Hosted By...
Last Updated : Sunday, 2 February, 2003 at 11:15 PM -0500
|
| Daynotes On a Budget Hosted By... Last Updated : Sunday, 2 February, 2003 at 11:15 PM -0500 |
 | ||||
|
|
|||
| ||||
|
|
Monday, January 27, 2003 |
Sigh...
Save early, save often. Helps to occasionally remind myself when I stumble through stuff like today.
Running with a bunch of windows open, a couple resumes in process, all the rest, and then I decide "I'd better check the bank balance just in case". So I do. In order to use the bank's web site, I have to use Internet Exploder - there are about three sites, total, which require IE instead of Netscape. I'm sure, if I dig deep enough, I'll find self-inflicted wounds - such as blocking cookies from a third-party site which appeared to be unrelated to the main site, but are, apparently, required. Which site? Who knows.
Anyway, load IE and my computer locks as tight as a ... well, you know.
Reminds me of the old Boomtown Rats song I Don't Like Mondays... Okay, so I date myself a bit there. Big whoop.
Not much more to tell about today. Other than the fact that there aren't too many worse times to find a hole in the crotch of your sweatpants then when you take the kids to the bus stop, it's near zero, and there's a wind gusting to thirty. Um, a quick "Brrrrr" just doesn't do it justice. A whole long string of vulgarities (unless you're standing at a bus stop) doesn't even help.
|
|
Tuesday, January 28, 2003 |
Sixteen Years Ago
J-Term was what we called the month of January in College. St. John's, being a liberal arts college, encouraged you to take a month to explore other things, and enforced it by the January Term - a month stuck between semesters. You had to take three of four. Even the teachers tend to veer off normal topics and teach their hobbies. While there, I took Balance Sheet Analysis from an accounting prof (yeah, drove me right out of accounting, that one did), Architecture from an art prof (who had trained as an architect before the monestary called him), Greek Art and Culture from a computer science prof and a theology prof, and programming from a couple of physics profs. Oh, yeah, and, since I was a relative prodigy, I took a fifth - computer networking - from a computer science prof.
Of those, only the last was worth "credit" (three uppers, that one was). The rest were the opportunity to explore.
But on January 28, 1986, I was sitting in a downstairs lab in the science center, in a windowless room about the size of my basement family room, surrounded with a dozen computers - Commodore C-64s - with RAM expansion and some other fun widgets hanging off them. There were a number of us hacking away - we had our "final" coming the next day - trying to finish our games.
I remember one, where the fellow had tried to write a driving simulator, and it failed - miserably. Another fellow had written a game where he caught random falling victims, jumping from a burning building. He was the fire department's "Bouncing Blanket" unit, and he had a couple of variables - if you hadn't been steady long enough under the falling item, the odds of a successful catch changed - you could bounce the poor sucker back up, or you could be too slack, and there'd be a big splat.
My game was stolen and patterned off the old Apple IIe "Taipan" game. In Taipan, you traveled to seven different ports in your sailing ship, trading various goods. What you got to trade was completely dependent on random chance, as was the opportunity to expand your ship. There were also random pirate attacks, which could seriously ruin your day.
I re-wrote it as "Star Trader". All text, no graphics, but you traveled from planet to planet, purchasing products (six legal, two illegal), and you could purchase upgrades on key ship systems - computing, propulsion, defense, offense, cargo. All affected the ship in various ways - more cargo allowed for more profit, but if you failed to upgrade propulsion, you'd be a beached whale when the pirates showed up. If you upgraded defense but not propulsion, you could handle incredible poundings - and you'd better, because you couldn't get away. If you upgraded propulsion without upgrading other systems, eventually it would reduce your cargo capabilities. And so on.
I was working on the game, when, mid-morning, one of the profs came in. "You'd better get to Tom's office" he said, and left. We wandered off, blinking in the daylight, cringing, trying to remember what daylight looked like (I got there before the sun had come up, and after it had set), and sat down in Tom's office - one of three in the entire building with a TV.
We watched, sickened, as they replayed the events over and over again. The Challenger rising up, pitching over, rolling onto it's back, and that final phrase "Go at throttle-up". Then the plume expanded, the two solid rocket boosters continued on a divergent course, until they, too, exploded.
The first explosion was unexpected. The second set, ordered by the ground. Between the two, I aged from a pretty excited twenty-two year old to an old man who would never get the opportunity to look out a window and down at the planet which I then stood upon.
In the sixteen years since, the investigations have turned up all of the physical causes - faulty O-rings, which were frozen and most likely cracked, burned up as the shuttle left the pad, rose into the air, and allowed the SRB to turn into a blowtorch, searing a hole in the side of a giant tank of hydrogen. Of all the things one can do around hydrogen, flame is definitely not one of them - and a solid rocket booster is a rather persistent, warm flame.
In the days from then until now, and every time the thought occurs (which is often, I admit), I pray that the concussion of the explosion knocked out the seven Challenger astronauts, and they remained unconscious during their plunge to the sea.
What continues to frustrate me every single time I think about it, is the paralyzation of the American Space program. We had a teacher who was about to go into space. Following that, they were going to send a journalist, I believe, then other people. Not any more.
The Ridge
It's been a few years.
We got about two inches of snow here (hey, that practically doubled our total for the year - yeah, I know), and I shoveled the driveway. Never gave it a thought. Finished the driveway after lunch, came in, and warmed up. Later, I went out to wait for Rhiannon - and The Ridge was there.
Forgive me - my driveway's about as long as my parent's first house, and about a fourth the length of their current home (it's the one I spent fourteen of my twenty-five years with them). As their driveway is much longer than any sane person would shovel, they've got a local guy who just so happens to have a real, honest-to-God deep-bucket frontloader to do driveways with. I tell ya, this guy would leave a strip of snow three inches wide and about six high up against the garage door - he was that good. This was after a foot and a half, or more, of snow.
So I didn't often have to deal with "The Ridge". But I did today. And it all came home in a big, big blast. Kill the weeds in the cracks of the driveway. Patch the seams and along the joint where the concrete joins the asphalt. Would have made ALL the difference here.
Oh well. At least I learn...
Administrivia
Missed the Bush "State of My Union" speech tonight; the conspiracy theorist in me is thinking that he called all of his buddies and told them "tomorrow, run up the markets - buy lots of stock, so people will think it's a good plan" while the saner portion of me is thinking "yah, like it makes any difference. Within 30 days, there's gonna be smoke over Iraq, and within 90, there's going to be another one of those "Mother Of All Battle" jokes going around, along with "Did you know Saddam had blue eyes? Yup. One blew this way, one blew that way..." And there's liable to be at least a little bit of truth to it.
But no, I missed it. I was off, offering my opinions for money again - I'm such a whore. Well, $50 for two hours work is definitely cheap in that category, if I understand the going rate - which, last I heard, was about $300 an hour. Clearly, I'm cheap and easy. So why not hire me? 
Other than that, not much happening. Beating on computers, children, and furniture, not necessarily in that order, mind you. Oh, yeah, and shipping resumes like there's a fire sale going on, and working on a business plan. Do you have any idea how hard it is to plan a business? I'm insane, I just know it. I thought I had all the angles figured out, and then Ann pointed out "what if" and the whole canoe tipped right over, sank like a stone, and left me saying "well, I could just sell my organs..."
Doesn't fly on a business plan. And this is all before I've even thought about writing a UFOC. Don't ask, seriously. My head hurts just thinking about it.
The really good news, though, is that the spammers are getting to the point where soon, they'll be putting their own eyes out. This is a good thing. Got a spam tonight that, rather than any of the common subject lines (or random trash), said "C:\Documents and Settings\joeblow\My Documents\UsernamesOnly.txt". I'm telling you, it's only a matter of time before these people discover fire, and gasoline, and the fact that flammable and inflammable are essentially the same thing.
And yes, I'll be waiting with an entire box of matches. And a can of gasoline. And a flamethrower. You know me, Mr. Boy Scout. Always willing to lend a hand, and prepared for anything (like the possibility that they might try to put the flames out).
Goodnight.
|
|
Wednesday, January 29, 2003 Happy Birthday, Joann |
Title Nine
If some of the correspondence I get is any indication, perhaps I am, indeed, a complete idiot. Perhaps. But I'm still trying to figure out just what the heck would provoke someone into thinking that Title Nine is a bad thing.
For those of you who don't know, Title Nine was a legislative requirement that schools offer equivalent sports opportunities to boys AND girls. For years, the deal was that boys would have football, soccer, basketball, hockey, baseball, track, and swimming, while the girls might have swimming, basketball, and track. If that.
Now, I can understand certain small-minded persons (typically males who've done just a few too many steroids, for example, or those who've failed to fall too far from the nut tree) who think that giving women the same opportunities is bad. Of course, it does lower the opportunity for them to club the female of the species over the head and drag her back to the cave to have his way with her.
Now, in defense of these idiots, it's easy to understand their frustration. I mean, more athletic women lowers the odds that they'll see some beer-drinking slob as an attractive mate, for starters, and that's followed by the possibility that the woman might just be a bit more fit than the man, in which case the man might just not be able to abuse the female, as he might think, "properly."
Locally, we've got the Men's wrestling coach at the University of Minnesota who thinks Title Nine is a bad idea. Of course it is, for him. Wrestling is one of those marginal sports - if you're looking to cut sports that don't irritate a lot of people (think the holy quadrangle of Football-Baseball-Basketball-Hockey, at least in this state), wrestling fits the bill. It's somewhat expensive for mats, gym time, and it takes setup time - after all, the floor's got to be covered with mats, then they've got to be rolled up again after the practice.
And wrestling makes some people uncomfortable; to watch two men roll around on the floor is a bit ... well, odd. Finally, there's the career path. If you're very, very good, you might get a half-scholarship to a local college, where, if you excel, you might - just might - make it on to the Olympic team after a few years of practice, and then, perhaps, retire to coach. Or you could become a laughingstock and hook up with the other actors and play a script - I mean, wrassle in the "professional" ranks as a "pro" in the "WWE" ranks.
Then again, when I wrestled, which was only for a few years, it was good exercise. Granted, as I was a heavy little kid, I was typically wrestling older, stronger kids, and when you get your face planted, flipped on your back, and pinned regularly, it gets old.
So sure, understanding Coach Robinson's position, I can expect that he's upset with the loss of some dollars for wrestling. But to claim that women do not deserve an equal chance with men goes beyond ludicrous. It's beyond stupid and sexist, too. What it boils down to is a neanderthalic attitude that keeps women in second place in everything.
It's unfortunate Robinson is such a pig - most wrestlers aren't as limited in intelligence as this fellow seems to be. Sure, he'll complain that there are sound financial reasons for dropping Title Nine. Sure, it makes a lot of sense - when you have four brain cells.
Given the relative levels of obesity in this country, given the gross lack of intelligence which is exhibited by the baboons who feel that it's essential that the females serve the males, and given the fact that women deserve just as much of a chance as men, it's one of those things that should be obvious.
What's disgusting is the fact that we even have to think about it, much less debate and renew the act in Congress. Is there logic to this sort of behavior? Is there any sort of sanity to this type of activity? Does it make sense? Not to me. But I'm sure there are some club-carrying, wife-beating, small-minded, slack-jawed, weak little primates out there who must physically dominate something in order to feel "man-like". If that's the definition of masculinity, thanks, no, I'll pass.
It's Not Me, It's The Technology...
Didja ever have one of those projects?
I got a computer from a friend who wanted it re-made into a "dump-tank". Not a file server, per se, but just a computer where they could store stuff. For the record, I think it might just be that it's crap, but I'll make the attempt anyway.
It's got an Asus motherboard, a Thunderbird-type, if I recall the name correctly (though I call it "crap" - the thing flexes like a cheap paper plate full of beans at a summer picnic when you're trying to get RAM in it, and the board itself wasn't designed for fat-fingered humans such as myself to work on it), and a K6 processor. It has a 40 Gb Seagate drive which the motherboard refuses to recognize unless I jumper it down to 32 Gb (my friend refused to let me pursue a BIOS upgrade, for whatever reason, I'm not certain).
I had a heck of a time getting Windows 2000 Pro loaded until I swapped out the network card - no error message indicating the network card was the problem (and yes, I looked up all the hex values, and swapped the network card based on a hunch I got from my previous experience with his hardware), and then some of the RAM flaked out. I came down one day and what had been 96 MB RAM had dropped to 48 MB. I got more RAM, swapped it in, and finally got it to 64Mb (the minimum Microsoft recommends, which is known as the "thrasher's level" in my experience). Insert the four floppies, one at a time, until you reach the "Setup Windows" portion.
First pass, I dedicated the entire 32 Gb partition to System. Foolish, I know, but I wasn't thinking clearly. The drive formatted 98% then errored. Fine. I'll reformat it into a 4 Gb partition and a 28 Gb partition, and it should be fine. Nope. Won't do that. All right, I'll do two four MB partitions, put the OS on the second one - nope, YABS (Yet Another Bluescreen Stop).
No matter which direction I come at it from, the damned thing will not cooperate with me. At all.
I'm going to regress to the 10 Gb drive temporarily, and see what he wants to do. If he's got a spare 20 Gb around the office, we might be able to stick that on the box as a second drive - otherwise this is a waste of time. Billable time, but time nonetheless.
Oh, OK, Funnies
Oil Change Instructions for Women:
1)Pull up to Jiffy Lube when the mileage reaches 3000 miles since the last oil change.
2)Drink a cup of coffee.
3)15 minutes later write a check and leave with a properly maintained vehicle.
Money spent: Oil change $20, Coffee $1. Total: $21
Oil Change Instructions for Men:
1)Wait until Saturday, drive to auto parts store and buy a case of oil, filter, kitty litter, hand cleaner and a scented tree. Write a check for $50.
2)Stop by liquor store and buy a case of beer. Write a check for $20. Drive home.
3)Open a beer and drink it.
4)Spend 30 minutes looking for jack stands. Jack car up.
5)Find jack stands under kid's pedal car.
6)In frustration, Open anthor beer and drink it.
7)Place drain pan under engine.
8)Look for 9/16 box and wrench.
9)Give up and use crescent wrench.
10)Drop drain plug in pan of hot oil; splash hot oil on face and arms in process. Cuss.
11)Crawl out from under car to wipe hot oil off of face and arms.
12)Throw kitty litter on spilled oil.
13)Have another beer while watching oil drain.
14)Spend 30 minutes looking for oil filter wrench.
15)Give up; crawl under car and hammer a screwdriver through oil filter and twist off.
16)Crawl out from under car with dripping oil filter splashing oil everywhere from holes. Cleverly hide old oil filter among trash in trash can to avoid environmental penalties. Drink a beer.
17)Buddy shows up; finish case of beer with him. Decide to finish oil change tomorrow so you can go see his new garage door opener work.
18)Sunday: Skip church because "I gotta finish the oil change." Drag pan full of old oil out from underneath car. Cleverly dump oil in hole in backyard instead of taking it to recycle.
19)Throw kitty litter on oil spilled during step 18.
20)Beer. No, drank it all yesterday.
21)Walk to liquor store; buy beer.
22)Install new oil filter, making sure to apply a thin coat of oil to gasket surface.
23)Dump first quart of fresh oil into engine.
24)Remember drain plug from step 10.
25)Hurry to find drain plug in drain pan.
26)Remember that the used oil is buried in a hole in the back yard along with drain plug.
27)Drink beer.
28)Shovel out hole and sift oily mud for drain plug. Re-shovel oily patch of ground and avoid environmental penalties. Wash drain plug in lawnmower gas.
29)Discover that first quart of fresh oil is now on the floor. Throw kitty litter on oil spill.
30)Drink beer.
31)Crawl under car getting kitty litter into eyes. Wipe eyes with oily rag used to clean drain plug. Slip with stupid crescent wrench tightening drain plug and bang knuckles on frame.
32)Bang head on floorboards in reaction to step 31.
33)Begin cussing fit.
34)Throw stupid crescent wrench.
35)Cuss for additional 10 minutes because wrench hit Miss December 1992 in the left boob. Damage looks fatal.
36)Beer.
37)Clean up hands and forehead and bandage as required to stop blood flow.
38)Beer.
39)Beer.
40)Dump in five fresh quarts of oil.
41)Beer.
42)Lower car from jack stands.
43)Accidentally crush remaining case of new motor oil.
44)Move car back to apply more kitty litter to fresh oil spilled during steps 23-43.
45)Beer.
46)Test drive car.
47)Get pulled over; arrested for driving under the influence.
48)Car gets impounded.
49)Call loving wife, make bail.
50)12 hours later, get car from impound yard.
Money spent: Parts $50, DUI $2500, Impound Fee $75, Towing $150, Bail $1500, Beer $40. Total: $4315
But you have the satisfaction of knowing the job was done right!!!
Kinda reminds me of Technology, some days...
Well, Seems Fair To Me
There's that Joe Millionaire crap on TV - some goon pretends to be the heir to a $50 million fortune, and gets to pick his dream girl out of a pool of some dozen or so women. At the end of the series, he picks, and the girl is told "Oh, by the way? Joe? He's actually a dirtbag." How nice.
Now, it seems that one of the contestants is a bondage model.
Works for me. She might class up the show.
|
|
Thursday, January 30, 2003 |
Easy Money-Making Opportunity
/*** remove optional variables in [brackets] if not used ***/
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
FROM: $YOUR_NAME
TEL: $RANDOM_NUMBER_ONE
E-MAIL: $THROW_AWAY_EMAIL_ONE
TO: $RANDOM_SUCKER_FROM_MAILING_SOFTWARE
ATTN: $SUITABLY_ATTRACTIVE_SUBJECT_OFFER_OR_PLEA
I AM $RANDOM_NUMBER_BETWEEN_FORTY_AND_NINETY YEAR OLD $CHILD_OR_WIDOW OF THE LATE $SENIOR_GOVERNMENT_OFFICIAL_TITLE [OF $RANDOM_GOVERNMENT_AGENCY IN] $WELL_KNOWN_DEAD_OFFICIAL OF THE DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF $RANDOM_AFRICAN_COUNTRY. MY $FATHER_HUSBAND_RELATIVE_COWORKER WAS $TALE_OF_WOE_CAUSE ON $DATE_MORE_THAN_SIX_YEARS_AGO. DURING HIS TIME AS $SENIOR_GOVERNMENT_OFFICIAL_TITLE, I WAS ASKED SEVERAL TIMES TO $SECRET_TRANSFER_METHODS. SO I WOULD LEAVE $RANDOM_AFRICAN_COUNTRY ['S $RANDOM_GOVERNMENT_AGENCY], MY HOMELAND, AND FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTIONS TO THE LETTERs.
AFTER $WELL_KNOWN_DEAD_OFFICIAL'S DEATH, $NOT_SO_WELL_KNOWN_OFFICIAL TOOK OVER $RANDOM_AFRICAN_COUNTRY ['S $RANDOM_GOVERNMENT_AGENCY]. I DECIDED TO LEAVE MY HOMELAND OF $RANDOM_AFRICAN_COUNTRY. THIS WAS PAINFUL TO ME, BUT WAS NECESSARY TO CONTINUE TO AVOID $TALE_OF_WOE_TWO, WHCIH IS MUCH PREFALENT IN MY HOME COUNTRY, $RANDOM_AFRICAN_COUNTRY.
I NOW HAVE ON DEPOSIT IN $WELL_KNOWN_NONAFRICAN_COUNTRY THE SUM OF $GAJILLIONS_OF_AMERICAN_DOLLARS, BUT THIS FUNDS MUST BE RELEASED TO A THIRD PART TO INSURE THE SAFE TRANSIT OF SAID FUNTS WITHOUT ALRERTING $NOT_SO_WELL_KNOWN_OFFICIAL. OBVIOUS, IF $NOT_SO_WELL_KNOWN_OFFICIAL FINDS OUT, THERE ARE $SERIOUS_CONSEQUENCES, POSIBLY EVEN $TALE_OF_WOE_THREE.
YOUR NAME WAS BROUGHT TO ARE ATTENTIONS AS SOMEONE WOULD BE DISCRETE AND RELIBLE. PLEASE WE TRUST YOUR EXTREME CONFIDENCE. WE MUST RELY ON SOMEONE OUTSIDE OF $RANDOM_AFRICAN_COUNTRY AND $WELL_KNOWN_NONAFRICAN_COUNTRY TO AID US IN THE FUNDS TRANSFER. NORMALLY WE WOULD PAY ONLY $SMALL_PERCENTAGE TO SOMEONE HELPING US, BUT DUE TO OUR DEPSERATION AND DESIRE TO MOVE THIS $GAJILLIONS_OF_AMERICAN_DOLLARS QUICKLY, WE ARE OFFERING YOU THE SUM OF $LARGER_PERCENTAGE FOR YOUR CONFIDENTAL ASSISTANCE. WE WILL KEEP $ONE_MINUS_LARGER_PERCENTAGE FOR OUR OWN USE.
PLEASE TELL NO ONE OF THIS TRANACTION, AS IT IS IMPORTANT THAT NO ONE ASSOCIATED WITH $NOT_SO_WELL_KNOWN_OFFICIAL OR ANYONE IN $RANDOM_AFRICAN_COUNTRY FIND OUT WHERE WE ARE. WE DO NOT WISH TO SUFFER $TALE_OF_WOE_CAUSE, $TALE_OF_WOE_TWO, OR EVEN $TALE_OF_WOE_THREE.
YOU MAY CONTACT ME VIA $RANDOM_NUMBER_TWO OR THROUGH MY INTERMEDIARIES, BUT I PREFER E-MAIL. PLEASE E-MAIL ME AT $NON_THROWAWAY_ADDRESS AS SOON AS POSSIBLE SO WE CAN CONDUCT THE TRANSFER OF THESE FUNDS OF $GAJILLIONS_OF_AMERICAN_DOLLARS. MAY YOU BE BLEST AND PRAYERS ANSWERED, AND PLEASE KEEP THIS MATTER CONFIDENTALLY BETWEEN US PLEASE AND THANK YOU AGAIN.
I AWAITING YOUR REPLY. $YOUR_NAME
See, what you do is just fill in the blanks, and you're good to go. I think this is the second or third largest industry in Nigeria, these days, and just THINK YOU WHAT COULD DO with Gajillions_of_American_dollars... heh. Call it a "Public Service".
Not Ready For What?
Let's see. Last weekend we had the SQL Worm crawling in and out like a ... well, worm, playing pinochle... Oh, all right, I'll stop. Today, I had the unenviable task of trying to figure out what the heck Templeton collects. Who's Templeton? He's a rat. Why do we care? Short version - Rhiannon needs to know for a worksheet, said worksheet being YESTERDAY'S homework, which was forgotten in the rush around last night, and said worksheet being found TODAY without the benefit of said BOOK (the book being Charlotte's Web), so I was using the internet to try to find out the total sum of Templeton's collection of "stuff" up to chapter ten, or thereabouts. Rhiannon says egg and string, so far...
So I hit google, and it directs me to an outfit called Plaza101, where I find the image to the right. If you click on it, you'll go to the screen capture wherein you'll see the cover of Charlotte's Web, by E.B. White, illustrated by Garth Williams, along side the information for the book "Linux Routers: A Primer For Network Administrators". Uh, yeah. Right. Templeton collected string, eggs, and abandoned Intel-based computers to be used as Linux-based routers in a BAN - Barnyard Area Network. Yup.
There are times when the world is not stranger than we can imagine, it's just screwed up. Yup.
Not Much More To Tell
Seems that the weather-guessers have decreed that there be a storm comin', and said storm be acomin' some time over the weekend. The reason they're trying to get out ahead of this one is the combination of cold air aloft and northward might crash solidly into the wet air blasting northward from the deep south, and give us our first real "blizzard" in four or five years.
So, obviously, we'll hit the store tomorrow night on the way home from the bus stop, pick up some extra milk, top up the essentials, and hang out for the weekend. We've got cleaning to do, then company Saturday evening, and more fun Sunday - I picked up a 20 Gb drive for the computer of death, and a motherboard for the computer of death's evil step-brother, so we shall see what sorts of hell we're able to find. Ain't life grand?
And before I forget, I promised a while ago I'd get this one up. Bush is getting ready to improve our economy, I suppose...
|
|
Friday, January 31, 2003 Happy Birthday Julie |
Dominik's Laws On Snow Accumulation
Believe It Or Not...
I know there's a fair number of you who believe rather than me living in Minnesota with my wife, two children, and two cats, I'm actually a mental patient in Los Angeles who is working out a sitcom proposal, and I live in a studio apartment with sixteen small chihuahuas and a rabid guinea pig named Herman.
Well, to give you more insight to my madness, my lovely bride has returned with another of her occasional posts from the peanut gallery. Believe it or not, I'm not the bad example. I don't think. I hope not, anyway...
And, as per usual, my new printer arrived today from NewEgg - and I'm looking at the better part of a week before I can reasonably expect to take a whack at this thing. Lovely. Oh well. I suppose the nice part about it is that, contrary to popular belief, my to-do list never shortens, despite my efforts to the contrary.
|
|
Saturday, February 1, 2003 |
There are moments where you really would like to be outside the story, reading it instead of living it.
This morning is another one of those for me.
Just this week we commemorated the loss of Challenger. Seven people who died on launch. Today, seven more died in the return to earth.
In the coming days, there's going to be lots of shrugging, lots of carefully pronounced "we just don't know"-type statements.
I'll tell you well in advance of the conclusions what the problems were. Not the proximate cause of the breakup of a multi-billion-dollar orbiter, the loss of equipment, and most importantly, seven people who knew the risks and took them anyway. None had a death wish, I'm certain, but every one of them knew of the Challenger disaster - and every single one of them joined the space program since that time.
If you were given odds of doing something, and you had a 0.9% chance of it failing and killing you, and you'd wanted to do it for your entire life, would you? Granted, now the odds are closer to 2% instead of less than one. So what were the problems that killed these people?
It's going to be a long, dark time. We've got a war against Iraq, a war on Terrorism, the North Korean situation, and rich people to to fatten even more with this president in office. Guaranteed that this buffoon will look at the whole thing and decide that the space station is too expensive, the shuttles are too expensive, and that we should concentrate on the ground.
Never mind that it's not the shit we do on this planet that inspires people. Never mind that it's the shit we do on this planet that usually disgusts people, and will eventually demand we find another home (as we're pretty good at thoroughly fouling our cradle), we're going to decide that the money spent on the space program could be better spent to, say, fatten the rich people even more. It's doubtful that O'Keefe, currently the head of NASA, will be much shaken by this particular problem. I just wish there were more people like Gene Kranz in NASA and fewer like O'Keefe - more eyes upward to the stars than downward to the damned bottom line.
In the coming weeks, there will be plenty of examinations, committee assignments, and meetings. And, in the end, we'll have to move onward. Because there are still three men up there in space, orbiting the globe every 90 minutes, who will need a ride home. The question is, will anyone replace them on the Space Station?
More importantly, do we think someone else should? It's up to us to answer that question. Not next week, next month, or next year. Let's answer it. Now.
I vote yes.
|
|
Sunday, February 2, 2003 Happy Birthday Susie |
We had friends over for dinner last night, and joked as they came in that our luck with guests was poor, at best. Back in 1991, we planned a dinner party for friends just after Halloween. We spent several evenings making, and freezing, hand-made home-made ravioli - beef, cheese, and other surprises. On the Thursday before, which happened to be Halloween, it started snowing. And didn't stop all weekend long.
Last fall, we had Rhiannon's in-home Birthday Party planned; and Paul Wellstone's plane went down killing him, his wife, his daughter, two other campaign staffers, and two pilots.
It was nice to "forget" about Columbia for a few hours. It was nice to get back and look at what the President said.
But you know, words are how we get into these messes. The federal government has committed to mainstreaming special education - fine - yet they fund it at anywhere from 16% to 40% of the actual cost. The federal government has mandated countless regulations, requirements, initiatives, and other programs, and then, when push came to shove, not one single penny was devoted to it. Does that vacate the requirement? Hell, no. It just means some other poor sucker's got to pony up the cash.
Hello, I'm the poor sucker. But then again, there's a hell of a lot of stuff I pony up for that I don't like. I'd like my penny from each tax dollar (or less) that goes to NASA to pay for stuff I want to see. People walking around on other bodies - moons, planets, comets, and all the rest.
And now "The journey will continue." Right, George. Right. And how do you propose we go to the stars? In a freaking ox-cart? Or a rocket that says "Made in China" on it - as they seem to have the only space program that's moving forward any more.
In space, momentum is everything. If you are moving, and at sufficient speed, you can do just about anything. Given the distances involved, a small bump or nudge will cause a huge variation in your destination - at the right time. A small nudge early is greatly preferable to a huge smack close to the end - it's elementary physics. And geometry.
But our president doesn't seem to grasp the thorny nettle that is the space program.
Leadership doesn't come from being the richest - not everyone wants to be rich. Leadership doesn't come from being first. Not everyone wants to be first, and some might not want to go where you've gone. Leadership doesn't come from being the best, because someone might quibble with your definition (however narrow) of "best".
Leadership comes from doing great things. Inspiring things. Things that people look at and have to use the word "awe". Not with fear attached, but raw, simple, Oh-gosh-oh-golly-by-gum-gee-whiz awe. Awe that causes them to look and say things like "magnificent" and "great" and "fantastic" and "tremendous" and "impressive". Yes, the awe should involve a wee bit of jealousy - because you want them to see the thing you've done and say "you know, I really, REALLY wanna do that."
Instead of leadership of the inspired, however, we have leadership of the conspired. Those who have earned power and obtained privilege through smarmy political dealings, through the collection of spin-meisters and hangers-on and glory-seeking glad-handers who, once entrenched in those seats of power, be they Democrat or Republican, Liberal or Conservative, Old, Young, Congress, President, Bureaucrat, or any other, seek only to dig deeper and maintain their hold on the power. They make those who need their help crawl lower and farther on their bellies each time - they make those who need their help beg more for each little tidbit smaller than the last.
Well, the painful truth is that if I've got to pay the damned bill, I'd like to see something for my money. Unfortunately, what I pay for are NASA Fatbottoms who sit around discussing program goals, instead of engineers and scientists to do the damned job.
And I do not doubt that there will be repeats - incidents where other body parts are found and identified after yet another horrible, terrible accident. That is the nature of leadership, for leaders take risks. Not foolish risks, nor worthless ones. No, leaders take calculated risks.
Yes, I'm angry. I'm angry that six spouses and ten kids went to bed last night with mommy or daddy's picture on TV. Not because they were cool and were in space, but because they were unfortunate and didn't come home. I'm angry that there are countless brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews and mothers and fathers out there who are looking at their own families, wondering how they'll fill the void that was left when the best and the brightest of them - of all of us - died. I'm damned angry, ashamed, and embarrassed that we stuffed their children, mothers, fathers, spouses, into a twenty-plus-year old "pickup truck" which clearly was designed to last a long time - the materials, unfortunately, were not. For the want of a decent nail, the battle was lost...
It should not have happened. It was bound to happen. And if we let it, it will happen again. Risks are. Risks will be. The key is, will we let risk drive us back into the shell, or will we give the brave men and women in the space program a better tool? Don't they deserve better? I think so. Hell. I know so.
Yeah, here endeth the lesson. Father's sermon in church this morning wasn't the typical polished joke-tie-in-to-scripture-and-expanded-upon that he usually does. He was as shaken as the rest of us, I think. Even took him a little while to get to the donuts. Yes, it's a joke.
So, after mass we wandered the school's open house (the closing portion of Mass was the ten-minute recap of Thursday's thirty-minute thank you to the teacher who had been at SJB for 25 years. Pretty impressive when you can get a fifth grade teacher to stick around for 25 years, even after a master's degree), hit the book fair (big mistake), then wandered Menards.
It was there that we encountered yet another revealation in my various do-it-yourself (or Dominik-It-Yourself,
While at Menards last week, I stumbled upon their "leftover" bin. 69¢, four-foot long by one-foot wide boards. Well, there were others there that were also 69¢, but I was only interested in the long ones. I picked up enough for sides, top, and bottom. My original idea had been to find some sort of brick or block thing - tasteful, of course - to do the ends with. No joy.
I had considered glass blocks, but discarded those because they were $1.49 each (on sale, a buck off, I think), and I had to stack one on top of the other, as eight inches just isn't high enough to allow books in there.
Today, after I showed Ann the glass block (my thought had been to get an assortment and mix and match, and of course, she preferred a single kind which wasn't exactly my favorite, but that's what one does for one's loved ones), she went wild. So we bought two boxes of glass block, some adhesive, spacers, and some hardboard backing, and we're going to put together a shelf for her starting this week some time.
This week might well be delayed a bit, as the winter's first serious storm started hanging out over us today - first, light rain - then snow - then freezing rain - then pellets - then more snow - then rain - then snow - then more pellets - repeat as necessary... By the time we got home (stopped at the Grocery store after Menards, due to the weather), we had nearly four inches of glop in the driveway. All shoveled and salted, of course - no point in waiting until it was done, I figure. I'd rather shovel three inches twice than six inches once.
After that, home to fumble around a bit and fiddle with the computer. Now to bed with me before tomorrow's extended "rush" hour experiences...
Copyright © 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003 John
P. Dominik. All rights reserved. No reproduction without express
written permission. Opinions expressed herein are my own, and my fault. For further information, check out my other home page.