DOAB Week of July 30, 2001

Disclaimer
The opinions and such expressed below are my own opinions. Feel free to agree or disagree as you wish, and I might publish e-mails to me that I like, and ignore those I don't. If you'd rather I didn't, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. And Thank You for stopping.

Well, I was hoping to have many and myriad deep thoughts tonight, and instead I've got a splitting headache, a guilty conscience, and some severe conflicts which I need to resolve.

No, my conflicted state is not due to what's gone on here. It's a bit bigger than that, I'm afraid.

And to clear some misconceptions up, No - Cabela's is not closing. Heritage Halls is; Heritage Halls is also the home of the Minnesota Aviation Hall of Fame. But you already knew about people like Wold, Chamberlain, and Lindbergh who came from Minnesota.

As my long-time readers know, I'm a former Boy Scout. I've mentioned this before. I'm also an Eagle Scout. I'm a member of the Order of the Arrow, which is a society of "honor campers". I've got my Fifty-Mile Afoot/Afloat award, earned for a summer trip down the Crow Wing river (is it a little incestuous when your own material comes up in a Google search? I kinda thought so). I earned, if I remember correctly, all but one Skill Award (eleven of twelve for those of you counting) - I don't swim, thus no Swimming Skill award. I earned over thirty merit badges, including some easy ones like reading. Also some tough ones like Wilderness Survival, First Aid, and a number of others.

I held every single troop leadership position available with the exception of Bugler (A - I can't play one, and B - I like my sleep). I was selected to attend the 1981 Scout Jamboree at Fort A.P. Hill in Virginia; I was unable to go because of the cost. They're holding another as I write this.

When I was in Boy Scouts, the equation I was told was that of all boys out there, something like 15% joined Boy Scouts at some point. Of those 15%, 25% made it to their first rank (back then, "Tenderfoot"). Of the boys who made it to Tenderfoot, 2% of them earned Eagle. If you do the math, that's .075% - much less than one tenth of one percent all boys got their Eagle Scout. I was very proud of that - still am. My Eagle Scout award put me in the same select company as many others who've gone on to great successes. It's also put me in the same group with some pretty cool Dads, as well. It's what you make of it.

I was a Junior Assistant Scoutmaster while the patch was still evolving. I've been trained as an assistant Scoutmaster. I've taken classes towards becoming a Scoutmaster. Much of my makeup and internal belief system, strength of purpose and character, and really, who I am, has come from Boy Scouts. With a father who was physically handicapped, I needed an outlet to do "boy things" and the Boy Scouts was the ideal group.

I joined about half-way through my fifth grade year. I'd finished Webelos (the transition between Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts) the previous spring, but no recruiting efforts were made by the scout troop. By accident I ran into one of the older kids at school who happened to be in Boy Scouts, and I got the information from him on when and where the meetings were.

That first meeting in the basement of the old Sartell Town Hall was interesting, exciting, and scary. My father came in with me, and going up twelve stairs to a top step only about a foot wide, then traveling from the banister (about six feet from the door) across to the door (they had a wide, impressive stairway for you to climb) was almost as difficult as getting there emotionally. Once there I was welcomed by a jolly, happy, overweight fellow by the name of Ed Weyer. Ed was a great scoutmaster. Despite his size, he made many of the trips with us. I met many other scouts in the troop - some real nutballs, some really good guys. I remember one of the fellows I looked up to was Ed's son Dave. Dave was working his way on to Eagle, and was doing pretty well.

Dave also had a friend, Dave Steckling, who was also working on his Eagle. Dave had a brother Robert - never, ever Bob. Dave and Robert lived with their folks in the trailer park in Sartell - you have to realize, however, that back in the mid-seventies, trailer parks were still a new invention here in Sartell. We thought they were kinda cool, because if you got fed up, you could always move.

Dave, Dave, Robert, Charlie, Dan, Paul, and some of the other members of the troop looked pretty impressive in their uniforms, and I wanted to join. I did. For a few years we had what I call now the troop's "Salad Days". Recruiting was easy. Guys would literally walk in and say "I hear you're having a scout troop meeting." We had money, we had adult support for camping trips, fundraisers, and all the rest. We moved from the Town Hall, which was leveled to widen a street, to the basement of our sponsoring organization, the American Legion. A few years after that, they had to move because of the expansion of St. Regis (now Champion Paper) in Sartell. We got into the new, split-level American Legion.

After Dave and Dave finished their Eagles (both about seventeen or so), they pretty-well dropped off the face of the earth to the troop. And we began to shrink. I think with Ed's son having reached his goal, Ed sorta lost interest. And we dwindled. In my opinion, our lowest period came with a fall camporee we ended up tag-teaming with a troop from Waite Park; the other fellow who came with me (we were supposed to have five guys) dropped out of scouts soon after that. We signed up for and missed a winter camporee (indoors at a nearby military base, folks) because we couldn't get an adult to devote two nights to the event. We dropped to three active guys.

Then, out of the blue, we got thunder and lightening. Lightening came in the form of a new Unit Commissioner. Jack Paulsen, a former Scout (Eagle, I think), with three young kids and a construction drywall business, managed to recruit Bill Nelson, a telephone company technical type with two girls and a boy. The boy, Charlie, came for a while, got a few awards, and then dropped away.

For one period there when I was working on my Service Project, I called Bill just about every single day. I think I still know his home phone number. He lived about a half-block from my former grade school, and was a heck of an influence. A former Marine, he understood "pride in the uniform" and undertook to make sure we knew how to wear it. You lined up on your patrol leader - first fellow on the left. Then the command - "Dress Right Dress" - your right arm shot out, thumb along side your fingers, palm down, fingers extended. You moved over until your fingertip hit the unit patch of the fellow next to you - and you stayed there until the command "Down". Arm dropped, eyes front, and you waited. For however long it took.

After three weeks and three uniform inspections which he did, the Senior Patrol Leader (SPL, aka me) did them. And you knew what to look for. Patches in the proper place. You weren't overly critical of some patches on some boys - some did their own sewing, others had mothers who could pass for seamstresses. You looked for the uniform parts - if the boy had a collar on his shirt, fine. No collar, he'd best be wearing a kerchief. And a slide - no knots there. The Slide could be an improvised Scout emblem backed by a baggie wire-tie, if needed - but no knots.

Hats - the old envelope hat - became a requirement. Not to wear, you understand, but to clip through your belt. There went the baseball cap, the beret, and the other headgear. He, of course, wore the old Smokey the Bear/State Trooper wide-brimmed hat. Yes - he'd been a Drill Sergeant. We knew how to tuck in our shirts (pleats in back, kidneys or belt loops, evenly spaced, with no-crease fronts. We knew how to tie our shoes (loops were fine unless we were hiking, then you made small loops and tucked them into the laces or used a safety pin to prevent tripping).

I learned a lot. Not only how to dress, but how to act, react, plan, deal with, and persevere in life. Sometimes things would get rough. Things would go poorly. You could wallow in it, or you could say "well, that's done, move on."

I remember a camping trip we took not too long after Bill took over. We prided ourselves on being a "wooded troop". We'd set up in a wooded campground, and shortly have a well-organized site, with kitchen, latrine, wood yard, water tanks, and tenting organized and by the book. When camporees came up, we'd usually request a wooded site. Since we were very conscientious about cleanup, we would usually get these more delicate sites.

This one trip, we somehow ended up in the middle of a field. A big, broad, flat field with no trees, no hills, no shelter. Just lots and lots of dried grass. We'd unloaded, and packed everything in about a mile or so to our site, which was marked with a little orange flag with a number on it. We got there, and the inevitable "kerfluffle" occurred (I'd have called it the typical Mongolian Cluster **** but we weren't allowed to swear in uniform, and it was frowned upon out of uniform). Couple of panicked boys, couple of confused boys, couple of confused leaders, me and my scoutmaster. Since I was SPL (again), he looked at me and said "what will you guys do?"

Within an hour we had our six tents up, we had our kitchen laid out and lashed up (one of the guys was pretty good at lashing up a table), I had three two-person teams in the woods where there were other troops setting up camp looking for some easy deadwood for firewood, because we could use all the deadwood we could find - no live trees though (in this case, unless they were Chinese Elm or Sumac).

We'd come across so much firewood that we were able to build three lean-tos, take down two tents, and we also had a 16' flagpole with yardarm (that lashing bit was mine) for the flags. We got the "Best Campsite" award at the camporee, also "best uniforms" and "Best cook" (that last was my cooking merit badge project). We had a wonderful time.

I will never, ever forget the first week-long camp I went to, though. Parker Scout Reservation, which is no longer, I'm told, was just north of Brainerd. Acres and Acres and Acres of trees. You forgot completely about the outside world. Went in on Sunday, and come the following Saturday they sometimes had to drag you, kicking and screaming, out of the woods.

This trip was my first week-long camp, and I learned a lot. Specifically, how not to do things. I was constipated (desired to avoid the two-holers - didn't quite work). I'd gotten poison ivy in a personal place (always, always carry a baggie with toilet paper when camping. Trust me). I'd gotten so homesick I cried almost all the time.

Thursday night's "Family Night" was bittersweet - none of my family could make it - but some of the other boys did get visitors. The "Tap-out Ceremony" was fascinating, as was watching them cook about 300 chickens over an open fire.

And Friday afternoon was the camp Olympics. The last event, and the one that will be forever seared in my mind, was the clothes relay. Troops divided into teams of two or three runners. You ran to the first tree. Dropped your shoes. Ran to the second tree. Dropped your shirt. Ran to the third tree. Dropped your shorts. Ran around the flag pole. Ran back to the third tree. Found your shorts. Ran back to the second tree. Found your shirt. Ran back to the first. Found your shoes. By the time you crossed the finish line you had to have your shorts on, your shirt on (buttons were unnecessary, and your feet, including heels, in the shoes).

Sadly, since some of the earlier events were on water, many of the guys were wearing swimsuits. And you know what that means. "under my clothes, I'm completely NAKED!". You got it. Since the entire camp staff was male, and there wasn't a female within five hundred yards of the parade ground, we could streak to our heart's content.

Which for me would have been around the inside of my tent. Regrettably, I would have to make the ten yards from Tree Three to the flagpole and back with various now itchy bits flap-doodling about. Oh, all right, in the interests of truth in internet disclosure, there wasn't much flap, and very little doodle indeed. Hey, I'm average. I'll admit it.

Yeah, I made the trip. We didn't win, I didn't shrivel up and die (though I damn near did when I found out about the whole process), and I did find everything. Though I think it was "stinky Steinkopf" who ended up with his shorts at full-mast (we had obvious problems with shorts and half-mast. Ahem). He got the camp award. I won't bore you with the specific award, but let us just say that it's not one you really want to get. And leave it at that. And no, his drawers came down Friday afternoon. We had to go past the flagpole to eat, you know, and the last thing you wanted to do was see those drawers up there.

And those are just a very, very few of my Scouting memories. The leaders, members of our troop, and people who participated in scouts all helped to mold me into what I am, and what I've become, today. None of us were perfect - none of us were rich, but we were all all right. And most of the other guys were pretty cool. I was a bit nerdy. Well, those Steckling boys were into electronics, which I could use to blame them for my later downfall, but seems that I did most of the rolling downhill myself...

My upset of the last day or so is due, primarily, to the inconsistency which I have found within me and within the Boy Scouts. Those of you who know me know that I am not one who sits still for those who would attempt to muzzle free speech; I'm also against discrimination. There's no reason for it. Whatever you think of homosexual people, the bottom line is that they're no more a danger to a child or a young man than a straight adult is. Statistically, the "straight" adult has a higher chance of being a pedophile.

As I read the article, I grew more and more distressed. More and more disgusted. More, and more, and more offended. The organization which I had long been a member of, had formed so much of my life, my ideals, and my character, was telling boys that they should die rather than live as gay men.

Before you howl off with protests, let's look at something. In the article, the Boy Scout Headquarters, in Texas, is the overriding authority here. And, frankly, in my opinion, the bad guy. Why is that? Well, there's a church in Cleveland which had sponsored a troop for 90 years. Do the math with me folks - when they say "longer than any other church in the city" they can also say "one of the oldest continuous troops in existence". The local officials STOLE the equipment bought by the church for the troop when the church and troop reached an agreement that the local leaders and PEOPLE worked out. Why? Because the local agreement ran counter to the national policy.

The article also makes the rather ugly insinuation that the National leadership is beholden to the Mormon organization due to the fact that 13% of the Scouting membership is sponsored by, comes from, or is in some way involved with the Church of Mormon. Frankly, I don't think that's the case. I think the case is that the national Boy Scout leadership has A) Fallen out of touch, B) sadly decided to "stick to their guns" despite the clear wrongness of their actions, and C) is practicing discrimination, no matter the label you put on it.

Frankly, I'm disgusted. The National leadership has seen fit to destroy the good the Boy Scouts could do, and instead , in the finest conservative tradition, hidden behind a veil of secrecy and silence, Gestapo tactics and legal mumbo-jumbo, and has chosen to humiliate hundreds, maybe thousands of boys and their parents with their actions on the issues regarding homosexuals. And by extension they've lied, cheated, and harmed millions of other boys.

So, you say, would I allow my son to join the Boy Scouts as they're acting now? I just don't know. They do a great amount of good. But how does one teach a boy to be Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent when the leadership is mistrusting, fickle, legalistic, callous, rude, uncaring, inconsistent, secretive, and cowardly? Assuming they shower at least daily and perform the rituals of their favorite cabal, they've got two of twelve. Would I want my son to follow the national organization? No.

Does my son join a national troop? Again, no. Troops are local. Given the training and direction Scoutmasters today are given, it's a safe bet that if anything about this issue came up, and the Scoutmaster was there, he'd put a lid on it. Immediately. Of course, any good scoutmaster would avoid disrupting such a discussion if the boys started it unless the boys were way off base or getting out of hand, and then he'd re-direct their energies elsewhere.

But, you're thinking, what about that streaking incident? Would I have been worried about being seen by a gay man or boy while streaking the parade ground? Who's to say I didn't get seen by someone? There were close to four hundred other boys there at camp that week - statistically, I probably WAS viewed by someone who was gay. He didn't make a pass at me, so I'm not too worried about it happening again.

Am I worried that my son might be molested on a camping trip? Yup. Sure am. Which is why I learned a long time ago a pretty effective technique. When it came to evening campfires and bedtimes, we never had a set bed time. We were Scouts, mature enough to deal with what we needed to. Getting every single young man to bed at a pre-set time is about like bailing the Titanic with a soup spoon. The excitement of a campout, the activity, fresh air, and all the rest of it pretty much demand a long day. However, my Scoutmaster would typically retire to his tent (in private) shortly after we returned from whatever activity there was. Typically before 11 pm. After that, the boys were allowed to stay up for a while. The SPL and Patrol Leaders (PL) were in charge. If things got out of hand, the SPL and PLs were to handle it. If things REALLY got out of hand, the Scoutmaster would direct the SPL to settle things down. There was usually a general "everyone in tents" point, set by the boy leaders, at which the SPL and PLs would do a quick head count. Make sure no one's lost on the way back from the latrine, snipe hunt, or whatever. Then crash.

Shortly after that, the Scoutmaster would come out and check things out. Just listening at each tent, to make sure no one's crying themselves to sleep, there's no unusual noises, and the like. If anyone asks, hey, a trip to the latrine. He did it every trip I could stay awake to notice.

As to what went on in those tents, I'm not worried. Since we used larger three man tents, there was never a question of "hanky-panky". When we went to summer camp, sure we had two-person tents with cots - of course, no bug screen or floors, so deal with it. Most of us ended up tying them together to make four-man cabins. There's safety in numbers, and general foolishness is frowned upon. We also managed to rotate tentmates regularly - you never got stuck with the same fellow two campouts in a row.

I'll always treasure a warm July afternoon I spent laying in a mesh hammock in the woods north of Brainerd. There was enough of a breeze to clear the bugs, enough heat and humidity to keep you "unmotivated", and just enough bird and animal noise to keep you awake. I lay in that hammock, about seventy yards from my tent, in a clearing of tall pines and oaks that made of themselves a Cathedral. A little pocket AM Radio quietly pulsing out scratchy music and updates on the Legionnaires disease outbreak in Philadelphia. Brilliant blue sky, framed with green and red pine trees (it was a dry summer), as puffy white clouds sailed overhead. I've yet to recapture that feeling of peace, beauty, and potential rolled into a wonderful afternoon. Listening to the far-off yells from other campers (the next-closest occupied site was easily four or five hundred yards away), the birds, the crash of the occasional squirrel fight, and just enjoying life.

When I think "Boy Scouts" I want to remember that unbottled "pine fresh" scent that came through that afternoon. I want to remember the quiet creak of the trees as they went about their business of growing, feeding, and living. The chirp, twerp, and hum of the woods as the rest of the denizens as they did the same.

I hope my son, and other boys like him, can participate in the same. And I think that, given the way the organization is currently going, I'm going to have to provide that for him; I don't see it coming from the Boy Scouts Of America.

Well. For the two of you who made it through the tortured self-abuse of the above, join me in singing "hippo birdie" - I started this whole thing on the internet a year ago today. Whoopie. I'm guessing some of you would rather I hadn't. That's fine. Your opinion, to which you are entitled. Conveniently, I'm also reminded to harrass my sister, who ages a wee bit again tomorrow. Heh.

And we all aged today, man. I'm reminded of the extraordinarily bad joke; what's the difference between Roast Beef and Pea Soup? Any idiot can roast beef, but it takes a real man to .... Never mind.

As of this writing we have 52% humidity. That's for Dan Bowman.

Otherwise, we also have a 75F dewpoint. And a temp of 96F. Which translates to a "heat index" of 106F. The peak HI was in Blaine, a northern suburb, where they reported a heat index of 119F. We peaked at 97F at the airport, where the "official" numbers are kept. Hottest day in six years. What does that mean, Heat Index? Well, that's how hot it feels. One-oh-Six. In the shade. The ONLY saving grace here is that there's a breeze. A slight one, but a breeze.

Put it this way - it's so hot here I've heard at least five car alarms go off in the parking lot just from the heat. One car with a black interior seems to have blown a window out... Not good. Thank goodness I left the windows open a crack.

The topper? We've now had our sixteenth above-ninety temp this summer. One over average. Phew. Unfortunately, August is typically our warmest month. And it's 31 days long. Whaddya wanna bet we clear 20 ninety-plus days? Yeah. Me too. All that whining earlier in the year for warm temps has sure paid off for me, hasn't it? Fool. Dolt. That's me.

In other words, yeah. Yuck. Just like camping. Add about seven degrees to the dew point, and take away the breeze, that is. Conveniently, I believe I heard on the news this morning that this is the 13th anniversary of the hottest temperature ever recorded here in the Twin Cities - 105F. Ugh. And the only good thing that day was that the dewpoints were in the fifties. Which is dry weather around here.

And a complete and total geek-aside. Did you know that used 4mm DAT cartridges make excellent doorstops when wedged between the steel door-frame and the wooden door? Yeah, me neither. Yet another day in Nerd-vana.

The below is there because I waited for over an hour to get data from incidents.org - your mileage may obviously vary. I also think I'm cured of wanting Code Red Mountain Dew. Yes, that's how this one got it's name - the fellows who originally found it named it in part for that because of the "Hacked by Chinese" (Red China) angle, and partially, "because Code Red Mountain Dew kept us awake to analyze this". Works for me.

Call it coincidence : The Boy Scout Council in Massachusetts just struggled through the issue I fought with, and am fighting with. Elegant solution. Since the council prohibits discussion about sexual matters, there is no way to tell if an individual is asexual, homosexual, or bovisexual (that's someone who's got a rather unnatural yen for a cow, so I'm told). Since you can't ask, you can't find out. Since you can't find out, you've got no business. Which is how it should be. Should I choose to fondle small furry animals, that's my business (no, I'm making no Lemmings jokes here. Ahem). Most emphatically not yours.

HEAT EXHAUSTION : tired feeling, thirsty, general malaise. Lucid and coherent.

HEAT STROKE : nausea, vomiting, dihareha, elevated body temp, loss of consciousness, organ failure, death.

Korey Stringer was a 335 pound, six-foot-four inch, 27-year-old man. He lived year-round in the Twin Cities, and had a number of charitable activities related to his football career. Stringer started every game for two straight years for the Vikings at Right Offensive Tackle, which is a tough job. He went to the Pro Bowl, a recognition that he was one of the best in the game.

During the team's Tuesday morning workout, Stringer vomitted three times. This is a sign that you're losing fluids faster than you can get them in. After practice in 91F temps (which felt like 110F), Stringer went to work out with weights. He complained of chest pains and abdominal cramps. He passed out. Some moments later an ambulance pulled up, took him to the hospital in Mankato, where they were unable to reverse the effect. . admitted in a coma, Stringer died at 1:50 am today after an internal temperature of over 108F caused massive internal organ failure, which caused his heart to stop beating. He's survived by a wife and a three-year-old son, seventy-some teammates at camp, and many fans who are still asking why.

This is very, very sad, and very unfortunate. But this black cloud has a slight silver lining. Coming as early as it has in the "pre-pre-football" season, every single coach and player is now aware of the dangers of working out in the heat and in hydration. Frequent breaks, and resting in cool spaces aren't "bonuses", they're required, folks. You don't want to cook your internal organs. Just not a good idea.

And, amid all this sadness and dreary weather (Rain, yeah! Nearly all day long, too! Just what we need!), a light from the heavens. . . a local company wishes to interview me. Further deponent sayeth not. Until later.

So tonight, put down the keyboard, put your feet up, and read a book. This thing isn't going anywhere. There are authors out there with fully formed worlds and stories to be found. I'm still living, I'm still kicking, and once we find a plot line, we'll have a good story. Until then, who knows. Go hug your loved ones. If they're nowhere to be found, go hug someone else. Make a new friend. Do something fun. Enjoy. Because you don't know how many more sunsets you've got. G'nite. ;-)

It's been a week, all right. This morning started well enough, and was productive enough. I also managed to schedule an interview for next week - yeah, I'm being secretive, and will continue to do so; best not to jinx myself. Then this afternoon, things started swirling 'round the drain faster and faster. Seems our Daycare experienced a computer glitch; 'scuze, please, but I am a computer expert. How does a computer "glitch" and increase my balance due by about $450? Lovely.

Then, when we get home, our electrical help around the complex is either grossly fat, incompetent, or in some form of highly selective union. They need to install new light bars in the kid's bathroom, a ceiling fan and light in the dining room, and a microwave (yeah, another one) in the kitchen. Apparently they were thrown by our chest freezer in the dining room (and we'll likely have to disassemble our dining room table for them to get the work done), the spice rack over the stove, and ... well, the bathroom's fine other than that big gaping hole over the mirror the last crew left. By the way, a small note for you budding interior decorators out there - do not put a full-length, or near-full-length, mirror over the toilet. Just don't. Trust me on this one.

So between the long blitherings above, and the various other bits and pieces of real life impinging on this, things will be short-shrifted around here for the next couple of days.

First up -
<Kneels facing west>
<Bows forehead to floor>
Matt Beland is my hero...
<stands>

Matt's got new toys. Be prepared for a fair number of them to make appearances here. . . I'd kiss him but A) our facial hairs could well mesh and we'd be stuck like velcro, B) Despite the assurances of Mrs. Beland, I don't find him nearly as cute, and C) I get the shudders just thinking about it. Sorry, Matt, no matter how much you beg, I just ain't gonna... ;-)

From Mr. Hawkins; offered without comment. And while I'm sure my wife will tee off on this one like a psychotic groundskeeper in a bed of chrysanthemums, I'm just going to say "Duck" - "Cinderella Kid, out of nowhere..." You get the picture. And yes, if you think I'm making an allusion to that damned gopher movie, you're right.

Now, Couple of pointers for you. If you're working with Dell Servers, specifically those produced after mid 1999 or so, hie thee to the fireproof cabinet/safe where you keep your critical materials (you do do that, don't you?) and find the "Dell Server Assistant" (DSA) disk. You won't be able to install NT 4 without it. I was tasked with moving a BDC (er, Backup Domain Controller - doesn't help much, I know, Mom, but I'll explain it tomorrow) from our old domain to become a member server in the regular corporate domain (since we were acquired over 18 months ago, before I even got here, we've been whittling down the members of the old domain - now the only thing left is the creaky old Dell P133 PDC).

First, I tried the standard "three disks, five CDs, a wing and a prayer, and an internet-connected computer at my elbow" method (no, I don't "wing it" any more. "Winging it" where computers are concerned has likely cost me a few years of my lifespan from stress. Conveniently, I do get a certain amount of cruel enjoyment from watching others who've been instructed alternatively do so anyway - Was it Santyana who said "Dumb shits will keep running into brick walls"? Or something to that effect

). After building three different sets of NT Boot floppies (Say it with me now -- "Switch to CD Drive. CD \I386. Winnt /ox. Amen." ;-), I was rewarded with the ever-popular "this system does not have a hard drive." Wait a minute - I can hear the danged thing from four cubes away. Don't tell me the mice in the walls removed it and ran overnight. I heard it this morning when I rebooted! Anyway, a completely classic WTF moment. Fortunately, Dell provides the DSA disk, with the important utilities, and it also allows you to prep the drive, pre-load the setup disks onto a 16 Mb partition on the front of the drive, and boot away. Works like a charm. At least, it does when you find the disk. I've got four copies of it now.

So that's how my day started. The server was back and on-network by 10 am (I planned 9 am, but warned everyone "noon" in the best Mongomery Scott of Starfleet Engineering style), and there were surprised smiles when I had completed the formatting, SQL Server installation, and service packing by shortly after 11 am. It's pleasantly surprising to go through the five steps you figure it should only take to get networking going, and viola, it DOES work. Wow. I do like NT. 2000, not so much, but NT just plain works. When you've got the right drivers, etc.

So that's that on that front. Seems there's additional movements on other fronts as well, with hopefully good news in the home category coming our way soon. Of course, as has long been suspected, the light ahead in our tunnel might be a small child on a trike, a large, fully loaded train, a missile, or, perhaps, the end of this particular tunnel. I've got my bat in one hand, tennis racquet in the other (in case it's a rabid bat with a headlamp), and a pen in my pocket (if it's the end of the tunnel). If it's a train, I've got mostly cotton clothes on. They should soak me up nicely once the train's through with me...

And speaking of soaking up, more heat whinery. (hic

). Earlier this week we suffered through SIXTY-SIX consecutive hours of dewpoints exceeding 70 degrees. This is dangerous in this neck of the woods, mostly because it doesn't happen all that often. In fact, the last time we had a stretch that long, we need to go back to 1968. Which explains to me why we spent much time that summer in our basement play area which my father "fenced" off in our basement of the old house - hey, I was almost five, I remember it.

Dewpoints over 70 in this neck of the woods are dangerous because we don't know when to quit. We keep going, and that's fatal, as we all now know painfully well. When the dewpoint exceeds 70, and especially when the temperature exceeds 90, you need to ignore the thermometer and look at the "heat index". This is the summer equivalent of "wind chill" and tells you how hot it "feels". And with the 70/90 combo, you can see heat indices above 105. And as any good Californian can tell you, once you get above 105, you get into the "bake or broil" section of the local oven.

When dewpoints exceed 70, it becomes exceedingly difficult to get water to evaporate - especially necessary for those of us who cool down using that method. The sweat doesn't evaporate, it accumulates. And with that, you grow more and more overheated. If you don't take care to get more water into you (and into a cooler place) you can start cooking. As did Korey Stringer. They held a memorial service for him today a few miles from where I work. Our metro traffic real-time map lit up like the sky on the fourth of July surrounding that area... Had to be a lot of really sad, and pissed-off people over there tonight. Those who went to the service got the sad part, and those who couldn't get there due to traffic got the other end of the stick.

This weekend two fellows will be "immortalized" in a fashion when they're inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Dave Winfield is a local from St. Paul who grew up and kept playing. Winfield was the natural athlete who was, to my knowledge, the only person ever selected in the pro football, pro basketball, AND pro baseball draft. He picked baseball. And never spent a day in the minors. Winfield was, and is, a heck of an athlete. But the bigger story, locally, is perhaps the single most popular fellow ever to play pro sports - again, locally - Kirby Puckett.

Kirby started out a kid from the poorer parts of Chicago. Drafted by the Twins back in the Calvin Griffith days (if you've never heard of Calvin, he once traded perhaps the best-hitting first baseman of the time, Rod Carew, to the California Angels in a deal which brought the Twins desperately-needed assistance. In the banking department. He was traded for CASH - first, and I believe, last, time that was ever done), Kirby was initially offered $4000 to play ball. He laughed and said he could make more money bagging groceries.

Fortunately, smarter people prevailed, and Puckett started out in the Twins Visallia Farm Club. When he was brought to the majors, he was about three years behind a crew of rookies who'd posted perhaps the worst multi-year performance of any professional team (outside of Chicago and New Orleans, perhaps). However, those rookies, namely Brunansky, Hrbek, and Frankie Viola, among others, were beginning to come together into a decent team.

Kirby appeared to be more of a fire-plug pee-wee football player than a pro baseball center fielder. But his willingness to work hard and his attitude gave all of us a new definition of "work harder". I remember one spring training session when he broke something like six windshields during batting practice. As I recall, one was under a car cover.

Not that he had any sort of "new professional" attitude. Puckett would show up at hitting clinics the other players put together, and sign autographs and take pictures with the kids. Not just quickie snapshots, but professional-looking portraits. He had a Kirby Bear stuffed animal available for a while (yes, I've got one), and was always good for a post-game interview.

Puckett was one of those people with a rare genetic gift - he could talk a mile a minute. He could pack more words into a sound bite than most politicians, and yet they were always understandable. Best of all, you ended up smiling just listening to him. No matter how bad things were (and even with those two world series wins, there were a lot of bad times - did you know that the 1986 Twins were the WORST team in baseball, by far, that year? Which makes their winning the 1987 Series a total shock), Kirby's attitude was "hey, we didn't do so good today, but we'll get there tomorrow and we'll do better next time because we know we can and we know how to win we just need to do the things we need to do to win the game, man." - And he'd say it all in far less than five seconds. Try it.

A couple years ago Puckett was forced to retire. A season-ending ball to the head caused his vision to blur. During the off-season, Puckett saw specialists and did everything he could. For some reason, I was home early one afternoon when they broke into local programming with a live broadcast from a meeting room under the Metrodome. Puckett had returned from his opthamolagist back east, and with a patch over his right eye, he retired from the game. I remember that many of the players from those World Champion Teams of 1987 and 1991 managed to make it into the room, as did many of the then-current players. I remember them panning the crowd and many of the reporters were wiping their eyes.

He was proud to be able to say he played his entire career for the same team. Didn't want to go elsewhere. He certainly could have played in New York or Chicago or LA for more money in endorsements and all the rest - but that's not his style. The only think I've seen him in commercials for is a local pool shop - not the swimming pool kind, either. He has an annual pool tournament which raises money for charity, as well.

Puckett's now a Vice President for the Twins, and the other night they interviewed him on television. You would think that being a big shot with an organization, having made millions, and being instantly recognizable, locally, the man would have changed some - but that's not puckett. The reporter doing the interview in a suite in the Metrodome asked Puckett about all sorts of things, but the one moment that stands out for me was completely unscripted.

The reporter said "you'll probably be best remembered for things like this" and set up a picture of a much younger, skinnier Puckett on one knee on a sand-lot home plate with an obviously proud little boy in a Twins uniform. This was a segue into the bit about his participation in Batting Clinics, but at the end, the reporter said "recognize him?" and pointed over his shoulder to his now-much-older son, sitting in the wings. As the camera panned to the kid, Puckett said "hey man how you doing? Still play ball?"

When he was asked how he felt about getting into Cooperstown, he said an interesting thing. "Over 16,000 guys have played major league ball. One percent of them get into the Hall of Fame. They picked me on my first ballot. How cool is that?"

I've long watched Puckett and Hrbek and some of the other players from that 1987 team - Sure, they weren't a dynasty. Brunansky was traded in the off-season, and Viola got embroiled in a contract dispute that caused some ... individuals to boo him and his family right out of a circus they attended. No wonder he left the area. There are so few class acts left in professional sports any more - just punks looking to make a big score and get out alive.

But Puckett - Never too busy to stop and encourage a kid, never greedy, and always ready to shrug whatever misfortune off and get back into the game, a quality player with a can-do attitude that didn't stop in the face of misfortune - that's a legacy many younger players today would give anything (except their big-money contracts and gangsta attitudes) to have. Too bad there aren't more Kirby Pucketts in the world.

There's a story on the CNNSI.com site that's a bit better than I could say it here, but that's OK - that guy's getting paid to write. ;-)

And, in a really weird coincidence, the Pro Football induction in Canton also takes place this weekend. It's a big, big, BIG weekend for Minnesota. Ron Yary, yet another offensive player from the trenches, finally earned his appropriate place in the Hall of Fame.

While it is true (as my lovely bride continually points out) that the Vikings have never won a super bowl, they have fielded some very, very good teams. And one of the things that kept Fran Tarkenton playing as long as he did was an offensive line that only got called for holding about one fourth the time they did it (and, of course, Sir Francis's very very fleet feet - if you've never seen a man run around like a lunatic thirty yards behind the line of scrimmage and then fire a pass that goes fifty yards, and is caught, you've never seen the game of football REALLY played). And some pretty good blocking, I guess.

Tomorrow we take my precious little girl and leave her with my parents for a week. My mother's suggestion, actually last year, that she spend time with Rhiannon. And I'm still not sure I'm cool with it.

I remember my first week away from home. Scout Camp. Yes, that poison-ivy episode. The streaking across the parade ground. All of that. First time I spent more than two consecutive nights away from home.

Well now. After a week of long-windedness, we've got a brief update. Spent much of the day in St. Cloud - well, actually, we got packed up, ready to go, and finally went up to St. Cloud, and offloaded Rhiannon. They wanted to see my favorite climbing tree from when I was younger, which I showed them.

And it suddenly, frighteningly, horribly occurred to me. I'm getting old.

I watched my little girl climb up this tree and as she went up, so did my blood pressure and heart rate. I found myself looking further up the tree for someplace to toss a rope over and give her some sort of belay point or SOMETHING. I was terrified that she would end up landing on the ground after bouncing through a few branches.

Never mind the fact that children climb trees far worse than the one you see to your left there, and have been doing so for many, many years. I'm just getting old.

Not much else to say beyond that. My little girl is now in the hands of those that made me the way I am today. The thought occurs ... What have I done?

Oh well. Could be worse. The heat index was 107F, which is why we spent perhaps 45 minutes total in very, very light exercise (as noted above) before going back into the air-conditioned house.

Hopefully greater wit, and wisdom, tomorrow. Or just some wit and wisdom. G'nite.

Well, that's one day down. I awoke at about 8:15 - without prompting from small faces wanting to watch television. I checked the living room, and there was the monkey boy, watching television. I went back to bed, and about 11:30 we finally got out of bed. After some cleaning, we got out of here to look at some open houses.

The first was, I guess, a cute little house. Now, mind you, I've spent the last nine years in a 1200-square-foot apartment, so I'm looking for a bit of elbow room in a home. Admittedly, our budget is only going to allow enough adequate room for one elbow, or a little bit more room for both, but there's another six (not counting felines, who, trust me, do have elbows - they just use them in the middle of the night). But looking at a 1600-square-foot house just isn't going to get anything going for me. This was a three-bedroom home that was quaint. That's the best way to put it.

Now, I've got a couple rules for a home - whether or not they'll get met, I dunno. But I find it a bad sign when you have to stand close to a upper-floor window in a split-level home to see the property line. I also find it unacceptable that if I add a shed, a dog house, and a kennel, I've only got enough back yard left for a very small garden. Not the type of back yard an active kid like Jack needs.

The second house we almost looked at sounded very, very promising. Five bedrooms, two baths, three-quarter acre yard. Just a bit high on the price range. But we thought we'd look at it - the location on a busy street didn't thrill us, but the three-fourths of an acre could forgive a lot.

Sadly, this was one of those where we pulled into the driveway and said "Okay, what's the quickest way out." This was a house that I believe was on the market solely because everyone else was selling, it might be a good time to dump this place, the owners were thinking... Put it this way - the street was masked by a thick hedge along the front of the property. Sadly, there was no front yard, as it had been replaced by the driveway - there were two entry points into the yard - the first one, closest to the garage, was blocked by a gate of some sort. The second, further down, used most of the "usable" yard. I say "usable" because about fifteen feet from the back of the house the yard took a rather severe drop. Something like a sixty degree drop. I'm not sure how far down the lot went, but when I'm looking at the crown of some big oak trees just up ahead, and they're at eye level, that's not a good sign.

So we bagged that house in short order (to be honest, we couldn't get out of there fast enough), and went over to the YMCA. We hit the pool, and after that, we pretty much came home.

I looked at a clock a little bit ago and realized it was after my daughter's normal bedtime. So I picked up the phone. Called my folks. Got Rhiannon on the phone...

ME : Hi Sweetie, how are you?
RHIANNON : Hi Daddy. Fine.
ME : What did you do today?
RHIANNON : Uh...
ME : Were you in the middle of something?
RHIANNON : Yeah. We were watching the movie Cats.
ME : Really?
RHIANNON : Yeah.
ME : Do you want to go back to it?
RHIANNON : Yeah. Is Mommy There?
ME : Yeah. Let me get her.

I should have expected it. This is from the kid who patented the "see ya dad, don't let the door hit ya in the butt on the way out" look when still an infant.

But, before I forget - Ken Scott kindly reminded me of a near-misstatement I made above regarding Kirby Puckett's career. During his last regular-season game, Puckett was struck in the head by a pitch. As I recall, it was on the left side of his face (this is because Puck was a right-handed hitter). This pitch had absolutely nothing to do with ending his career. It most likely caused Puck to sit and think and notice things more, and pay more attention to his body. When he noticed a spot of blurred vision in his right eye, come spring training, he took that seriously. And when there was nothing that could be done, Puckett retired.

And Finally: Seems there's yet another variant of the Code Red worm running around. This one's not as benign as the previous versions, and is much, much more harmful - and more difficult to remove. I don't know that I can say this loud enough to get through all of the thick numbskulls out there, but I'll try. If you are stupid or naive enough to be running an unpatched version of IIS, please, do us all a favor, and turn the damned computer off.

I honestly think that some people should be stuffed into a barrel and feeding should be allowed only though the bunghole. At some point, the bung should be driven in if the individual inhabiting said barrel proves to be a danger to self or others. But that's just my opinion on a cranky Sunday night. You mileage, after all, may vary.

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