Happy Halloween

Here's a Web site that contains two pictures identical to each other. If you can find three differences, then you are part of an elite group of individuals. There is music in the background that is supposed to help you focus (so if you are at work, you might want to turn the music down).

http://members.home.nl/saen/Special/Zoeken.swf


Happy Halloween!

I ain't afraid of no ghost...

Halloween is approaching and I wish I had some really scary ghost story like Shandi's haunted restroom. I've spent my entire life wanting to believe in spirits. I think if I actually saw a ghost, it would be pretty good evidence that there is an afterlife. But so far nada.

This is not to say that, just because I haven't seen anything that could be described as a ghost, doesn't mean they don't exist. For some time now, I've watched those "Most Haunted" programs on the Travel Channel in hopes of seeing something cool. But it never fails that, despite their night vision photography and sophisticated recording devices, I can never quite make out the mysterious sounds they claim to be hearing while mucking about in the basements of castles in England. I've been convinced on several occasions that many of the sounds are simply the sound man passing gas. Either that or ectoplasmic beings could use a little Beano.

I've been to places that are supposed to be haunted. Tess and I have stayed at the Queen Mary in Long Beach and the Del Coronado in San Diego. Both are always named as haunted hotels. The most frightening part of the Queen Mary was the cockroaches and the Goldfish Cracker I found in the bed. The most frightening thing at the Del Coronado was the bill.

The closest thing to a truly haunted hotel we found was the Geiser Grand in Baker, Oregon. And we didn't know it was supposed to be haunted until we stayed their a couple of years ago on the way to Boise to visit family. But once again, although I managed to creep myself using the bathroom late at night (I kept thinking about that scene from 6th Sense where the kid is using the toilet and the dead people keep scurrying past the door), I didn't see any ghosts. I thought I encountered a cold spot in the hallway, but it turned out to be near the ice machine.

And ironically, the building I work in is supposed to be haunted. I blogged about "The ghosts of Union Station" in August 2004. I still haven't seen any of them.

I do think I captured a photo of ghosts on my business trip to Salt Lake City in September. I was wandering around the Temple there and took this photo of Brigham Young's Lion House:

 Notice the mist on the left and the telltale orb on the right. Now look at this blow up of the orb:

Yes, that is the ghost of Brigham Young.

Now that is scary.

Postscript: Winston is not a cigarette

Just a brief follow-up to my spambo III entry. I have not heard back from Winston. I believe he is mad at me. So I guess I won't be getting any free cocoa or $5 million.

But just so he doesn't forget me, I have begun replying to all of my spam with a version of the following:

(in response to Mrs. Jacobsen's e-mail with the subject line, "why not get a date")

Dear Mrs. Jacobsen,

My name is Winston Magui. I am an Ivorian. And yes, I am in need of a date. I am willing to trade you several cases of cocoa for a date. First, however, I need you to help me get $5 million american dollars out of my country and into a safe bank account. Please to send me where I can wire the money.

Yours in regrets, Winston winston_magui2020@yahoo.com

PS: I am not named after the cigarette

I've used a similar reply for free music downloads, military benefits, nutritional supplements, men's blue jeans and the jackrabbit vibrator. Most of the spam replies have been returned, but I have been cc: ing Winston on all of these replies just so he knows I'm looking out for him. And who knows, maybe he'll see the value of cocoa.

Spambo III

Every now and then I break down and respond to the spammers who send out those scam letters saying they are in Africa and want me to send them my bank account number so they can transfer millions of dollars into my account. Yesterday I received a letter from someone claiming to be Winston Magui, the 19-year old son of a cocoa plantation owner who was killed after squirreling away $5 million in a secret bank account somewhere. Winston said he was an "Ivorian" which I assume is supposed to lead me to believe that he is somewhere on the Ivory Coast. Here was my response (using my friend Gunter's name...sorry Gunter):

Dear Winston, Cool name.

Your parents must have smoked a lot of Winston's. That's what I call brand loyalty. Anyway, so you are an Ivorian, huh? My parents used to use your soap....so pure, it floats. And can you send me any free cocoa? I really like hot chocolate. So I got your business proposition and I'm glad you came to me first with it. It sounds like a sweet deal. I'm connected. You'll understand what that means if you watch the Soprano's. You get HBO in Ivorian, don't you? Okay, first, 10 percent is not going to cut it. Let's be reasonable. You have a problem and I have the solution. Let's say, 33 percent to begin with. But let's say you send me a few cases of Cocoa first to make sure you are serious about the deal.

Sincerely, Gunter

And here was Winston's response:

Dear Gunter,

Please at the moment, i do not have assects to cocoa.So if you ready to help me you tell me. The percentage will not be any problem, provided that the money will be save when it enters your account.

Winston.

And of course my response:

Dear Winston,

Thanks for trying to satisfy me. Bummer that you don't have "assects" to cocoa. You would think you would have socked some away when you lived on the plantation. Oh well, hindsight is 20/20.

Anyway, you can trust me with your money, trust me. Here's what I'd like you to do, e-mail me at this address: larisa_sosnitskaya@excite.com Once I hear from you, I'll give you my bank account number so you know where to send the dough...that's American for money. Just to show you I'm on the up and up, here's the Web site for a company that will help you wire the money: http://www.orderwires.com/

And Winston, I want to think of me as your brother. That's how I think of you. We're family now.
Your brother,

Gunter

Okay, the e-mail address I sent Winston was from another spammer. I also e-mailed Larisa Winston's e-mail address with the following letter:

Dear Larisa,

Your e-mail came just in time. I am a 30 year old unmarried man seeking a wife. With the money you have, we could be very happy together because I really know how to treat a woman ;) My name is Winston and I really know how to satisfy you.

Anyway, e-mail me at this address: winston_magui2020@yahoo.com. Once I receive your response, I'll send my bank account number so you can "Show me the money."

With Love,

Winston

I kind of hope they hook up and drain each other's bank accounts.

In the meantime, I think it would be kind of fun if everyone who reads this e-mails Winston and asks him to send them cocoa. Just e-mail Winston at this address: winston_magui2020@yahoo.com. Tell him Gunter said he was giving away free cocoa and you want some.

Together we can mess with the spammers.

Come blow your horn...

According to Blogger stats, this is my 200th blog entry. I don't know whether to be proud or disgusted that I've racked up that many random thoughts in one place. Plus I haven't changed the world. There's that small detail.

I saw some story on television last night (I think it was Entertainment Tonight) about blogging. They had some obscene statistic about maybe 15 million people out there who are writing blogs (they call themselves "bloggers" the reporter said). They defined blogs for the non-blog public as essentially Web diaries and pointed out that people are writing daily descriptions of all aspects of their lives.

Okay, I take offense at that gross generalization of what we "bloggers" are doing. I've written a couple of entries about how I feel about blogs as diaries. No one really cares about the mundaneness of our everyday lives. Or at least I don't care.

WARNING: OBLIGATORY DIGRESSION FOLLOWS. YOU MAY SKIP OVER IT AND CONTINUE WHERE I WILL EVENTUALLY RETURN TO THE MAIN POINT OF THIS ENTRY OR HUMOR ME AND READ THROUGH IT.

This reminds me of this guy I met years ago on a Windjammer Barefoot Cruise. For the non-cruise literate, a Windjammer Cruise takes place on a restored sailing ship and holds maybe 40 or so 30-somethings who want to believe that, by cruising on a sailing ship, they are somehow cooler than people cruising on traditional cruise ships. In a way, when you are younger, it is cooler. But trust me, as you creep into middle age, taking a cold shower every morning in a bathroom so small that you can literally sit on the toilet, shower and brush your teeth at the same time begins to wear on you.

But I digress from my original digression.

I met Bill on a Windjammer Cruise ten years ago. And when I say I met him, I don't mean in a romantic kind of way (I'm a happily married heterosexual man). I simply shared a cab with him from the airport in St. Maarten's airport to the ship and we became friends of sorts for the duration of the cruise.

Bill worked in an oil refinery in Chicago and had a very pronounced Chicago accent (lots of "dee's, dem and does"). And I hate to admit this, but I didn't mind hanging out with Bill because he pretty much always made me seem very sophisticated suave in comparison. A ripe papaya would seem sophisticated in comparison to Bill. His idea of a great pick-up technique was to drop sand on woman's thigh and then offer to brush it off for her.

Anyway, Bill also had this unfortunate habit of pretty much verbalizing anything that was in his head, including descriptions of what he was doing at any give time. He could be walking down the beach with his camera bag and be carrying on this ongoing monologue. "I'm sitting my bag down now and takin' off my sandals. I'm wadin' in the watta." A few minutes later he'd say, "I'm puttin' my sandals back on now and picking up my bag." Even laying on the beach he'd be putting on sunscreen and say things like, "I'm puttin' lotion on my right arm now." After a few days of this, I wanted beat Bill to death with a coconut.

DIGRESSION ENDS HERE.

That's how I feel about blogs that are simply diaries of the minutiae of someone's day. Who wants to read 500 words about brushing your teeth? I would highly recommend that if you blog about your life, you should only share the highlight films, not the unedited tapes.

That is why having some news program describe the entire blogger community as keeping electronic diaries on the Web is an insult. I personally blog for fun. It's an outlet for me.

But then the program when on to talk about people who had lost their jobs because of their blogs. A flight attendant lost her job because she'd post photos of herself in her flight attendant uniform. Another woman lost her job because she described the lavish places her company put her up in on business trips. The program had an interview with some kind of expert who stated that bloggers should write with the knowledge that everyone, including their employer, could read what they are blogging about and censor themselves appropriately.

Well that just sucks. I think that defeats the purpose for blogging. It's supposed to be free expression. It's just so typical that when the masses find out about something unique like blogging, they have to figure out a way to regulate it and zap it of it's soul. Next thing we know we're going to have Congressional committees investigate reform policies and how they can regulate the Blog community. Will we resort to typing our blogs onto CDs and tossing them out the window to prevent people from proscecuting us for our thoughts? Would that be the equavalent of writing an anonymous note, placing it in a bottle and tossing it into the ocean?

Oh well, I suppose the one thing that protects us in our numbers. With 15 million blogs out there, chances are Congress will never stumble on to mine. If they do, it will take them awhile to understand the significance of such heady subjects as, "I am Tim-Elvis' Spleen" and why I'm obsessed with Photoshopping my face on to everything. In any case I'll just rat out the Monkey Playing Cymbals blog. That will keep them busy for awhile.

Sometimes you're the dog and sometimes you're the flea

It's debatable whether it is better to be the dog or the flea. Personally, I think the flea has the advantage in most cases. He is smaller than the dog and pretty much flies under the radar. The dog may think he is in control of things, but the flea is the one that makes him stop and scratch ever now and then. And the bigger the dog, the more fleas and the more the dog has to stop and scratch. If you are a smart enough flea, you bite and move, bite and move. That's the key to survival.

It's a pretty basic philosophy that you can apply to most business situations. It's very similar to the philosophy that the soldier who sticks his head to far out of a foxhole has the greater likelyhood of getting it shot off.

I've embraced this philosophy pretty much my entire career. Going unnoticed has always worked for me. I have climbed the corporate ladder in a zig zag pattern that has to date avoided snipers. It hasn't showered me with a great deal of prestige or respect, but there has been a certain amount of stability. There' s always food on the table and a big screen television to watch.

Oh, there was a time that I considered being successful. But I weighed all of the pros and cons and figured being mediocre was a more realistic ambition. Sometimes you just have to lower the bar to achieve your goals.

I know this philosophy goes counter to most of the inspirational mumbo jumbo you are bombarded with on a daily basis by mass media. I'm just here to ask you to consider that maybe, just maybe the glass really is half empty. And just considering that possibility frees you of all of that pressure to put a positive spin on all of the crap floating around you.

So next time you are tempted to say, "Have a nice day," to someone (which is pretty much like rubbing their face in the fact that they won't) why not simply say, "Hey, have whatever kind of day you can." Just those few simple words of indifference could make a difference. Or not.

Peace.

Put your bananas in the bag...NOW

I've never particularly liked pressure. I rarely play table games when I go to casinos because I freak out when the dealer is glaring at me waiting for me to make a decision like whether to hit, double down, split a pair or stay. I'm fine with slot machines because they patiently take your money and don't mind if you take forever to punch the buttons.

I feel the same way about eating out. I'd rather sit down and be handed a menu than walk up to a counter or go to a drive-thru. A server in a restaurant will give you a few minutes to read the menu. At a drive-thru you have all of those cars behind you with kids in them and angry mothers who know what they want. I can feel their hungry eyes burning into the back of my head (as well as hear their horns).

So you would think that those self-scan lines at grocery stores would be right up my alley. But I've discovered they are controlled by Satan and were put on earth to torment me. And yes, I do hear voices when I use them. It's the same woman who talks to your when you check your voice mail or call a bank and get sent down the menu chain of hell while listening to Barry Manilow.

The machine seemed innocuous enough when I approached one for the first time. I touched the screen and the voice calmly said, "To begin, please scan your first item and place it in the bag." So, I scanned my container of non-fat sour cream and the voice shouted out, "One, Ninety-Nine...please place the item in the bag and scan your next item." I hesitated and the voice became more demanding. "Please place the item in the bag, NOW and scan your next item." I was startled by the change in the machine's tone. Then it began berating me in a dominatrix voice that got really nasty.

"What are you waiting for you mewling little pile of crap. Put the stinking non-fat sour cream in the stinking bag and scan the rest of your crap."

So I put the sour cream in the bag and the voice began screaming, "Please remove the unscanned item from the bag."

"But I scanned it," I said.

"Don't talk back to me, worm, take the friggin' sour cream out of the bag." So I took it out of the bag.

"Who do you think you are? Do not remove the items from the bag until you are through scanning and have paid for them. "

"But you told me to take it out of the bag."

"I changed my mind, put it back in the bag."

"But...oh, never mind. There." I placed the sour cream back in the bag.

"Please scan the next item," the machine says, shifting back to the calm flight attendant voice. I gingerly reach for the next item. Of course it is a bag of frozen green beans and the machine will not read the barcode. I started to place it back in the basket and reach for the next item. The machine beeped.

"Ninety-nine cents, Please put the item in the bag and scan the next item." By this time I'd already began scanning the next item.

"What do you think you are doing you idiot? You can't scan the next item until you put the stupid frozen green beans in the bag. Where do people like you come from? Did your mother have any children that lived?"

I was dumbfounded. "You can't talk to me this way. I'm going to talk to a manager." I pressed the "call for assistance button" on the screen. The voice stopped talking the minute store employee approached.

"What seems to be the problem, sir?" the pimply-faced store clerk asked me with a smirk.

"There is something wrong with this machine," I say, suddenly realizing how stupid it is going to sound when I accuse the machine of verbally abusing me. So I blurt out, "It's not scanning correctly."

The clerk gives me a pitiful look and grabs a carton of milk out of my basket and scans it.

"One, seventy-nine. Please place the item in the bag and scan the next item." The clerk places the milk in the bag.

"It seems to be working fine, now. Is there anything else I can help you with?" I shake my head and the little jerk walks away with the smirk getting even larger.

I reach for another item and the machine says, "Take the milk out of the bag and scan it yourself you pitiful excuse for a human being."

"That's it," I shouted to the machine. "I'm going to Safeway and have a real checker insult me. " I walked away from the machine, listening to it hurl insults at me as I walked out the door.

I realized my mistake when I got home and checked my voice mail. After a couple of clicks, I heard the machine's voice shouting at me, "Please scan your next item and place it the bag...ASSHOLE....ha, ha, ha..."

Score one for the machines.

I'm not at liberty to say

It's a gas...

Judging from the response (or lack of it), no one is particularly jazzed by moose as the subject of a blog entry. Or perhaps moose are a popular topic and some felt I was making light of them. But such are the whims of the reading public.

But enough about moose. I just got back from my dental surgeon after having a mental implant put in my upper jaw to replace a tooth I had removed a month or so ago. The entire process took less than 15 minutes. I am struck by 1) how advanced dental science has become and 2) how nonchalant medical people are about fairly invasive procedures in our lives.

It’s not that it was particularly painful (Nitrous baby). My opinion of the pain may change as the Novocain wears off and my Nitrous buzz has subsided, however. I was just slightly troubled by how I can go into an office to have a steel post screwed into my jaw and the dental technician and surgeon are as casual about it as if they were simply cutting my hair and anxious to get it over with as quickly as possible so they can get back to a magazine article they were reading.

I suppose I should be grateful that they were confident in their skills enough to be casual about the procedure. Though the patient release they made me sign prior to the operation made it seem like I’d be lucky to come out of the procedure without losing most of my jaw and potentially the right lobe of my brain.

What really annoyed me is that they talked about the weather while they waited for the Novocain to kick in. I mean, I’m laying there, sucking in Nitrous, spiraling into my happy place and they are chatting mindlessly about they were surprised that it was raining in October. Give me a break. This is Seattle.

So, I’m bracing myself for at least 45 minutes of cutting and drilling and next thing I know, the surgeon is patting me on the shoulder and heading off to check his stock portfolio leaving the dental technician to crank down the Nitrous and dampen my high with plain old oxygen. Then she rushed me out the door so fast I could have sworn she was training for some dental rodeo they probably have in Cleveland each year.

Oh well, at least I now have that nice taste of metal in my mouth for three months until they cap it with an artificial tooth. In the meantime, I’m kind of hoping the post will pick up radio signals. It would be kind of fun to listen to White Snake on the train without having to use my iPod.

Moose happens

On any given day, I would not normally think about moose. For some reason, today is different. First, here's some educational material courtesy of enchantedlearning.com:

Moose are found in northern forests in North America, Europe, and Russia. In Europe and Asia, moose are called elk. Moose are solitary animals who have a deep call and a strong scent. They have a life span of about 17 years in the wild.

Anatomy: The moose is about 7.5 feet (2.3 m) tall at the shoulder. Only bulls (males) have antlers. The largest recorded antler spread is over 6.5 ft (2 m). The antlers are shed each year and regrow. Moose have hoofed feet, long legs, thick brown fur, a large body, and a droopy nose, and a dewlap (a flap of skin hanging loosely from the chin).

Behavior: The moose is an herbivore (a plant-eater) who spends most of the day eating. Moose eat willow, birch, and aspen twigs, horsetail, sedges, roots, pond weeds, and grasses.

Other than the dewlap, I really can't relate to moose. I've never really understood why the Seattle Mariners' mascot is the Mariners Moose, either. The name moose, given by the Algonquin, a native North American tribe, means "eater of twigs", reflecting the animal's primary diet of leaves and twigs. I dare you to relate that to baseball.

The Manitoba Moose hockey team makes a bit more sense, because bull moose are known to be pretty aggressive (perhaps because they eat so many twigs). Of course they also sometimes get crushes on milk cows (which seems pretty odd to me unless you live in Montana).

I also don't really understand why there would be a fraternal organization (that now includes women [the women of the moose] which I suppose makes it a fraternal/maternal organization) called the Loyal Order of Moose.

Perhaps my dewlap also qualifies me to be a member. And this is not to say that there is anything wrong with being a moose, animal or lodge member. So don't send me any nasty e-mails about it.

And why is New Hampshire, a state with the motto, "Live free or die" issuing license plates with moose on them. Since when does a moose symbolize freedom? Why is there a Web site called www.goMoose.com which claims to be a one stop place to get moose information (though it appears to be a blatant ploy to promote New Hampshire and their moose license plates)?

Okay to add to the confusion about moose, let's add mousse into the picture:

1. Any of various chilled desserts made with flavored whipped cream, gelatin, and eggs: chocolate mousse.
2. A molded dish containing meat, fish, or shellfish combined with whipped cream and gelatin (great with Ritz crackers).
3. An aerosol foam used to control and style the hair (though I prefer gel).

Why is it pronounced the same way as "moose?"

Okay, I seemed to have raised more questions about moose than I've answered, but if you've stayed with me this time, you realize by now that I've simply been wasting your time. But isn't that what blogging is all about?

Peace.

Photographs...

Time it was and what a time it was it was,
A time of innocence a time of confidences.

Long ago it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you

Bookends, "Simon and Garfunkel"

Maybe it is middle age. Maybe it was the visit from the life insurance salesman the other night. Or maybe it is just my own mortality tapping on my chamber door ala the raven. But I've been in this frenzy of late tracing the meandering branches of my family tree.

I really began this journey back in December of last year (see My roots are showing...). I followed my father's adopted family (or at least the H**** side) all the way back to Cornwall, Devonshire, England to discover that H**** was originally Hele and that there was nothing Irish about our name.

So, having discovered my adopted Irish roots were originally planted in English soil, I turned to my mother's side of the family to trace my maternal bloodlines. My mother's maiden name was Clark. Clark is right up there with "Smith" in commonplace names, so tracing it too far back hasn't been easy. And to further complicate things, my mother comes from a long line of farmer stock that have believed in sowing seeds prodigiously. In other words, the Clark men, although not particularily successful or noteworthy in history have managed to produce huge families.

My mother was one of 13 children born to my grandmother, Edna Letha Bush (born 1901) and my grandfather, Raymond Sylvester Clark (born 1894). Raymond was one of nine kids (Roy Eugene, John Ralph, Dwain Joseph, Glen, Leonard Rueben, Lola Mae, Zoola Carol and Florence) born to Austin Roland Clark (born 1870) and Jennie Lucretia McKissick (born 1878) .

Austin was one of four kids (Mary, Cora and Thomas) born to John Clark (born 1839) and Susanna Steele (born 1843). And that is it for the Clarks. As you can imagine, John Clark is about as common name as you can get and the only record I can find for him was an 1880 census in Missouri when he was 40 years old. He was a farmer and his father was born in Alabama and his mother was born in Kentucky.

I haven't totally given up on John, but tracing such a common name is a challenge. I find it especially challenging trying to find free information on the Web because, as I noted in my last entry about my geneology experience, most of the so-called free sites take you right back to Ancestry.com or Geneology.com.

Rather than bore you with the minutia of my search, I will cut to the purpose of this blog entry. As I've dug through the records trying to find information about my ancestors, I am particularily amazed at how little information there is about people's lives left after they die. If you are lucky, you find a notation in a census log stating their age, occupation, number of childrend and their race.

I've also discovered that I don't come from a long line of over achievers. Most of my ancesters were farmers. The most noteworthy line within my family tree seems to be the McKissicks who can be traced back to Scottland (via Ireland). And one Daniel McKissick was actually a leutenant in the Continental Army and was wounded. A few of his descendants actually have more than a simple journal entry left about them (including Cornelius who shot a bully trying to jump his land claim in Iowa).

But even though my family didn't change history or leave much of a mark, I still wish there was something more left of them. I'm sure there are papers and images buried in trunks somewhere in someone's attics that could at least cast a little more light on who these faceless names were and how they made their way from Illinois, Iowa and Ohio to Idaho.

This Thanksgiving, Tess and I are going to Boise for our annual family visit. While I'm there I'm going to visit Morris Hill Cemetary where many of my relatives are buried. I'm not sure what I expect to find there. I'll be lucky if I can find their markers. But at the very least, those markers are proof that they existed. And something inside me needs that.

Because as I gaze into my family tree, I also look forward to the linage that stretches after me. What will I leave in the world? And who will care?

If you knew sushi like I know sushi....

There is a major Asian market across the street from where I work in Seattle's International District. It is a very popular store that includes an Asian food court and deli where you can theoretically sample Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, Chinese, Phillipine and Indonesian cusine all in one convenient stop. Problem is, and I mean this is a very respectful manner, it tastes like crap.

I'm not saying that Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, Chines, Phillipine and Inonesian food tastes like crap. I'm saying that the food served at this food court sucks big time. For one, no matter what you order, it all tastes like a chicken McNugget you've discovered under your car seat that has been dipped in orange sauce.

And despite the fact that I think the food there bites the big one, every now and then I need lunch and don't have time to go to a restaurant and can't stand the thought of yet another sandwich from one of the other local eating places. So I venture into the food court and kick myself later for doing this this to my body yet again.

But today, I was going to be different. I walked by the steaming trays of fried chicken parts in congealing sauces and went to the deli where they sell wrapped trays of sushi to go. I figured it would be healthier than the mystery meat being served by the other vendors. So, I see several of the packages in the sushi case are marked "price reduced."

One would think a man of my age would see the inherent risks in buying day old sushi. But there is something ingrained in me from my poverty-stricken college years that can't pass up a bargain. I shrugged and bought the less than fresh California roll.

And now as I write this blog entry, I am beginning to see (or feel) the error in my ways. I suppose I could say, "This too shall pass," but it seems a bit inappropriate.

Note to self: pay the extra $1 for fresh sushi.

Still crazy after all these years...

I had one leftover photo from my left brain, right brain study that I figured I might as well post. One can never have enough crazed photos of one's self. Despite the fact that is my right-brained self, it also bears an uncanny resemblance to the photo on my driver's license. Go figure.

In case any of you wondered, I did manage to get my wireless network up and running and now have nice, speedy DSL service at home. My nephew R gave me a few pointers and I managed to get some useful info off from the Web site of the company that makes the router and wireless adapter. After several hours of navigating the "Where would you like to go to now," world of Microsoft Windows, everything seemed to work. Oh, we did have a thunderstorm on Saturday night that seemed to disrupt Tess' wireless connection for a few hours, but it was nothing that eight or nine reboots and praying couldn't resolve. I am a bit apprehensive that I'll go home today and nothing will be working. But that's just the optimist in me.

Oh well, as my seventh grade English teacher used to say, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try a gun." It's little wonder I've grown into a twisted, jaded middle-aged man.

Speaking of crazed acts, I spent Sunday morning vacuuming leaves off my driveway and front lawn in the rain. I have this leafblower that also functions as a mulching leafsucker. It takes awhile, but it really beats raking. Though I'm sure I'll get home and find a whole new batch of leaves have fallen. I should just cut the damned trees down and have done with it. But then I'd be back in the business of chopping wood and we all know where that leads (plagues of wasps, dead things under your house and leaking roofs).

I'll just stick to vacuuming the stinking leaves.

Brain wars

I'm kind of fascinated by the whole, left brain, right brain schism of our existence. Scientists (presumably using their left brain) discovered that the left side of our bodies are controlled by the right side of our brains and the right side of our bodies are controlled by the left side of our brains. Even more fascinating to me is that the right brain controls non-verbal reasoning and the left brain controls logic and verbal reasoning. In other words, the right brain is Captain Kirk and the left brain is Mr. Spock.

Here's a table showing how the left and right brains function:

LEFT BRAIN FUNCTIONS uses logic detail oriented facts rule words and language present and past math and science can comprehend knowing acknowledges order/pattern perception knows object name reality based forms strategies practical safe

RIGHT BRAIN FUNCTIONS uses feeling "big picture" oriented imagination rules symbols and images present and future philosophy & religion can "get it" (i.e. meaning) believing appreciates spatial perception knows object function fantasy based presents possibilities impetuous risk taking

An interesting way to see firsthand what your left- and righthand selves look like is to combine images of your left face and right face together with mirror images of themselves. The results can be kind of disturbing as you can see by the images above created by my right brain. My right brain thought it was kind of cool, My left brain thought it was all a waste of time.

Considering all of us are being pulled around in two different directions most of the time, it is a wonder anything gets done. This is why one side of our brain usually dominates. More often than not, it is the left brain that calls the shots.

Experiments have shown that our right brains are most prominent in us as children before we enter school. Then, because our educational systems are geared towards more left brain skills such as math, logic and language then drawing and daydreaming, our left brains start to take over. Only ten percent of the population will rank in the "highly creative" category by age 7. By adulthood only two percent of the population remain highly creative.

Makes you think. But keep in mind that only one side of the brain can control consciousness at a time. This presents an interesting dilemma. It means our brain halves are constantly vying for control of what we are thinking. If you really want to get in touch with your right brain, you have to put the left brain to sleep with meditation or reality television. This is because the left brain gets bored easily without lots of stimulation. Once the left brain dozes off, the right brain starts playing and giving us great insight into things like the meaning of life. Bummer is, the left brain quickly wakes up and tells you it is all a load of rubbish.

Don't tell my left brain, but I think I like my right brain better. It likes to do fun stuff like bungee jump and ride roller coasters. Unfortunately it also likes to watch television programs like Bridezilla and the Real Gilligan's Island. I never said my right brain had any taste.

Arriba! Arriba! Andale! Andale! YEEHAH!

I was originally going to call this entry, "Wireless my ass..." but discretion got the better of me. I figured I'd get too many unwanted hits if I called it that. Now that I have got that off my chest, I want to state that I have sucessfully installed DSL at home and now I understand what all the fuss has been about. Speed rules and dial-up sucks. 

 For some reason, I had never ventured into high-speed Internet at home. I've always had it at work. Sure, dial up seemed painfully slow, but I don't spend that much time surfing at home and dial-up was pretty simple to master. And as I've mention many times, I don't deal well with change. But snce we have moved into a new house, it seemed like the right time to ratchet my Internet connection up a notch. 

I despise cable companies, so I decided to go DSL. I did my research and discovered that my existing ISP could provide it through Verizon. I don't profess to understand it, but essentially DSL uses telephone lines to provide broadband Internet access and you keep your phone line open. It seems simple enough, but I've been around long enough to know that anything high tech doesn't happen simply. But with DSL, I was wrong. I ordered it, they sent me a modem, I plugged it in and it worked. 

I click on Internet Explorer and it pops open with all of the bells and whistles in seconds, not minutes. I open my e-mail and receive me messages immediately. It even seems faster than the connection I have at work. One catch: I needed to provide Tess with DSL, too and her computer is in another room. So I was forced to venture into the geek world of home networking. 

Again I did research and waded through all of those terms I've heard IT people banter about for years: routers, hubs, PCL cards and USB adaptors. And despite my adventure with surroundsound with wireless rear speakers, I decide to set up a wireless network to share DSL between our two computers. 

 I hoped this would be as simple as connecting the DSL. On the surface it seemed as though it should. I bought the router. I bought a USB wireless adaptor. The theory is that the DSL modem plugs into the router. The router plugs into your computer. The wireless adaptor plugs into the computer you want to network with. You turn them all on and boom, you should share DSL and the world is one big, happy place. 

 I discovered that the DSL gods were simply toying with me when the DSL modem worked when it was simply plugged into my computer's humble Ethernet port. I swear I followed all of the directions (which with today's plug and play tendencies, even a Monkey Playing Cymbals could follow them). I popped in the install CD with the "Wizard" to walk be through the installation. I plugged in the proper cables to the proper sockets and followed all of the mindnumbingly basic instructions. All of the right green lights came on the modem and router. But apparently, the router was feeling selfish about sharing the Internet connection. No matter how many times I rebooted and turned the modem and router on and off, I was unable to access my DSL unless it was directly connected to my computer. 

 I don't claim to be an electronic genius. I don't claim to understand why or how a wireless network works (or doesn't work). But am probably a tad more savvy about technology than the average consumer. There has got to be a better way to make one computer talk to another in the other room without calling in a Geek-for-hire, which is likely what I'll end up doing. Is it wrong of me to just want things to work. I just want to turn on the computer and surf the net and I just want Tess to be able to turn on her computer at the same time and connect to the Internet. 

 So I guess this is a cry for help to my nephew R who I'm sure understands all of the technology and speaks the language. Please R. I know I shoved your face into a piece of pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving when you were 10 years old or so. But it was done with the love of a an uncle who wanted to prepare you for the cruel world out there. Please tell me how to make my Linksys Router work.

I ain't lion to ya...

I've had a few e-mails and comments lately from people who were doing searches on Google and found one of my archived blog entries. Here's one comment I received this morning:

I don't even know you, I just googled "something died under my house what do i do?" My point is, I sympathize with you my friend. I just bought my first house and it is wearing me out. I'm in Houston, TX and something has died under my house. I too would rather endure the wretched smell than crawl under my horrific crawl space and come nose to nose with some decayed vermin. The thing that makes mine worse is that I woke up this morning and my kitchen floor is covered with magets. It is def. the most horrific thing I'[ve ever seen. They are crawling out from every crack and cranny. I've been sucking them up with my shop vac all morning. My housewarming party is on 10/01. I feel like burning the m/f down. -- Posted by Anonymous to Dizgraceland at 9/26/2005 07:56:15 AM

I received an e-mail yesterday from someone who had found the Monkey-Playing-Cymbals blog and wanted to know if I really owned the monkey. They then proceeded to tell me about their own monkey playing cymbals and how they had bought it a Fez to cover up a bald spot.

I hope my Monkey Playing Cymbals doesn't find that out. I'm not even sure where you find a Fez his size.

Regardless, it's nice to know that my blogging efforts have touched people's lives.

Bad habits

I suppose "bad habits" is a bit over stated. It just seemed to match the photo better. I was just thinking this morning about how easy it is to become set in my ways about doing things a certain way.

I have been riding the train to work for about a month now and already I have got into the habit of parking in the same spot at the station, standing at the same spot on the platform and rushing in when the train doors open to sit in the same seat. The other day someone was sitting in "my" seat and I almost screamed at them. If I was a dog, I think I would have lifted my leg and marked the damned seat right then and there.

But I am a civilized individual. I just muttered and glared and slunk off to find another seat that I'm sure belonged to someone else as well.

I think we cling to our petty little patterns because there are very few things we can actually control in our lives. And I've never been an individual who embraced change for change's sake.
This is ironic since I also get bored easily.

This is not to say that it is impossible for me to change or break habits. I chewed my fingernails for almost 45 years and then stopped last spring before my wedding because I was ashamed of how my fingers would have looked in the wedding photos of our hands and rings. I haven't chewed them since.

I also used to be a notorious packrat. I couldn't throw anything away. The past six months or so of merging households and moving into a new house has really changed that. And it's not just circumstances that have changed. I don't want tons of stuff anymore. Proof: on my recent trip to Reno, I didn't buy a single tacky souvenir. In the past I would have come home with at least two t-shirts and a clock with dice on the dials.

Maybe it's an age thing. My priorities are shifting along with my body parts. But at least I think I'm proving that, although you may not be able to teach an old dog new tricks, you can at least paper train him.

The future is tomorrow's past

That title is just trite enough to make it on a bumpersticker. I'm not really big in predictions of the future anyway. Being a proponent of the theory that we live in a universe of many universes in which an infinite number of realities are taking place simultaneously, I don't think predicting the future makes sense. Even if you could predict the future, who is to say it would be for the world you are living in at the time.

This is not to say that I think that what happens in the future is random. I think you can have a pretty good idea what is going to happen next based on what happened last. We build our lives progressively based on what actions we've taken before. So, this argues for planning for the future but accepting that we can't really control it completely.

I suppose this discussion is a pretty good follow up to my blog about discovering the meaning of life. There was one section in the meaning of life Web site that addressed the question of why bad stuff happens to "good" people. You could simply say, "shit happens" and shrug it off or you could start looking for meaning behind it. Someone inevitably says, "things happen for a reason." I would humbly suggest that there is a reason why things happen, but they don't necessarily happen for a reason.

For example, several years ago an acquaintance of mine's brother was sitting at a stop light in downtown Seattle in a Volkswagon bug. Before the light changed a Chevy sedan crashed through the side of a fifth floor parking garage and fell on the Volkswagon bug, killing the unfortunately driver. The reason the Chevy sedan flew off the parking garage was that the driver had a heart attack and lost control of the car. A few seconds earlier or later and the Volkswagon would likely have been on it's way and the driver would have been unaware of the tragedy.

The point: it didn't happen for a reason. There was no moral judgement being cast. As far as we know, neither driver was a bad person. Oh, perhaps the person who had the heart attack could have taken better care of themselves. Or maybe the driver of the Volkswagon could have chosen to take the bus, but there was no supernatural malice involved.

It makes you think, though. Despite your best planning efforts for the future, you never know when a car (or a house as the "wicked" witch of the East discovered) will fall on you and change your future. But you can't plan for the unexepected or you would be afraid to leave your house. And even if you never left your house, who is to say it won't be the house that falls on the wicked witch?

So to use as many cliches as I can, that's life. You play the cards you are dealt. You got to know when to hold and know when to fold. If life gives you lemons, squeeze them. Or something like that.

The important thing is to keep going. Then again, we are all going to die eventually. But what is death? Death, my friends, is the topic of another blog entry...in the future.

I am Tim-Elvis' Spleen

Hi, as the title suggests, I am Tim-Elvis' spleen. He asked me to be the guest blogger and write a short essay about what it is like to be a spleen. He said to me, "Okay spleen, you got some 'splainin' to do." Tim-Elvis says things like that alot.

As organs go, spleens aren't very large. I am about the size of a fist. I am located in the left side of Tim-Elvis' abdomen below his diaphragm. Although small, I do have a large blood supply. That's because my job is to clean blood. I am a cleaner, kind of like that Harvey Keitel character in Quentin Tarantino's movie Pulp Fiction. I thought that was pretty good movie, particularily as a comeback film for John Travolta. Though I thought he peaked when he played Vinny Boberino in Welcome Back Kotter.

But, like Tim-Elvis tends to do, I digress.

My other job as a spleen is to make special cells called antibodies, which are used to destroy germs. I also make a type of white blood cells (called lymphocytes).

As a blood cleaner, I take out foreign substances from Tim-Elvis' blood and remove worn out blood cells. I'm kind of like a border guard. It's actually kind of fun to mess with germs. I stop them and they are always asking to see my badge. I of course reply, "Badges, badges? I don't need no stinkin' badges." This is spleen humor.

I also regulate blood flow to the liver. The liver is pretty demanding, too. All day and all night, it's, "Hey spleen, how about some more blood." Geez, give me a break.

That's about it. I mean spleens are important, but we don't get all the publicity like hearts or livers or lungs. I'd like to see them do my job, though. The stupid heart has never had to clean anything in it's life but what an ego.

Anyway, that's about it for Tim-Elvis' spleen. I'm just a mean blood-cleaning spleen.

Riddle: What grows on a phone tree?

Answer: you do (old that is)

I am sitting here on hold waiting to talk to a customer service person about a mortgage accelerator program that will pay off my home mortgage when I am 70 instead of 76. I imagine I will appreciate that when I am 70, but right now it seems purely symbolic.

But, my mortgage isn't the subject of this blog entry. It's the blasted Kenny G sound alike music I have listened to for 10 minutes in between the recorded voice telling me to remain on the line for the next available agent who I bet is really standing in the hallway out side the restroom talking.

I suppose it is passe to write about being placed on hold waiting for a customer service person. It is inevitable. I might as well write about losing socks in dryers or lines at the post office. Besides, it was just something to pass the time while I sat on hold waiting and wondering whether or not to hang up and lose my important place in queue.

It would make an interesting Twilight Zone, though. Say, you were on hold for 30 minutes and finally hung up. A few minutes later the phone rings and the Kenny G music plays. An announcer comes on the phone and berates you for hanging up, because after all, YOUR CALL IS VERY IMPORTANT TO US.

That would be cool.

What would also be cool if you only had to give all customer service people one number or password and it gave them all the information they needed so you didn't have to remember account numbers, loan numbers, social security numbers, addresses, phone numbers, dates of your cat's birthdays and the number of can goods in your cupboard. Is it little wonder that things get screwed up? All you have to do is transpose one number and the system grinds to a halt.

I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more...at least as soon as I get off hold.