This Will Not Blow Over

We're having some work done at our house, and in the course of starting it, we were informed today by the contractor that our heater/AC ducts were in a pretty serious state of disrepair. We've long had issues with the heat or AC not making it to the further points of the house. The home inspection indicated that there was a crushed duct at one point, and we had that repaired, but the flow of air still never quite made it very strongly to the back bedrooms. Now we know why.



When we were told about the issue today, it was stated that some of the ducts were rusted and cracked. I mentally envisioned a few minor cracks here and there in what was otherwise in decent shape. Holy crap, I could not have been more wrong. The section I was able to see is beyond belief.



This does not look like a modest degree of aging and normal wear. This looks like the hull of a 100 year old dingy pulled from the bottom of the ocean. The insulation is tattered away and the brittle flaking rust is barely able to withstand the slightest impact, as seen here. It's incredible that any air ever made it beyond this point in the first place, and this explains the heating and cooling bills we've been dealing with.



I don't supposed we have any legal recourse related to the sale of the house and the condition of these. It wasn't even found or reported to be this bad in the inspection, which I can only assume is due to this being relatively obscured and inaccessible.



We'll be having this fixed, so the costs of the work being done just shot up a couple thousand dollars, but it's obviously not something we can or should delay.

Scratch Any Cynic..

One of the very few downsides to avoiding mainstream media is that, although I avoid the 90% bullshit that is branded "news" (being that, if it scares or titillates you into reading/watching in order to sell ad space, well... it's "news") I also miss out on some important headlines or tidbits that actually would matter to me. Fortunately I have several friends who know me well e



nough that they'll forward news of interest my way. So when I got two emails today, both with the one word title "Carlin", I knew right away that he'd passed away. Without even opening the emails.



My childhood friend Matt and I, in 8th grade, used to listen to "WINO Radio" and bust out laughing. It was from Carlin's earlier days and without controversy. When we were in high school he was putting out the cutting edge material in "Occupation Foole" and "Class Clown". I was raised in a home where Lenny Bruce was accessible, and cutting edge humor and honesty was not as taboo as it might have been in other homes. I weened my appreciation for comedy on Carlin, and even to this very day, you'll find his material on my iPhone and iPod.



I wasn't a strong follower of his work in the last 10+ years, although I did enjoy some of his work including "Brain Droppings", and as a fan of word-play humor, Carlin was the master. I recall a very interesting "Biography" show on his life, and his decision to go against the grain with his 'younger, hipper' act took a great deal of honesty and determination. Additionally, in appearance on "The Actors Studio" and "Larry King Live", he spoke directly and unabashedly about his personal beliefs and faith [or lack of either], which was also honest and brave, and earned my sincere respect. He holds a place in my personal list of top-comics, in such company as Lenny Bruce and Bill Hicks. Like those comics, much of his routine is based on speaking truths and pointing out things that challenge us to think for ourselves instead of being told what to think.



There's lots of his work up on YouTube. Take a moment to enjoy the truth-laced comic stylings of the late great G.C.

Putting The Order In Disorder

At lunch last Friday, a friend imitated my known tendency to pack all the garbage from my meal into the single largest container, typically a drink cup. It was not clear if it was solely for the purpose of mocking me, or, as I prefer to see it, they'd suddenly realized the calming benefits of doing so, as well as the need for all of us to practice this in order to restore a sort of harmony with the universe.

The act of "trash compacting" is one of several obsessions I wrote about a couple of years back, most of which remain daily habits that, for some bizarre reason, are only known to me as key to preventing the world's rotation from suddenly coming to a dramatic and catastrophic halt. Were I to stop, all non-compulsive occupants would find themselves hurling towards the stratosphere in an ironically unified and organized fashion, while those of us who've consistently kept our currency sequenced and oriented, vacuumed in a repeating pattern and laced our shoes so the top laces of the right shoe cross to the left while the top laces of the left shoe cross to the right, will remain to inherit the earth, allowing us to ensure that all toilet paper rolls are hung with the paper rolling forward and to the front.

This all came to mind last night as I was washing, drying and putting away dishes. I suddenly became aware of a patterned behavior that I typically don't seem to notice. Yet this time around it caught my eye and I had to pause and marvel in hindsight, (with a reasonable degree of fear for my own sanity at the same time,) at the method and intention that clearly runs through my subconscious actions without forethought. While stacking dishes and cups.

I noticed it when I came across a stray cup to store, and became conscious that I was taking measures to an extreme, because I had stopped to determine it's appropriate placement within the existing stack.

As you'll see from the image below, which I snapped on my iPhone (once I stopped shaking my head while buried in the palms of my hands), I'd been sequencing the colors. The first was the stack of plates and bowls. Notice the colors of the bowl stack match the colors of the plate stack. That went unnoticed. But when I found the stray cup, a light blue one, I had to insert it between the pink and dark blue. That's when I realized I had been stacking to a pattern; orange, pink, light blue, dark blue, yellow.... and over again.

Mine is a tortured existence. A sequenced, aligned, and organized tortured existence. :-)

Which One's Pink?

There is a fine line between "homage" and "sabotage", a precarious line to walk when it comes to Pink Floyd, made all the more harrowing when focusing on "The Dark Side of the Moon". It takes some nerve to think you can cover this legendary landmark recording in its entirety. It takes balls to actually attempt to do so. And it takes skill to succeed.

These guys clearly have all three.

A Road Sighed Rest

The parenting of twins can often feel like driving an off balance, rusted, wobbling 1940's jalopy, the type that's only a speed-bump away from leaving you sitting amongst a pile of metal pieces, smoke, and steam, still holding a detached steering wheel as the rear tire slowly rolls past you. In addition, you're perpetually running 10 minutes late for a critical appointment when the radiator cap suddenly shoots skyward beneath a pillar of steam, while the sputtering sound of a dying engine drives home the reality that you've lost all forward momentum.



That's a weekly, if not daily occurrence for my wife and I.



For the past few years, I've leveraged an annual opportunity to park the car off the road, in the tall grass, and get out for a breath of fresh air. I walk around it, kick the tires, straighten the front left fender, reattach the handle on the right side passenger door, and then I step back several hundred yards to just look at it from a distance. I allow my ass to recover from the lack of shock absorbers, stretch my legs, massage the cramped fingers that have so tensely gripped the steering wheel as I've attempted to guide it through dips, potholes and unexpected detours, and take stock for a few moments, before climbing back into the front seat.



Today is that day. Today is Father's Day.



Historically, I first used this day to get away for a longer stretch of time. Last year, though, I realized mid-day that there was someplace I wanted to be much more than away, which was an epiphany of sorts. And this time around, I opted to pivot the previous year's activities. I had a wonderful light "French" breakfast provided at home, then I took a few hours with each child alone, to just go out and about, focused on having some father/daughter and father/son time. And the later part of my day was set aside for my own solitude and self reflection.



So, as I sit on this stump of a fallen oak tree, just a few hundred yards away, I can hear the engine clicking sporadically as it cools in a modest summer breeze. The mixed smell of burning rubber and over-heated oil on the manifold are faint, but present even at this distance, perhaps permanently embedded in my clothing, if not my psyche. The squeaking sounds continue to echo in my head and the rocking motion has made me feel a tad off balance for the first few moments that I'm back on solid groud. Walking around it, at a distance, gives me the opportunity to see it from the other side of the windshield. To see it as the whole, and not just as a passenger or a driver.



Doing so causes me to sigh with a smile of comfort and conviction, because it refreshes my memory as to the many reasons I do so love this classic, regardless of the costs required to keep it running. Because this was something we built from scratch, my wife and I, and it has taken us places, every day, we'd never have travelled to without it.



Sure, some places have been rocky, treacherous, and greatly challenging, especially when the car was going a bit faster then we expected. We've slid when we've hit patches of ice, we've weathered storms where we could barely see the road ahead, and we've run into a few close calls with head-on collisions as well as our share of fender benders. I won't even begin to try and count how often we've run out of gas or barely made it into a filling station, or how often we've had to ask the other one to take the wheel for awhile out of sheer exhaustion, disorientation, or simply to prevent an oncoming moment of road rage.



Yet we've also been surprised to find ourselves in places who's grandeur defies words. We've found ourselves in what were once were familiar places, and have seen them anew, with a fresh perspective from angles we'd not have reached without this vehicle to get us there. We've journeyed in this to a barren pasture, planted seeds, and watched them grow under our care. We've met others along the road, driving in their own contraptions, and have made wonderful friends through our shared experiences. We've traveled in this to places that have allowed us to learn more about ourselves and our lives that we would have never know had we not ventured down a path only this could take us on.



And for me personally, I've learned a great deal about the value to be found in taking what might appear from afar as a rough and tumble ride, by just getting in, turning the key, and pressing the pedal. OK, perhaps it took some coaxing. And yes, it's been rough and tumble, alright. But so are most of the journeys to places of great heights, beauty and wonder. And as many a fellow traveler or explorer will tell you, it's not always about the destination. The person that climbs the face of a mountain will likely not summarize the experience simply down to the short time spent at the top, but far more on getting there and back.



Quoting the ancient chinese proverb, "The journey is the reward."



And it has been.

Walking Through The Past

Every second Saturday of the month, there is an electronics flea market at a nearby community college. I've been once before, and it was like taking a stroll down electronics-memory lane. Everything from old voltage meters, reel-to-reel tape decks and radio tubes, through turntables, early model Powerbooks, PalmPilots ,software packages like Aldus Persuasion, and all the way up to last generation Airport Extreme base stations can be found there.

In many cases, If I didn't know better, some of this crap was likely once mine, or even my father's. It's a small little event in a sectioned off part of the parking lot. Tthe sellers seem to be of a rather worn-'n-torn variety, and the shoppers are seasoned geeks and aging ham radio operators.

Somehow, although I don't quite feel like I completely belong, I still feel somewhat strangely at home.

In the ham radios and voltage meters, I smell the must of my father's workbench, feel the hardening rubber surrounding red and black alligator clips I'd tinker with, and hear the firm audible click of the dials and switches I'd turn to various settings, never having a clue about what they'd do or why. And in the interim booths, I recognized turntables and 8-track players, and a darkroom timer identical to one I used for years. I find vinyl albums warping in the heat of the summer sun, with covers I instantly recognized, including "Face The Music" by ELO and the original broadway cast recording of "Jesus Christ Superstar". I see 90's Apple hardware, including things I used in my work and international travel, groundbreaking in their day, which now seem as antiquated as the tube based radios a few aisles back.

I took my camera with me yesterday morning on a solo journey to walk the rows lined with memories, and was struck by how many things I felt a history and connection to, as well as the idea that the stuff I walked right passed without any interest might likely mean the world to somebody about to stumble across it in the next few minutes.

Urine Good Company

Now this was an awesome post! I loved reading it. Especially after visting the men's restrooms at Apple's worldwide developer conference last night. Now, I've known people that can consume an entire 6-pack, and 20 minutes later, refill one of the empties from 5 feet with nary a splash. But the bathrooms at the developer conferences... they were disgusting. I saw more than one person nearly lose their footing, including myself, as they attempted to navigate the swampy tile terrain. In addition, I loved reading this writers reflections of my own admitted discomfort at the act of using a toilet at work. The occasional recognition of a co-workers badge around their ankles in the stall besides you changes everything in the next meeting you have together. Especially if they're a grunter. Oh, and as a parent who's had to shuttle their son or daughter into various facilities in various locations, let me just say that nothing builds the hamstrings then attempting to hold a 30lb child aloft from a squatted position in order to prevent them or anything but your own sneakers from touching any physical surfaces.

 

Go read this: http://www.dooce.com/2008/06/13/rite-passage

I Can't Believe My Ears

I'm getting old. It happens. Hell, who doesn't? And if they don't, the option is worse. Still, some of the things related to aging really don't make the process quite so enticing. Things like being unable to loose weight quite so easily, hair growing out of places like your nose and ears but no longer your head, back pains, failing memory spans and lots of other stuff that escapes me at the moment. But hearing has become a recurring struggle. I actually went and got my hearing tested recently and I was quite surprised to be told it was normal.



Normal, that is, for somebody my age.



What's become a recurring issue has been an apparent loss of being about to 'filter out' background noises. Not only in crowded places but at home, when something's being said while my heads half buried in the freezer as I scoop out some ice, or if I'm rattling a grocery bag while the garage door is closing. These all seem like situations that I once had the ability to selectively tune out, while honing in on the words being spoken. Not anymore. Now, it's all just a jumble of equally pitched and volumed overlap, and more often then not, I have to crank my head and mutter "Eh? What's that you're sayin', Sonny? Speak up, yah wipper-snapper."



It was actually at my wife's insistence that I get my hearing checked. She's reached that point where loving concern has given way to irritated annoyance. I don't blame her one bit. But it does seem to happen more at home then anywhere else. I think a part of it has to do with her own muttering, and I'm sure she'd say it's probably my own subconscious tuning-out of her voice. Whatever the case, If I have to ask her to repeat herself too many more times I think my next anniversary present will be a hearing aid.



Oh, and speaking of hearing, have you heard about "Mosquito Ringtones?" It seems that ringtones are available that only specific age ranges can hear. You can test it on their website and it seems to work. The bottom line is that kids 18 or younger can have ringtones that their parents can't hear, enabling them to covertly leave the room to take a call without the parents even knowing that their phone is ringing in the first place. I have to give them a nod for having thought of such a sly little workaround.