Carbon Paper

I was talking w/an old high school friend today and one of us made a reference to "Carbon Copy". Then he said "I wonder how many people these days would even know what carbon paper is?", to which I replied "Most of the people I work with would just assume it's something to do with scientific findings used to age Fossils", at which point I quickly added "... and they'd be pretty much right about that!".

I'm A Frayed Knot

Although I feel a little less 'off kilter' then yesterday's morose post, I still somewhat frazzled and easily jarred. I'm starting to realize that the childhood dreams I had of being chased by monsters, those is which my efforts to run felt like doing so in waist-deep water, were not simply nightmares, but were prophetic premonitions of what lied ahead, in the realm of adult responsibilities :-). I'm trying to stay on top of and current with so many things at once but that is just not my forte, and every once in awhile my cup runneth over. I'd like to say that I always have things tied down and secure, cinched in place, bound tightly together to prevent damage or loss in transit. Perhaps I do, but as a result, I'm a frayed knot.

The beautiful irony here is that I'm finalizing and posting this as I sit and await the start of a work-sponsored seminar on 'Managing Multiple Priorities'. I signed up as soon as I saw the first two words, expecting that anything related to managing multiples, be it kids, priorities or personalities, w/be of use :-)

The Dark Side Of The Mood

Ironically, this post, following one about maintaining my perspective, is all about losing it. But then again, some might say that the optimistic, reflective, well-intentioned tone of the majority of my more personal posts are delusional, while posts like this reflect a more sober take on the realities we all face. I'm not clear on which is 'right' at this moment, but I am clear on the fact that right now, I'm in one hell of a shitty mood and my outlook and attitude are bitter, angry, and aggressively defensive.

I've hesitated writing this, because it's not necessarily the type of thing I want to be remember by, yet at the same time, it's real. And I expect I'm not alone in being somebody who's perspectives and thoughts run the gambit from one extreme to the other. Am I? I don't know anybody that's always walking around functioning at that perfect mid-point of harmony with fulfilled and realistic expectations, and 'never get me down' perspective. Well, nobody not belonging to a religious cult, at least. And even they let slip once in awhile.

Although there's definitely work involved in a typical weekend, I usually find them to be something of a break, and an opportunity to rejuvenate, if not just a retreat for a moment from the onslaught of the daily grind that is the work week. I like to start my Monday off feeling like I have some sort of 'clean slate' and 'refreshed take' on the workload and routine ahead. But not this week. Today, I feel frazzled, frayed, and frantic. I'm both wound up and worn down. I'm angry and anxious, and my sense of frustration has me muttering 'asshole' under my breath when somebody inadvertently causes me to miss a stoplight or fails to recognize that, by pulling over just 2 inches, I could have made that right hand turn.

Why the sour face? I guess I just hit a breaking point. I don't feel capable to do anything with complete attention and focus. And as such, I feel like everything is half-assed and never completed.

That being said, I can't say that my situation is really unlike anybody else who's got a full time job, little/no family help at home, a behavior problem with twin toddlers that's probably the result of my own limited parenting skills, a home-search under way, pressures to bring home more money or extend the funds we do have, pressure to ramp up on engineering skills and perhaps take a class or two in the evenings, pressure to read up on numerous articles and websites that can help with the kids, phone calls and negotiations around home purchase offers, struggles with still living partially out of boxes and partially in an environment and circumstance where just 'finding' something I need requires shuffling on, over and between towers of cartons, bins and baskets, the constant needs of two children for more attention than is reasonable but less then they've become accustomed to, a constant desire and need to give my wife enough of a break from her own chaos that she'll still be there the following day when I return home from my workday, and of course, finding time for the one creative and comforting outlet I have, which is writing for this website. Not to mention a long list of 'to-do' items that include important medical appointments, addressing long-expired license plates, and numerous other personal tasks that would require a full week off and away from any/all other demands just to get caught up on.

So, in a nutshell, I'm at a breaking point, and the weekend felt like trying to swim upstream against a rushing current of urine as if the gods just opened up and pissed on all my plans and needs for just a modest break from the chaos. I guess that's what I get for asking for a break in my 'Alarming Frustrations' post.

I know it'll turn around and I'll get some control over things but for the time being, control feels as elusive to obtain as a grip on a greased eel, and my own distorted perspective and persecution complex has me seeing every roadblock as one being maliciously set in place, specifically to thwart any progress on my part, and not just another in the myriad of complexities and difficulties we all must encounter in our lives.

I know not alone, I do understand that consciously, but my irritation level is so high right now that even if you wanted to say so, I'd probably be inclined to lash out and claim that you don't have a f&#*ing clue about how hard it is to keep my head about water and who are you to give me advice anyway!??!

Nasty, eh? That's why I'll just close this with an apology for my poor reaction. I think I'll turn off comments on this one, and we'll see what the next 24 hours bring in the way of respite.

Keeping My Perspective

I've caught myself doing something recently that I wanted to document and share. It's something that helps snap me back to reality and keep my perspective on "the bigger picture". Every few days, driving to and from work, I'll catch sight of somebody in a motorized wheelchair, or I'll see a school outing of kids with disabilities. I try and just imagine how it might change my life to be in that situation. And in doing so, consciously, I take all the little nit-picky issues and complaints I have with the demands of parenting, the workload at the office, the lack of time in a day, hell.. even my posted techo-frustrations, encounters with bad drivers or poor customer support, and I hold it up against that individual's circumstances. It stops me cold in my tracks, and I mentally slap myself upside the head. And I recognize, in the grand scheme of things, how good I really do have it, and how grateful I am for so many things that I take for granted, Things that somebody else less fortunate then I might see as a gift they'll long for over a lifetime, and never obtain.

This is not to say I won't write and rant about some of these things. It just means that I'll continue do so with a sense of humor, and that I realize that it's a gift just to be able to do so.

Don’t Stand So Close To Me

Every once in a while I encounter a "personal-space-challenged" individual who just doesn't seem to realize that there's a big difference between maintaining a reasonable distance in a line and crossing it. And it creeps me out. I don't think it's just me, I think we all have an invisible 'force shield' and comfort zone. It's like that Seinfeld episode with Judge Reinhold as "The close talker". There's something so damned uncomfortable about having somebody hover so close to you that you can not only hear their breathing, you can feel it rhythmically rustling the hairs on the back of your neck on each exhale.



And so was the case today, as I approached the oatmeal, and a few folks queued up behind me. And it feels like repelling magnets. Oh, and what's worse then anything is that it was a dude.



I rushed through the process of pouring my oatmeal, scalding my hand in doing so, and shuffled quickly away to the register, only to have the same goon right back behind me again. Argh.



So I did what any reasonable, rational individual would do. I ripped one. Ok, no, not really, but I almost wish I had. What I did was to let the guy ahead of me proceed forward while not moving fwd myself, but turning sideways a bit instead, enough to make my briefcase swing behind me and establish a 'perimeter' of sorts.



It worked, but it would have been better if I'd gone with my first instinct.

Reflecting Through The Windshield

I've lived in the Bay Area, with one or two very brief exceptions, since I was in 6th grade. Our home was less then a 1/2 mile from the current headquarters of Apple in Cupertino, when it was a vacant lot used by the Mariani dried fruit company to air dry apricots. Uh.... right next to the freeway, come to think of it. But I digress. Back then, my high school girlfriend lived off Bolinger Road, on Johnson Avenue. And that was all so many year ago. Yet I work at Apple today, and for the last 1+ years, since we moved into a home in the Saratoga area, my drive home is almost exactly the same drive I'd take several days a week when I was dating Holly, during my latter years of high school and beyond.



Recently, en route home, the random selection of music on my mp3 player started playing "Heaven Tonight" by Cheap Trick. Just the opening guitar licks and the route I was driving, directly towards Johnson Avenue, transported me back to that period where I'd make a left, drive about 1.75 blocks and pull in front of 10460.



It's amazing how often this drive takes me back to that time, and when the music happens to so magically align with the era, it's almost like climbing through a fine mist of reminiscence and into Doc Brown's Delorian, tapping the flux capacitor and accelerating to 88 miles per hour.



This drive... this drive was my youth. My late teens, my innocence, and my coming of age are framed by these sidewalks, like sprocket holes along the sides of a tattered and aging 8mm reel of home movies from decades past. Whether it was with friends, alone, with her in the car... this was a routine route, travelled to and from some of the most memorable experiences of my early years. It was a second nature effort to drive there, the kind that you never remember making, you just remember arriving. It was a path so ingrained that even when it was not my destination, I'd find myself heading there out of habit. If home is where the heart is, then during those years, this was my true home.



The memories are tied tightly to the location and it's association to all of those events that make or break one's maturation. The rebelious years of driving fast with music blaring out the windows. The friends piled into the car, laughing and driving mindlessly about with nothing to do and nowhere to go, always opting for that destination over returning home. It represents starting and stopping points for the many concert trips, tower runs, drives to San Francisco, clam chowder runs to Monterey, and the times when I'd carpool to work with her when that 1972 Green Pinto, the one I helped her buy for $600 from Quement Electronics when I worked there, had decided not to start for the umpteenth time that week.



I'm twice as old as I was when they occured in real time, yet the scenes from my youth replay sporatically on my evening commute, at random intervals, along side music that invokes them, as I drive down streets frozen in time... frozen in my time. And for a moment, I'm back again in that Chrysler Newport, that Ford Maverick, that Toyota Celica or that god-awful bubble-topped Dodge Van. I'm listening again to "Rumors", "Infinity", "Boston", and "Van Halen II", only now on cassette tapes in a Jensen in-dash radio, playing through celophane speakers that sound like overdriven kazoo's. My hair is longer, my concerns are fewer, and my future is filled with far more potential then it is with regrets over missed opportunities and wasted youth.



My relationship with Holly lasted some 7+ years, with high points and low points. It remains a precious memory, as I'm sure everybody's first love does. And the fact that I seldom drive this route without being flooded with memories from those years is treasured. It wakes me up. It makes me reflect on and appreciate my youth, my experiences, my opportunities and even my mistakes. It also helps put into perspective who and where I am now, how I got here, and who I want to focus on becoming with the time that stlll lies ahead.



All this... all this from a brief drive down a familier street to a familier song.

This photo below was taken of us by a friend at a Fleetwood Mac concert at the Cow Palace. I believe it was 1979.

Clouded Vision

I’ve written previously about having seen the Northern Lights on a visit to Canada many years back, but until today, I’d never heard of a “circumhorizontal arc”. Then I received this email from a family member, double checked it’s authenticity, and damned if this is not true. It’s pretty amazing and from what I’ve just learned in the last few minutes, thanks to Wikipedia, it’s considered quite rare.

A circumhorizontal arc, also known as a fire rainbow, is an optical phenomenon similar in appearance to a rainbow, caused by the refraction of light through the ice crystals in cirrus clouds. It occurs only when the sun is high in the sky, at least 58° above the horizon, and can only occur in cirrus clouds. The phenomenon is quite rare because the ice crystals must be aligned horizontally (instead of the more typical vertical alignment) to reflect. It is often thought of as the rarest natural occurrence in the world.

And while researching these, I also stumbled across a similar phenomenon, “Nacreous Clouds“, on theAtmospheric Optics website, where you can see other images like this one.

Alarming Frustrations

This morning felt like one of those days when the gods just shuffled awake, rubbed their eyes, stretched wide, rolled their heads, yawned, and then pondered... "How can we f*$k with Geoff, today?". And verily did the smoke alarm appear before them, leaping with excitement, squealing 'pick me.... pick me'. So just when it looked like I'd make it out the door on time for a change, a high pitched 'beep' echoed from the back hallway, and as much as I know there is a complete randomness at play here, the irony and frustrations that followed were seemingly orchestrated against me.

I knew that there was no putting off fixing this, and if it were left unattended, the kids' nap time might be impacted later in the day. When the kids' nap time is reduced, it eats into the time my wife has dedicated to the calming motions of rocking in the corner in the fetal position, drooling sporadically and chanting incoherently, muttering "what have I done?... what have I done?... what have I done?... ". Then, in turn, the ripple effect would continue to spread, disrupting my own evening, and my own plans to do the same thing.

I initially assumed the rhythmic chirping was emanating from the hallway, where a smoke alarm was visible to me when I first heard the sound. That should have been my first clue that I was wrong. Line of sight. These little bastards have proximity detectors on them and they know when you're searching for the source of the beep. I learned that first hand this morning.

I scavenged the garage, located a 9-volt battery, and returned to the hallway, step-stool in tow. And then I heard the silence. The beeping had stopped. The motion detectors were kicking in.

I figured I'd just test the battery, removing it and placing it upon my tongue, feeling that minor jolt of electricity that indicates a strong cell. As an aside, every time I ever do that, time stands still, the room spirals around me and into the distance, blurring into a single swirl of blended colors and images, and then snaps back suddenly, revealing the basement of the home we occupied in Pennsylvania, myself and my older brother, and his suggestion that I put my tongue on those little pieces of metal to see what happens. (In hindsight, I believe these same God's had sent him to do their bidding during those earlier years).

" chirp! "

Yes, at about the same moment that I was returning the good battery into the hallway alarm, another 'chirp' filled the air, and it was definitely coming from the kids' bedroom. So I descend the stool, hearing yet another confirming 'chirp' while doing so, and carried it into the kids' room. Just in time to have the chirping cease yet again.

Instead of waiting for the chirp, assuming that I was narrowing things down by the process of elimination, I just got on the stool, removed the battery, placed it on my tongue, relived my childhood trauma yet again, and determined it was fine as well. It was not the hallway, nor was it the kids' room.

" chirp! "

OK, now I'm getting irritated. The clock is ticking, I've gotta get out the door, but I've started this process and have to finish it. Somewhere down the list of "issues" I have, I believe between number 350 and 425, lies the need to complete what I started. It's an issue because it's seldom possible, and it's never without an earnest effort that I walk away from something in mid-effort.

" chirp! "

It's not the hallway. It's not the kids' room. And it can not be our bedroom, because I yanked the battery out of that one about a week or two ago when it started in on me at about 2am one morning. I'd yet to replace it, the cover's still hanging open, so it can not be the bedroom. I had, in fact, grabbed 2 9-volts in the garage, figuring i'd kill two birds with one stone and replace that one as well.

" chirp! "

I walked out of their room and down to the intersection of the hallway that leads to the remainder of the house. And I stood there. Still. Motionless. Directly beneath the 1st smoke alarm, in earshot of the kids' room and our bedroom, facing out to the rest of the house. And I waited. In fact, I probably even consciously stilled my own breathing, expecting that I'd hear and detect the origin of the chirping, a pin drop, or crickets.

" cricket "

After standing there for more than a reasonable amount of time, waiting for a revival of the routine sound of the failing alarm and hearing absolutely nothing, I headed toward the furthest room, a spare room on the opposite side of the house that we use as a kids playroom. Therein, on the ceiling, conveniently above a table upon which I could easily stand, was another smoke alarm.

I reached up, squinting slightly to make out the small print on the button, embossed into the plastic in order to prevent anybody with less than 20-20 vision in low light from reading the text, and pressed the test button. " beep beep " went the alarm, in a clearly different tone then the chirp I was chasing down. This.... this was not my man. This was an innocent bystander.

" chirp! "

The sound was back! And son-of-a-bitch if it was not coming from the very hallway I'd already just inspected! How this could be was beyond me, but as I scrambled off the table and back down towards the hallway, it occurred again, in that direction. So I raced through the kitchen and into the intersection again, expecting to make it time for the next interval, and hopefully determine it's location. Perhaps it was one of the others after all, and the unit, not the battery, was the problem. Now I just needed to confirm which one. So I stood quietly, and as the sound in my head of a ticking second hand echoed within the increased pounding of my own heartbeat, I waited in vain.

" cricket "

For those who know me, and understand my frustration level with things that just don't make any logical sense, you can envision my jaw tensing at this point, and the color of my face reddening slightly, but this was still 'a puzzle' and in such, still a bit entertaining. But only a little bit, and not something I could stand for much longer, kinda like watching that "blue collar comedy tour" show on TV. All I really wanted to do was to figure out what was causing the chirping, and "git 'er done".

Yet after waiting, for easily 60 seconds or more, standing in the hallway and listening intently, it had stopped, as did my willingness to continue to chase down this phantom sound. So I returned to the chair in the living room, where I'd been putting on shoes and socks and gathering my belongings in order to head out the door and off to work....

" chirp! "

"CRAP! Where the hell is that coming from?!?!" I thought. "I will master you, annoying tone! I will find you, conquer you... I will make you my bitch. I will make you pay!" At this point, I could not turn back and walk away from this relentless taunting and had to see it through to its eventual resolution or my own demise.

I walked again to the intersection and heard nothing. I walked back into the kids room and heard nothing.

" chirp! "

I walked back to the intersection and heard nothing. And then I actually check the alarm in our bedroom, the one without a battery. Don't ask me why, but I did. I realize that any electrical engineer could explain to me that it's not possible that a unit that's not had a battery for two weeks might have somehow retained a residual charge, sufficient enough to mysteriously start chirping, but I just had to check it. it was still open, still without a battery, and clearly not making any noises. But while I was there I ascended the stool and replace the battery anyway, just to get this off my plate.

" chirp! "

I rushed back to the intersection yet again, having heard the chirp, and beginningo formulate the consipiracy theory.

" chirp! "

A-ha! I got you... I know for absolute certain that came from somewhere other then the hallway and back bedrooms. The search could now be delegated to that section, and the only alarm out there was in that playroom. You little bastard, I have you now.

I walked to the intersection of the kitchen and playroom, started menacingly up at the only remaining possible offender, waiting patiently like a hungry alley cat, pressed low to the ground, it's rear legs haunched upwards and locked in position, ready to pounce instantly onto an unsuspecting mouse he's tracked down for his lunch.

" chirp! "

No way. No freakin' way. I was staring directly at it, and that definitely came from the other direction. This was not possible, and by this point, I was mentally heading down the winding path to looney town. This was just not possible. It was as if they were playing some obscenely cruel game of 'keepaway', tossing the chirp between themselves as I scrambled from room to room, leaping to capture something just out of my reach. So I headed back again, trembling a bit now, towards the hallway intersection one more time.

" CHIRP! "

I stopped. I froze in my path. Mid-step. Motionless. I was directly in the center of the kitchen and, somewhere, in that immediate vicinity, was the source. The only thing, though, is that there is no smoke alarm in the kitchen, or nearby!

Submitted for your approval: A man on his way to work is pulled aside into a maze of convoluted pathways. A man with a penchant for puzzles finds himself searching for the elusive and moving target of an absolute explanation. In the world he knows, solutions are as evident and obtainable as any reasonable circumstance might dictate. But unfortunately for this man, the maze he's been dropped into is not one being played out in the arena of logic he perceieves as rational and uniform. This game, as he's about to discover, is being played out in, The Twilight Zone.

I stood there in utter disbelief and silence. Was I losing my mind? Have I become so scattered that I'd somehow installed, out of site, a smoke detector, and then forgotten it? I look under the cabinets and around all the surrounding walls, searching unsuccessfully to find the detector. I had the battery in one hand and the stool in the other. I just needed to find the damned thing.

" CHIRP! "

There was no mistaking. It was right here. And when I looked up, all I could see was the long cover over the florescent light fixture. The one that had been installed several months back after the prior one had gone bad. "Could it.... no, no, come on. But maybe.... it can't be. There's no way the installer actually put a light fixture OVER an existing alarm. IS there?!?!?".

That had to be it. It had to be. There's no where else to search. So I got on the step ladder and wrestled the cover off the lights, unable to see behind it until I had it completely removed and suspended in air with both hands, hoisted slightly aside.

Lights. Nothing but lights.

As I replaced the cover onto the fixture, I marveled at how the pulsing rhythm in my own temple and ears so hauntingly mirrored the sound one's tires make driving across the Golden Gate Bridge. "Thumpa... thumpa... thumpa... thumpa... thumpa... thumpa...", and I wondered just how often visiting hours at the sanitarium would coordinate with the kids schedules so they could come see daddy and wave at me from behind the glass while I strained to return the gesture with my arms and hands bound tightly against my sides, the jacket's sleeves latched together at an unreachable position on my back.

" CHIRP! "

"OK, that's it. It's right here, and hell or high water, I'll find it. If for no other reason then to feel it's white plastic casing strain momentarily and then give from the pressure, shattering under the weight of my stomping feet. I'll find it!! Perhaps there's something on the counter, beneath a towel or behind a bottle or can."

And as I pressed aside a box or two, the answer was revealed, logic was restored into my universe, and, although quivering and covered with perspiration, I felt a momentary rush of gratification and resolution. For there, against the wall, leaning just far enough out of the socket, was a carbon monoxide detector we purchased some years back. One that, when it's without a power source, has a battery backup that enables it to emit a modest 'chirp' to alert the owner that it's unplugged. How in the hell it happened to be hanging in just such a position as to intermittently receive power, stopping the chirping, which happened to agonizingly occur whenever I was atop the stool or staring the other direction, is as beyond my understanding, as is the reason we even have the thing in the first place.

Actually, I know the reason we have it. Somewhere, once or twice, somebody succumbed to the effects of carbon monoxide poisoning, a gas undetectable by smell alone, and an industry was born. A product was created, fear inducing marketing was devised, and mothers of newborns were targeted with the simple message of "if your child dies from this and you could have prevented it by buying our product, you'll never forgive yourself". And like any husband and father, I was unable to pass the "approval to purchase" test by adequately answering the question "Can you absolutely guarantee me that we could never, ever, ever be at risk and die from carbon monoxide poisoning?". Clearly, nobody, especially an engineer, can answer that with "Yes". That damned "absolutely" loophole has worked against me on more than one occasion.

And so, resolved, I was able to leave the house, get in my car, and race to work, delayed yet again by yet another odd and inconsequential string of events that bumped me off my path. Sometimes I feel like I'm the little ball on a foosball table.

Gods.... you got me. You got me again, and good. So, how about taking a few weeks to bask in that glory and allow me time to return to a state of ignorant bliss, huh? Oh, and Serling, If I ever spot you just off camera in my life again, I'm gonna kick your can.

 

The Cult of White Badgers

It's been a wild ride on "Mr-Jobs-Stock-Coaster" during the last 24 hours. With earnings announcements yesterday being well beyond expectations, and the subsequent after market trading flurry that had AAPL up to $99/share. Then things settled down, even deflated a bit. And as is customary, we had a company wide communications meeting today, to gather, review the company achievements and drink heavily from the Kool-aid fountains. And there was much rejoicing, and much to rejoice about. This was a record year, and the iPhone and AppleTV products take us into a whole new realm of products.

'hic'

Steve's still the master of casual, and discusses the state of affairs with confidence and ease, from a simple stool on a simple stage in the campus auditorium. Those of us not arriving early enough have the opportunity to view it live watch the meeting from one of many campus locations. I opt'd for the larger 'Macs Cafe' setting, where sitting in rows and rows of chairs while a large screen projection of Steve speaking brought oddly ironic visions of the 1984 commercial to mind.

Ultimately, and especially within the company, we're all proud of our accomplishments and successes, and the opportunity to innovate and change the world. Nobody's walking around zombie-like following communications meetings, nobody follows blindly without challenging and questioning decisions, and we're not all gravitating towards worn jeans, black mock-turtlenecks and 2-day stubble. That said, those of us that were there recognize and respect the leadership and vision that has turned this company around from the tail-spinning fiasco it was pre-'97.

Just Deserts Get Served Up After Dinner

About once a year or so, I gather with Mattx3, being the three Matt's that I've been friends with since high school and before, for Stromboli at Tony DiMaggio's on Monterey Hwy in San Jose. The last time we met, One of the three Matt's had landed a job in Sacramento and was going to be moving back to California after some 15+ years away or more. As a joke, he and I schemed in advance to start a bet over dinner. Matt would start talking about looking for work in California, I'd give him grief about being all talk/no action and initiate a bet, pulling the others in, and then we'd disclose the fraud once he'd announced and proved the move and each of the other's paid the $ to him.

It worked perfectly. We initiated the bet, with $100 coming from one Matt, $250 from another Matt, and $500 on the table from me.

A couple of months later, Matt sent us all some details and sufficient info to support that he'd found a job and moved down. Of course, that'd all happened beforehand, but the other two Matt's didn't know, and we all admitted we had to follow through on the bet.



We met this week at the usual place to catch up. Matt raised the issue on paying off the bet, and one of the other's clarified that he'd paid Matt on a recent visit to Sacramento, which I'd heard about when it happened. I figured he'd just give it back when we met. So the remaining Matt kicks in his $250, which he'd picked up that day at the bank, handing over two $100's and one $50 at the table, to the recipient. I was told it was my time to pay up as well, and i just started at my co-conspirator. I could not figure it out. I didn't understand where he was taking it, so I just played along and said I'd send it via Paypal.

Gradually, the conversations migrated and about an hour or so later, the bet payoffs had become history and I was still wondering what the hell was going on. Certainly, he'd not really intended to keep the money. Even being out of work right now, I could not imagine he'd actually keep the funds from a bogus setup.

So, I raised the issue again, this time staring in earnest at Matt and stating "You know I'm not going to pay you.". The other Matt's jumped to his defense, making it clear that "A bet's a bet, they paid and I should pay as well.". Matt just started blankly at me. I could not believe this. He wasn't coming clean. "You're not really gonna keep their money... give it back to them" I said. He just stood his ground on the fact that he'd won the bet and the money. WTF was going on here? After a few back and forth exchanges, I said "Where are you gonna take this? It's done. There's nothing left to do here. Just give 'em back their money!". I was really getting irritated at this point, as there was no where else to go then to admit the joke to the guys, but he was doing something else, and I didn't get it.

"Why would I give 'em back the money I won. They bet it." he said.

"Because it was all a setup. You'd already moved down before the bet was even made!!" I blurted out in frustration.

And that was when they all busted up in unison. I'd been had.

Come to find out, Matt B. did sincerely bring the money, but Matt C revealed the scam and had done so previously to Matt P during his Sacramento visit. All that was left to do was to reel me in. And they did so quite well. It never occurred to me that I was being duped, but then living in a glass house means I can't throw stones, so I had to laugh along with them.

PS: Yes, i do know that "Desserts" and "Deserts" are different spellings and meanings. But I had to make the play on words anyway. And for reference, check out www.phrases.org.

Sifting Through the Rubble of A Crumbled Tower

"You kids today, with your newfangled "interweb" and your "EMPY3" downloads. Why, in my day, we'd walk for hours through the snow to buy 12-inch 'Vinyl' discs from Tower Records, and we were happy to be able to do so." Well, perhaps the walking through snow is an exaggeration, but the rest if pretty much dead on. I, like most of my piers, grew up in a world where a record was, literally, a 'record'. My music collection was vinyl, and the only concept of 'bits' were limited to the routines on my George Carlin albums.



My earliest recollection of buying a record is vivid. We were living in Pennsylvania, my father took me to the Bucknell University college bookstore, and using my allowance, I bought two albums: the Bill Cosby album "Wonderfulness" and although I'm embarrassed as hell to admit it now, I also bought "Sound Magazine", a record from a TV-show "band" that shared the name of a bird frequently found in a pear tree during the holidays. (Yes, I was just an ignorant, innocent little kid, and no, I'm not gay, and yes, it's still a bit of nostalgic fun when I hear the opening chords to "Come On, Get Happy"). Later, once we moved to Cupertino, I frequented 'The Satisfied Ear', a reasonably sized independent record store within walking distance of our home. But Tower Records... that was the Mecca for recorded music.



Trips to Tower on Bascom Avenue were a ritual of my late teens and early twenties. So much so that it became a frequent destination of choice on a lazy evening with friends, and particularly with my friend Matt. Some teens lingered outside 7-11's. Some bowled. Some when to 'Mothers'. We hung out at Tower.



As early as I can remember having a driver's license and access to my parents '69 Chrysler Newport, I remember driving to Tower with Matt. I recall going their the first or second time I was allowed to borrow the car, only to end up scrapping up against another car parked on the street and close to the exit, while trying to jet out into traffic. The exit had a bad blind spot, and given that the front of that car was 40% of it's complete length, by the time you could inch out to see if it was clear, you were already in traffic. Once I felt the rubbing against the car as we grazed it, I pulled over immediately, envisioning the fury of my parents and the immediate shredding of my recently acquired license as I gazed at a long black streak along the starboard side of that behemoth land yacht. I nervously asked a man standing and looking at this if the car I hit was his. "Yes", he replied, allowing me to spew forth a voice-crackling recitation of apologies while dampening and warming the left side of my jeans, only to have him tell me, afterwards, that he was kidding and was not really the owner of the car.



I'd have been more pissed off if I was not so petrified at the forthcoming retribution. "My dad is gonna kill me..." I said to Matt, reaching out to touch the long dark marking, "...when he sees this", and as I rubbed the mark, it started to come off. Puzzled, as was my friend watching this play out, I started to get a fingernail grip on the black marking and begin to literally peal it off, much like you would any other thin line of rubber that had come off of a rear bumper during a moderate abrasion. Suddenly, my heart lifted, my cheeks unclenched, I wiped away the blood from the lip I had been biting through, and after a few modest pulls and rubs, the marking was completely gone, leaving only the slightest of impressions that would easily go undetected.



That was at Tower and remains a memory that has never faded, as were so many other events. I took a drive there with a just-met set of friends Holly and Linda, and I had an instant attraction to Holly. She had a boyfriend at the time, but we would become close, and she was eventually my first truly significant love relationship, lasting some 7+ years and taking me through some of the most intense growing experiences of my life. I remember standing in queues stretching out their doors just to buy a gift certificate at Christmas time. I remember sitting in lawn chairs, holding a place early in the morning, waiting for concert tickets. I remember a time when they sold only Vinyl and Cassettes, and watching the changes over the decades as CDs, Videotapes and DVDs become the standards in physical media. I remember walking out of their doors with the very first CD I ever purchased, being the carefully selected choice of Pink Floyd's "Animals". I remember shopping shortly after getting an in-dash CD player in my car, and the thrill of being able to walk from the store to the car and immediately start listening to my purchases in the parking lot, before even backing out. I remember feeling an unspoken obligation to visit and buy something when I'd encounter a Tower in San Francisco, Los Angeles and even London, in their multilevel store right at the heart of Picadilly Circus. There was a stretch spanning several years when a month would not go by without my having lingered in there for hours... literally hours, just exploring the bins. I'd examining the covers, trying to keep track of the artists I'd start to think about also finding while looking at one presently in my hand, and handing over my hard earned cash as I expanded my library and my tastes. I did so over and over and over.



Oh, and I remember visiting their website when it finally, FINALLY came online, a significant amount of time behind such leaders and innovators as CDNow and Amazon, and well before MP3s were really seen as a viable market, let alone a sales channel. Once they were online, they were arrogantly overpriced. A CD I'd buy for $12 at Amazon.com w/be $18 at Tower.com, and they didn't even have free shipping options. It was a shock to me, as I honestly remember waiting for them to have a web presence, being excited about it when it finally went live, and then dismayed and discouraged at what I found once I typed in www.towerrecords.com.



I've had a long love/hate relationship with the recorded music industry. I love music, but hate the business behind it. Artists sign away so much to get a deal that you have to hit so big, 'Nirvana' big, to be able to make anything financially significant. Everything the record companies do is billed back to the artists. The recording, meetings, materials, marketing... it's all billed against any success you have. And frequently, you're signing away your rights to your art when you get a deal as well, so when it's time for Ford to desecrate another rock song in order to sell more gas guzzling, environment destroying 4x4's, it's not your choice if they use your music, because you signed away that right. In addition, when CDs became the de-facto format, the price of a CD was about 50% more then an album, yet the truth was that the CD costs pennies to produce. Seriously, the damned 'jewel cases' were more expensive then the CD was, and the industry was gouging the consumer without conscience. All to make a bigger profit for, not the artist, but the manufacturer. Yes, I definitely don't have any love for the industry, so when the announcement was made that Tower Records claimed bankruptcy, had been bought out by a liquidator, and that they'd be selling off all inventory and closing shop, my immediate reaction was a bitter 'serves you right'. Karma. You reaped, you raped, and now you're time has gone. Good riddance.



Over the last decade, I've probably stepped foot into Tower less then an average of once a year, and I've probably only bought something there half as often. About a year or so back, while living in the Sacramento area, my friend Matt met up with me and we stopped to visit the 'original' Tower Records, just to say we'd done so, but we didn't buy anything during our visit. I'd been using Costco, Streetlight and Rasputin Records as places to buy CDs locally, or Amazon and Ebay for online purchases. And with the increased online access to MP3s I've reduced my 'impulse' purchase and have only bought the occasional release I hear and really embrace.



Sadly, and very well stated in this Washington Post article by the way, 'music' as a product has changed, and with it, the experience of discovery and purchase has changed as well. I felt it very recently. When my friend Matt came to visit and we went out to catch up, knowing of the bankruptcy and the forthcoming closure of the Bascom store, we stopped there for one final visit. And although there was nothing there I wanted that I did not already have, I found myself lost again, sifting through the bins, looking at the covers and track lists, and trying to remember the other artists and titles that kept entering into my mind as something to go search for as well.



The experience was a bit like opening a box of personal belongings that's been packed away for a dozen years. It was like finding something familiar from my past, a stale but reminiscent scent of a former home or loved one, a faded hand written note from somebody I've long lost touch with, a tattered and curling photograph of a younger me, and a ticket stub from a concert who's only memory I still hold is slow dancing with my girlfriend to the encore 'Songbird'.



Looking at it all from here, distain for the industry aside, it's the bittersweet ending of an era. I guess, as George sang and as this sign aptly echos, "All Things Must Pass".



This was photographed and sent to me by my friend Matt, who saw it and knew I would appreciate the statement. This is of the Sacramento Tower, which was the very first Tower Records store ever opened. Thanks Matt. Next, I'll be looking for that photo of the Pope's visit to General Motors.

All In A Day's Quirk

In the last 48 hours, I've stayed home with a sick son, working remote and allowing my wife to go to physical therapy due to back problems. I've had to contend with a very important project's schedule slipping, and I've had to return home early in order to cover for my wife's time away, spent getting an MRI. I've also had our daughter climb into our bed at 2AM, complaining about being unable to sleep with her brother's snoring, then his subsequent waking and vomiting at 3.15AM and all that comes along with it. I've had to shift things in order to drop my daughter at school while my wife stayed with my son the second day, returning to pick her up and drop her back at home at lunchtime, while even more project schedule chaos continued at the office. I've had to leave early the 2nd day in a row in order to meet my wife at the doctor's when my son's temperature hit 104.5, being told that he'll likely be sick for another 5 days. Oh, and to top it off my wife's MRI showed herniated discs, spurs and other issues in C2-3 through C6-7.

By the way, while on the topic... I myself, I love MRI's. Seriously. I find them the most calming and relaxing experience I can have without involving chemical stimulates. They're like meditation capsules, where the confined space, restricted movement, and rhythmic noises prevent me from moving or thinking. They calm my mind, and that's not an easy task to accomplish. I'd like to have one at home in which I could refresh myself nightly.

Also, while there's something very warm and enduring about having your child sleeping beside you, and it's something I do sincerely appreciate, if not relish, it has its drawbacks. There's something annoying and restrictive about them being so close that you can't roll over, finding yourself smacked in the face as they toss about, and eventually realizing that you've shuffled yourself as far as humanly possible towards the edge, extending over and poised to careen off the side at the next unexpected impact of their foot on your cheekbone. They can seriously disrupt sleep.

I won't portray my life as being complete and utter chaos, as it's really quite far from that, but there are occasions, and there are entire days, in which the fun just does not stop.

I've been, throughout the days, from 7am to 1am daily, trying to mentally bounce between high priority email threads, phone calls, meetings, coordinating time to contend with the home-front illness, researching toddler fevers and spinal herniations, and everywhere in between.

On the herniated disc topic: I'll be spending time looking into opinions and options with her for some time. I've had a fusion of my own at C2-3, and I've been down this road. It's a good topic for a  longer post, but suffice to say that I can relate and empathize with what my wife's going through. For once. For a change. Finally. And we're both dumbfounded and don't know quite what to do with that.

TNL

A new acronym has been defined and will become a meme of personal preference for the foreseeable future. TNL. Thursday Night Life.

Now that the kids have reached a manageable age, along with making time for some sort of 'date night' that gets us out and about together, my wife and I both have things we'd like to do in the evenings, such as exercise, yoga, shop, outings with friends. As much as we love the kids, we need some modest, reasonable concept of 'A Life'. Up until now, it's been a process of ongoing negotiations based on the specifics of a given event, and we've never really set aside personal time we can count on as our own.

Well, gues what? In exchange for covering one night a week for her, I've just received a standing "Hall Pass" for every week, each Thursday, starting at 6.30PST. Don Pardo... tell them what he's won!

Thaaaaats right... TNL is now available for GSM, starting this week! This means no more trying to scramble and negotiate an opportunity to consume car-bombs at CBHannigans with TiVo alumni. No more cajoling required to initiate a guys night out to see the latest action/adventure flick on the big screen. No more days on end of the same frickin' routine, broken only by the commute to and from the office, gripping the wheel and staring alone into the distance, knowing that something somewhere has to break.

Starting this week, with the annual MacWorld dinner as a kick off, I've got a chunk of time to call my own each Thursday night. So if my friends wanna meet for beers.. I'm there. If I need to coordinate some website help and development, I've got an open window of time. If a friend wants my assistance setting up and populating a home media center, I know when we can make it happen. If I need a few dedicated hours to sip coffee and work on this website, it's an option. And if a friend needs help moving some heavy furniture around or has some sewage lines that take two people to clean out, uh, I'm afraid I've already made plans. :-)

Keynote Confirms My “Core” Beliefs

I watched the Apple Keynote today with Brian and Jess. As my prior post references, it's something of a religious experience, and "Saint Steve" was in rare form at the pulpit today. Rare form indeed.



The introductions included a new Mac TV ad, announcing a shipping date of February for AppleTV, new movie downloads from Paramount, but the show stopper was definitely the iPhone. I've not been on the edge of my seat like that for some time. The demo of the features was spectacular, and it's definitely going to be something I jump after as soon as they're available. It's beautiful, and it is a revolution in phones.



And speaking of "Revolution"...., when I first sat down, prior to the keynote, I mentioned to Brian that it was odd that rumors of the Beatles catalog being available on iTunes had built up over the last few weeks, and then suddenly stopped. I joked that a few staff members at Apple Corp. had gone missing and everybody was suddenly tight lipped. And then I watched the keynote and shortly into it, I was absolutely convinced that it would be the "One More Thing" announcement. But it was not. Yet I remain convinced that it is on the horizon, and that is with absolutely no inside information.



Why?



Never, never, never has there been a keynote or other presentation, after the iTunes store was launched, that showed iTunes or the iPod with any content, ANY content, other then that available on the iTunes store. Never. Why would they? Once the iTunes store launched, everything I've ever seen in an iTunes or on an iPod demo has been something available on iTunes. And there has never, ever, EVER been any Beatles content in any of these presentations.



Today, I counted 5, at least 5, direct or subtle Beatles references.

The AppleTV's display of Cover Art for streaming iTunes started with "Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band".
The first song played, and artwork shown up close, was "Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band".
The view of the playlists included a "Beatlemania" (or something like that) playlist title.
The Beatles showed up again in the Artists view of the music content.
Subtly, the slide conveying the combination of Phone/iPod/Internet was titled "All Together Now"

There was at least one other reference that I can't recall. But overall, just the presence and overt usage and display of Beatles content is enough for me. It's gotta be a done deal, and just a matter of when it's announced. As a friend said, following the keynote and the iPhone excitement... this is not the place or time for "One More Thing". Perhaps a dedicated announcement, ala the U2 events, is on the horizon, and after so many years, Apple Corp. and Apple Inc. will finally come together, and the Beatles catalog will be available on iTunes at last.

Candles Without A Cake

January 05 has rolled around again, like clockwork. Imagine that. And although I have no time now to write anything that I've not written before, I still want and need to acknowledge my late father's birthday. I wrote a post last year title Peanut Clusters and Almond Roca that still stands true. If you're so inclined, read that and you'll get a sense of how I feel today.

Gallop Pole

As a christmas present, Nicole had purchased toy horse 'sticks'; the kind that have the horse head on one end and a long pole that they straddle and run with. A few days after christmas, we brought them out, explaining briefly how she had died but had wanted them to have these. They didn't seem to quite 'connect' with the fact that she's gone until the next day, but they were elated with the gifts. They're quite nice, have detailed heads, and when squeezing either ear, you get a whinny or a galloping sound.

In this video, you'll see an almost pavlovian response of urgency as my son triggers the gallop sound and realizes a moment later that... it's time to move!

http://web.mac.com/gsm/iWeb/Family/Horsing%20Around.html

(Password protected as usual. User = son's name [formal], Password = daughter's name. Both lowercase. Quicktime Required for Windows Playback. Get it free here.)

Postage DOH

I tried sending a couple of DVD-R’s to my brother/sister in law this week. I came home tonight to find they were returned for postage doh due. 49 cents. Yes, $0.49. I have to wonder what the operational costs of returning it were. It has to be well over 49 cents. Just the fact that somebody had to scribble the balance due with a pencil, let alone have it sorted and returned, had to have a cost. During the Confoti days, exception handling always had an operational impact. Anything that stalled or deviated from the start–finish process thew a monkey wrench into the works, regardless of how well planned for/anticipated it was.



Manual intervention costs of any nature must certainly start at well over half-a-buck. I guess it’s to be expected from a bureaucratic, government based operation. Just one more reason to dress up as indians and throw tea in the harbor, if you ask me.

Gazing Into The Rabbit Hole

Although I don't know what the hell they were thinking in the sequels, I've always marveled at the plot line of the Matrix, and how it can reflect daily life. From religion, politics, marketing, and more, there's a wonderful and elegant allegory to be applied: the concepts of 'sleeping and feeding the machine' vs 'being awake to and aware of the realities'. And I think this has much to do with my present undercurrent of malaise and melancholy. I've been 'awake' for a few weeks, aware of mortality, connected to family and friends, and in some ways, just not having to shave or get up and do anything beyond just 'being'. And now it's time to go back to work. It's time to join the routine daily pilgrimage in line with the thousands of other worker-bees, to turn my thoughts and attention away from 'being', and on to tasks and responsibilities that keep the cogs in motion, feed the machine, and provide for my family.

But I don't want to. I feel like I'm walking around in a haze, and everything is flickering as if it's illuminated by a faulty florescent light. I feel like I'm at a precipice, standing on the edge of real and routine. Yet there's no true option. The commitments and responsibilities dictate my restraint, and the need to keep in lock step with the masses, ensuring provisions for myself and my family.

It feels like a think film on the skin of my psyche. But, here I go, taking the blue pill, and hoping I'll be able to keep one eye slightly open along the way.

Morpheus: I imagine that right now you're feeling a bit like Alice. Tumbling down the rabbit hole?

Neo: You could say that.

Morpheus: I can see it in your eyes. You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees because he's expecting to wake up. Ironically, this is not far from the truth. Do you believe in fate, Neo?

Neo: No.

Morpheus: Why not?

Neo: 'Cause I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of my life.

Morpheus: I know exactly what you mean. Let me tell you why you're here. You're here because you know something. What you know, you can't explain. But you feel it. You felt it your entire life. That there's something wrong with the world. You don't know what it is, but it's there. Like a splinter in your mind -- driving you mad. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. Do you know what I'm talking about?

Neo: The Matrix?

Morpheus: Do you want to know what it is? The Matrix is everywhere, it is all around us. Even now, in this very room. You can see it when you look out your window, or when you turn on your television. You can feel it when you go to work, or when go to church or when you pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.

Neo: What truth?

Morpheus: That you are a slave, Neo. Like everyone else, you were born into bondage, born inside a prison that you cannot smell, taste, or touch. A prison for your mind. Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself. This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill and the story ends. You wake in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill and you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes.

It’s Not Dead. It’s Resting.

My son awoke from nap, had a quick snack, and as we sat having a casual conversation, a 'THUMP' moderately echoed through the house, as if something like a ladder or other large item had fallen against the outside wall. I jumped up to look and didn't see any sign of any impact. I walked through the house and my son said "I saw a bird... he made the noise... he's said he's sorry." You've gotta love the imagination on a 3 year old. I just smiled and said "OK, that's nice" and continued my search outside.



Only to find out he wasn't kidding.



I walked outside, around the side of the house, and stood at the corner of the patio trying to think of what might have caused the thump. Then, glancing down onto the astroturf covered patio, I saw, standing, frozen actually, a large bird.



He was not moving. At all. I walked close, walked around, and he didn't flinch an inch. His mouth was frozen in an open state, eyes locked open as well, and all I could do was marvel at the fact that, if he was dead, he was still on his feet. So I went inside, got my camera, put a "Little Einstein" video on as a distraction for my son, went to the patio door where he'd apparently met his demise, causing the thump, and somehow managing to land on or stagger to his feet before expiring.



I shot a few photos through the window. He'd not move since I found him 5 minutes earlier. The image below is not a bird in mid-tweet, it's exactly how the bird had been when I found him, and remained. It was freaky. He was like a statue.

I then went outside to snap another photo or two for posterity, before tagging and bagging the latest addition to the pet cemetery this house seems to be host to. And then I noticed one minor issue. His mouth was now closed. Every other thing about him was the same, but the mouth was no longer gaping open. So I started to wonder.... was this a part of the process for an ex-parrot? Does a deceased bird experience rigermortus? Would the eyes close next, and perhaps around 9pm, with the help of a modest gust of wind, would he go belly up?

As I walked closer, much to my complete surprise, he moved. Just his neck, turning to follow my movement. The sucker was still alive! I was relieved, as I was not looking forward to having discarding the remains, given that the garbage company my start questioning our hobbies if many more critters turn up in the waste bins. But I was also wondering if, having apparently collided with the window, gone into a coma, and now having come out of the coma, would he have amnesia? Would he attack? Would he shit himself out of fear? Would he be able to handle it if I told him the year was 2027, he'd been out for 20 years, and all the feathered friends he knew were all dead?



As I walked around and up behind him, he hopped. The motor skills had returned. He hopped a couple of more times, onto the patio. And then he shit himself out of fear. I shit kid you not.



A few more hops and he flew off into the neighbors bushes, out of our backyard and out of my immediate responsibility.



I still have to wonder when the other wing will drop, as it were, and perhaps next week one of my kids will bring me to it's body near the fence, or i'll see a dead bird on the way to work and wonder if it's the same one. Perhaps it'll live a long life, and have grandchildren birds that sit on the edge of the nest asking to be told the story of his encounter with a window and what really happened in those 10 minutes of frozen time.



Either way, once again, this house attempted to claim another animal as it's victim.

Happy New Year, I Guess

I'd had ambitious plans for my blog entry this year. I even started on a list of 100 'year end questions' to post. And then, I just stopped caring. For some reason, I'm feeling down and melancholy. Perhaps it's the shock of my mother-in-laws passing, or the reflection back on another year past, and all the things I want and think I could have and should have done, and did not. Perhaps it's the weight of looking at a new year ahead, wondering what resolutions I should consider, if any. Perhaps it's the darker mornings and nights that come with the season. Perhaps it's having been out of work for several weeks, dealing with a crisis and just being with family, that will end tomorrow when I return to work after a few weeks away.

Whatever the case, I'm just feeling blue. If I could, I'd sleep through the month and try again in February.