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Monday, December 3, 2001
Seems our "favorite" local-based American Terrorist, Sara Jane Olsen, will be in court today attempting to repudiate what she's said five times to date (three in writing, two under oath) - Guilty - she says she's not.
Now, to be fair, I'm sure that a woman who has raised children and attempted to blend in to a community for over 20 years could well be confused by a "did you do it, yes or no" question. I mean, there's the whole concept of "aiding and abetting" that's going on here. As the local media (whom our governor would happily shoot, if the season were declared) puts it, the legal concept of aiding and abetting is "you knew of the operation beforehand, you did nothing to stop it, and you did nothing to turn in the guilty."
So, Kathleen Ann Soliah twenty-some years ago watched a couple of similarly-ethically-challenged individuals construct a pipe bomb which, by most accounts, was one of the most powerful devices ever discovered in the state of California to that time (or since), roll said constructed device under the car of local law enforcement, and did nothing about it. Then she hid, in plain sight, in St. Paul. When caught she first denied the charges, then admitted them by filing papers to legally change her name from Kathleen Ann Soliah to Sara Jane Olsen, the name she'd used for over twenty years.
It's important to note here that many, and I do mean many, of the local politicians on the lower levels of the ladder (city councilmen, mayors and mayoral candidates past and long, long past) came out in support of this now-upstanding citizen of St. Paul, and said variously "she didn't do it" "She's not guilty" "That's not her" or "I can't believe it."
Well, it looks like Mrs. Olsen's been believing her own P.R. Today she goes before a judge to claim, again, that she's innocent, that she's not really guilty, and she shouldn't be held responsible for either the guilty plea she's already entered or the thing's she's done. She'd like to fight it out in court.
Seems to me, toots, that that day's come and gone. We don't often get the chance to face up to all of our critics and mistakes and deeds, both good and bad, at one time. She did. And while many of us only get to own up to it once, Mrs. Olsen-Soliah had the opportunity twice to say "yup, you betcha, I did it." Under Oath.
Then came the "oh, but no, not really, I was coerced."
Right.
I do love the Judge, though. He said "I could not sleep at night if I sent an innocent person to jail. I'm gonna sleep well tonight."
In other words, appeal denied, see you Friday for sentencing. Tee-hee.
Well, it seems to me that our apparent plan to go after Mr. Hussein after that bin Laden rat needs re-evaluating. While one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter, it's pretty apparent that the individuals in Hamas are going to play by the same rules that got bin Laden's privates in the vice. Time we add Hamas assets and support to our list of "don't go there" and set Reichmarshall - er, attorney general - Ashcroft on them next. That is, if he can tear himself away from the mirror and the skimpy little Nazi costume.
Hamas isn't fighting for "freedom". They're not fighting because they're oppressed. They're fighting because they don't like the thought that they might not get EVERYTHING on their Christmas List, and let's face it - it's not going to happen. The nature of compromise is that you give a little to get a lot.
If Arafat's going to prove himself as a legitimate power in this new type of world, he needs to get those lunatics in a room, disarm them, and then line them up. Start at one end (or the other, it makes little difference), and then walk the line. Find someone willing to compromise. If they're unwilling to compromise, then accept the fact that you have an intractable enemy, and one you can ill-afford to leave out there as a rabid dog in the bunny pen - take those that answer in the negative out, and shoot them. Don't bother with a trial. You've just done that. If they're incapable of compromise, they're likely to strap dynamite to their backs, walk into a crowded mall, and blow themselves up. Save them (and the innocents they'd kill) the trouble of getting the explosives and just kill them out of hand. It seems that's all they're interested in anyway is dying. No point in letting the rabid dog out of the pen alive, in my view.
Let's see. What else is going on today?
Mr. Bilbrey, apparently completely, totally unaware of the concept of "weekend" posted an excellent overview tutorial on IPTables. Having struggled with this issue in a part-time fashion for some months, his tutorial is a must-read intro for the IPTables HowTo - I just wish I'd had it eight months ago when that was my top-drawer project. Oh well - on to the next one.
What else?. Mr. Kamen came out with "it" - that damned scooter - today. I agree with Bob Costas, who blamed lack of sleep for his comments. Right, this thing's going to revolutionize commuting. 'Scuse me, but that's what you get when you work in a lab instead of the REAL FREAKING WORLD, Mr. Kamen.
That "scooter" would have been completely useless last week with the weather we had. And in rain, or rough terrain? Right. Get a clue, bud.
Baseball seems to be in the throes of terminal insanity, if you ask me. News out last week was that two of the most recently added teams - Arizona (yes, the World Champion Diamondbacks) and Tampa Bay both had to take out loans to meet payroll this year. Arizona's had to seek salary deferrments, additional investment, and more money. Therefore, the Twins, who managed to make "an operating profit" and a run at the pennant are candidates for the block. Puh-leeze. That crock smells so bad it stinks here, and we've still got some snow on the ground.
Of course, there's that little thing called "a long-term lease" which those teams signed which has managed to keep them out of the contraction talks for the most part. And, of course, there's the small matter of Greedy Old Carl Pohlad and Even Greedier Scrooge Selig - one would get $250 million for $100 million worth of product, and the other would think to pick up all those fans from western Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa, the Dakotas, and areas as far away as Montana and Wyoming.
Right. The only brewers I cheer for are the ones that make beer, not the ones that make errors.
What's doubly unfortunate is that Baseball has forgotten the role of commissioner. Started to police the abuses that occurred during the "Black Sox" scandals, the First Commissioner, judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis (no, you don't forget a name like that, though I have cause to remember it for other reasons), was an impartial, balanced force.
Later commissioners were allowed to blur and fuzz the line. What's curious, however, is how Baseball thinks they'll manage to fight the loss of the Anti-Trust exemption with their chief spokesman one of the owners.
Here's a suggestion - Baseball loses the Anti-trust exemption. The Chief Justice of the District Court of the District of Colombia is appointed to select a judge from the bench who's sole duty would be to oversee baseball. The judge would be assisted by a committee of fans, two from each city baseball plays in, and a further twenty chosen from other areas of the country away from baseball. Further, 50% of the membership of the committee, specifically one per metropolitan area and ten of the at-large seats would be individuals between the ages of eight and eighteen; those under the age of twelve would be required to vote with their parent's consent; all those under the age of 21 would be required to travel to all baseball-related meetings/functions with at least one parent/guardian.
The purpose of the committee would be to evaluate, with sufficient and educated legal counsel, all proposals which are appealed either by management or the player's union or by the municipalities that host those teams. The committee would make recommendations to the commissioner who would, in the end, make the final determination.
And the committee would be empowered to literally spank owners if required.
In return? Baseball as a corporate entity would be allowed to sell shares of stock on the stock market. After all, if Baseball is this big, multi-national, conglomerate sports industry, shouldn't they want outside investment?
Seems logical to me. Especially the spanking part.
Let's see if I can find happier news. Seems Mr. Kershner, he of the Wizard's Keep, one of the best URLs out there (and it's his, damnit), is still alive, and kicking, and keeping up the good fight. He's got medical problems in the kith and kin galore, but given what they've been through up to this point, I'm fairly sure it's something he'll be able to endure - anyway, I'm keeping up the good thoughts for them, and I'd appreciate it if you could spare one or two for them as well...
Well, I've found a wonderful scam if you've got the stones for it. Last week we finally, for sure, determined our pop machine had taken that final long lunch - compressor went out. We first diagnosed it with getting a warm can of pop. Then we sniffed in the break room. Pretty easy to diagnose. So, this morning, about 9:30 or so, these two guys wander in.
"uh, yeah. where's your vending machines."
"Excuse me?"
"We're here to get your pop machine?"
"Really? You weren't supposed to be here until afternoon."
"Uh, sorry. We're doing the schedule upside down today."
"Really. That must make the afternoon folks happy."
"We're supposed to pick up a machine and deliver one to a new
location."
"No, I don't think so."
"uh what?"
"You were supposed to drop off a working one, and pick up a busted
one."
"Uh, what?"
"There's a phone right over there, I think you need to get it
straightened out."
"uh, what?"
"I can't let you take this machine until we know we're getting one back
here today."
"But that's gonna put me behind schedule."
"Sorry. I need to know what's going on."
"Oh, OK."
They leave, return with a Dolly.
"So what's the scoop?"
"Uh, what?"
"On the new machine. What's up?"
"We don't have a number for Acme Beverage" (name changed to protect the
innocent, we hope).
"Right here on the front of the machine you're here to pick up."
"Oh, yeah. OK. "
I continue emptying cans. They show back up.
"Uh, done yet?"
"Nope. What's the scoop?"
"We couldn't get ahold of them."
"Well, gentlemen, I'll tell you what. I'm going to keep emptying this
machine - it's a one-person job. You guys need to get hold of the
beverage company and get this straightened out. I can't let you take
this machine until I know I've got someplace coming to store these 300
cans of pop."
"Your phone doesn't work."
"Yes it does. Pick up the phone, and dial."
"We get a busy signal."
"You do know you're in a different area code from the beverage company,
don't you?"
"Uh, what?"
"Dial area code, and phone number, no need to dial a one."
"Uh, OK."
I empty a few more channels.
"Okay. The guy, our dispatcher, wrote it down wrong. Pick up broken
machine, deliver new machine, same location."
"Ok. All right then. There you go."
"That's all there is?"
"Well, yeah."
"So now you trust us?"
"No, not really, No. I did get your license number from up here while
you were down there, and I've got a description of your truck. We've
also called to confirm you guys with Acme, so if they don't get the pop
machine, we know who to look for. By the way, the security system also
took your picture."
"uh, what?"
"Have a nice day, gentlemen. See you in a bit."
"Why's that?"
"When you bring back the other pop machine?"
"Oh, yeah."
Good thing we'd called "Acme" and confirmed, or I would have been very suspicious... They did return, and deliver the good machine, and life went on...
Then, of course, a keyboard dies, and the programmer spends 45 minutes typing before calling me.
"I've been typing, and nothing's happening. I've shutdown and
restarted four times now."
"Be right back." Return with a standard-straight-line keyboard.
"I don't want that keyboard."
"I know, it's just a test."
"No, you don't understand - I don't want that keyboard."
"I know. That's not a problem. I've got a spare, cheapo ergonomic
keyboard you can use temporarily if that's the case. I brought this
keyboard because it's mine, I know it works, and I want to test your
keyboard port."
"No, You don't understand. I do not want a straight-line keyboard on
my computer! I won't use it!"
"I know that. This isn't permanent. It's just a test."
"But I don't want a straight keyboard!"
"Did I tell you there's free pop in the kitchen?"
"Really?" Woosh.
By the time she came back, the keyboard was the el-cheapo ergonomic -
it works, as the port worked, and her old keyboard and trackpad combo
was toast. Trackpad worked, keyboard, not so much, no. Swapped out with a working one and all was fine.
So it goes.
Couple of clarifications/short takes. Jack got three stitches in his finger, not eight, yesterday. Given the size of his finger (still slightly smaller around than your average pencil), eight stitches would pretty much go half-way up his arm. Although I was wishing they'd next sew his hands into his pockets to keep his hairy little arse out of trouble. Though I'm sure between teeth, toes, and that damned prehensile tail, he'd still find some trouble.
And I'm still slightly intelligent regarding both replication and hardware issues. We've got an older machine at work which has become "John's Whipping Boy." As in if I need a temporary PDC to build an isolated mini network for testing, slam,bang, there you go. If I need a temporary client for the network running XP, well, gollee, gomer, the danged thing works! Or, as well as XP does. Etc.
Last week the thing refused to read CDs. Not any CDs mind you, just the ones we had created. So, being a genius like I am, I said "I wonder if it's the 80 minute/700 meg CDs we're using?" And so I proceeded to order some new CDs. Which our part-time office manager/support person translated into CD-RWs. I dunno. I gave her the part number and everything right out of the freaking catalog, along with a link to their web site, I did. So we re-ordered. 700/80s. Returned those. Today, the 650/74s arrived. Burned one, and viola - not a problem to read service pack stuff, various bits, and the rest of the important drivers I needed appeared, magically, on CD. I was dreading re-learning the whole "zip and split on floppies" trick I'd used in the early 90s to back up multi-megabyte databases on machines that couldn't be backed up via a network for whatever reason. Phew.
The other thing? Got a new build of our software. Removed from the client and server. Set it up on both ends. Created the database. Ran the scripts (from memory, with all of the edits). Turned my back on the server, configured replication, and ran it without double-checking. Viola, again - the thing worked.
If I hadn't invested a whole lot of hard-earned braincells in the mishmash that passes for SQL Server-to-SQL Server replication, I'd rejoice. As it was, I sat in shock. The damned thing actually, really, unbelievably, worked.
I decided not to rebuild the XP test box this afternoon. No point in ending the day on a low note when I'm getting sunburned on one side - yes, the sun's out, much of the snow's gone, and what's left will likely take a run later this week. The bad news? All those winter driving skills we were hoping to acquire are hereby delayed another couple of days. Can you say bumper cars? I knew you could.
And, I'd like to proudly point out that the Aegean Stables, otherwise known as the master bathroom, is finally, utterly, complete. The rest of the apartment's fallen into a sorry state, but the bathroom's clean. Oh well. Just call me Herk. No, not Jerk, Hercules. Heh.
And Mr. Ricketson helped me to realize that I started and ended last week with Catholic-related rants. Heh. The Alpha and Omega. Somewhere I'm sure there's a couple of former theology profs spinning themselves a bit deeper in the soil... heh. My work here is done. Move on to tomorrow...
Tuesday, December 4, 2001
American Taliban?!?!?
Good grief. I was afraid this sort of thing would happen - eventually, some lunatics would turn up claiming "we're Americans, don't shoot" and claim some new way to drag this phase of the war on terror out a few more years.
Let's see, here. We'll start with the Constitution, which defines, up front, the punishment for Treason.
United States Constitution, Article III, Section 3
Section. 3.
Treason against the United States, shall consist only in levying War
against them, or in adhering to their Enemies, giving them Aid and
Comfort. No Person shall be convicted of Treason unless on the Testimony of two Witnesses
to the same overt Act, or on Confession in open Court.
The Congress shall have Power to declare the Punishment of Treason, but no Attainder of Treason shall work Corruption of Blood, or Forfeiture except during the Life of the Person attainted.
The law in this case is clear. The various "American Taliban" captured in the Afghan fighting were not actively shooting at American Troops, but at Alliance fighters. Yes, there was a CIA operative, and perhaps Special Forces, in the attacking group. If that's the case, there's some standing there. But there is also the simple requirement that two witnesses testify, in court, under oath, as to the act.
That said, do we really want these people here? While Afghanistan is an isolated and poor country, I cannot imagine that a true American or anyone of sound, sane mind would not feel horrified at the actions of September 11th. I cannot imagine anyone rejoicing to watch thousands of people die such horrible deaths. It would be akin to an American standing in downtown Tokyo on December 8, 1941, and cheering the news of the attack on Pearl Harbor. I can't understand why they'd continue to stay there and support our enemy in the face of our obvious resolve to do what needed to be done.
I don't know what fate has in store for these "American Taliban". For me, the preferred solution would be easy. Strip each of them, impressionable youth or no, of their citizenship. Make them people without a country. And then bar them from entry to the United States in perpetuity.
A simple solution. Sure, it's gonna be painful for their parents, but let's face the music, folks - sometimes in life you make choices which are, or prove to be, wrong. Not "unwise" or "unsound" or "imprudent." Just plain wrong. It's like betting against Microsoft. You might win, but the longer odds are on The Dark One's side.
But in this particular case, I think we can make a pretty effective case that these fellows didn't want to be part of the U.S. of A, and instead wanted a place elsewhere. Fine. No problem here. Let them stay there. Because they need to learn that sometimes, the only way out of a particular mess is through the nasty little spot right in front of the door.
As the man says in Princess Bride - "Life IS pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something." And, fortuitiously, the movie's on HBO this very evening. Damned good movie, that.
After yesterday's breaking of the mental damn - er, dam - I'll try to be much shorter. No, really. I've got reading to do...
First, some education in the finer arts of Lutefisk (and no, I can't say it properly with the accent and all)...
Frequent Correspondent Mark Thompson writes...
From: Mark Thompson Date: Sun, 2 Dec 2001 09:04:22 -0600 To: John Dominik Subject: Lutefisk lament -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sir: As a confirmed non-lutefisk-eating American of Norwegian ancestry I offer these comments. Lutefisk actually did originally mean something like 'lye-fish' and the fish was soaked in a mild lye solution. It had to be soaked for some time before eating, and the prudent person changed the water fairly frequently. The fish used was generally North Atlantic Cod, but cod in the Atlantic are few and far between these days, so I'm not sure what fish actually becomes lutefisk these days. I doubt that lye is the treatment of choice, either, but I have no idea what other chemicals are used. The original purpose of lutefisk was to serve as a survival food, I have heard. The idea was that no self-respecting bacterium could stand the stuff, so that it would keep unrefrigerated in locations far from civilization, and be available when need arose, say, for a shepherd or someone way off in the mountains. Why it ever became a Christmas staple in the USA is beyond me. A columnist for the StarTribune, newspaper of the universe (Klobuchar? Batson?) many years ago said that Scandinavians from the Old Country rarely ate the stuff here and wondered why we did. The columnist also told of a student at St. Olaf College in Northfield who was a Norwegian native. 'Ole' had a passionate dislike for lutefisk, which, in those days, the college served once or twice in the weeks before Christmas. He tried very hard to arrive at the dining hall late, in order to avoid it. (Trust me, it cannot be avoided; the smell has staying power. Boy, does it have staying power.) Inevitably, he would find that some unsuspecting soul, assuming that all Norwegians loved the stuff, had saved him a plate. Probably a LARGE plate. 'Ole' apparently lived through his collegiate experience and returned to Norway, where he never has to touch lutefisk. Incidentally, if you ever have the chance to hear a recording Boone and Erickson made for WCCO some years ago, called "Lutefisk Lament" it will explain many things to you. It's also wildly funny. I don't know why people in my family eat it either. I think I know why Finns, among others, use the sauna-and-freezing-water routine. It's sort of like standing with one foot on a stove and the other in a bucket of ice--statistically, you're comfortable. Egads. Well, you've got my sympathies. I suppose soaped fish wouldn't require much in the way of preservatives, though I wonder as to the relative intelligence of the parties involved - if bacterium won't eat it, why should we? I guess we should hope Ole didn't tire of the frigid north, move south, change his name to Osama, and ... no, that's just not funny. Well, it is, but only in a sick and twisted way I'd like. I'm sure, somewhere, I heard Boone & Erickson's Lutefisk Lament. I hear Roger Erickson saying "Lutefisk" in that Norwegian Lilt of his in my head whenever I see the word. Then again, how one can grow up these days to the sound of Dave what's-his-name announcing school closings state-wide is beyond me. Heck, my mom would change the radio station to 'CCO in case the local one said we were closed - it 'tweren't official unless CB&RE had it. Then again, faced with the prospect of keeping five kids inside, amused, and alive for a long winter's day, well, I'd want as many independent confirmations as possible. As to the "statistically comfortable" - I should have known. Statistics. Now it becomes useful in determining "comfort" as well. Great. I guess I should have paid more attention to it in college... ;-) I suppose next they'll tell us that the larger the temperature gradient between the two, the greater the chance we'll be comfortable? Yikes. Indeed. It reminds me of the joke about the short-legged male dog walking in a snowstorm...
Beyond that, we're looking out today at an almost completely snowless landscape - no snow, anywhere, as far as the eye can see, in large flat areas. Some piles, but those, too, shall pass (sorry). There's many an ice-fisherman looking out the window and moping these days - there's no ice, yet, to fish on.
And there's a new one rushing 'round the net - The "Goner" virus. We got three of these, sans payload, at work today. Over 200 blocked at the firewall, thank God. The message starts with a "Hi" and has the word "Hurry" misspelled as "harry" - if you look for "I am in a harry, I promise you will love it!" and delete immediately, you should be safe. The trick is that it includes a screen-saver which can carry lovely nasty stuff - sorta like BadTrans and it's hairy ugly brothers. Anyway, update your virus sigs, and you can check out more info here... And hey, let's be careful out there, OK?
Wednesday,
December 5, 2001
Happy 21st Birthday, Mom <cough cough>
First off, happy birthday to my mother, who again turns twenty-one. Or celebrates the event again, at any rate. I guess her problem with the 21st Birthday thing started when I hit 21. Up to that point, some twist of logic told her somehow she could claim the age. I dunno. You have to remember that this is the same woman who has the intellectual capacity to understand photography, computers, and most likely nuclear fission, and yet claims "it's magic" whenever I (or my father) attempt to explain the mysteries of the darkroom to her.
Then again, knowing the level of detail both Dad and I can get to, I suspect her claim of magic was a way to forestall the inevitable. Smart woman, my mother. Why none of it passed on to me is still a profound mystery... To all involved, I assure you.
And it's a stay-at-home-sick day. As an adult, I feel rather guilty in staying home with a sick kid. After all, I'm in perfect health. I'm fine. But Jack, now...
Last night, for the first time in several months, he came in with another night terror. Actually, Ann had just gone in to check on the kids a little after ten. Not a peep. She went to wash her face in the bathroom next to the kid's bedroom, and Jack started. She ended up bringing him into our room, and it took literally about 20 minutes to wake him up. There's something terrifying about a little kid looking at you, eyes just huge, and shrieking - and you know it's not you he sees, but something else.
I ended up almost squishing him to get him to wake up - wrapped him up in my
arms and kept telling him over and over again I was right there and I loved
him. Ann was trying from the other side. And he went on for quite
some time until the terror went away. Then he was fine. Of course,
at 4:00 am he came in, hotter than a cheap gas stove, and Ann gave him some water
and Ibuprofen. Two hours later, when I went in to wake the kids up, Jack
was still hot. Rhiannon, after regaining consciousness (she's a lot like
me - can wake fast if needed, but typically prefers to come to the slow, gradual
realization that she's awake), bounced up and was ready to roll.
Jack, on the other hand, slept until nearly 10 am. So I guess he was wiped out.after all. And for those of you who want to see snow around here, there it is. Such as it is. Plow-off from the apartment complex next door. Jack and I went out for a walk to tire us out. It was 50% successful - I was cold, wet, and tired - of course, since the front was coming through and the temperature was dropping (I think I heard the high today was 63 - which, not surprisingly, was a complete end-run past the old record of 50-something, and also occurred at about 9 am), we had a thirty-mile an hour wind, light drizzle, and he was wanting to stop and look at things.
I suppose it would also be a good point to mention he's got his heavy winter coat on over there. I had my "winter" coat on as well - mine's a bit lighter than his, of course. Which is why we'll be shopping the end-of-season sales for a Parka like Ann got a year or two ago - something like $40 for her heavy-duty no-brand-name full-boat parka. When I was in college (and after) I would pick up old wool great-coats - you know, the type that went below your knees, nearly to your ankles - and wear those, along with something light underneath for warmth. When those finally fell apart, I went looking for something and ended up with the present "jacket". Known to ride up when one bends over to buckle one's youngest child into the car seat, thus allowing a great blast of wind up the back and, not coincidentally, down the pants. Some would find that exhilirating. At my age, it's just a pain.
Anyway, that's the way it is in my world. I'm gonna knock off early and hit the hay. Well, actually the waterbed. But that's the way it goes. G'nite.
Thursday, December 6, 2001
I've got a bit of a problem with a fair number of the fellow individuals who share my apparent gender.
I wish that we were back in more medieval times, where honor and character and responsibility were highly regarded. Sure, personal comfort's nice. But should you enjoy great personal comfort at the expense of others? Well, not really.
Now, before you go calling me a Communist, let me explain. We've got a friend who is in a bit of a bind. Seems her new husband has gone and done some stupid shit monetarily, and is proceeding with blissful ignorance to destroy the lives of both his wife and her kids. He worries about his own comfort. She's left to suffer through as best she can.
Sorry, but in my little corner of reality, marriage is perhaps the one true partnership on the planet. Or at least, it should be. Because, in life, you're going to face many, many trials. You know that there are going to be, or could be, horrible, terrible, nasty, wretched times. But the bottom line is that your spouse should be standing beside you through all of those troubles. Regardless.
There are some real idiots out there.
Well, folks, it's official. Dumb luck struck again in the Dominik Test kitchens, and I, once again, was the beneficiary. At least temporarily.
Ann had assembled Part 1 of Wednesday's dinner - Chicken Supreme - earlier in the week. Basically, from my point of view, it meant putting thawed chicken parts into a bag with sauce to "marinate". My job was to "dredge it through bread crumbs" and shove it in the oven.
Unfortunately, all I could find for bread crumbs were the italian version - knowing not what this recipe was, I figured screwing with it would be bad. Especially since Ann was in a dead spot and neither land-line nor cell phone would reach her. So I improvised. I took a two-thirds full box of Brownberry Ranch croutons which had been sitting on the counter for a couple weeks, and tossed that in the blender. Didn't look like enough. Then I remembered the bit of an article I'd read in one of her Cooking Light magazines. You can make bread crumbs from fresh bread using the blender, too. I took three slices from the loaf - well, that was all there was, so I took the last three, extracted a new loaf (very important in Dungeon Dominik, for he who forgets to remove the bread from the freezer will likely not get a sandwich for lunch the next day. Yup, that's me), and fired up the blender.
Mind you, when it comes to blenders, I'm of two minds on the whole thing. While I like cheap, I also very very much like horsepower and gadgetry. I'm tempted some day to get a vaccum motor and connect it to a blender to see if things will go faster. Just a thought.
Anyway, after some struggles to get moist bread to get into the bottom of the blender, I got my bread crumbs. I removed the chicken from the bag, dragged it through the bread crumbs (yes, I've previous experience in this, thanks for asking) and then proceeded to following the directions the rest of the way.
Amazingly, the recipe turned out to be very, very good. The bread crumbs weren't crunchy, but softer, and very, very tasty. Typically, when I cook, there's usually a "very, very" involved. Rarely, "good" also appears in the sentence. So that was one good thing.
Of course, I've maintained my average by really screwing up in another direction.
At the grocery store, I usually get the shaved turkey for my sandwiches. Aside from the hundreds of other benefits of turkey, it's much cheaper at $4.29 a pound than my favorite Buffalo Chicken Breast at $7.99 a pound. So, I though "gee, what can I do to change the flavor of the turkey a little?"
Let me just assure you that teriyaki turkey, aside from the alliteration, is just not something one really should be messing with. I'll eat it, but I'm not going to do that again. Ever.
And, on a short side-note, I'd like to assure all of you that yes, my wife is still alive and kicking. Her final day of hell-week is today; this month, apparently, is their worst meeting - she has about six of them a year, and a week prior to the meeting they send out a book - literally - it's a three-ring binder full of charts, graphs, and other interesting, fascinating information about the Workers Comp insurance field.
Following this book, more preparations are made for their meeting, which occurs today. And December is doubly troubling, because the day after this particular meeting (wherein they decide on the number of people who have to be hurt yet this year to hold up or down the average, I guess), comes their board meeting - this year, the board has to pick a new CEO because the old one's gone and run himself out of a job. Or something. Nice fellow, but one really should be careful, even as CEO, if one is running for political office and mentioning one's workplace. Especially one that would be happy to enjoy some anonymity for a change. Oh well.
So, the beautiful part is that she's off tomorrow at noonish. Me? I had to stay home with sicko yesterday, and am another mile behind on the testing stuff. Ugh.
At least I proved I still had it, whatever IT is, despite Mr. Kamen's efforts to the contrary. I have a series of logs in a folder in SQL Server which I wanted to look at. Being Microsoft SQL Server, you know they don't do things normally. The extensions are things like "errorlog.1" "errorlog.2" and the like.
Tough to associate with a known file type. So I put on my Batman costume...
Let's see. Line 1 shuts off the display. Line 2 deletes any existing ALLERROR.TXT file. Line 3 does the same to ALLSQLAG.TXT files it finds. Since none of the files I want to keep are named this, I'm OK. Line 4 checks for what I need to do. If I only want to do one, I can run it from the command line. If I want both, I can just double-click on the file in explorer. It'll run. Line 5 looks for the parameter ERROR to do only the errorlog files, while line 6 does the same with the SQLAGENT files. Line 7 and 8 are only labels. Line 9 is the smart bit. It tells the process running to look for files named ERRORLOG.* - when found, it should put them, one by one, into the TYPE command, which then dumps their output into a file. The double-arrow redirection, as most of you remember, is the "if it exists, append, if not, create" bit, which is why we need to toast the file in Line 2. If we didn't, the file would continue to grow. And using the single-arrow redirect would just overwrite each file with the following. Line 10 does a check on the parameter - if we've said ERROR only, then let's head on out through the ... you guessed it, door. Line 11, another label, line 12, a repeat of 9 with a different file name. Line 13, the end. It's a simple but effective way to get your logs combined and viewable.
If I wanted to get really fancy, rather than execute a TYPE command I'd call a second batch file (you can only do one operation with the For/in construct), and pass it the %%A filename parameter - the second file would echo a couple of blank lines, then the pertinent file information (probably a DIR %1 >> logfilename.ext), and then type the actual file, so I could see everything I might need to know in one screen. I might still do that later, but for now, this works).
There you go. A Geek dose for the day.
From: John Dominik
Sent: Thursday, December 06, 2001 8:21 AM
To: Keri Beland
Subject: Re: Lutefisk
On Wed, 05 December 2001, "Keri M. Beland" wrote:
Being a Daughter of Norwegian ancestry, I will tell you how to prepare, cook, and devour Lutefisk.
(Assuming, of course, one is at least partially insane. Other than that, prepare and cook works. Devour? No. Not really, no.).
(The following is from: http://www.sverdrup.no/english/lutefisk.htm
(Oh, great. And people are worried about PORN on the net? And they've translated it to English, how nice. At least now I have a clear URL I can point to for the definition of ABOMINATION)
How to make lutefisk
The first thing you have to do, is to decide how big a portion of stockfish you want to soak. As a rule, 125
grams of stockfish are the
(Right. How about none? Is none good for you? And of the literally hundreds of fish type I know, none are called "Stockfish". Perhaps with good reason)
equivalent of 1 kg of soaked fish. A lutefisk lover will gladly eat a
(Three comments. One - as I recall, isn't a kilogram a thousand grams? Which would mean you've got roughly one part fish, nine parts... lye. Second - if a lutefisk lover does exist, there's a species which is A) endangered, and B) Rightfully so. Third - "Gladly eat" - uh, are we sure these "Lutefisk Lovers" are actually human?).
of lutefisk, which means we should allow 125 grams of stockfish per person.
(And this, ladies and gentlemen, is where one gets the concept of "Cruel & Unusual Punishment")
Soaking
Ready beaten stockfish is soaked in cold water for about 24 hours (stockfish
(Lovely. Catch it, beat it, soap it, eat it. You know, come to think of it, I think that's the plot to half the porn movies out there. Not that I would know from personal experience, mind you. Cough cough).
that has not been hammered should be soaked for about 4 days). You
(hell, the only way I would eat Lutefisk is hammered. Completely, utterly polluted. Blind, stinking drunk. That way when it hits my stomach, I've got additional ammunition for the ejection of the foreign invasion to be expelled)
use running water, or change the water at least twice every 24 hours.
(yes, use clean water. Lord knows we don't want anything dangerous in there before we SOAP THE FISH...)
"Luting" -- adding the lye
Make a solution of water and caustic soda (NaOH) using 50 grams of soda per
(I make it a general rule not to eat anything with the word "Caustic" in any of the ingredients. It's just good common sense. Eventually, somewhere, it's going to eat a hole in something - since I'm already a bag of toxic chemicals myself, I feel it's only responsible of me to take a pass on that, thanks.)
7 litres of water. The soaked fish should be left in the soda solution for about 24 hours. Subsequently, it should be watered down, preferably in
(how about eternity? Can't we just leave it in there forever? It would serve as a warning to the fish about the hell and terrible abuse that could befall them if caught, and warn others about the dangers of soaping your fish... You know, the more I say "soap the fish" the dirtier it sounds. I can see it now - a great pickup line in norwegian bars over aquavit - "Hey, baby, wanna soap my fish?" Comely Norwegian blonde agrees, and the fellow takes her home ... to make Lutefisk. Oh well. And here you were thinking porn movie plot again...)
running water, for approximately 48 hours. Then the fish is ready to be cooked or frozen.
(or burn in the fires of eternal damnation, perhaps? Oh well. We can hope.)
Freezing the fish
(Which is a good thing if you live in perpetually arctic climates. However, if you use an appliance, such as a freezer, to freeze your fish, then you need to remember that some day that appliance will fail and you'll A) run across old warm lutefisk in the back of the fridge, and B) have to move or dispose of it - which means you will have to put it in your vehicle (probably on a hot summer day), drive to the local hazardous waste disposal place, and then publicly admit you had Lutefisk in your home. Oh, the horrors. Our recommendation? Just throw it out. It's going to end up in the trash anyway, why put it through you first?).
Lutefisk is very suitable for storing in your freezer. In that way, you have ready made lutefisk for the summer too.
(And why is this a good thing? Unless after all the abuse this fish has suffered, it flies like a frisbee, I'm not interested).
How to cook lutefisk
(surely you jest. After all of this you're actually thinking of bringing into the kitchen, for crying out loud?)
Many people have different opinions with regard to how lutefisk should
(I think you could have just said "many people have different opinions with regard to Lutefisk." Very few people I know think it should be legal, for one. Definitely a controlled substance. Then again, I could just see Norwegian Lutefisk-dealers standing on street corners in a staid, neat little suburb, just outside the Volvo - "hey, buddy, want to buy some Lutefisk?" EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. I think the penalty for Lutefisk dealing should be death. The original plan was to make them consume their inventory, but it's just too horrible to contemplate).
cooked. For the beginner, we suggest you try one of the following two which you can later experiment with at your own pace:
(Yes. Plan 1 - Run fast. Plan 2 - run far. Either works, but we'd recommend cooking it first at someone else's house, just to avoid the embarrassment of having the smell eminate from your home, thank you very much.)
Bring a saucepan of water to the boil, after adding 1 decilitre of salt per litre of water. Allow the fish to simmer over a low light for 15-20 minutes. Be sure to skim the froth regularly.
(yes, and call the EPA for proper froth disposal. They'll send a properly equipped HAZMAT team and several psychologists. And a really big net. The net's for all you fools who really made it this far and through we were serious)
Sprinkle the fish with salt, one teaspoon per kilo of fish. Wrap it up
(Ah, yes. That's one part fish, eight parts lye, one part salt. Wonderful thing about high blood pressure - "I'm sorry, there's too much salt in Lutefisk, I'll just have to take a pass, thanks." Thank GOD for high blood pressure. Let me say that again - Thank GOD for high blood pressure.)
tightly in tin foil, put it in a warm oven and bake it at about 200 degrees C for 30-40 minutes. How long depends on the size of the portions.
(Hmmm... First up, we use the old conversion for C-to-F temps - double it and add 32 - which is where we get, Holy Jumping Catfish, Batman, 425? 'Scuse me, where's my blowtorch, my flamethrower's out of gas. Second, as to cooking time, we're thinking thirty-to-eighty hours, actually - then use the self-cleaning feature to clean your oven. It should be safe. Then sell the house).
Serve the freshly cooked lutefisk together with potatoes, peas pudding and
(I'm sorry - the term "freshly" in conjunction with "Lutefisk" is a whole new paradigm in oxymoron - you've moved it to another level entirely. And that's not good. It's also cruel to the potatos. Ore Dane Quayle's Potatoes, whichevere. But then to add "peas pudding" to the mix, well, I can assure you I'd leave skidmarks getting away from that table - manners or no. I'd also probably break the land-speed record, and might well outrun most jet fighters. Without any sort of JATO assist, no matter what you've heard to the contrary)
melted fat from pork ribs or bacon, or melted butter. Some people also
(oooohhh.. Lard. Lovely. Whups, can someone pick the old fellow up in the back row? I think he died from all of this - but if you hurry, we can hammer him flat and we'll call it "Salmon Lutefisk". Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwww. Wasn't Jeff Dahmer Norwegian?)
enjoy it with mustard.
(Enjoy? ENJOY? What, are you feeding this stuff to starving Afghan children? No wonder they don't like us. ARE YOU INSANE? Mustard Gas, maybe, but oy. What a ... words fail me.)
Here are w few links to the fish substance:
http://www.ecst.csuchico.edu/~atman/ic/lutefisk.html
http://englishlab.univ-bpclermont.fr/OLP98-99/Heidi/lutefisk.htm
(oops, another typo. That should have been "a few links to the fishY substance". Say, if it's a substance, shouldn't there be a substance abuse program? That's it! I'll develop a way to deprogram people who think they like lutefisk! I'll make a million! And I'll be known as the Norwegian Betty Ford... Oh. There's the problem, then. Well, it sounded good until that point. It just went wrong on SOOOOO many levels. Not the least of which is sharing a bed with a former president, no matter how clumsy)
Now, on the baseball front, you can read this article on CNNSI about Selig's testimony before Congress. Curiously, the Twins aren't mentioned until the eleventh paragraph. Curiously, this is after the teams who've really hemmoraged money were named - and the Twins were not among them. Now, they do mention the Twins as having the 28th (of 30) teams in revenue. They also mention that the Twins are 27th in the money their broadcast contract brings in. Gee. I wonder who's below them? Oh, really? Montreal, Selig's Milwaukee, and Kansas City held down the lower rungs? Wow.
Let's face it, folks. Baseball, and pro sports as a whole, is a bunch of grown men playing games. It's also broken. In the last 25 years, Baseball's revenue has grown 1923%. That's nineteen times the league revenue of $182 million in 1976.
Now, the "Greedy Owners" (yes, I said that) have managed to outspend their income, though, so I don't know how many of these ... nitwits one would want to refer to as "respected businessmen." Why is that? Well, there's the salary issue - in 1976, the average player made $51,000. Today, the average player makes $2,150,000.
For the same job. Now, if we factor in the inflation rate, it gets uglier. Let's take a dollar in 1976. Today, that dollar's worth 32.34 cents. In other words, what you could buy in 1976 for a quarter costs you nearly a buck, now. Don't take my word for it, check out this calculator.
If you were making $51,000 in 1976, the equivalent would be $157,664 today. Of course, if you were making $695,463.13 in 1976, you'd be making $2,150,000 today. So, short version? Adjusted for inflation, your average ball-player's salary went from $51,000 to $695,500. Or, it's gone up about 13 and a half times, adjusted for inflation.
Now, some might be tempted to blame the players. After all, they're the ones getting the money, right?
But a thing is worth what someone else will pay for it, if it is for sale at all. That's the truth of the capitalist system. If I offer you my pen for $50, and you choose not to buy it, that's not a good deal. If someone offers me $500 for the same pen, well, I'd be an idiot not to sell it. If Alex Rodriguez is offered a contract for $25,000,000 for seven years, and someone else offers him $250,000,000, well, he'd be an idiot to say "gee, I'll take the twenty-five mill, please. Two-fifty's just too much money."
Am I talking price-fixing? I doubt it. I'm talking common sense. Sure, the owners get to make money off the players, but it seems that's a bit out of whack. Howevver, for the owners to blame the Twins for all of their problems is a bit ... well, to be honest, it stinks worse than lutefisk, if you ask me. Since you didn't, I won't push the issue.
But to say this - the owners and players need to agree to a salary cap. Sure, the richest owners are unlikely to support such a plan publicly - where else will they get their talent except to buy it? The salary cap should be put in place for contracts negotiated from this season forward. It should be linked to league revenues - and the revenues should be defined as all team-related income - everything from concessions to suites to logo licensing fees and broadcast revenues.
A percentage of that should be negotiated for player salaries. Here's a novel suggestion - each team gets three and a third percent of the total league revenue. Contracts should be negotiated based on a PERCENT of the total, rather than a flat dollar amount. An average player would get say 1-2% of the team's total. A great player might negotiate 10-12. It's a thought.
That's enough for today, I think. My brain hurts. It feels like Friday, even though it isn't. I do really, really wish it were, though.
Friday!, December 7, 2001
My father has long been interested in various aspects of history. Some, more than others. I suppose that helped foster my own interest in it.
However, as I'm learning, there's perhaps little interest in "history" when you once saw it as current events. It takes some sense of perspective to be able to sort out how you feel and how you will remember, and communicate those feelings, to others. I've little interest in going back and "re-discovering" the Watergate hearings and the Nixon Presidency. I, for one, spent much of a summer putting up with extensive, extensive news about "what did he know, and when did he know it?"
And I, for one, am not interested in regurgitating those facts. I'd much rather remember the Bicentennial, a couple of years later, and the tall ships, the fireworks, the parades, and all of that.
This year, however, December 7th takes on a whole different significance. It was the start of World War II in the United States. We, in this country, tend to forget that by that point, Europe had already been overrun, the British and other allied forces had been withdrawn at Dunkirk, and much of Europe and North Africa stood under the banner of the Axis powers.
Fortunately for us, the seeds of Hitler's defeat (and Japan's) had already been sown. The ability to read Japanese coded signals from overseas was one of the many reasons we were able to defeat Japan. The genius of Montgomery, Patton, Eisenhower, and the other generals in Europe wasn't as important as the "average Joe" fighting man who advanced, and stood, on a bit of ground, making it his, ours, and pushing the enemy back.
Today, we again stand in a similarly dark place. Afghanistan is in the process of turning into another Viet Nam for us, as the Taliban fighters, showing the same character they've always shown, breaking their word and running like the cowards they are to the hills to live to fight another day. And Afghanistan's only the tip of the iceberg. We've got people in Israel dying by the busload as lunatics who learned nothing from the cowardly fools who destroyed the World Trade Center complex commit suicide, taking a few of their perceived enemy with them.
It seems painfully, abundantly clear that evil will always be around. We're not going to "finish the job". Ever. We're always going to have, somewhere, in a cave, or small mud hut, or suburban home, a group of twisted individuals who lack the intellect and skill to do battle with the weapons that really matter, and instead, move to violence as a way to express themselves. It's sad and pathetic, really, that some brutes seem hell-bent on leaving a legacy of violence to mark their passing - of course, violence begets violence, and so they should not be at all surprised that they reap what they sow.
Freedom isn't free. There's been many who've said that, and thought they've understood it. Today, there are several million of my countrymen and women who know this first hand - they're defending it on the front lines. They're armed, trained, and prepared. Unfortunately, while they're on some of the front lines in this newest battle, they're not on the only ones. We're all in danger.
The danger comes from the mailbox, from tanker-trucks full of gas, from crop-duster airplanes, from forty-foot long shipping containers that could contain electronics, imported shoes, or three tons of dynamite wrapped with several hundred pounds of medical radioactive waste. Not a pleasant prospect no matter how you slice it.
There are hundreds, thousands of other ways that these mental inferiors can attack us. They have, in fact, won a major victory already. Our chief defender of the Constitution has already fallen to their assault, and now insists that criticism of him is helping the enemy. Wow. Perhaps the single weakest, most specious argument I've ever heard. Mr. Ashcroft
seems to have forgotten that it's in difficult times that precedents are set, and these are precedents I really would prefer my children not have to tolerate. Questioning without reasonable suspicion, due to some characteristic. Accusations based on ethnicity. Religious persecution. I suppose it worked for Nazi Germany, so Ashcroft feels it's appropriate here.
Ashcroft has forgotten that he has the FBI and other agencies under his control to do the investigations. His role is, or should be, to rein them in and insure that no matter what happens, that document we've built our country around for the last 214 years doesn't turn into a couple of pieces of really old paper.
So, on this December 7th, we can now understand in a horrific way we'd never wanted what our parents and grandparents went through. Their task in some ways was harder - the evil was clear, defined, and well-understood. It had territory to be taken from it, and it had obvious trappings - uniforms, buildings, locations, and was, in some ways, an honorable opponent.
Our opponents of today are cowards who cannot understand, let alone reason with us. Our opponents are capable of sowing fear. They hide in the open amongst non-combatants, innocents. They lack their own territory, and survive on the sufference of others. They lack the courage to fight in the open and hide instead in caves underground. They make and break agreements with the same strength of character they show in all their other actions. I wonder what Allah will do with a coward who runs from his agreements and his brothers in the fight. I suspect that he'll soon have to decide, because I cannot imagine Omar and bin Laden being captured.
We need to remember what happened on December 7, 1941. We need to remember what happened on September 11, 2001. We need to remember that there are those in this world who would take what our ancestors have won for us at such an expensive price. And we need to remember that while this battle might take quite a few years, we'll win it. And then there will be others.
Ah, Friday. Took long enough. Long day. Ann came and took me out to lunch, where we had chinese. I need to remember that szechuan star (North of my work Chinese) isn't as good, and is more expensive, than Hot Wok (South of my work). So North Chinese, no, South Chinese, yes.
And those white things have started falling from the sky again. Doesn't look like they'll be staying around, but it's a ... well, we'll call it a veiled warning.
And Dan Seto weighs in with this URL, showing the Tim-the-Tool-Man-Taylor's favorite beverage maker. I'd forgotten about this, as I'd actually laid hands on one while at Cabela's last summer... If you're interested, Cabela's is about $5 cheaper with the carrying case added in. $60 less if you leave off the case.
Though the thought occurs to me that if you need your margaritas in fifteen seconds, maybe perhaps you shouldn't be operating gas-powered machinery? After all, we're talking a 60-Ounce pitcher. If you can't plan ahead far enough to handle 60 ounces and fifteen seconds, you probably have other issues.
Let's see what other fun we can have here at the end of the week...
Let's get the bad news out of the way up front - looks like one of our two local airlines, the one they're just about done building a new terminal for, is going belly up tonight. Sun Country has suspended all flights effective midnight tonight, and they've laid off all but six people. Monday they'll re-hire about forty as "consultants" to allow them to handle some of the charter business which gave birth to their airline aspirations four or five years ago. 900 other people just got laid off, and their last paychecks will show up next week. Boy, you just gotta love the timing.
Now, I want to make it very clear that my wife made the following comment - we were watching the tape of "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town" tonight, as they run the damned thing at 6 pm, when we haven't even had dinner around here, and my wife says "Would you look at the boobs on her? (Jessica)"
I'm nearly - no, I'm certain - if I'd made that comment, I'd be out with the reindeer, and I'd likely have a red nose just like Rudolph. But it would be because she'd tried to turn me inside out through it.
I'm not a prisoner in my own home - but I am intensely cautious. No point in taking chances...
Saturday, December 8, 2001
Yup. Saturday. Did nothing much worth commenting on. Nine loads laundry (it helps, I suppose, when one's laundry room has seven washers and ten dryers. Now, if it were better than five washers and four dryers that WORKED, I'd be quite happy, but you get used to the garbage you have to put up with).
Pretty proud of myself today - I figured out one major space-saver in the event that we ever get moved into a house. I'll put up drawings and the like someday if anyone's interested, but I have a pretty good idea for doing away with the back-hall clutter - my daughter's old daycare used "cubbies" - basically a wooden shelf, sectioned off, where the kids kept their stuff in Rubbermaid bins. I'm gonna do the same thing, but turn the bins sideways to make the shelving take up less space in the hall, and give each kid a couple bins, and hooks, and the like. That will allow us to have coats, mittens, hats, boots, and all the rest right there where we need them. And if I wanna get really fancy, I'll attach a curtain rod and pull a curtain across the front to hide the mess - no point in putting wooden doors on that would get in the way 90% of the time.
Oh well. Not much else exciting going on around here - though there's an ugly rumor that we might break and put up the tree in the next couple days, since the kids cleared the corner where it goes. Pictures, of course, of our final year of having a fake tree for the "centerpiece" of Christmas, when it's up.
Now, I'm gonna go goof off, or something...
Sunday, December 9, 2001
Well, we went to church this morning, then did a quick run to KMart to look for Ann's outfit for next Friday night. We found one she liked, and it was 30% off, too. Then we went to McDonalds to play, not to eat, and didn't get home until after 3 pm. Then, we cleaned, and had dinner. Who says I can't do short posts?
By the way, our temperature on the bank thermometers were already at 44 degrees at noon. And last night, Buck Hill was blowing fake snow (or should we call it permanent snow? They call "Fake" trees "Permanent Trees" now, so I suppose it's "permanent snow" or will be until we get another forty-plus morning), and today we saw skiers on the hill. I don't think it's gonna last long, though....
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