Sammy F. Ringwell, Jr.

For Her

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 21:44:54 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

As 2010 approaches, and Christmas is upon us, I place my love (and my crackers) in that closet you so painstakingly organize for me. You keep me pretty even when I’m not, clean when I’d rather be dirty, and honest when we both know that neither clean nor pretty is necessary at the moment.

I am yours for another cycle. May they continue to be measured in astronomical units neither of us understands rather than solar ones every human can count.

Maybe I Wasn’t Clear

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 17:04:10 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

This ain’t fiction. This is an update on how Corporate Farris is currently doing.

The cast:

Boss (VP) – Goal-driven guy wants results. He’s “not interested in micro-managing” us, but he does want us to show our work. Figure that one out. Claims to hate meetings. Loves to schedule very long and unnecessary ones.

Larry, Moe, and Shemp – The IT team. I’m not sure which one is me, except that I ain’t Shemp. Shemp is the new guy. Yeah, I started this job two weeks ago, and I am not the new guy.

Foreign Office (R&D) – I’ll lump them all together here, because they have not only been the most consistently helpful player in this torrential rodeo, but I haven’t met enough of them to know who’s really calling the shots.

The Ladies (Sales) – The smiling face of the company. The ones who make the promises that we Stooges must somehow keep. They are, however, fairly forgiving and understanding when I tell them their proposed schedules are unreasonably short.

Scene 1:

Larry and Moe have never installed the company’s product anywhere, and suddenly receive word from on high that the first time we do so will be a new, untested, unreleased version. We’re given the product on a Thursday afternoon and asked to have it installed and tested that afternoon in order to discuss it with R&D Friday morning. When Larry and Moe ask where we should install it, VP says “on our production server.” Larry, Moe, and Shemp look over at R&D with heavy jaws as R&D says exactly what we’re all thinking: “ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? INSTALL IT ON A CLEAN TEST ENVIRONMENT!”

So we look at the hardware available. It’s ALL production hardware. Thursday morning, R&D agrees to move the meeting to the following Tuesday so that we can sort out resource allocation and run through the installation ourselves a few times. R&D makes it clear that they cannot meet with us Monday, which is totally fine with the Stooges, since we won’t even have it installed until Monday. I spend Thursday and Friday juggling around the least important servers to some hastily converted virtual machines. My team puts in an order for some RAM so we can beef up two existing servers to move all possible non-production machines to virtual machines.

Saturday morning I get the test servers we need for this installation setup on one of those virtual hosts. Then I make the mistake of checking my email. There is a long thread in which Sales asks VP if we can let them use the test servers on Wednesday. No problem there, we’ll have tested it on Monday and discussed it with R&D on Tuesday.

Boss says “Let me see if I can get R&D to meet with the Stooges on Monday instead so that Sales can try it on Tuesday.”

JKASHF&Y#*&RBY#O*&NY(R#&*@R*@TY*&RB&*BF*&!

Me: “Maybe I wasn’t clear: We just now got the proper machines to test them. We have never installed this product, one that R&D honestly tells us is very convoluted and difficult to understand. I have spent a large chunk of my weekend preparing so that we can meet these deadlines and follow a very risky 3-day schedule. Now you want to shorten it to a 2-day schedule? No. Setup a meeting on Monday if you want, but I won’t be there. I’ll be getting the shit done rather than talking about it without even knowing what the hell it is I’m supposed to be talking about.”

Boss: “OK.”

In these two short weeks, this has happened over and over again. I have to spell out every detail of every step in order for my already-pushing-it schedules and plans to be trusted or appreciated without someone meddling and thinking they know my job better than I do.

This sounds harsh and bitter I’m sure. But it’s not much different than other jobs. I know I’m not in Hell here, and that international business is flooded with this sort of “get it done yesterday, no matter what you don’t know” attitude. But I cannot and will not allow it to get to me this time.

And not just because they’re not paying me enough to give a shit.

OK, mostly because they’re not paying me enough to give a shit.

The Third Option

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 19:46:24 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

George was a simple man, which is not to say that he was an unintelligent one. On the contrary, he knew quite well that he was overqualified for the job he had served for ten short years. His IQ was much higher than the average blue collar schmuck, but he enjoyed the freedom of a constant position with a ceaseless revolving door of one clueless supervisor after another. He was the type of custodian who could finish his daily routines on auto-pilot without conscious thinking, but he chose to leave his brain in the on position nonetheless.

The dog park of Shimmering Oaks Community was his afternoon task. The executives and trophy wives spent their mornings showing off how much they cared for their animals by letting them run around the gated gardens while they sipped peppermint mochas and discussed how scary the economy was with other tapas-fed white people. They didn’t pay the complex a monthly grounds-keeping fee to have to pick up their own dog’s crap.

George had a map in his mind of which hills and shrubs needed to be scooped and when so as to make the sweep of the area efficient and thorough. The last stop on his “brown rounds,” as he called it, was the Arbor. This was a special area of the park added when the board of trustees at SOC became concerned that they weren’t green enough and might be paid a visit by some hemp-wearing hippies with a petition to reduce their carbon footprint. George always grinned at the thought of management naming a quarter-acre of sod with three transplanted tallow trees and a stone waterfall “the Arbor.”

It was the last leg of brown rounds because it was the trickiest. As part of the greening of the area, it was decided that the turf would not be raked. Letting the leaves land where fate leads them gave the photographs a more natural look and distracted from the fact that the red brick wall was the only thing separating the Arbor from the Northbound Expressway. Being so noisy and already covered in brown, it was difficult to discern the leaves from the leavings.

Since most of the residents never paid much attention to the Arbor except to yell over the traffic to call back Poochie, George ended brown rounds with a game of “Turd or Leaf.” He would stand in the center of the field and perform a circular scan of the area, rotating slowly like a radar antenna. After two three-hundred-sixty degree passes, he had a mental matrix of the Arbor that he could then use to spiral outward and snatch up the pellets. When he reached the outer perimeter, he would return to his central lookout and make one last visual sweep for leftovers, but he rarely missed.

“Shitty job, huh,” George heard from over his shoulder as he stalked along the edge of the area. Residents did not usually speak to him while he was on brown rounds, so he was startled and lost his place.

“Yeah, no shit,” George coughed as he stepped backward and rescanned the immediate area. Residents knew that George wasn’t afraid to speak to them as if he were in the same tax bracket. Frank Reed didn’t spend much time in the park, but he made it a point to stop in and say hello to George whenever he was out smoking a cigar and ruminating over a risky investment. “How’s money treatin’ ya, Mr. Reed?”

Frank stopped his long drag of his Cohiba and said, “George, if you call me Mr. Reed one more time I’ll have to have a talk with your supervisor, whoever the hell it is this week. You take more than your fair share of crap from people here, and you and I both know you belong somewhere else. Somewhere you can put that degree of yours to use.”

George didn’t lose his place again. He kept on digging for gold and gave no immediate response. “I wouldn’t cut it as an engineer, Frank. I hate making mistakes, and you can’t really do that sort of thing without planned and constant wrongness.”

“That’s silly,” Frank spat, “but to each his own I guess. When you get over your silliness, I hope you come to me first. That brain of yours is pure capital, my man.”

George’s face glowed. “Mighty kind of you, sir, but don’t bet any money on it happening.” By this time George was already on his way back to mid-field for his final quality assurance check. The spot in the leaves where he would stand was easily recognizable by the indentation from months of daily use.

Frank was saying his goodbyes and starting to walk away when he heard George damn himself under his breath. “Problem?” Frank inquired.

“See,” puzzled George, “this is what I’m talking about. I hate this. When I first walked up to the field I counted sixteen piles. There are fifteen in my bag, and they’re all gone now. I know the original count was correct.”

“Who cares?” encouraged Frank. “If you can’t find it, I doubt it will offend any delicate ears or noses around here.”

“I care!” George grumbled, his usually assuring baritone approaching an excited tenor. “You see, if I don’t pick it up now, I’ll never find it.”

Frank again assured that this was not something George should let ruin his day. “Look at it this way: if it really is out there, by tomorrow it will be dried out and less of a bitch to pick up. Come on, let’s take a break at the Pond Bar. I’ll buy you a Fresca.”

George ignored him. “There are only two possibilities. Either my count was wrong, which isn’t likely, or someone else picked it up when I wasn’t looking.”

“Who else would pick up a dog turd around here? Look around. It’s all pearls and Armani. No friggin’ way.” Frank was really trying to take George’s under-appreciated mind off this ridiculous quest. Lowering his gaze Frank added, “Besides, there is a third option.” With this Frank gave a bemused shrug and walked away.

“Son of a bitch!” George kicked the air and began his shameful limp over to the water hose, one boot pinched between his thumb and index finger at the end of his fully extended arm.

An Open Apology For Anyone Who Wants It

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 20:46:17 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

We are broke. Flat-fucking-broke. As in, if I don’t sell a ton of shit or get some invoices paid THIS week, we will not have enough to cover the mortgage or power bill or any number of other payments already scheduled via online banking.

So, what am I apologizing for? This:

Fuck you.

There. Sorry about that. I wish it could have been avoided, but it was coming out one way or another, and at least I can control it here. If I made a mess, I’ll clean it up.

I’m much better now.

Keeping Your WIP to Yourself

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 19:44:04 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Most people have a series of good ideas in varying frequencies. Some of us tend to think that most of our ideas are great ones and announce them all to the world. Blogs give the more gregarious of us the ability to elaborate on them at length. Twitter and FaceBook let us spit them out in rapid succession. For those who consistently go beyond mere idea generation and actually take action on a significant number of ideas, these tools are informative and exciting to all.

But they backfire on people whose timing is off. A good handful of us tend to come up with these ideas, broadcast our intentions via the internets and then sit on them for a while. Our friends comment on them, and the hesitant idea machines allow those responses to affect, usually to the detriment of said idea’s completion, their approach to getting it done.

A few months ago I mentioned selling off most or all of my musical equipment and starting from scratch. This was a good idea, and I should have done it. There isn’t a single piece of significantly valuable equipment I own that is in any way sacred to me. I could live without it all, and from a practical standpoint I already do. A good friend joked about how it would decrease my status as a rock star if I reduced my gear so drastically.

So I’m blaming my failure to actually do it on him. I doubt he’ll mind.

I have to stop announcing my plans to everyone. I need to just DO STUFF.

What’s in a name?

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 16:08:48 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

In a way, Farris Goldstein is my real name. I decided over a decade ago that, as much as I embrace technology, putting my thoughts out on the wires should probably be guarded by some kind of pseudonym. Those who know me understand that I’m just a silly guy who enjoys individual role playing, even if I bristle at the thought of rolling a bunch of dice and slaying imaginary dragons all weekend in a room full of other nerds.

I’ve been accused with everything from schizophrenia to multiple personality disorder to just plain batshit crazy. But I know I’m not crazy. I know the name I was given, and I love it. I also know that, for as long as I can remember, I’ve used internal creativity to successfully stave off the development and diagnosis of all those scary disorders.

Now I’ve actually been published on those wires with my real name, and I’m having a tiny identity crisis. Ever since I realized I was a writer I’ve worried about whether to finally just be Me and let the various avenues of my craft point to the same name. It would make putting together a portfolio much easier, but it’s just not that fun.

I have two such irons already in the fire, one of which actually pays a financially negligible but tangibly rewarding income. In addition, I have two Big Ideas that I want to remain passionate about, but since they’re targeted to mutually exclusive audiences, the more perverse one will definitely require a fake name.

But the other one… Oh, man, I wish I could say more about the other one, but it’s something that all sources say I should keep under my hat until it’s close enough to complete that I can’t help but put my John Hancock on it and show it off to everyone like a Heisman trophy. That one will definitely get my real-real name on it, possibly even with a pretentious middle initial.

Dammit, since when do I use sports references? Gotta nip that in the bud/butt.

Addicted To Thought

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 17:51:52 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

I have three addictions. One of them, nicotine, will go away some day, but I’m not too concerned with the when or how. It is, contrary to what most might wish or think, the least important of my three addictions.

The second addiction is fried mozzarella sticks. When they’re available, they have complete control over me. This problem is somewhat tempered by the fact that if I find a particular establishment’s fare to be sub-par, my ability to choose another dish is greatly augmented. However, in moments of weakness, I will choose objectively bad cheese sticks over good steak. I’m not certain this particular addiction will ever go away. Why should it? Fried cheese is quite possibly the savior that will usher in the next era of peace. The vegans, being a mostly understanding minority, will either make dietary exceptions or at least toast the idea of finding common ground among the Jews, Palestinian, veg, non-veg, Kirk, Picard, Orthodox, Protestant, etc.

My real addiction — the one that should be most alarming to my caretakers — is one that I can do absolutely nothing to curb. It will be with me until the day I die. By the way, when that happens, I need witnesses to make sure traffic gets fucked up in at least 3 counties for the procession. I don’t exactly adore cops, but one service I don’t mind my tax dollars generating is fucking up traffic for dead people.

I like thinking. I love it. I don’t get bogged down by it like a lot of half-assed bloggers out there. I don’t question it, and I make no fishy lament about how it keeps be from getting anything done. To be completely honest, it is the only thing I do well. All of my other talents are just blind applications of that very basic ingenuity.

A beautiful mind? Probably not. But it’s really damn comfortable in here, and I ain’t leavin’.

Names

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 14:41:32 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Too many Ashleys, too many Robs.

Can’t some of you call yourself Leela or Bob?

Young me knew too many guys with my name.

One was exceptional, the rest were the same.

We were inseparable, and found all the gold,

but somehow we missed out, so the story goes.

If your name is Michael, and mine is Michelle

we’ll write lots of jokes that are boring as hell.

Richard, Ricardo, Harry, and Dick.

Tommy, and Sally, and Nick are all pricks.

Farris, and Ferris, and Donder, and Chris,

I drank too much coffee, now I have to piss.

Middle brained

Thu, 10 Sep 2009 03:52:12 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

I struggle with reading, but I have no problem writing. I’m very good at listening, but my hearing isn’t all that great. My eyes are a little weak, but I always see the light. I’m a cat person, but I’m in love with a puppy. I learn very slowly, but my teaching style is fast and productive. I have great taste, but I look like a hot mess most of the time. My desk is too big, but has more crap on it than it can hold. My desktop computer is warrantied until 2011, but I still haven’t scheduled the Geniuses to fix that magenta line spanning the right side of the display. The big project I’m doing for a client is 90% done, but I could still bill for about three times as many hours as I’ve already been paid.

I excel at creatively working myself out of a job.

Every time I get really passionate about a tangible personal goal, something completely opposite presents itself as a lucrative opportunity.

I can help people, legitimately, and make a decent living doing it. Supposedly, I could have a lot of this sorted out in a little less than four months if I straighten up and devote two hours a day to focusing on the minutiae of strategy and content creation. This is currently my biggest aspiration, and the fact that I’ve spent real money to join a group of people with common goals should help prevent me from letting it all go by the wayside for some silly science experiment with little promise of providing anyone but myself any joy.

I like joy.

Writers and Tinkerers Alike: Fontify Your Handwriting

Mon, 31 Aug 2009 14:42:35 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

First, an invitation: If you’ve actually done this, or something similar, before, then awesome. I’d love to know if you found it useful, amusing, both, or neither.

Second, a warning: If you have not done this, or anything similar, do not tell me why you don’t want to do it. You can tell me why you can’t do it at present. However, if you don’t want to do something neat and simple and quick that I think could be helpful and entertaining, I’m neither concerned about nor interested in the demotivational details.

JewingDings

That’s my handwriting. This isn’t some fancy-ass, heuristic AI that studies your hand movements and creates an elegant synthesis of a real person’s writing. This is just my damn letters scanned in and quickly indexed into a font. People have been doing this kind of crap for at least a decade or two. Why am I just now doing it?

Because I’m lazy. And that’s the last excuse. If you ever pour words out of your head onto a screen or page, then whether you read them back to yourself or quickly forget you wrote them, go to the image link and do this. Now, if you have a printer and a scanner nearby. No, really. Stop working, playing, or caring for your children and do it immediately.

I’ve written three things I actually consider good writing since installing this font earlier today. And I don’t feel like throwing them away and irreversibly shredding them.

Four steps, and it only took me about 8 hours to do it. Translated into normal human time, it should take you about four or five minutes if you have the scanner and printer.

Basics of Motivation: Concern vs. Interest

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 14:15:47 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

In ninth grade I started taking German classes. I took it all four years. I know why I started — my dad had taken it, from the same teacher, and always told neat stories about Herr Dunn — but the reasons I took four years of high school German are numerous and mostly uninteresting.

There was this girl. We’ll call her CJ. I’d had a crush on her since 6th grade, and she was a year older. I had know idea she took German until I decided to show up for the German club, which held meetings at the “Senior” campus. The Senior campus happened to be about a mile from my house, and the Ninth Grade campus was about 500 light-years across town. I was amazed and a little stunned to find CJ in German Club. She wasn’t exactly a debutant or anything, but her friends were several notches above mine in the popularity food chain.

I don’t remember how it went down, but I ended up being President of the German Club, at least one or two years. We ate food and watched movies. That’s what the German Club did. Sometimes the movies were German. I made wiener schnitzel. Sort of. It was fun, and it was interesting. I cared about almost everyone in the club.

At some point CJ picked up on the fact that this nerdy sometimes-friend of hers dug her chili. Even after my messy confession of such, and the revelation that I was cool enough to seek friendship but not attractive enough to seek a whole lot else, we were about as close as an honest nerd and his unrequited soul mate could be. Lots of emails and IMs, rarely initiated by me.

I remember one night, Junior year, when we were EyeYimming pretty feverishly. Talking about Indigo Girls or J. D. Salinger or some other thing I found amusing but not all that enlightening. I found a puddle of courage and asked her out. We then had a long discussion about the difference between not caring about someone and not being interested.

The explication wasn’t as direct or literal as this, but in a few thousand words she was able to genuinely convey that she agaped the hell out of me, but erosed none of me. It certainly wasn’t my first rejection, but to this day it’s my favorite.

After high school, we saw each other once a year when our paths crossed, but the emails were fairly steady. The last time I remember talking to her was sometime around the wedding in 2006. I think she and a friend came to our house for a party. I don’t remember, and either it was all conducted via IM and phone, or there’s a gap in my email archive.

Polyamory and polygamy are not complicated subjects for me. They don’t work. If they work for you, great, but they don’t work. For me, for you, or for anybody. I’m interested in hearing about it, but I don’t care enough to hear about it directly from you. They don’t work, and I’d much rather learn what little I’m interested in second-hand. As in, on TV and in books. Not from your LiveJournal, and not from your blog. If you throw some of it in the middle of a post about HD content or nomadic freelancing, then yeah, I’ll probably read it.

I think that’s respectful, don’t you? I’m a little interested, and I don’t care.

Another sometimes-friend, whom I used to work with, used to spark long email threads ostensibly in the name of philosophical intrigue, but with the ultimate goal of showing me that Jesus was really the son of God, really lived and died and lived a couple millenia ago, and really can keep me out of that hot, black casino downstairs if I just close my eyes and see him. The last of these conversations, to give him the final word, ended like this:

“Fair enough. The problem with churches is you really don’t know who
the true believers are. The bible talks about sheep & goats and wheat
& tares, and the process of sorting all that out. If you’re not
familiar with those principles, church can look pretty messy from the
outside.”

That was in May. Just this past Friday, he invited me to see a funk cover band play at his church, which happens to be less than a mile from my house. I said, in so many words, thanks for the invite, but when Funk is your job, and Job’s just a book, spending your Friday night sipping light refreshments at a new-age church to see some middle-aged heavy water down your bread and butter isn’t all that appealing. Laugh with the sinners, etc.

If I ever enjoy a Funk show without getting my drink (or at least my sequined vest) on, that’s the day it’s really time for me to get a new band together.

People throw the word science around too much. Whatever they’re interested in is, somehow, science, but whatever they don’t care about is either not science or it’s just altogether stupid. When someone says “I’m a man of science” or “I’m a scientific person” in the company of people who are transparently unmotivated by superstition or hocus pocus, there’s a good chance he or she cares very little about actual science. In reality, the person is probably just trying to compensate for being uninteresting.

10 Obvious Things Others Know, Taught To Me By Two Dogs

Sun, 16 Aug 2009 15:56:11 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Waking up early on most days feels really good.
Two moderate meals a day, plus one or two treats, calms the nerves and the arteries.
You should change your pants every day.
You shouldn’t title a list post before you know if the numbers in the title match your material.
The cake (or treat) doesn’t have to be pretty as long as it’s delicious.

I Always Have Something In My Eye

Sat, 15 Aug 2009 22:55:19 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

What did the Goldsteins say when their homework crossed the street?

Our dog ate it.

Yesterday was not fun. When the worst was over I poured two glasses of wine, and we toasted both of our sweet little rats, as Grace likes to call them. B had to remind me to clink the glasses, which is further proof that I usually just like to hear myself talk. We had to have a little fun, of course, and that’s what cheesecake and movies are for.

Sometimes it feels like all I can make are messes, noises, and eye-water. But all three have to come from somwhere, and if that somewhere is me, then at least I’m not the only one.

Today we’ve had eggs, sandwiches and naps. For dinner, we’re having our favorites. I’d rather be at the beach, or at least some place where it’s OK to make those noises and messes as long as there’s a blender involved.

If I don’t steal my wife’s jokes occasionally, people will miss all the really good ones. When we agreed today that we don’t ever want fish as pets again, her wisdom shone through the black clouds in our living room: “Because fish death is just, whatever.”

Those glasses of wine from last night are still sitting on the coffee table, minus about 4 sips. And we’re having tilapia for dinner. With Coke and pina coladas. I’m not sure what she’ll be drinking, but I’ll be you a Dr Pepper it’ll have real sugar in it.

From Dog-Hater to Puppy-Lover in 30 days

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 22:39:43 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Ok, so it’s been far fewer than 30 days since I made the very quick transition from “Hell no, we’ll never get a dog!” to “OK, OK, you win! We can get a puppy! Shit, we’ll get two, or a hundred, just please, put down the electric carving knife!”

It’s kinda like a shotgun wedding. Tradition foretold it, violence immanentized it, but love will (does) perpetuate it. Yes, we have puppies. In our house. In the middle of our street. They’re fucking precious, and if you say otherwise, we know where the electric knife is.

A little history, in case you aren’t aware: We got the girls (Niecy/Bernice and Nadine/Bernadine) from a rescue group. This rescue group is too busy trying to save a bunch of puppies from being killed to worry about making the same, ever-growing bunch of puppies sick. Doc says they have distemper. There are two phases to to canine distemper: Snotty, and then Crazy/Disfigured/Dead. We’re doing all we can to see that they avoid the horrors of that second stage altogether.

Nadine, caught in a rare moment, is playing with a toy.

I wrote an email to my sister, who may or may not puppy sit for us at some point, since she has been the most closely interested in how our girls are doing. It occurred to me that this email was the first time I had written at length about my puppy parenting experience so far. Below the next photo is the part of the email where I ramble on about all the stuff the puppies have trained us to do. If you read something that makes you wince and think we’re doing it all wrong, then tell us gently or keep it to yourself. We don’t rub their noses in anything, and ask only the same courtesy of you.

You think Niecy hears something, Niecy thinks you're seeing things

Farris’s Observations after ~2.75 weeks of being a Puppy Papa:

They’re usually ready for bed by 10pm or 11pm. Outside to “evacuate” one last time, then a bit of lovin’ when they go back to their bed/crate. Sometimes they stay up late with us, with no problems.
They don’t bark or whine or cry at all during the night, and we haven’t had any accidents either, so they know that sleepy-time is until whenever Daddy lets them go outside in the morning before breakfast.
So far, they’re OK with eating breakfast anytime between 6am and 9am. I say 9am because that’s the very latest I’ve fed them. This isn’t a strict routine, and I don’t see a need to have a strict “feed them at this time or that time” routine. They’re dogs. When they were wild wolves, they ate whenever they found food.
Niecy does tend to bark and whine quite a bit during the day whenever we’re not giving her our undivided attention. She’s DEFINITELY not ready to have her run of the house, so when we do let them out of the crate by themselves, the door to their room stays closed if we can’t watch her to make sure she isn’t ensuring said attention by chewing things up. The more we ignore her barking, the more she’s learning that we won’t abandon her, and that being calm inside is the way to get our attention and get to go OUTSIDE where it’s not necessary to be calm. :)
Nadine is very mellow and doesn’t like to play very often. She’ll run around a bit when enticed with a toy, or if Niecy insists on playing tug of war or something. But after a while, she just wants to curl up in Daddy’s lap and either take a nap (she’s my nap buddy) or watch her retarded sister chase her tail. We’re hoping she’s just tired from growing, and that this isn’t distemper-related lethargy.
Dinner has been anytime between 5 and 7, mainly because that’s around when we eat. They get plain yogurt around lunchtime some days, and they love it. It’s supposed to help them fight off infection. Between lunch and dinner, they share a whole can of puppy food every day. Since they’ve been growing but are definitely not overeating, we’ve started mixing in some dry food with each meal. They usually finish it all, but if they quit before it’s all gone we don’t give them any grief or try to make them eat the rest. A healthy puppy will not starve itself to death.
We’ve found that they like apples and carrots better than the meaty salty store treats, so we keep bite-sized chunks in a container in the fridge. It’s cool because it’s better for their teeth, and it takes them longer to chew, so they have plenty of time to absorb the “I did something good” association. They never get treats unless they’ve JUST done something good.

So there you go, that’s what I’ve learned about puppy parenthood in the last few weeks. Pretty laid back. I never yell at them, though I do use the “Daddy is not amused” voice when they’re doing something they ought not, and give them treats and scratches when they do stuff that makes me happy. OH! Niecy has “sit” down, and doesn’t even need a treat anymore (though she still gets one every now and then, so she won’t forget).

Continuing Education For Script-Kiddies

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 16:38:10 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Do people still use the term “Script-Kiddie?” Or do real programmers these days just consider everyone in the Web 2.05092009r27 universe to have a dangerous amount of knowledge about programming and steer clear of calling attention to it, in hopes of avoiding blame for ahr-em-minus-ahr-eff catastrophes and whatnot?

Regardless, I’ve been programming, badly, since slightly before I knew how to make the VCR stop blinking 12:00. For what it’s worth, our first VCR had a “remote control” that was tethered via a two-conductor cable. It usually stayed balled up in a dusty mess behind the television. There’s some possible insight into why I’m so terrible at cable management.

But I’m getting better. At cable management, that is. I’m still too near-sighted to consider myself a real programmer, but as I tackle more and more independent projects I’m picking up some things that I can be internally proud of. Some of you will find this quaint and want to pet my hair. Feel free.

Yesterday I came across a neat little method of quickly querying Wikipedia via command line. I chucked a one-liner sh script in my ~/bin folder, then realized that ever since I’ve switched to Mac, I haven’t USED any custom scripts for anything. After pulling myself out of the rabbit hole I dug trying to find the clean, Apple-Software-Update-safe way to add a directory to your BSD path (there isn’t one, I just created a .profile), I mixed the Dropbox-and-symlink-JB-Weld to make sure any command line habits I formed would be supported and enabled no matter which machine I’m using. Here’s the script:

#!/bin/sh
dig +short txt ${1}.wp.dg.cx

Sure enough, 24 hours later, I’m hooked and find myself unconsciously learning useless (and questionably accurate) trivia even while I’m buried in the terminal doing my usual organizing and system manipulation. But now I’m noticing that the tiny summaries offered by those DNS txt records are perfect for firehose learning/soaking.

While modifying my script to let me query several topics at once, it occurs to me that I should do a little bit of programming/scripting every day. Help me out by sharing your own little snippets, or giving me ideas for other useful little things that could be done programmatically. If we do enough of this, together, we can finally get off our asses and write all those awesome apps we talk about just in time for the platforms for which we write them to become obsolete!

Here’s my firehoseable wiki script in its current form:

#!/bin/bash
echo -e "$# queries: $@ \n"

for i in "echo $@"
do
dig +short txt ${i}.wp.dg.cx
echo
done

Here it is in action:

no custom terminal fonts or colors for me

8 Stages Of Being Me

Mon, 03 Aug 2009 16:08:41 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

I offer you an explication of my newish image banner. Should you accept this offer, I hope you’ll hold me personally responsible for any damage or success your well-being incurs as a result.

I will not link or display a copy of the image itself within this post, for posterity’s sake. In the future, when I decide that the current banner is horribly designed and needs to be replaced, whatever I replace it with will, without any doubt or actual planning, continue to perfectly accompany this humble narrative. My banner will always represent the perfect me and, whether you can distinguish the divisions or not, the absolute truth of the idea that there are eight, exactly eight, and no more than eight, genuine stages of being awesome:

1) Fish. Eat some, prepare some, feed some to others. Raw food is good for you in some amount. Begin there, and if you get bored with it, cook slowly until you’re sufficiently less boring. Remember, you can’t uncook it. We all started out in brine, so get back to your roots and eat your ancestors. Just don’t make them suffer near a source of heat for too long, if you must torture them that way at all.

2) Duck. Why duck? Because if you don’t, you might get hit. Duck will save your life. Duck is food, but do not eat it raw, unless you are a wild animal with a hardy digestive tract and immune system finely evolved for making sure raw duck does not kill you. Children of all ages would be much less stupid and annoying if we’d replace that confusing “Stop, Drop, and Roll” nonsense with the much more forward and easy-to-remember imperative/exclamation/query of “Duck!” Groucho understood this, and you should, too.

3) Grill. Do this often, as soon as you have developed the dexterity and gathered the resources to do so. Just don’t do it for very long when you do. Your colon and my colon will thank you, and eventually all you’ll have is your colon. After that’s gone, the grill will be mostly useless. Take care of your grill/colon, and they’ll take care of you, one way or another.

4) Cut. No, not yourself, an avocado. It’s tricky, but it’s an essential skill all human wasings should have learned before they died. If your dying aunt who has never sliced an avocado requests an audience with you, before she grabs your collar with her smelly, disgusting old-people claw to pull you near and reveal where the family’s Confederate treasure is buried, put a gloved finger to her lips. Sternly instruct her in the art of guacamole preparation, let her demonstrate her new ability, and then cut off her air supply until she tells you where the real treasure is. Family ties are important, and should not be taken for granted or allowed to grow unchecked.

5) Corn. At some point in your life, you will watch a person named Chris happily shuck an ear of corn. Pics or it didn’t happen.

6) Pizza. If you do not enjoy cheap, frozen pizzas, you have not yet reached the milestone of true enlightenment. Buy at least $100 worth of various store-brand, rising-crust pies and hand-select a team of trusted guides with whom to journey deep into the arid desert. Once there, subsist on bottled water and pizza for one week. The elementary skills learned in developmental stages one to three will be tested to their limits. If you survive, celebrate quickly and then travel immediately to the nearest colorectal surgeon for maintenance and repair.

7) Ignorance. A reborn appreciator of frozen pizzas can confidently brush aside the protestations of unwashed regulatory and law-enforcement types who wish to prevent you from sharing your consumables with those not fortunate enough to have made it to the desert with their ovens and cardboard boxes intact. You are not a restaurant or food-service organization. You are Me, and pizza is delicious. Naysayers be damned. Say not nay, say yay.

Me. Me am you and you are arrived. Eat, prepare, and cook pizza until death or colon failure hinders your ability. Place the family treasures in a safe place, under the curatorial management of a trustworthy pizza consumer who already knows the way of the avocado. If, on your deathbed, a familiar face approaches with a chef’s knife and a cutting board, activate your well-planned euthanasia process and smile contently as the colors all become gray. We win.

Happiness Blog: Sure To Be A Sensation

Mon, 03 Aug 2009 14:19:21 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

I’m starting, and ending, a new blog series today. I’m certain that it’s vital information to a lot of of readers out there, my page hits and clickthroughs will skyrocket, and I’ll be able to retire by tomorrow. I’d suggest you set this aside and read it when you have plenty of time to absorb it, maybe with a cup of tea and some Paganini to set the mood.

The title of this one-post series is “Peace, Happiness, and the Road To Near-Complete Enlightenment.” It’s quite simple really, and I won’t bog you down with all sorts of details and step-by-step instructions, because there are no details and there is only one step. Relax and prepare to feel almost totally at one with the universe and all of those friends you miss seeing regularly but suspect you might never want to associate with again.

And here it is, the tried and possibly-true method to achieving your goals and fulfilling your every internal need:

Have a bunch of money. A shitload, if possible.

That’s it. No seminars, no progressive retraining of your mind and body to accept a slowly changing daily routine. Just be rich, it’ll almost certainly change your life, for better or worse.

Think about it for a few seconds. No, that’s too many seconds, I said a few. Did you think it too far? It’s OK, you can try again, and we’ll go slower this time.

Think about it for a second, how many rich people do you know that have it all together and spend every hour of their day doing whatever they want? Oh, you couldn’t read that fast enough, it took more than one second? Sorry, I sometimes forget that I type much faster than I read. Third time’s a charm, here we go:

Think about it. NOW STOP THINKING ABOUT IT. Be rich. Rich people never have problems of any sort and do whatever it takes to be in control of their lives while making sure all of the little people respect and admire them.

There you have it, and I promise it might work for you. Of course, your mileage will definitely vary. Considering a hybrid vehicle? Don’t do it. Unless you’re already rich. In that case, aren’t those things fucking cool as shit? You want one, get it. Show it off to everyone. Wash it in the middle of a Wal-Mart parking lot and stop to let the pre-rich folks touch it briefly as they carry out their overripe produce and under-engineered Blu-Ray players to their pre-owned Subarus and Nissans. This is called “philanthropy.”

Of course, this method doesn’t work for me. I mean, I could do it, but I just don’t think I’m the get-rich-quick type. I’m more of the super-optimistic, smile-while-you-struggle artist type, always looking for a new outlet and never finding the right plug. But, really, this method could work for anybody.

One caveat: If you’re considering quitting your job and working for yourself, nip that shit right in the ass. Nobody likes those smug freelancer assholes who work two hours a week in their Invader Zim boxers and spend the rest of their time either jacking off or going to the local Karaoke bar where they tell everyone how eternally liberating self-employment is. Don’t be that guy. Find a better way to be rich.

My Uncle Walter, I Don’t Know

Sat, 25 Jul 2009 08:29:54 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

One week ago, Walter Cronkite died. I only heard the news yesterday. He was never much of an icon to me personally, but I know he’s important and was good at his job. His industry has always confused a lot of people, and has steadily lost ground in terms of the number of assholes and mediocre models polluting its purpose over the years. If you’re a my-side-their-side type, one side says he was perfect and the other side says they liked his old stuff better, before he got all preachy. I never bought any of his albums, but the mainstream stuff seemed OK to me.

I have vague memories of my Dad admiring Cronkite, and there’s very little Papa Goldstein likes that isn’t mostly good. That’s not hero worship. My Dad saves lives almost daily, and I’m certain Walter saved a decent number over the course of his career. Who’s the hero? My answer is obvious, but I don’t worship anyone.

It’s getting immensely easier to enjoy living as I stop trying to prove a point to anyone and just do what’s good. Now, let me go ahead and violate that progress a tiny bit to illustrate what I’m trying to say. Please don’t slime me.

Les Lye died. Today. Yesterday. Whatever you want to call it. To me, it’s happening right now. I am more deeply affected by Lye’s passing than Old Iron Pants. Why is it that I found out about Lye, whose name I’m sure is not nearly as recognizable as Cronkite, so quickly? Because my dear friend Enos tweeted it.

So, thanks to Enos and Twitter, I’m spending these wee, weekend-inaugurating hours watching You Can’t Do That On Television episodes, Turkey TV clips, reading interviews and smiling a lot. Beats the hell out of spending a Friday night doing invoicing and then finding out a month or more later that one of the adults who raised me had died without my knowing or getting a chance to acknowledge it in a timely manner.

If you grew up watching Les and the shows he worked, really absorbed them, and enjoyed them for yourself rather than because your parents “let you” watch Nickelodeon just like all the other kids, then I think you’re pretty much incapable of true malice. You truly can’t do what he did on television anymore, and that’s a little sad.

It amazes me that this stuff was censored at all. It amazes me even more that you can’t find as many genuine, ageless laughs in a month’s worth of today’s “edgy” live-action television for kids as YCDTOT was able to dish out in every episode. Put that right next to Mr. Wizard’s World, and basic cable was really all a happy little nerd needed to make it out of the eighties alive. Oh, and a caring, loving family. Preferably one that won’t beat you too much for wanting to tell a good fart joke every now and then.

Now, what am I going to do with all these pies? Maybe I’ll just try a bite.

P.S. Please slime me.

Changes In Gratitudes, Changes In Platitudes

Fri, 17 Jul 2009 03:57:23 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

This entry needs pictures, but I don’t have any that fit. When you reach a point where you need an image in your brain and I haven’t properly painted it, go take a look at Revjim’s blog entries or B’s photostream from the week following July 11 and just pick one.

I took off for a weekend last month
Just to try and recall the whole year.

I actually did this several months ago and never stopped. I’d love for the success I’ve seen at making a living this way to continue and increase. I keep running into physical limitations that could be exercised if I just stretched more, and mental limitations that could be stretched if I just exercised a little more. We’re not in any danger of hitting the really scary limitations, so I’m going to keep at it until we find the right mix of togetherness and evolution.

But enough of that, I’m writing about the trip. The trip through central and southern Texas, that is. Sorry, that was probably confusing.

We saw the Big Ass Tree in Rockport then scooted down to Galveston, stopping at Buc-ee’s on the way for some fudge, Imperial sugar Dr Pepper in a plastic bottle, and the best roadtrip bathrooms in the world, no shit. What, me, a shit joke? Never!

All of the faces and all of the places,
wonderin’ where they all disappeared.
I didn’t ponder the question too long;
I was hungry and went out for a bite.
Ran into a chum with a bottle of rum,
and we wound up drinkin’ all night.

We only spent a few hours in Galveston. We walked a decent stretch of the Strand, saw some shops, got some decent photos (I think), and then had Daniel’s birthday dinner at Willie G’s. I’m sure we could have found something more suited to him, but there’s always next year. Or next month.

It’s those changes in latitudes,
changes in attitudes nothing remains quite the same.

After dinner we moseyed on down to the seawall for more photos. Read some lovely graffiti from the local National Socialists. I think I got some video of it, you’ll love it. Walked out onto one of [ insert word for those sand/rock thingys that jut out from the beach into the bay a few hundred feet ] and saw a little water and a lot of trash. It wasn’t until we had left the island that I realized I cheated myself out of some shaved ice, but I was so full of fish (cooked this time) that it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea.

With all of our running and all of our cunning,
If we couldn’t laugh, we would all go insane.

We got to my Uncle Harley’s house in Crystal Beach shortly before he went to bed, then went down to see Mama, who was staying in a friend’s RV 3 houses away. A little leisurely conversation and one midnight trip down to the water, then we went to bed. B and I slept pretty well because we had a very cuddly black kitty named Simon keeping us warm and smiley until Uncle H got up at 3:30. Yeah, that’s right. Dude gets up at 3:30 every morning for work. Old people are weird.

These changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes,
Nothing remains quite the same.
Through all of the islands and all of the highlands,
If we couldn’t laugh we would all go insane

Daniel got up shortly after Harley and went for some sunrise photos. I haven’t seen those yet, but I’d really like to. It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen the sunrise down there. We lounged for a bit and then went to Dad’s to cook him breakfast before he went to bed, since he had just gotten home around 8AM after a night shift in Beaumont. I cut off a piece of fudge to leave him and then went ahead and forgot the whole box there. Oh well, there’s nothing wrong with paying good fudge forward. Later I found out that he had woken up at 1:30PM needing some fudge, so I guess fudge happens for a reason.

Reading departure signs in some big airport
Reminds me of the places I’ve been.
Visions of good times that brought so much pleasure
makes me want to go back again.

Daniel and I went down to the beach with Mama on the golf cart. They played in the water while I played with cameras. Mama was supposed to go flirt with the dudes who were fishing and get us some free lunch, but we ended up at Coconuts instead. I had, essentially, roast and rice and gravy with green beans, which I’m going to call harrycott vurt from now on, because Daniel loves it when I do that. Mom had stuffed fungus and mediocre gumbo. Daniel had the crab nachos, which aren’t as good as Bob’s (R.I.P.) were, but are incredibly delicious. We brought a second order of crab nachos back for B, who may or may not have shared them with Simon. I’ll never tell.

Daniel and I went to take photos of the lighthouse at Port Bolivar. He couldn’t quite get the shot he wanted, but we got more than we set out for when we found some Cool Old Destroyed Shit. We got a little depressed when we found the gutted motel that had obviously housed people who didn’t make it out before Ike tried to kill them and trapped them on the peninsula for Frank-knows-how-long.

That night we watched and recorded B spinning fire on the beach. More of D’s photos I can’t wait to see. I don’t know how well the video I took will come out, but I think I’ll edit that part first. I blistered my thumb while being a very nervous and ineffective Fire Safety. I’m getting there, soon I’ll be a pro. Post-burn we grilled some hot dogs and talked about how much we love food and hate racists. Heavy stuff, I’m sure. Of course Uncle Harley had valuable input: “I think if the only reason you’re doing something is that it’s always been done that way, then there’s probably a better way.” He was careful not to add anything resembling “and we should keep trying any other way until we find a better one.”

We gradually, but optimistically, made plans to drag Daniel back down there with his daughter in tow before the leaves hit the ground. She’d love it.

If it suddenly ended tomorrow,
I could somehow adjust to the fall.
Good times and riches and son of a bitches,
I’ve seen more than I can recall…

Harley is acting as my eyes and ears down there to help me gauge when I ought to bite the bullet and buy some land down there so that we young and virile sex machines can continue to have our wild orgies at the beach once the old folks are telling us to get off their lawn. I doubt it will happen this year or next, but if I had the dough to spare right now I’d do it for sure. I thoroughly enjoy staying with family down there, but I’m certain there will come a day when the amount of time we want to spend at the beach exceeds the amount of time my Dad or Uncle wants to tolerate us keeping them up with booze and grilled meats way past their bed times.

I think about Paris when I’m high on red wine;
I wish I could jump on a plane.
And so many nights I just dream of the ocean.
God, I wish I was sailin’ again.

We got up a little after 6AM this morning and started our trek back home the same way we started the trip, at the Good Day Insurance Agency. That is, we got donuts. Dannay’s in Crystal Beach has an awesome new building, and some new types of donuts. They’re getting better. The kolaches have come a long way. 350 miles, at least.

We replenished our Buc-ee’s fudge supply in Madisonville and I finally gave those famous bathrooms a full audition. BELIEVE THE HYPE.

Oh, yesterdays are over my shoulder,
So I can’t look back for too long.
There’s just too much to see waiting in front of me,
and I know that I just can’t go wrong
with these…

These, indeed.

What good is equating pessimism with realism if it doesn’t help you any? At some point it ceases to be a valid defense mechanism and starts positively eating away at your mind and body. Have another hot dog. We’ll see Paris, I promise.

Most of us try very hard to live for the now and not dwell on issues passed, but we are all mostly incapable of doing so until those issues actually pass us. Since, in most cases, there is no real transgression to examine, trying to pick apart arguments or perceived failures to find some kind of closure is often a futile exercise in never-ending disappointment.

Sometimes silence really is the best answer. I prefer to serve and consume my silence with 1 part rum, 3 parts cheap-ass pina colada mix, ice blended, and a smile hanging off the rim of the glass.

Coastal Getaway, Days 1-3

Tue, 14 Jul 2009 05:12:48 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

I’m on vacation. I can’t vouch for the accuracy of my recollection of the events occurring on this trip, but my two companions will probably definitely fill you in on the details of anything I may have misremembered or completely fabricated. They will also definitely vouch for the fact that I’ve been happy and calm, and have given very little of a damn about anything other than them. This is how road-trippin’ ought to be.

Saturday, right around noon, I climbed into a car with two of my favorite people and we all headed south. We stopped in Austin, exchanged bags for good laughs at my cousin’s house, and then went downtown to see Spoon at Stubb’s. Before the show we plied ourselves with alkyhall and smoked animal flesh, which was awesome at the time, but not so awesome once we were standing out in the heat trying to be comfortable enough to enjoy a really awesome band. However, music knows it is and always will be one of the things that life just won’t quit. These guys are definitely some of music’s pioneers, and I wish I had discovered them long ago. Luckily, time will not allow us to forget them.

After the show, Daniel was gracious enough to drive our tired, cranky asses back to my cousin’s house in Puh-floogerville where we continued being tired and cranky long enough knock a little bit of the day out of our hair and crash. We slept so well that B had dreams about me farting. Since I don’t fart, it’s obvious she was sleeping deeply enough to have very vivid, very imaginative dreams.

We woke up to coffee with a cousin, then schlepped down to the original Kerbey Lane Cafe. I had Steak & Eggs. The former was OK, but definitely not medium rare. The latter (as well as the rest of the meal) was delicious, especially the mimosas.

I’m sorry to have to inform you of this, because I know it may be a very depressing thing for you to realize, but my family is the best goddamn family in the world. All of it. It’s easier if you just accept that and then join us when you can rather than moping about it or debating it.

After brunch we hugged our cousin and said goodbye to our friends then continued south past New Braunfels and San Antonio. We stopped at an outlet mall seeking shorts, hats, and aqua-socks, but only found the shorts. By the time we reached Rockport, we were a little hangry, so we let off some steam by banging on various crustaceans with wooden hammers at The Boiling Pot. The only survivors of our wrath were eight little slices of sausage and two brave little shrimp. The others (including some crabs, potatoes, and a few ears of corn) never had a chance.

After dinner we back-tracked to Corpus Christi and ran smack dab into a circus train full of elephants and horses. No shit, the brothers Ringling were just chillin’ under a bridge and we stumbled upon them.

Back to the hotel for sleeping, and then attempted early morning photoing. Much better Steak & Eggs at some beach cafe, didn’t catch the name. Sara Lee coffee is way better than Folgers. I forgot to take a picture of the sign that said “If you happen to pass by my place, I’d appreciate it.”

Sushi for lunch in Corpus, then successful hat-buying and beach frolicking. Frolicking burned up all the fish, so we had some unexpectedly eclectic Mediterranean fare at Sultan’s, again in Corpus. Our server was from Laramie, Wyoming, and very friendly. Perhaps a little too friendly. He talked me out of what I wanted to order, but the Mediterranean Meatloaf ended up being delicious. B had a lemon-meringue tart with berries and whatnot. The coffee was good, but no Sara Lee.

Stuffed with chick peas and tender meat, we headed to the Fulton Mansion for some creepy night photos. Not enough light to take even shitty video, but there were kitties. Black ones. I didn’t see any mice, but there was a cool little toad that narrowly escaped squishy death from a branch that fell out of a very tall palm tree.

I’m enjoying the hell out of observing B & D while they photograph various local attractions and oddities. I’ve left the still photography to them, but I’ve been documenting snippets of the adventure with D’s camcorder. I plan to make a very boring movie and subject you all to it over and over again. There will also be a director’s cut with some B-roll, second unit, and stock footage. I also hope that once the three of us weed through all the crap we can pool our resources and do some multimedia documentarianification. I hope that toad sees the light of day.

I haven’t seen any ducks, but I saw a few pipers, a roadrunner or two, and a shitload of gulls. I’m sure we’ll run into a lot more of those maritime skyrats than we care to before we head home Thursday.

Tomorrow morning we’re going to see a big ass tree then continue up the coastline. We’ll stop if we find anything cool, but the next big destination is Galveston. I haven’t been since Ike, so I’m excited to see what’s old and what’s new. We’re spending the next two nights free-loading at family homes in Crystal Beach.

Part VIII: Fire and Ice

Sat, 27 Jun 2009 11:35:18 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

WordPress is acting wonky. I upgraded it a few days ago, and have posted a few things here since then. However, every now and then it (or my browser) just won’t let me type anything in the content field. When that happens, I click frantically for a while and then give up.

Dashboard Widgets to the rescue! I don’t know whether QuickPress is just part of WP now, or if I installed it, forgot about it, and never used it. If it’s the latter, then it’s awesome that it has “survived” so many upgrades. If it’s the former, you’d think I could find that information somewhere.

I defeated drug addiction Monday. A friend, who meant well but wasn’t helping at the time, gave me some information that made me doubt my “freedom.” Briefly.

This week has been difficult, of course. However, being an optimist means always knowing that I will always have plenty. Plenty to wake up for, plenty to stay up for. Plenty to eat, plenty to drink.

Speaking of drinking, I had my first real “Never Wanna Drink Again” experience. It was my own fault, of course. I lack the ability to realize when I’ve had too many, especially on days where I’m already dehydrating myself through the eyes.

Plenty of fire, plenty of ice. I can make fire if I have to, I have the patience and the knowledge. I’ve done it before. I know where to get ice, and I know how it’s made. I’ve never made any myself in weather where machinery is required to do so, but I’ve never been in a survival situation where it was necessary to do so.

Part VII: Lexicography + Steganography = Telepathy

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 12:43:30 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

I am no less skeptical today regarding the possibility of paranormal and supra-natural activity than I was the day I had my own personal revelation about God and the Infinite. Mind-reading is not a verifiable, tangible concept, insofar as there will never be a non-artificial method of detecting the electrical patterns in another human being’s brain to such a degree that one could reconstruct the accompanying thoughts in real time. We will never see a report on CNN about God, Jesus, Buddha, and Vishnu holding a press conference to straighten everybody out. Nobody will ever get James Randi’s money. However, I’m coming around to the idea that stupid people who believe in such magic are not necessarily more stupider simply because they do.

If you follow the above to its rational conclusion, an honest logician will also arrive at this tasty salt: Really smart people who nevertheless succumb to the allure of spirituality, religiosity, or outright incantation are not necessarily any more intelligent or enlightened simply because they have figured out that which, by definition, cannot be figured out. I’m only just now, at 28 years of age, beginning to understand the phrase “holier than thou.” I’m probably not 100% cured of the crime, but I think at the very least I’m calm and open enough now that I might never again claim to know what a True Scotsman would (and more importantly, wouldn’t) do.

Revelation of the week: I want to open a restaurant. Still keeping score here? I hope somebody is.

Happy Boy

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 22:41:49 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Happy Boy

Originally uploaded by farrisgoldstein.

This boy loves beer.

Happy Girls

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 22:40:33 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Happy Girls

Originally uploaded by farrisgoldstein.

These girls love the beach.

Welcome to Paradise

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 13:13:51 GMT

Originally published at The Gentle News. Please leave any comments there.

Welcome to Paradise

Originally uploaded by farrisgoldstein.

This thing didn’t cause me nightmares, but it did make me spend about 5 minutes trying to make it shut up. Alarm was set for midnight. While trying to turn off the damn alarm, I inadvertently made it start tweeting and bubbling. I still don’t know how I eventually made it shut up. Mom informed me this morning that there’s a main power switch on the cord. The only switch I could find in my sleepy frustration last night was the one that turns off the backlight/motor. That caused the 30-year-old-fridge farting and grinding to stop.

Why does this thing have a motor in it? To make tide appear to shimmer, of course. Duh.

I do not love this clock. I do love my mother.