - yes, I know. The line I used to use five years ago was "the chip you use as a clock in your personal computer costs perhaps twenty-five cents a dozen, and is as accurate as it is expensive." You have to remember that at the time I was working for a company that was selling computerized timeclocks that ran at least $1800 each, and were accurate on clean power to within a half-second per five years - if the power was not clean, we could rely on an internal crystal that was accurate to within two seconds a year), and then ran my procedure.

Once I had MINED.DAT out from the client, and another from the server, I combined the two (Ah, I love the type command... Type CLIENT_MINED.DAT >> COMBINED_MINED.DAT, then TYPE SERVER_MINED.DAT >> COMBINED_MINED.DAT). Pulled the resulting output into Excel, sorted, and then started to try to figure it all out.

And that's where the questions come in. I'm looking at the client, which opens ports, but at the most, I was looking at six ports open between client and server. Between servers, on the other hand, I was watching as it would open port 80 on the server, then connect it to an ever-increasing number to the other server on the other side.

I know TCP/IP is a "stateless" protocol. If I could find my Tannenbaum, I'd go back and review. In fact, I think I will after I get done with this, because as I recall, I used to know this ... stuff.

So that was part of the day. There was also the part of the day where I get a call from my wife. I'd received a box from someone she didn't know. Uh oh. Bad news, guys. Unknown package showing up on the doorstep day before Valentine's day, you'd best start backing and filling.

However, it turned out that Jim Kersher must have read of my struggles with Visio, and packaged up and sent me a copy of Visio Professional - too too cool. Now, when I leave this employer, I'll still have a legal copy of Visio - Thank you so very much!

Of course, as tomorrow is Valentine's day, we may well have at least one kid still home. Rhiannon is still under the weather, and is slowly recovering. For a while today she felt well enough to go to her swimming lessons. She made it through 40 of the 50 minutes, and then had to come out because she was cold. Shivering, quivering cold. I got her dried off and bundled up, and she was still cold.

"Honey, are you still cold?"
"Yeah."
"Would you like to wear my coat?"
"Yeah."
"Will the liner be enough, or do you want the top part?"
"Can I have both?"
"Sure, honey."

So that is how, at 7:00 pm this evening, I ended up in the parking lot of the Burnsville YMCA, with no coat, with a four-year-old leaping around like a typical four-year-old lunatic, a seven-year-old who normally talks a mile a minute silently walking with her hood and mine up over her head, looking like a midget monk or something (you can take the boy out of the campus, but you can't take the campus out of the boy), and me in my shirt-sleeves. Fortunately, the car was warm and the temps were still above zero.

And now, I'm just waiting for SWMBO to get off the phone so I can upload this. Tomorrow, she's off for the day to attend to the Eldest's Valentine's day party (yikes), and then we'll be getting our taxes done (oh, that's a heck of a way to spend valentine's day). While I don't do my own anymore (stopped the year we had to pay in $600 - HR Block got it down to $400, but still - we found that Ann's at-the-time-employer was doing withholding using the wrong calculations, and we got hosed. That was painful. The last couple of years, though, we've managed to get back significant amounts. If it happens this year we're talking a new television. Whoo hooo.

The good valentines news is that if I play my cards right, there's a candy shop I saw on the news this morning. They make chocolate truffles, in chocolate boxes, and what I saw this morning was a small, six-inch heart-shaped box with about nine or ten chocolates in it. The whole batch (with the hand-painted roses on the top) ran $18.95. I'm going to call and reserve one tomorrow morning if they'll let me, and pick it up on a dead run (they're about 30 minutes north of my office, and if I leave right at 3:00 tomorrow, I should be able to get north to get it, head back south and get the kids with only a few minutes difference from normal.

No, she won't see this until Thursday, which is the twelfth anniversary of our engagement. Yup, that's right. But that's a story for Thursday.

No, I'm not going to go into detail about the root cause of this day on the calendar. Personally, other than holding the fifteenth away from the thirteenth, this day is just another day.

Unless, of course, you happen to be, in some way, shape, or form, some how affiliated with a person of the opposite gender in a romantic relationship (and possibly the same sex, if you're into that sort of thing), today is a big, giant trap. "Oh, you don't need to get me anything." Then you're completely, utterly hosed. Not even a hint to go on.

Last year, for the first time in my adult life, I walked into the jewelry store, sans wife, and picked out jewelry. Picked up a set of emerald earrings and a necklace. And I did well, for a change. This year was a bit more difficult. I'd been thinking of flowers, but I'm just too practical. I can buy plants and kill them myself; why should I spend money on already dead ones, even pretty ones? Oh, I know, the female portion of the species tends to go all goofy over dead greenery. But $80 for a dozen, delivered to her office when she's not there? That's painfully stupid.

So, as noted yesterday, I'd seen a thing on the TV news show I see every morning - this chocolate shop in Tonka Bay was selling boxes of chocolate for $18.95. I could have sworn they meant $1895, knowing that neck of the woods, but no, eighteen dollars and ninety-five cents. So I called, ordered, and ran over there this afternoon to pick it up. I expected a smallish box with maybe six or seven chocolates. And what I got, well... You can see it right there.

Yeah, I think I did pretty good. The box itself is about seven inches wide, same high, and about an inch and a half thick. Once you pop it open, you see the load below here. It's full of hand-made truffles - that would be hard chocolate shells of some sort on some gooey chocolate inside. SWMBO loves these things, which apparently are supposed to be better than sex. I, on the other hand, find them a little less inspirational.

The best part, for me, though, was surprising her with it. We'd set ourselves up with a rather difficult schedule for today - well, she scheduled it. Originally, there was an 11:30 am stop at the grade school for the Eldest's Valentines Day party (oh, now, there's a job I just couldn't do - deal with a bunch of six and seven year olds anticipating a party, then sugared up after it. Sheesh), then a 2:45 pm Doctor's appointment for the Kid's physicals, then dinner out, then 6 pm tax appointment.

Talk about a busy day. Unfortunately with the illnesses running around, we managed to avoid the doc by the simple fact that they won't give shots when the kids have, or have recently had, a fever.

So I figured I'd leave work about 3:00-ish, and with good directions, I'd be up to Tonka Bay (according to Mapquest, it was 27 minutes away, if I took the long-way-round - I figured the short route would be better, so I thought I could get up and back in about an hour). Best laid plans...

I'd been to Mapquest twice in the last couple of days to get the directions to this place - both of them are still sitting, printed, next to my laptop at work. Duh.

I tore out of the office (after spending the whole day analyzing a series of communications between two servers - talk about pain and agony), went west, north, west, north, and west, and started stumbling on the way to Truffle Hill Chocolates. I remembered Oak Street, Smithwood, and that was about it.

So, after lumbering along to just about the point where I was ready to turn back, I saw "OAK ST." - there we go. Follow that and start looking for a sign for "Smithwood" - went around a big bend, and there I was, on Smithwood - Oak turned into Smithwood. Barreling down that street, looking for something, anything that would give me a hint, and almost missed the sign for the place. Turned into the strip-mall parking lot, only to find the place was not in the mall, but a little house up on the hill - well, that was easy.

Roared right up there, picked up the present you see above, and got back home in almost enough time to get everything done. Pretty cool. The only "disappointment" in the whole thing is our tax refund from last year is going to be slightly smaller than the previous year. Yes, I know I could do a whole lot more with the money by keeping it myself, but I've been through this enough to know myself, and know that I'm infinitely more comfortable doing my taxes when I know I'm getting money back. We're getting about $500 less this year, but that's not too bad considering I was out of work for four months, unpaid for one, and had a computer added at the last minute to my taxable gross. Not too shabby.

But the bad news is that I can't wring enough out of that refund to get a new PC (or even parts for an upgrade). Oh well. A new TV's a bit more important in this house, and maybe we can even squeeze in a DVD player. We'll see how it goes.

My God. I now know why women have the kids. This cold/flu has got me looking for a drill to vent my head. ugh.

Short round today, two things - a fulfillment of a promise, and a whack to the back of the head. Who knows, it might loosen up some mucus. Yum.

First, you'll note the daily banner up there says "Happy Anniversary 1" - there's a story behind that.

You see, in late 1988/early 1989, I was going out with my lovely bride, who, at the time, was just a cute co-ed. We were in one of those relationships that neither one of us were quite sure where it would go. I was holding back, because Ann was very well liked by the rest of the crew I hung out with at the time, and if I'd managed to screw up this relationship as well, then I'd be looking at a very very long stay in the monastery.

Not that that bothered me any more. I'd decided that if the right girl was out there, I'd find her. If I didn't, I wouldn't. Simple as that.

But you see I really liked Ann. I actually think I had fallen in love by that time, though I'm learning every day that love means having to say you're sorry over and over and over and over... Well, you get the idea.

So anyway, we were dating, and as we would go shopping at various malls and whatnot, we'd dare one another. She'd try to drag me near a jewelry store/counter, and I'd veer away. Other times I'd try to drag her near, then she'd be the one holding back.

On those few rare weekends I got away with her to the Twin Cities, we also threatened one another (well, I threatened her, didn't quite work the other way 'round) with lingere stores as well.

One one of those rare days when I'd picked her up from work and we were going back to her apartment for dinner and television, we decided to stop in the Crossroads Mall. I worked right outside it at the time, so it wasn't a long stretch.

We were goofing around and ended up with both of us in Gordon's Jewelers. She'd found a beautiful emerald ring that she thought would be wonderful for an engagement ring. I'd seen it, and thought it was pretty nice. A little steep, but not the "2 to 6 months salary" that the diamond mongers recommend.

I filled out the paperwork, with her sitting there, bemused, next to me. "You know what this means? You know what this means?" was all she kept asking. "I'm working here" was all I replied.

The ring was sent off to be resized, and we'd get it Friday (this being a Wednesday that year, I believe), and we made our way back to my car.

While we were sitting in it, she looked at me again and said "you DO know what this means, don't you?"

"Well, you DID want to marry me, didn't you?" Dumber words were never spoken, at least by me. "Marc Rich, a pardon? Why the heck not!" comes to mind, perhaps, but hey. Anyway...

To this day, I catch ... stuff over that comment. So I figure if I'm going to get grief about it, it's an anniversary of sorts, and I should be rewarded when it does occur, and I remember.

On to topic two. Evil incarnate, or at least stupidity incarnate. My good friend Alwin Hawkins, who's got a nice new site up by the way, linked to this fellow David D Savior. He's a bit off, if you ask me. Actually, remove the bit, and replace it with a rubber suit with wrap-around sleeves, and he should be much better off. As would we all.

Mr. Savior, who's site I didn't want to link to, but ended up doing it anyway in the interest of fair reporting, has a collection of perhaps the most ... well, unusual material you've ever seen.

Since I'm no psychologist (heck, didn't even take the psych classes - wanted computers instead), I'm not qualified to judge Mr. Savior's collection of hangups. Suffice it to say, he's got a page about how evil Cookie Monster is (teaches children to eat dinnerwear, gluttony, greed, and so forth), and he also takes on The Count (a vampire who teaches children evil is OK), Elmo (the Tickle-Me-Elmo vibration unit comes from a factory that also makes vibrators - though how this fellow found out is beyond me), and even resurrects the old canard about Burt and Ernie being gay.

Mr Savior has one of two faults - either too tight a grip on his corner of reality, or he's just let go of the anchor and is quite a ways away...

While I cannot stomach his flights of fancy (some are certainly interplanetary, as Al suggests), I was happy to dismiss this guy as yet another nutball with a website until I crossed paths with his women's soccer pages.

Though I thought this was rather funny... Doncha think the banner's a little more than appropriate? ;-)

On the one hand, it's SOOOOO refreshing to find this sort of Cro-magnon-ism in today's upright-walking (presumably) homo sapiens - er, excuse me, Mr. Savior - Anti-Homo Sapiens. His referral to women as delicate creatures reminded me of getting clouted, more than once, for an off-hand inappropriate comment by my own lovely bride. Mr. Savior truly belongs in some sort of Zoo or museum, as he's a "curiosity" sort of like a rubber duck (who, after being poked by Ernie's finger, does, apparently, feel pain. Does anyone else detect a slight fraying around the edges of Mr. Savior's reality?) with four or five heads.

On the other hand, Mr. Savior's attitudes and beliefs are his, and his to do what he will with them. Whacked as he is, it's nice to see him out and about, because let's face it - the only way this sort of nonesense is going to go away is if we shine the light of day on it, and point out to people like our sons and daughters that this man intends them great harm, as he makes it clear he as the "True Truth".

The one thing I can assure you for dead certain is that people like Mr. Savior who sprinkle the Biblical quotes they do and use the certainties they do are absolutely, certainly, unequivocally, dead wrong.

And Mr. Savior? It's a wonderful thing I found you today, as it's also Susan B. Anthony's birthday. I'm sure you would prefer to waddle your way through this world, practicing whatever bodily functions you so choose, in your own home. That's fine, it's yours. But DO NOT come around my home and tell my daughter she's delicate, weak, and all the rest. She, and the many other women on this planet, are smart, wise, can handle far more pain and suffering than we can, and have a nearly-endless capacity for forgiveness. And, quite bluntly, without your mother, you wouldn't be here.

So after you thank your mother, you'd best start on cutting back on science funding - because it's just remotely possible some day that we'll invent a time machine. And if we do, you're my first candidate for selective erasure.

And before you go off on the deep end on me, Mr. Savior has every right to say what he has said. And I have every right to point out that the man has apparently slipped back a few years in his cognitive abilities. This is the sort of thinking that allows high school girls to not defend themselves when assaulted by date rapists, or to accept the supposed "primacy" of a male in the relationship. Look, folks, if it ain't fifty-fifty you haven't got a relationship, you've got a supervisory role. Now, if you like playing the dominant, Mr. Savior, that's all well and good. Just don't blather on about topics you know nothing about, such as childhood in a video age or women being "harlots". And by the way, Mr. Savior - I think "harlot" might well be legally actionable, so that's something to consider.

I'd have reported you to the fine folks at Tripod (former hosts of this site, believe it or not), but both of their feedback mechanisms are busted on the page I tried. I'll get you tomorrow, I guess. Write once, run anywhere. Bah. Whoops - I see by the clock on the wall it's time for my medication.

Now, to find Tylenol, Sudafed, cough medicine, and anything else that will open the taps in my head and make all of this fluid leak out. Where's the blasted drill...

and e-mail it to Tom@syroidmanor.com - he's working with Saskat on a router issue, and the more people who try to get to him the better. Or maybe not, I dunno. I've got too much muscus in my head to think straight.

When the conversation starts like that, you know it's not good. Worse was the fact that it was 4:10 pm when it started, and, if traffic was light (say 3:45 pm or even 11:00 am when I went to work this morning), it takes me about 25 minutes for me to get home. So I hopped up, packed up, and took off. Shaky though I was, I got to daycare, and there was Rhiannon, laying face-down on one of the cots they use for naptime, and out cold.

Normally, this wouldn't surprise me - I wake the kid up in the mornings, remember? But it's at daycare, and it's plenty noisy. I got her brother, who didn't want to leave, and her, got packed up, across the street to the doctor, and up there only about three minutes late. They checked Rhiannon in, and headed us off to the lab for samples (the poor kid's had a bladder infection since last weekend). They took her temperature, and it was 103. Ouch.

So after poking and prodding (and man, there is no way I would want to be a doctor this time of year - I don't know how Doc Jim manages it), turns out there's not much they can do for her. Motrin and her stomach felt better, and the temp came down. Not too shabby. Unfortunately, we need to watch her because if her temperature goes back up or her stomach starts hurting again, there's a chance she could have appendicitis. Wheee. Since I've still got all my original parts, and Ann's not yet gotten rid of that particular bit of offending flesh of her own, we'll just see how it goes.

On another front, I got an e-mail today taking me to task for what I wrote above about Mr. Savior. I don't intend to quote it here, as I haven't told the sender I would. However, I would like to point out this - Everyone has the right to their own beliefs. I've a number of people whom I correspond with who are of different faiths, and some who do not believe in God at all. And you know what? That's not my job to "convert" them to the one true church... Whatever that may be.

Religion is the opiate of the masses - yes, there is that. But you know what? I'm not going to condemn someone for a different belief. Claiming that belief is the one true faith, on the other hand, is open season. If you think you've got the one right answer for all six billion people on the planet, then we need to talk.

I think what irritates me the most is when people claim they've got the authoritative answers for me. The know nothing at all about me, but are willing to make value judgments about me, and about subjects that are very personal to me, all in the name of "religion". This is completely and utterly unacceptable to me. Kaycee hit the nail on the head in some ways with her post of the other day. I'm not going to go on ad naseum about this - it's frustrating enough to deal with.

Oh, enough. I'm liable to put my foot clear through the roof of my mouth if I keep this up. Life's been far to logical and normal lately. I need to do something to recover from this glop...

You see, I picked up Ann's ring that Friday, along with a couple of bottles of Gionelli Asti Spumante, which I'd had previously and liked - neither Ann nor I are big on wines (though I'd like to learn, but not at the prices the folks at Windsor Vineyards are happy to spam me with - nutballs). But we like that one. So, I picked up that, and a couple of champagne flutes to go with it, and headed out to her dorm, where she'd managed to collect the bulk of her friends.

Rather than do it in front of a crowd, we snuck off, I did the one-kneed thing, and asked her if she'd be my wife - much better the second time around, let me assure you. Or at least, that's what Ann told me.

I think my fever's back - I was laying in bed sweating with all the blankets off and a window open about 2 inches, and a fan going in front of it. Oh, by the way, the outside temp right now is about eight below zero. And I was still hot. Yuck.

LATER: (though I don't know that I should properly call it that as the above was written about 7:15 this morning, but never made it out to the internet, and it's after 8 pm now) Well, we're slowly recovering from the general "ick". We managed to get out of here and going before noon, and headed south to look at more houses in the Parade of Homes. We did reach the conclusion that Dundas, which is about 20 miles south of here, is just too dog-gone far to be driving back and forth to.

So we bailed on that one, even though the lots were in the $30,000 range. We went to Lonsdale, and got to the two houses we wanted to see before they were open. I double-checked my watch and the magazine, and yup, we were forty minutes past the time when they were supposed to be open. So, we checked both houses (right next to eachother, how convenient of me to have planned that ;-) and we were leaving when two vehicles pulled up. One, a pickup, roared right up the driveway my wife and son had come out of just a few seconds before, and the other went sliding past us on a hell-bent for leather course towards either 1) the back of Ann's car, 2) the second house's mailbox post, or 3) the second house's driveway.

Conveniently, the driver chose 4) the snowbank right next to the second house's driveway, and bumped into that, backed and filled a bit, then she hopped out and went towards the front door.

I have to remember to remind myself from time to time that somewhere in the early to mid 1970s, there was a major shift in reality on this plane of existence or something; my parents bought their first house, a three-bedroom rambler on a quarter-acre rural wooded lot for about $12,000. Back in 1964, this was apparently normal. Now, however, the house that they bought would probably sell, up there, for close to $75,000. Here in the Twin Cities, if that house were in Burnsville, we'd be looking at nearly $280,000.

In our house-hunt, we've ruled out townhomes and, for the most part, developments with very restrictive covenants. I'm buying a home and land, and I'm not going to be told that I cannot build a dog-house larger than a set size, and the house must be disconnected from the house - I'm not going to have someone tell me what color I can paint my home, where I can put my garden, how big the privacy fence can be, and all of that. We've got some friends who've had that dictated to them, and frankly, I'm not willing to put up with that sort of foolishness.

These first two houses we looked at were among the lowest priced we'd selected in the Parade. Partially due to their distance from the Twin Cities (Lonsdale was just recently added to the Metro calling area, though I think it might well be still in a different area code), and partially due to the fact that both of these houses were one bathroom, two bedroom models. Way too small for our needs.

So then we ran up to New Market, and looked at three other houses (with a bathroom break or two thrown in). One was really pretty nice, but the more I think about it, the more I think I'd change quite a few things about it. The last two were rather underwhelming.

So, we got some lunch, hit the grocery store, and then came home and we ALL took naps. That's just not a normal occurrence around here. Pretty quiet day.

Tomorrow, we just might hit the Minnesota Zoo Beach Party - while beach time in February might be normal for Mr. Seto and friends, around here the only sand we see in February is usually the stuff they mix with salt to melt the ice.

No, I'm not going to say anything about Jim Allchin - I'm thinking he is "all chin" and very little brains. Why he's not in product development at Microsoft is beyond me.

	Hmmm... Sunday again already? Wow. Where does a weekend go? In my case, at any rate, well over half went up in sleep. Near as I can figure, starting from roughly Thursday afternoon, I've slept about thirty-nine of the last seventy-two hours. I'm feeling better, but it's still marginal. So after Dan's gardening episode yesterday, I decided to look for an escape. Looked around my home, and found a demon cat. That's a bloody scary look, until I point out a few things - he's yawning, and I danged near had to kick him to get him to move. But that's still a scary shot. I like it. Makes Gilligan look a lot more ferocious. Yes, "Gilligan".
	I was thinking about escaping, and I thought, hey, outside. Yeah, right. Did I mention that we're about twenty degrees below average this weekend? And with windchills below zero, it feels more like mid-January. Which, I guess, is fair, since parts of January felt more like March. And yes, I'm painfully aware that snow is a four-letter word. I remember, as a child, begging for the snow. Waiting until it arrived, then enjoying it for a few months. But it almost always overstays it's welcome, and you end up longing for the browns and greens of early spring.
	Just another gratuitous shot to the east. Look at all that snow. And just one more snow-related side note. We've received nearly five feet of snow this year, and a significant amount of it's still on the ground. Big whoop? Well, there's a small problem here. We've got this thing called "spring" which is supposed to be coming up soon. That's where the snow melts. And if we've got a lot of it, and it's still cold, we're going to have some problems. You see, during the next six weeks, we get a fairly regular batch of snowstorms though here. And with the sun being as high in the sky as it is, that snow can melt fairly quickly. The blanket of snow on the ground is insulating the ground itself - and since it's so cold, so's the ground. And with the ground being covered and cold, it's going to take some time for it to warm up. And warming up is critical for water absorption. What all this really means is that if we don't get some warming temps here pretty quick, we're going to be looking at some flooding, potentially serious flooding, before too long. Let's just say I hope I'm not here in a couple months saying "I told you so."
	So, we went to a beach party. Since we're about 2500 miles at best from the nearest beach, we needed to find a surrogate. And the Minnesota Zoo fit the bill quite nicely. First, the dolphin show, from much closer up. Them things really fly - a good ten to twelve feet out of the water. Wow. This is four up, one down.
	And of course, face painting. Jack got a starfish.
	Rhiannon? I think it's a schmoo. Ed Note - he refers to anything he can't identify as a "schmoo."
	This would be a Jack-butt on the beach.
	And this is about as close as I'm willing to get to a real leopard. And yes, I do it again, I'm going to want the same heavy layers of metal fencing between us.
	This is what my daughter called "duck butts". This is the seamy underside of many of our lakes during the summers. Obviously, bodies of water in Bob Walder's neighborhood have much larger goose butts in them, but hey, duck butts are pretty weird.
	This is what it looks like from above. The Ducks share the pond with the Beavers and their dam work.
	A gratuitous shot, but a pretty one, I think.
	Cute kid. I'm guessing he was sucking up because of some trouble he'd managed to get into. Seems typical, especially given the look on his father's face.

And that's about all there is left for this week. A quick once-around the net, and I'm outta here.

And, as usual lately, I'm e-mailed from elsewhere and taken to task for being a "boot-licking Clinton supporter". Ye Gods.

Well, why not, we're at the bottom of the page, the end of the week, and something should break loose here. I'll take my chances...

It's pretty obvious that our national climate has changed from forty or fifty years ago. Our leaders are not the honorable men they were, our press doesn't report the news, it manufactures the news. Our standards seem to have lowered.

Harry Truman was a foul-mouthed son-of-a-bitch with a hot temper, a background as a small-time political cog in a big time political machine. Eisenhower was a skilled military mind who left much of the management of the government to his underlings. Kennedy? 'Nuff said. Johnson? See above. Nixon? Well...

But for all their faults, Truman stayed the course, fought hard, and on more than one occasion did what he needed to in the face of stiff opposition. Eisenhower helped to hold the line against Kruschev's blustering. Kennedy backed down the Soviet Union when they attempted to put missiles in Cuba. Johnson, well, we'll not go there. Viet Nam was a nasty mess, no matter which side you were on.

But why is it that we insist on evaluating our leaders on moral grounds? Is it that we lack moral leadership? Or have we truly forgotten what moral leadership is and where it should come from?

As a child, moral leadership should come from the two people you look up to - your mother and father. While I'm sure there's some validity to some of the divorces of today, I think many weddings today come about from a little girl and a little boy getting together and wanting to play dress-up, and more than a few parents feeding into that fantasy. I think that like parenthood, the bar to getting married should be raised a bit as well.

For example, if you're in any sort of acting profession, we should have a special marriage status called a "merged marriage" - you can marry, and indicate at the outset if it's for the length of the current movie's publicity tour, shooting schedule, or combination thereof. If, after twelve years as a committed, monogamous couple, you wish to convert to a full married couple, go ahead and fill out the application period, and wait for the requisite six more years probation. After eighteen years of "merged" marriage, we can knock off the "merged" part. Oops? Got that twenty-five year itch? Fine. One of the protections you "give up" in the conversion from "merged" to "married" is your pre-nup. That's right, in the trash. All of your combined wealth, every penny, is placed in a pile. One third of that pile is removed and carted off by the government as a fee for putting up with your foolishness, as a surrogate for the rest of us. The government can then use it for roads or parks or something. The rest, the remaining two thirds? 50% of the original should be given to the children of the union, if any. That's right, the parents can then squabble over the remaining 16% that's left there.

Normal people? Hey, here's a unique concept. Let's ENCOURAGE people living together. Not out of any willingness to encourage "immoral" behavior, but more to allow young people to find out what life "together" really means. The first time the young fellow has to go out and pick up tampons or "feminine napkins" for his significant other will most certainly influence his thinking there. How about her finding out that the love of her life has no clue how to do laundry, take out trash, or clean a toilet? If that doesn't let them see married life, warts and all, then nothing will. But I'm telling you, going into a life-long commitment with a block of solid knowledge is more important than taking a guess on it with some vague feelings, frequently confused on both sides with a not-insignificant amount of lust.

So, you're saying, why should two adults with such a sinful past be a good role model? Hmmm... I dunno, I suppose that once you've sinned, you're going straight to hell, right? Or is that thing called "redemption" possible? Gee, I dunno - I'm not going to tell anyone (even Clinton) he's going to hell for what he's done. I'm not comfortable in making that sort of judgment on anyone.

Oh, yes, there are a few historical characters whom I'm fairly certain I could pick which bus they took when they hopped out of here. But that's nothing I could assure you on, because I'm completely lacking in physical evidence.

And that's again where we're stuck on. Not one of us, no where, has the "moral authority" to pass judgment on someone else. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." I'm very comfortable in saying "I wouldn't have done that if I were him." I'm even comfortable in telling my children "I think what he did was wrong." I'm not at all comfortable with anyone pulling the sort of shit (yes, Ma, I said Shit) that Mr. Savior and company do, and many others seem willing to do.

If you've got the moral authority to pass judgment on others, I'd like to see where it says that. I'd like to see where it says "you, by dint of your pearly-white and squeaky-clean reputation of never ever ever having screwed up even once, are hereby given moral authority for this ball of mud - signed Supreme Being."

The only person we are ever truly responsible for is ourselves. Passing judgment on others is pretty much like juggling grenades with the pins out. Sooner or later, you're going to lose a hand, a head, or worse. If you're willing to do that on a daily basis, go right ahead. Your hands/head/etc.

The weekly Diary of a PC Geek