Personal Stuff Archive

The first thing I did when I woke up today was listen to a voicemail left by an old roommate from college and early career days, who was concerned about the fire in Santa Barbara, and was asking about my mom.

I called my mom for an update on the fire situation. Apparently, the winds took the fire away from her house; it didn't get within a mile.

My brother's home was a bit closer. As I understand it, the fire was within a few hundred yards, but my sister-in-law drove by the house this morning, and there's no damage there. I heard on the radio last night that the fire department had staged a bunch of equipment on their street.

My sister-in-law (with my niece and nephew) relocated to her mother's house; my brother is in Michigan on a business trip. He must be freaking out.

If you see a story on the news about the fire, you will hear references to celebrities and "multi-million dollar homes." Sure, there are some of those, but I don't quite think my brother's place would count. There are plenty of folks of more modest circumstance who are losing their homes in this catastrophe.

The important thing, though, is that (as far as I know) no one has been killed, and very few people have been hurt.

Just found out there's a fire in Santa Barbara that is forcing my Mom, sister, and brother all to evacuate their homes. I just called my sister — she couldn't talk, they're busy packing what they can as fast as they can.

Westmont College, roughly midway between my Mom's and my brother's houses, has been evacuated, as well.

Winds up to 70 MPH have been reported.

This bodes not well. Prayer, if you're so inclined, would be most welcome.

0500 EST update: 1500+ acres, 70+ homes destroyed. My brother's house is near one of the hot spots.

I've been listening live via the net to radio station KTYD. Better coverage than TV has provided so far.

I haven't said anything about it, but as of a week ago, I have a new job.

Well, OK, it's the same job I've been doing for the last three years. The "new" part of it is that I've been converted from "contractor" status to "regular" at Major Telecommunications Company Which Shall Remain Nameless.

Technically, I'm a manager now, and not even an first-level manager, but my duties are essentially the same. They can assign subordinates to me now, I guess, but I can't imagine why they'd need to do so. I'm pretty sure I'd rather manage networks than people, anyway.

My first day as a regular was Friday the 15th, so in the mail today — for the first time in over 10 years — I received an actual physical paycheck... for one day's work. The 15th was the last day of the MTCWSRN pay period.

I've done direct deposit for so long, I'm not sure I remember what to do with one of these things.

Today is my little brother's birthday.

Happy Birthday, Brad. Have a steak or something, will ya?

A year ago, I was losing the ability to walk, and had resigned myself to having — at the minimum — an incurable disease (MS), and was trying to come to terms with possibly having one that would have been terminal (ALS).

I was rapidly becoming unable to take care of my home, my cat, and of myself. I could not drive, I couldn't do simple household chores, I could barely prepare meals for myself. I was on a medication regime that was having only the slightest positive effect, while the side effects were making life fairly miserable. (Maybe you've seen that asthma medication ad where the guy says "I couldn't take the steroids any more." Preach it, brother.)

I was facing the probable loss of home, career... everything. Into this breach stepped Mom.

Though my diagnosis ultimately shifted to something rather less severe than originally expected, I was nonetheless in a steep decline. But where I was unable to take care of myself, she gamely managed it all.

She drove me to doctor appointments.

She did the cooking. I've never in my life eaten so healthily.

She did the household chores.

She fed the cat.

She kept up with the neighborhood friends with whom I was unable to go out to chat.

When I was cranky and crabby after tests and surgery (just try not being a grouch after a spinal tap or having a hole drilled in your head) (on second thought, just take my word for it) she was understanding and patient.

When I fell, she was there to help me up.

In every sense including the literal, Mom was a life saver. No 45-year-old adult wants to be "taken care of by Mommy," but without her I probably wouldn't be able to tell the tale, or any tale.

Words are inadequate to tell how thankful I am for her.

Love ya, Mom.

My brother's wife's brother's son is a Marine, newly stationed only an hour or so away from where I am. I'll be seeing him tomorrow as he comes up to relieve me of the burden of having one vehicle too many. He's getting the Blazer.

What does one call one's brother's wife's brother's son?

I'm opting for "nephew in law, once removed."

Either that, or "Lance Corporal."

I think I've mentioned before that one of the things I've been inspired to do lately is to dispose of much of the accumulated cruft taking up space in my attic. Having been on the verge of being diagnosed with a fatal disease tends to put things in perspective.

Much of what I'm disposing of might be considered prime eBay fodder. So, yes, I'm selling things that some people would look at as collectible, some things it pains me a little bit to part with. Books, old hobby materials, and my huge collection of board-style wargames from the heyday of Avalon Hill and SPI.

Too bad. It's outta here. I'm de-complicating my life, and that means it all goes.

What no one ever said, though, was how much of a pain it is to list things on eBay. I mean, everything listed needs some sort of reasonably accurate description, and most of what I'm selling has to be minutely inventoried, to make sure the myriad small bits are present. So all day, I've been counting and counting and counting. Egads.

One really ought not to advertise something as being 100% complete if it really isn't.

Being tagged a fraud would be a very bad thing.

Unless one really is a fraud.

Which I'm not.

You might have noticed the button I've put up on the site.

And surely you're asking yourself, "why, in this day and age, would a person not have medical insurance to cover those costs?"

Long, convoluted story. Or maybe not so convoluted.

I'm a contract employee with no benefits; in the tech industry, this isn't altogether unusual. When my current medical crisis began, though, we all thought it was related to an old Army back injury, which would be covered by the Veterans Administration. Then last autumn, I was informed by my management that my employment status would be upgraded and converted to regular (benefitted) at the start of 2007.

In short, I had no need to buy insurance. I was covered for this. Then, two things happened.

First, the doctors changed their assessment of the cause of my medical problems. No longer could it be attributed to my VA-coverable injury, so naturally the VA will not cover my medical care. I don't begrudge them this at all; that's just the way things are. I checked this every which way; the only way I could receive treatment from the VA would be if I were unemployed and homeless, which isn't about to happen.

Second — and this is the irksome bit — someone at the VP level at my place of employment decided that the best way to make his budget numbers look good to his boss was to freeze all personnel actions. I'm not the only person who has been waiting since January to receive an overdue promotion or even conversion to "regular" status.

This, mind you, in an organization and at a company that professes to believe that its people are its most important asset. They sure have a funny way of showing it.

Me and a dozen of my coworkers have had our careers put on hold, just so a VP can maximize his annual bonus. I hope he chokes on it.

I'd have walked out the door to a new employer months ago, except for the inconvenient fact that I can't actually walk. As soon as I can walk, though, I will walk. But not before I visit the VP and leave him my crutches as a reminder that "personnel actions" have a human cost.

So that's where things stand. I'm at a job I can't afford to leave and at which I cannot afford to stay, and I can't get new employment until I can actually walk into a job interview.

Of course, I can't now get insurance to cover this now-preexisting condition. This is what is known as "slipping through the cracks." Or "bad luck." So be it. As I have noted before, if we had a Hillarycare-style system, I'd still be waiting to see a neurologist; indeed, it probably would have been illegal for me to get this far by paying cash.

In the meantime, I've run up tens of thousands of dollars in medical bills, all paid out of pocket. The total is likely to double before all this is over, however — especially if they're going to do this to me. My pockets only go so deep... and I've already reached the lint.

And that is why I've put the tipjar/begging bowl front and center, and right here:

Probably the brain surgery.

50 years ago today, my parents were married.

For the time being, celebrations are being kept to a minimum. We'll have a big shin-dig once all of us can gather at the homestead in Santa Barbara.

Still, it's a good day. The only thing that could make it better would be if Dad was still here to celebrate the occasion with us.

Ten years ago today, my Dad passed away.

It no longer seems like it was yesterday, but I remember it like it was.

I have the tape recording of his memorial service, which I've copied to mp3 format. I'll be listening to it again tonight.

Today is my 45th birthday.

Ha! That that, you verkakte actuarial tables!

They haven't got anything on this Tuesday the 13th.

So today, on a lark, I decided to see how I would do without anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxants, or painkillers.

Bad, really bad idea.

Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow.

Ouch.

More physical therapy coming up shortly. I promise not to cry like a little girl.

When I get home I'll be taking apart the PC for some much-needed maintenance — installing a new video card (the original just fried) and a major memory boost. The darn thing is pretty tightly wired into "the lab," so it'll be a nuisance to extract.

With luck, I'll be back online before midnight. That is, I will be if I don't have to crawl straight into bed after the PT.

In the meantime, go read this piece on multiculturalism from the always excellent (though occasionally surreal) Jeff Goldstein at Protein Wisdom.

Update: Aaaaaand... we're back.

OK, I could in theory, be doing this from my linux box (as I did when originally posting this) or even from my work laptop, but you'll just have to trust me on this one.

"Is that what they call a 'bad touch'? 'Cause, it sure doesn't feel good."

As some of you, my miniscule audience of regular readers, already know, I have something of a history of back problems.

Some of you might recall that this past summer I broke a bone in my foot. At the time, I was having a bit of knee difficulties, and the usual periodic bout of sciatic pain. Not too long after I broke the bone, I tripped — over my own feet, I think — while walking through the lobby at my workplace. Something in my back went pop...

The regular sciatic pain went away, for which I was grateful. But then, going down the stairs at the office later that day, I noticed something unusual: I couldn't feel my heels contacting the steps.

As time went by, I noticed that I had lost some control, and the feeling in my legs. Mycah took advantage of this lack of control at one point, in an effort to eliminate me.

Humor aside, it was clear to me that there was a serious problem. I was falling down a couple times a week as my legs gave out from underneath me, and I could tell that certain muscles simply weren't responding. It was getting harder and harder to walk up the stairs at the office or at home. Particularly bothersome was the loss of the muscle responses that contribute to balance; I could no longer just walk, I had to think about every step, or I would fall over.

The balance problem has gotten worse since then. I don't fall down so much, mainly because I'm careful not to take chances, and I usually maintain a third-point-of-contact, with (for instance) my hand on a wall when I walk. Some leg muscles have developed to take over for those that aren't responsive, but walking and climbing stairs is still problematic. I still have motor control, but I can't always feel what's happening below the hips.

Some days are better, some days are worse.

The short version of this tale is that it's pretty clear that I've damaged the nerves that handle the legs, but the only pain I feel is in my back. At this point, I think I'd rather have the sciatic pain, if for no other reason than to be sure that there is something alive down there.

It's pretty clear to me that this is my old Army injury writ large. Convincing the Veterans Administration of that is something else altogether, but I'm trying. I suspect surgery will ultimately be involved; I face the prospect of being categorized as a "disabled veteran."

In the meantime, I'm on a regimen of muscle relaxants, anti-inflammatories and painkillers, and I'm seeing a physical therapist. I spend rather more time in bed than I am used to. As it's become harder to get around, I've been working from home more and more. I'm just glad I chose a career field in which telecommuting is a sign of professional capability.

Ever since my Dad passed away almost ten years ago, I've kept as a memento the cane he used when he had the problems that resulted in knee and hip replacements. I never expected to use it myself... but I'm tempted. So tempted.

"Mo-o-o-ommy! The mean man hurt me!"

More later.

One of the things the media always does at the end of a year is to remind us of the people — celebrities of one sort or another, usually — who passed away during the year.

This year is no different, really. Gerald Ford, Steve Irwin, Don Knotts, Milton Friedman, Glenn Ford, Shelley Winters, Kenneth Lay, Coretta Scott King, Red Auerbach, James Brown. And plenty more.

Here's a name you won't know: Dick Williams.

Dick was a charter member of the "greatest generation." Having flown with a squadron of B-29s in the Pacific theater in World War 2, he reached the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. When he bought a new car in the mid 1990s, a Mitsubishi, he joked that fifty years earlier he'd been dropping bombs on the factory that had made it.

After the war, he went into the insurance business in Santa Barbara, CA, and was an active member of the community. There, probably over a rubber of bridge at the University Club, he met my Dad, and they became very close friends. Despite an age difference of 45 years, he was my friend, too.

Dick passed away a couple of weeks ago, aged 89. He was not famous, he wasn't a big name. What he was, was a decent and kind man who did his part to make the world and his community better.

He was a good man. I'll miss him.

Today, Monday, my new (new to me — it's an '03 Dodge Ram quad cab) truck arrives here from California, driven by my ever-so-wonderful sister-in-law. My ever-so-wonderful lead-footed drive-across-a-continent-in-three-days sister-in-law, accompanied by my multi-talented nephew.

But I think my old '93 Chevy Blazer (the full size model renamed "Tahoe" in '94), which I've driven since '96, may have figured out that it is about to be replaced.

I got off work tonight a little after midnight, as usual, and on the way home stopped, as sort-of-usual, at the 24x7 grocery store to pick up a couple of things. Kitty treats, mainly, to appease Mycah.

Finished with the shopping, I got into the truck, turned the key... and nothing. The dash lights came on, but there was no cranking. The starter was dead. Obviously, the Blazer has decided not to go without a fight.

After an hour of phoning tow truck companies in an unsuccessful quest to find a 24x7 mechanic, in desperation I called the local police admin number, where an exceptionally helpful and friendly young lady named Alicia gave me the number of the tow company they use. The tow truck eventually arrived, and five minutes after that I was on my way, and got home a mere two hours later than I had hoped.

The starter will probably have to be replaced before I can sell the Blazer. I was really hoping after last week that I had taken it for its last repair.

I've never named any vehicle I've owned, but it's not too late for the Blazer. Inspired by Herman Melville's Moby Dick,

"To the last, I grapple with thee; From Hell's heart, I stab at thee; For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee,"

But I still blame the cat for the brake failure.

I wonder what time Alicia gets off of work?

On the way to work this afternoon, my brakes failed. Suddenly, the stain on the driveway near the truck's left rear tire made sense — it must have been brake fluid — and there was only one logical conclusion.

The cat did it.

I was, thankfully, not far from my mechanic's shop, so I nursed the truck there and left it. The funny thing is, I'm getting a new truck next week, so even if I'd wrecked the old Blazer, I wouldn't have been wheelless for long.

Still, I have to bear in mind that Mycah cut my brake lines. Which, you have to admit, is a pretty clever thing for a cat to be able to do. I mean, she can't even reach the doorknobs to let herself out. But given her history, can there be any doubt it's her doing?

Now I know how Clouseau felt about Cato.

What with an ongoing regular shortage of sleep and feeling generally worn out, as well as the "coming down" period after having visitors and the stress of Mycah's surgical ordeal, I've needed to turn my brain (and my PCs) off for a while.

I think it actually started at work, around 8pm Sunday. Good thing it was a slow night at the office.

With luck (and perhaps some chemical assistance) I'll manage to get a full night's sleep tonight before I start my work week tomorrow. I'll need it — I suspect it's going to be a busy week at work, and I have a side project I need to work on for a friend.

Maybe I'll take a nap before I go to bed.

It's been a busy week here at the homestead — too busy to post, I'm afraid. Were it not a quiet night at work right now, I wouldn't be writing this. Having a Mom come for a visit is one thing, but having sister and niece come to stay as well, and an uncle and aunt come for a quick visit, all while maintaining my weird-hours work schedule, has really kept me hopping.*

T-day was overall a great success. Lesson 1: always brine your turkey.

Lesson 2: don't brush the turkey with butter if it's going into a 500° oven; wait until the oven is down to 350° or thereabouts. 'Twas a little smoky here for a few minutes, but fortunately we didn't have to feed the fire department.

Lesson 3: there's a use for every bit of the bird. What doesn't end up as sandwiches or soup, the cat will surely be happy to take care of. As it happens, Mycah loves turkey.

I'd have got a picture of her snarfing down giblets, liver, etc., but those bits lasted less than a second. She absolutely hoovered them up.

My sister & growing-like-a-weed niece left for home this morning. Dang. I don't get to see them anything like often enough.

Mycah goes for her tail amputation on Wednesday, and Mom leaves for her California home on Thursday. Busy times continue.

^{* In a metaphorical sense — my knee and back problems don't let me literally hop.}

Ever get really good news, and then not 5 minutes later, on an unrelated matter, get really exceptionally bad news?

That's the kind of day I'm having.

The cyst above my shoulder blade sat there for two months, out of my reach, doing nothing. Except, no doubt, waiting for its moment, plotting and planning. The evil swine.

I got no real warning — just a tingle, no pain, not even an actual itch. Then: Vesuvius.

I'm at the office tonight, of course.

Good thing I chose to wear a black shirt tonight; the blood hardly shows.

Also good that I wasn't on the phone with a customer, as the language following such a surprise might not really be considered professional. Entertaining, maybe, but not professional.

Except perhaps when a router crashes and burns. Then it's completely understandable.

[OK, yes, that was completely disgusting. Sorry.]

[Sunday addition: No, really. I am truly truly sorry for that. At the time, it was uncommonly quiet here at the office, and I had nothing better to do.]

So, the header says it all, pretty much. Well, not quite all. I've been busy working on other people's blogs quite a bit the past few days.

Which makes complete sense, since my writing here is so current and prolific.

I did one new installation and three major upgrades... only one of which went bad. Seriously bad. Bad, as in, there are database issues [handy hint, kids: always have a backup] and commenting just won't work. I'm going to be scratching my head over that for a while.

So until I get to be more productive right here — maybe tomorrow, maybe not — mull over this.

$2.00/gallon? In 2001, less than three months after 9/11, I tanked up in Atlanta and paid the [freakishly] low price of $0.79/gallon.

It's not often that I wish my night at the office was over with as much intensity as I do tonight.

Actually, that's not true. Almost every night, I wish it was over. Just, I don't usually start thinking about it until 11:45 or so.

Tonight? 5:15.

My Dad passed away nine years ago today. I look back, and cannot believe it's been so long.

In memory of him, Mom had some flowers done up for display at her church today.

Yep — they're red white and blue. Dad was a serious patriot.

Broken foot, no cast. No prescription painkillers, just large doses of ibuprofen. My foot still hurts like the devil. And I'm at the office, working, like any normal Saturday.

This could seriously increase my Team Player and Tough Guy attributes in the eyes of my colleagues. I figure it'd be a 2d12 increase for each.

But I'll have to make saving throws, or take damage for Perceived As Idiot and, even worse, Known Attention-Whore.

Saw the doctor yesterday and got the results of the x-rays today. Yep, that sucker is broken. "Not the toe itself, but the bone right behind it," they said. I wish they'd used the technical jargon with me; I may not be a doctor, but I'm not stupid.

It's good to know I've not been imagining things. Even so, there isn't much that can be done about it.

I've had knee problems for the past several months. I blame my "jumping out of helicopter" years.

My sciatica, a result of the old Army back injury, has been unrelenting of late, as well.

Plus there was a gout attack last week — smoked meat can bring it on, and, well, my barbecue will not be denied. The pain was the price I paid for forgetting to get my Allopurinol prescription refilled.

And now... I broke a #^$%@*! toe last night.

I consider it a miracle of near-biblical proportions that I can walk at all, these days.

I showed up for the first day of my work week as usual last week on Wednesday* (that would be May 31st) to discover that I had been selected to attend a technical training course that began on Monday the 5th, and which runs Mon-Fri for two weeks. We're halfway done with the training.

But someone still has to keep the network running on the weekends. The hamsters running in their little wheels won't flog themselves, you know.

So here I sit on Saturday afternoon, my 11th consecutive workday. I won't have a day off until the 19th which, coincidentally, is the day my brother arrives with his family for a visit.

It's not really a huge deal, not having a day off. What kills me is working the weekends until midnight or later, then having to be in the office at 8am Monday. I don't ordinarily even think about going to bed until 4am or later.

Someone's going to owe me, big time.

^{* bearing in mind that I work Wed-Sun rather than Mon-Fri.}

Today I'm celebrating my birthday by having cake and opening presents.

Er, no, that's what I'm not doing today. Rather, I'm doing what I do every Wednesday: getting groused at by customers with broken networks, and fixing said networks. I might, however, treat myself by cooking a nice dinner when I get home sometime after midnight.

Some pretty smart guy whose name I cannot recall once said that there is an age beyond which one's birthday should cease to be a big deal, and that age is twelve.

I'd make exceptions, though, for 16, 18, 21, and any birthday after 72.

I have noticed a few good and bad things to being on the second/swing shift.

     Bad: Driving home at zero-drunk-thirty every morning.

     Good: No traffic.

     Bad: . . . except for all the deer crossing the road.
 
 
     Bad: Being called into the office for meetings before 3pm.

     Good: The boss isn't around to catch you sleeping under your desk.

     Bad: Being vacuumed by the janitorial staff.
 
 
     Bad: Never seeing the sun.

     Good: Pasty white skin was popular among ancient Chinese royalty.

     Bad: I'm not ancient Chinese royalty.

I'm sure there's more.

My mom, with two of her three grandchildren.

Best. Mom. Ever.

^{[This is the second of my 2006 Tartan Day posts. The first can be seen here. It's probably more interesting than this one.]}

How, one might be tempted to ask, does a guy without a drop of Scots blood in him (or, if there's a drop, it's diluted to the point of requiring measurement in parts-per-million) have the brass to participate in an event like Tartan Day?

It's easy. Just arrange to be related to someone who served as Prime Minister of Canada.

Simple, really.

Born in 1821 in Amherst, Nova Scotia, Charles Tupper attended the University of Edinburgh and became a physician, serving from 1867 to 1870 as President of the Canadian Medical Association.

He entered into Canadian politics in 1855, winning a seat in the Canadian Parliament. By 1864 he had risen to become the Premier of Nova Scotia. For his efforts to bring Nova Scotia into the Canadian union (previously, Canada had been a motley collection of colonies) he became known as one of the Fathers of Confederation. Thereafter, he served in a variety of ministerial positions: Inland Revenue, Customs, Public Works, Railways & Canals.

Knighted (and tartaned) by Queen Victoria in 1879, he went on to serve as High Commissioner to the United Kingdom, Minister of Finance, and as Secretary of State.

In May of 1896, after the resignation of the previous officeholder, he became Prime Minister. Two month later, the elections mandated by his predecessor's resignation turned his party out of power and Sir Charles out of office. He thus became the shortest-serving Prime Minister in Canadian history.

If you've stuck with the story this far, you might at this point be saying to yourself, "so how does a guy named Emerson claim family ties to some old dead guy named Tupper?" What, you never heard of people changing their names? Were it not for an anonymity-seeking ancestor, my name would be Tupper. That's my story, and I'm sticking with it.

No, I'm not a direct descendant. "Cousin" would be more accurate. Nonetheless, tartans belong to families, not individuals, so remote though the relationship may be, I'm claiming it and the tartan that goes with it.

For more in Tartan Day bloggery, visit the fine blogs participating in the Gathering of the Blogs 2006:

Were he still with us, my Dad would be turning 70 years old today.

I miss him an awful lot.

It's been many many years since I've received a Valentine card from anyone other than a relative. So long, in fact, that the day has long since lost any meaning for me.

So, thanks, Ith. And right back at you.

When I was a somewhat younger man — pretty much still a kid, really — I decided on a military career.

There was no single reason for that decision; rather, it was the product of the cumulative influences on my life up to that point.

That my grandfather had been a soldier played no small part in my decision, but other factors encouraged the idea.

I enrolled in JROTC in high school — a move guaranteed to make me unpopular in the years following Vietnam. I went off to college to continue with ROTC, but dropped out due to my extreme dislike of going to school.

After a couple of years of working hum-drum jobs and trying (unsuccessfully) to get re-enthused about the idea of college, I finally did what I ought to have done in the first place: I enlisted in the Army. I did so with the full intent to make a career of it, to stay in uniform as long as Uncle Sam would have me.

Naturally, after basic training I was sent off to school. This, however, was language school, for which I seem to have had some real talent. After a year of Basic Korean (graduating with honors, thankyouverymuch) and nine more months of Military Intelligence training, I finally ended up at my first permanent duty station, the 102nd MI Battalion, 2nd Infantry Division, at Camp Hovey in Korea.

Duty in the 2nd ID was considered a hardship tour; unlike duty in Germany, soldiers couldn't bring their families, or cars, or indeed much of anything. Consequently, assignments were for only one year. I found that I enjoyed the duty there, though, and extended my tour by a year, and then by an additional six months. While in Korea, I reenlisted for an additional six years. I knew my decision to be a "lifer" was the right one. I could imagine no other life. I earned my Sergeant's stripes in Korea, as well.

Eventually, though, I wanted to come back stateside for a bit of a "civilization break" — not that Korea was uncivilized, but it just wasn't America. As I was making my plans to return, Iraq invaded Kuwait. Transfers were frozen... but my timing was good — the freeze began two weeks after I left the 102nd.

Being a Korean linguist in a unit (107th MI Bn, 7th ID) tasked for rapid deployment to Korea meant there was no chance I'd be sent to the Gulf. Indeed, when there was a call for volunteers with security clearances, we "Koreans" were expressly ordered not to volunteer. It's an odd thing, wanting to go to a war, but I think the motivation was the desire to put years of training to use in a real live mission. As it happened, though, only non-linguists (analysts and the like) were allowed to volunteer for Gulf War duty, and perhaps half a dozen of my friends went and returned.

Shortly after the ceasefire in Iraq, in the Spring of '91, our unit had what we referred to as a "Mandatory Fun" day — no motor pool duty, no training, just a day for troops to bring their families onto the post, to have a cookout, and to play a little softball.

I was pitching. I don't remember for sure, but I couldn't have been doing too well in the position. One batter got a big piece of one of my pitches, sending a line drive low and to my right. As I twisted and lunged to try to spear the ball with my gloved left hand, there was a small *-pop-*... and my Army career was over.

I had torn some ligaments and herniated a disk in my lower back, an injury which still plagues me with an occasional week in bed and with more frequent sciatic pain. It took a year and a half to figure it out, but from that day on I was no longer capable of fully functioning as a soldier. In a profession that demands physical fitness, I could no longer keep up. In September of '92, I was a civilian again.

Maybe if something had gone differently, maybe if I'd been held over in Korea for a few more months, maybe if I hadn't volunteered to pitch that day, maybe if I'd been a better pitcher, I'd have remained in the Army for the full 20 years.

Today would have been my retirement day.

I miss being in the Army; I think about it every day. I often wonder where I would be and what I'd be doing if I was still in the service. Some of the finest people I've ever been privileged to know were those with whom I served, and if I have one regret it's that I've kept in touch with so few of them.

Life as a shift worker, aptly described on Sunday's "Law & Order: Criminal Intent":

Detective Barek: I've never worked a graveyard shift. It must leave you a lot of time during the day to get things done.

Creepy Suspect: Oh, during the day I just sleep.

Detective Logan: Oh, sleep all day work all night. Aren't you afraid you're missing out?

Creepy Suspect: On what?

Yep. That's about it for me. "On what," indeed.

On the plus side, I'm on swings, not mids, I do get Mondays and Tuesdays off, and there are benefits arising therefrom. Last night, for instance, at about the time I would normally be thinking of having "lunch," I went to go see the Carolina Hurricanes deliver an impressive 7-2 ass-whuppin' to the Montreal Canadiens.

It's not a social life per se, but it's a reasonable substitute.

After a rather late night at the office, I suspect that two and a half hours of sleep is not going to be enough to get me through the day.

As I get older, there are side effects of age with which I am not particularly thrilled. My knees and back, much abused in my younger days [the "jumping out of helicopters" years], continue to give me grief. I'm only 43, but some days my knees feel like they're 90.

On the other hand, there are things for which I am very, very glad. Much of my hair, for instance, has migrated from my scalp to other regions... but I consider it to be my great good fortune not to be in competition with this guy.

Not yet, anyway.

I work evenings/nights. I go to bed around 4 or 5 a.m.

I really wish people would stop phoning me at 8 or 9 a.m.

I've been covering the midnight-to-8am shift of one of my co-workers, who took a few days to fly out to San Diego to see a football game.

If I were to fly to California, it wouldn't be for so petty a reason as an athletic event.

In truth, though, he flew out there to see his Dad AND to see a football game, and I was glad to help him out by adjusting my schedule. However, the temporary change in my work schedule is playing merry havoc with my sleep cycle.

Last night on the way into the office, I stopped for gas. As I got out of my truck, I heard the "keys in the ignition" warning tone... and promptly locked the truck door and shut it. With the keys inside.

If you have to lock your keys in the vehicle, I suppose a gas station is the ideal place to do it.

I was only a little bit late for work. And I didn't doze off even once.

You know that motto for Altoids Mints? "Curiously Strong?"

Well, they mean it. I just broke a tooth on one.

My work schedule has firmed up. I'm now a dedicated swing-shift guy. 3pm to midnight, Tuesdays through Saturdays. Good thing I'm a night owl.

Hey, someone has to mind the store while all the bigwigs are out golfing in the afternoons and carousing at night.

But I find it amusing that while my employer is the corporate scion of a highly organized communications entity, I still can't get a phone installed at my desk.

Today is the 48th anniversary of my parents' wedding. Would that Dad were still here to enjoy the day.

Love ya, Mom.

Day One at the new employer... wow. If first appearances are any indication, this is going to be quite exciting, with a lot of hands-on work with advanced technologies in important environments.

I do believe I have entered Nerdvana.

Due to some real-world career matters, posting may be a bit light for a while.

I've decided to accept a reasonably lucrative offer that came pretty much out of the blue from a Very Large Provider Of Network Services Which Shall Remain Unnamed. I'll be in training all week next week, and thereafter I'll be working some unusual hours. I have no idea what effect this might have on my already-sparse posting.

This new position takes my career in a slightly different direction, but I'm eager to make all of it that I can.

But, dang... now I have stock my wardrobe with chinos and polo shirts.

It could have been worse — it could have been suits and ties.

Most people, when contacted "out of the blue" by the FBI, might be a bit curious as to why. I certainly was, when I had an e-mail from them this morning. They had apparently heard about me....

They know I'm a linguist, have a military intelligence background, and experience in internetworking.

But I'm afraid that, despite my intrigue at the possibility of being helpful, I'm just too old to become a rookie FBI special agent. They have their standards, and the maximum cutoff age is 36. I sent a polite reply to the recruiter.

Man, it hurts to say "too old" — I must be the world's youngest old codger.

I've been struck with some sort of upper back, neck and shoulder pain that makes sitting at a desk, typing and mousing uncomfortable (to put it mildly.)

Which pretty much sucks, what with me being the geek that I am.

I hate getting older.

I was going to refrain from commenting on the fact that today is the anniversary of my birth, but I figure that at the very least, I can take the opportunity this day affords to thank my Mom for bringing me into the world. I wish my Dad was still around so I could thank him, too.

Thanks, Mom, for everything.

I hate getting older, but it's better than the alternative.

In my life, I have been privileged to know or to meet a number of men I would without reservation call Real Men. Only one was famous, but all had qualities that made them admirable. They all set examples that other men could profit from. More to the point, they were men I respected and admired.

First, of course, was my dad. I have known people who had exceptionally bad fathers, and it makes me all the more grateful that my own father was a good man. More than good — he was the kind of man that other men often want to be like. I never really realized how well-liked he was until he died and I heard from so many of the people who had known and respected him.

I have written briefly about two other men, LTC Whitham and COL Shine, here (contrasting them with a certain politician.) I admired both men greatly, and I hope I learned a thing or two from them. I even met Joe Foss once. He was a "man's man" in every way, and wasn't too self-important to take a few minutes to speak with a young fellow such as I was.

There have been other men I've known who were and are real men, men who, though not famous, leave their marks on the people they meet. One such man was Steve "Airboss" Herod.

Over the course of the last couple of years, I had heard of Steve in a "friend of a friend" sort of way, but had never met or spoken with him. Last November, however, I had the good fortune to meet him and his dear wife Elaine at a social event one evening. At the gathering, it was obvious to me that everyone present admired and respected him, and though I was in large part an outsider at the event and there almost by accident, he made the effort to engage me and make me feel part of the group. That was exactly the kind of thing my dad had always done.

Saturday, I learned that Steve "Airboss" Herod had been felled by a sudden heart attack.

I knew him only briefly, but he was instantly identifiable as a man among men, larger than life, a man who'd seen and done it all; he was one of those men that other men want to be like. I wish I'd gotten to know him better.

Others who did know him better have written more and better than I can do:

• Jim at Smoke on the Water, from whom I learned of Airboss' passing.
• Geek with a .45 mourns.
• Doc Russia remembers his friend.
• Emperor Misha has some personal commentary as well.
• And the Du Toits comment and eulogize.

I give blood regularly. I've done so since I was 18.

Because of my size commitment to helping the community, I do double red-cell donations. For such donations, the Red Cross folks hook the donor up to a machine which then extracts twice as much blood as a usual donation (no, not all at once), sorts out the red cells which are kept for medical use, and then returns the plasma to the donor via the same needle through which it was extracted.

It's a pretty spiffy way to donate blood. You are basically doing two donations in one visit, which means that instead of going in to donate every eight weeks, you go every sixteen weeks, and still get "credit" for the same number of donations... not that credit matters. And they use a smaller needle (if that's important to you.) Plus, you get a spiffy sticker plastered on your shirt:

The downside is that you're missing twice as many of the oxygen-carrying red cells, and it can take a while to recover full capacity.

Also, it feels like the machine refrigerates the plasma before returning it to the body — I think that's merely because the blood spends enough time outside the body to drop in temperature before the plasma is returned. The Red Cross folks keep blankets handy, because most double-donors get chills during the process.

And of course, it takes longer. With a regular donation, I can squeeze out a unit of blood in under ten minutes. The double donation process takes a good deal longer; I think I was hooked up to the machine for about half an hour today.

Not everyone can do double donations. You have to be above a certain height and weight, and your blood iron has to be above a certain level. (Here's a fact sheet.) They also usually prefer donors with blood type O, though other blood types might periodically be in demand. If you meet those criteria, I recommend it.

Even if you can't do double donations, I think anyone who can should give blood regularly.

For the past few days I've had three, count 'em, three generations of Emerson women visiting here — my niece, sister and mother.

Apparently, since I am the designated bachelor in the family, they see it as their mission to take care of me whenever they visit. Invariably, this means cleaning and redecorating my house and feeding me more/better than I normally feed myself... and I should note, as regards feeding: I'm a darn good cook, even if I do say so myself. But Mom is far and away better.

I do appreciate their concern. But it's a bit overwhelming — they whoosh in, and in an estrogen-induced flurry of activity begin moving pictures from one wall to another, moving furniture and [fake] houseplants around, cleaning things that I am perfectly capable of cleaning, and making the occasional broad hint that having what might be euphemistically referred to as a "legally-united permanent live-in decorator, chef and heir provider" might be better than me remaining the designated bachelor in the family.

On the plus side, I did get to spend a good deal of "uncle time" with my 11-year-old niece. We made it through the entire extended version of the Lord of the Rings trilogy over the course of the visit. Explaining the concept of Tolkien's conception of elves to an 11-year-old can be a challenge, not to mention teaching the difference between orcs and Uruk-Hai... but time spent with any of the kids is all good.

I have two nieces and a nephew, and they're all great, but I rarely ever get to see them. It's a pity, really... any time spent with them feels like time not deducted from my lifespan. They really are great kids. Smart and talented, and... well, apply all the superlatives you might usually associate with a proud parent's description of his kids, and you get the idea.

They're getting older, though — soon all three will be snotty teenagers with whom I, as a matter of principle, must refuse to associate [though more likely, they will not want to be seen with their middle-aged uncle, lest I do something to cause them to die of embarrassment.] The lad is already thirteen, but the snottiness hasn't hit him yet. And though I know it's inevitable, I also know that by the time they hit their mid or late 20s, they'll likely grow out of it and I can go back to being Good Uncle Russ.

I think I could use more visits. Maybe the next time the womenfolk come, I can get them to paint.

Tonight I'll be thinking about my Dad, who passed away almost eight years ago. He'd have been 69 today.

Here's last year's post.

If you happen to be one of the folks out there who knew him, I hope you'll join me in raising a glass to his memory.

For the last few years, I've had a recurring dream. Not every night, but once every two or three or four weeks, I suppose.

It's never exactly the same dream, as far as I can recall. But the end of the story is always the same: I get killed in a car accident.

Sometimes in the dream, it's my fault. Sometimes it's another driver's fault. I rear-end someone at 50 MPH, someone t-bones me in an intersection, someone crosses the center divider. And sometimes, it's no one's fault at all. Falling trees on a windy day, earthquakes while I'm on a bridge... once it was an airplane crashing on the freeway. Deus ex machina, I suppose.

But I always wake up in the nick of time — usually a small fraction of a second before the crash. That's bad enough, but sometimes I wake up after. After the broken bones, the burns, the maiming. Those are the worst.

When I wake up, it is with the certain knowledge that if it had been real, I'd not be here to tell you about it.

I really seriously wish I would stop having that dream.

I was almost born in a VW Beetle. My folks were on the way to the hospital to have me when their car car ran out of gas. Beetles made before 1962 had no gas gauge... but fortunately, they also had a one-gallon fuel reserve.

I had the chicken pox twice.

I was only 18 months old, so I didn't know at the time what was happening, but I remember the hubbub surrounding the JFK assassination.

My first stitches, at age 5, were the result of unintentionally intercepting a rock with my head during a rock fight between some other kids in the neighborhood. I still have the scar.

The first movie I was ever taken to was The Sound of Music, at the Century theaters just up the street from the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose. Thirty years later, I saw Men in Black in the same theater.

When I was 5, I used the word "ain't" in my father's presence for the first and last time.

The second movie I remember ever seeing was Planet of the Apes at a drive-in theater. Like the rock-catching incident, it scarred me for life.

As a child, I used to hold my breath until I passed out. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I don't quite remember doing that.

The first nightmare I ever had was about my Mom mysteriously falling out of our car while driving us kids somewhere.

The house our family moved into in 1968 in Cerritos, CA was only a block or two from a pick-them-yourself strawberry field. The L.A. area was much less built-up back then. I still love strawberries.

Many of my friends' parents spoke Dutch.

In the narthex in our church were photos of the young men in our congregation who had gone off to Vietnam. They seemed like giants to me... and still do.

The Apollo 11 moon landing was — and remains — the greatest event I ever saw on TV. I'm still a fanatic about the space program.

Hippies? Never liked them. Still don't.

Update, 3/9/05: Prompted by my own dear mother, I am forced to recall an incident which I had almost completely forgotten....