Entries from December 2004 ↓

This entry was written offline, and is backdated.

Today’s journey began at sunrise … 7:30 central time. After a brief stop for coffee and sustenance at my favorite Texas fast food eatery, Whataburger, I rolled through Dallas and Fort Worth, and continued on my journey through Texas. Passing through the widest part of the state, which is huge by any standard imaginable, it was humbling to realize that after a full day of driving, I would still be in Texas tonight. Going cautiously due to the delicate right front tire, I planned to stop as soon as I could reasonably expect a Wal-Mart to be open. The tires on the van came from Wal-Mart, and BC had advised that there would be an advantage to having the tire replaced there.

My first stop at a Wal-Mart turned out to be a waste of time, as it was one of those rare, old Wal-Mart stores with no tire center. I had to go a bit farther, into Abilene, to find a more modern one. I lost only an hour getting the tire changed and the tires rotated, and was rolling West again by around noon. The weather had by this time cleared significantly, and the temperature was above freezing, making for a more comfortable ride.

In the afternoon, as I passed through George Bush’s hometown of Midland, Texas, I saw a sign advertising the “Petroleum Museum”. Curiosity compelled me to stop for a look around. It turned out to be a most interesting place, with exhibits that educated me on the processes of oil exploration, drilling, and production. There were some nice-looking outdoor exhibits as well, including a real drilling rig, but it was a bit cold for much of that.

Evening closed in and darkness fell as I approached El Paso, and it was at this point that things got ugly. First came heavy snow, so heavy that conditions might have been described as a near white-out. Ten miles or so later, I began to see the results of this natural I.Q. test as some of the less capable drivers discovered such concepts as centripetal force, inertia, and stupidity. After another ten miles, the freezing rain began, and the shoulders of the road were littered with vehicles in various states of dentedness. At one exit, a huge truck had spun out and was sitting perpendicular to traffic, blocking all lanes. Police waved us off onto a service road, which was soon jammed and at a virtual standstill due to lack of traffic management further on. When the interstate was reopened half an hour later, several folks decided that a short slide down a shallow embankment was preferable to waiting another hour for the Texas police to get a clue, and I agreed. Soon I was moving again, along a nearly deserted stretch of I-20.

Not being one to press my luck, I started looking ahead for options, and found a good place to stop just a few miles on, about 15 miles east of El Paso. Even parking the van was an adventure, as by this time, every exposed surface was covered with a shining layer of ice about a half inch thick. Temperatures were again in the teens, with 20 mile per hour winds pushing the wind chill into the single digits. It is too cold even to venture out in search of food, so sleep sounds like the best option. The plan is to once again get started at sunrise, and it seems conceivable that I’ll make it into L.A. tomorrow night so long as there aren’t any further weather-related delays.

This entry was written offline, and is backdated.

Today begins my cross-country odyssey to return friend BC’s van to its California home, and in the process transport myself to his house for the Christmas holidays. As one of those strange people who enjoys long drives across unfamiliar territory, I think I’ll do all right.

There was considerable discussion about the proper route to take. In winter, the pass across the continental divide can be treacherous, and is often impassable. BC and I tossed it around a bit and decided that the best compromise between climate and directness was to follow I-20 from Atlanta to where it meets I-10, and thence into California by way of San Bernardino.

I intended to get on the road last night, but some last-minute demands by my boss as well as some preparations on my part put me fairly far behind. I departed Norcross at about 11 PM and quickly realized I was too tired to go very far. I stopped for the night in Villa Rica, Georgia, just a few miles west of where I used to live, and set out again at sunrise.

The weather was overcast but dry as I rolled across Alabama and into Mississippi. I made good time, traveling at a conservative speed about 5 mph over the posted limit due to the general ungainliness of the nearly-empty van. In the early afternoon, I arrived at the Mississippi River at Vicksburg, and stopped for a brief stretch break and a picture or two. By this time there was a drizzling rain falling and the weather was looking increasingly depressing. I sought out a grocery store, filled my styrofoam cooler with cheese, tomato juice, and water, and pressed on.

I had fully intended to end the first travel day in Dallas, Texas. Then the snow began. By 10 PM, I was in snow flurries and light sleet, and the road was becoming somewhat treacherous. Discretion prevailed, and I stopped in the suburban town of Terrell, Texas, about a half hour east of Dallas. At this point, I also spotted something I hadn’t seen previously — a gouge, perhaps two inches across, in the sidewall of the right front tire. I was a bit frightened by the fact that I’d just driven several hundred miles on a tire that I wouldn’t trust any farther than I could throw it. That will have to be fixed in the morning before I get out into the badlands!

It is cold here, very cold. The temperature is presently 18 degrees and is dropping rapidly. I hope it will warm up significantly in the morning. I plan to set out at sunrise once again.

I am completely at a loss to understand the canonical “business uniform”.

I have to go to Virginia tomorrow to demonstrate my employer’s systems to a group of people from North Carolina who are interested in a system of their own. I will be putting on my Sales Engineer’s hat, and unfortunately, there’s a matching suit.

Those who know me will know I’m a jeans-and-t-shirt guy. If I’ve got a choice, I’m going to wear what’s comfortable, and I generally feel best in a pair of jeans and a pullover shirt of some sort — rugby shirt, golf shirt, or t-shirt. However, there are situations where comfort takes a back seat to tradition and decorum, and this is one of them. It takes a lot of pressure to get me to wear a tie, let alone a suit, but this time it’s unavoidable.

I have no taste when it comes to any clothing other than jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers. I don’t know what colors go together, I don’t know what’s “in” and what’s “out” in the fashion world, and I don’t know the first thing about style. Each time I’ve had to buy a suit, I’ve walked into a men’s clothing store and let the salesperson direct me toward something “safe”. Some guys can get away with the sport-jacket-over-jeans trick, and some guys can even pull off a sweater or turtleneck, but I don’t take chances. Chances are, I’d pick a combination that’s “so last-year” and get stared at everywhere I went. Conservative, that’s my watchword.

So, this morning when deciding what to take to the cleaners, the choice was pretty obvious. Boring, low-key charcoal two-piece business suit. Plain white dress shirt. Unassuming blue tie. All of this will be nicely cleaned and pressed, the shirt starched, the trousers smartly creased. I will get up on Thursday morning and put all this on, arranging my tie in the neat Pratt knot that I favor, making sure the collar stays are straight, that my pin’s in the right place, that nothing’s in my pockets that will make my jacket or trousers bulge oddly. I will comb my hair carefully, brush my teeth meticulously, pop lots of breath mints, and use the right deodorant and not too much cologne.

Why am I doing all this? I think the business world has deluded itself into thinking that someone who looks sharp must be sharp. Orderly dress means orderly thinking? What a silly concept! False or not, however, it’s pervasive among business people and in the traditional corporate structure. I think the old phrase, “Clothes make the man”, is just about the saddest comment I can imagine on how we view our fellow man.

These people will see a man in a suit. That man isn’t me, it’s a fictitious image of me that I’ve conjured up because that’s what the situation demands. I’ll be uncomfortable, both from the clothing and tie and from the fact that I’m out of my element among suit-wearing people. I will look reasonably presentable, but I will not be as effective or as sharp as I might be if I were wearing my jeans and a nice comfortable rugby shirt, and that’s a shame. Because on the surface of it, clothing isn’t what matters.

I’ve met some wonderful, beautiful people who were wearing rags. I’ve met some complete slimeballs who were wearing expensive Italian suits.

Sometimes, I understand why naturists and nudists don’t bother.

I have heard a lot of things about twelve-step programs, positive and negative. Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous have helped millions and I would not, for one second, impugn their importance. With that said, it’s undeniable that twelve-step programs have also been the butt of countless jokes. My theory is that it’s always easy to poke fun at things you don’t understand; that certainly rings true for me, since I have no understanding at all of how these things function.

Last night I was feeling pretty despondent and was having a lot of trouble pulling myself together. It occurred to me that my emotions were controlling me, rather than the opposite, and that I didn’t like it. As I rolled that thought around a bit, it occurred to me that alcohol and narcotics tend to rule over their victims too, and that made me think of AA and NA. I wondered if anyone had ever thought of forming a similar organization for people in my situation. I did a few quick web searches, expecting to find nothing but happy to have a focus for a few minutes.

Imagine my shock when I discovered that there is, in fact, just such a program! Emotions Anonymous is a twelve-step program designed to help people recover from emotional difficulties. I scanned their meeting list and discovered that there was one I could make it to, not too far away, that very night. So, I hopped in the car and got myself there.

I walked into the meeting room with some apprehension. There were only four other people there, so at least I didn’t have to face a big crowd.

The meeting was a bit of a disappointment, really. A lot of time was spent with the “leader” reading a prepared script, then with each of us taking turns reading paragraphs from the Emotions Anonymous handbook. Everyone introduced themselves (“Hello, my name is Scott, and I am powerless over my emotions.” “Hi, Scott!”) and shared how they were feeling. There are specific rules about sharing … must use “I language”, for example. No feedback or comments are allowed. That made me a bit uncomfortable, because despite my tendency toward verbosity, I’m better at dialogue than monologue, at least verbally.

I’m not sure how much reading paragraphs from a book, aloud, can possibly help me. I’m not sure how the trite, oft-quoted Serenity Prayer is going to offer me much solace, either. The rules of the program specifically prohibit giving people advice or feedback, and tend to discourage commiseration and other forms of dialog, so I’m really at a loss right now how this thing could work for me. I have been thinking about this since the meeting ended last night.

In the end, I think that at worst, it’s a wasted hour, once a week. I can afford an hour a week if there’s even a slight chance that it will be of help to me in my recovery from this loss and in my struggle to control the grief and anguish that have overcome me. So, I will be going back. I will write, from time to time, about how it’s going.

Today has not been a great deal better than yesterday, but I am throwing myself into work and other pursuits to keep my mind occupied, and trying my best to go forward.

Christmas and I have had what you might call a stormy relationship.

When I was a child, I looked at Christmas the way most children do. It was my favorite part of the year. Everything just seemed to get more and more pleasant as December settled over the foothills of the Blue Ridge. Sometimes there’d be a blanket of snow, and sometimes just a string of chilly days, but the cold did nothing to diminish the warmth of the season.

In those days, we always got almost two weeks of school vacation around Christmas, and that alone could bring joy to a child’s heart. Even though Dad had to work right up until Christmas Eve, he’d always find time on the weekend before that to go out and find a tree with us. There were Christmas tree lots then, but he’d never go to one. We lived in the country, and there was always a neighboring farm or woodland where we could go find a real tree, one that had made its own way in life instead of popping up among row after row of identical trees. I can still remember the year that I was finally old enough, and Dad handed me the small, crosscut saw we used, allowing me to cut the tree myself. When you’re 12 years old, that’s an honor.

We always set the tree up on Christmas Eve, and always took it down on January 2. That was the tradition, and it was never broken. Each Christmas Eve we’d bring out the boxes of ornaments and lights, bolt the tree stand to the big piece of plywood with the model train tracks running around it, and start the ritual. Dad always spent an hour or two replacing bulbs in the strings of lights, the big colored bulbs the size of your thumb that were popular in the seventies. We’d level the tree, make sure it had water, and start hanging things. Mom usually sat back a bit, supervising, watching to make sure everything looked balanced and tasteful as we two clumsy kids did our best to hang delicate glass from slender boughs without smashing them. We succeeded, sometimes.

Christmas morning was the moment we’d waited for all year, and my parents … bless them, they weren’t perfect, but not once — not ever — was I disappointed with what I found under the tree. Santa and my parents moved heaven and earth for us kids, and somehow always managed to produce exactly what we’d been hoping for. They’d always be coy about it, telling us that our wishes might be just a little beyond what Santa could manage … but somehow, Santa always came through, even if the rest of the prior year had been the very definition of austerity. Christmas joy, the way a kid defines it, was the one thing they could never deny us.

Christmas is for children, as the song says. I’ve tried to enjoy it, through the years, but I haven’t always succeeded. My father died at a time very near the holidays, and that’s put a bit of a damper on the Christmas spirit for me. Some years I’ve managed to reunite with my mother and extended family. One year, I ate Christmas dinner at a Shoney’s Big Boy restaurant, alone. I’ve spent Christmases with friends, and I’ve spent them working. The last ten Christmases, I’ve taken on my father’s role, trying to hang on to some of the old traditions, trying to make Christmas special for a little girl and a beloved wife. I wish I could say I had my father’s track record, but I sure tried hard.

Fast forward (or press “chapter skip”) to 2004. It’s December now. There are so many things I’d be doing right now, if my life hadn’t taken this disastrous turn. I’d be shopping, burning Christmas CD’s and listening to them every day, thinking about decorating, getting a Christmas tree, deciding what to have for Christmas dinner, planning trips to visit family and friends.

Christmas is coming fast and I wish I could stop it. I’m not ready. They’re starting to play Christmas songs on the radio now and they just make me teary-eyed. The decorations are going up on the streets, the big department stores are lighting their trees, all the TV ads have Christmas bells, parties are being planned, and people are jamming the shopping malls looking for the perfect gift. They’re decorating their homes, watching “A Christmas Story” and “It’s a Wonderful Life” on TV. I want to do all those things too, but then I remember.

I checked out of my weekly-rate, sleazy old motel room this morning and as I carried the last of my bags out to the car, I noticed I was feeling sad again. I realized that it was because I was once again homeless. That crappy room with the peeling paint and the stained carpet and the disgusting bathroom was the closest thing I’ve had to a home lately. Pathetic! I will probably stay in the office tonight … my employer is once again late with payroll, so I will need to wait until Monday before arranging accommodations for another week or so.

I dread answering the phone. She calls, being demanding, wanting this or that, and motivating me by telling me how worthless I have been as a husband and how everything is my fault. I thought I was doing a little better for a few days there, but now I’m back to square one. Merry Christmas.

Just days after installing the Movable Type software for the new blog, apparently the spammers found me … and went to work quite fast! In the first couple of days, I received 650 comment spams. In the time it took to delete those, I got 40 more, and in the time it took to delete those, 70 more came in.

So, I started thinking. My hosting provider, after hearing me whine about wanting an easy Movable Type install, decided to set one up for WordPress instead … and after informally polling the chatroom, it appeared that WP would be the wiser choice anyway. For those who have wondered, this is how the blog software is distributed among the 24 Blogringers:

*	Counting me
**	bBlog … where’d you find that one, Andy?

So with some help from SimonG, from the infamous BC out west, and from Omally and Carol, I made the tough choice to convert to WordPress and spent half the evening selecting a template that fit my needs, tweaking it, adding the links to the Blogringers and other blogs, and figuring out how all this works.

I think I’ve got it halfway right … but let me know if I don’t. There is a SPAM filter implemented but I have so far not managed to get to Simon’s other suggestions, it’s late and I don’t trust myself to hack code when I’m this sleepy. Tomorrow. If you have trouble commenting, you may need to enter your e-mail address for now, otherwise it’ll flag it as a blank field and think you’re a miscreant … but it won’t display your e-mail address anywhere, I promise. Except to me. Mwahahahaha.

Last night was spent working very late, on kind of a sad project.

My friend Jerry, a songwriter and producer of note, has a studio in his basement that is large enough and complex enough to rival most of the commercial recording studios in this city. Around five years ago, he bought a new 48-fader console, necessitating the complete gutting and rewiring of the studio. I designed the wiring and patchbays for the studio and supervised the installation.

Now that Jerry has decided that Pro Tools (a computer-based recording, editing, and mixing system) is the ultimate answer to his many concerns, the console and most of the wiring is now superfluous. Last night, we stripped it all out. It took hours … but due to some forward thinking on my part, the wiring was all connectorized and came apart easily.

Another local studio has bought the console and patchbays, and the modular wiring will make it simple to quickly install and integrate into its new home. Apparently Jerry’s talked the new owner into using me for design and installation supervision as well.

This is the sort of work I need right now anyway … it keeps me busy, too busy to think or feel sorry for myself which is what I still find myself doing if I’m alone for too long. Mornings seem to be the worst times for me lately, waking up in a place where I don’t want to be, missing her, the cats, the birds, everything about my lost life.

I can’t bring myself to write much more right now, so I am going to leave you with a bit of music. I hope this works, I’ve never posted an MP3 before. It’s about 2.6M. The song is an old one by Paul Williams (YES, the little short guy from “Smokey and the Bandit”) and Jon Vezner, and to my knowledge it’s never been released. I don’t think they’ll mind.

Here it is. (This will probably stay up for no longer than a week or two due to bandwidth concerns.)

Welcome! With some help from SimonG and a few other folks, my blog is now in new quarters, running on my own site using Movable Type. The look of the site is a bit different. Actually, I will probably be re-thinking the look of my whole site in coming days, the old pastel blue and gray’s novelty is quickly wearing off.

ATTENTION BLOGRINGERS: If you would, please do me the favor of checking your blog link in the sidebar to the left, and letting me know if I’ve got an old or incorrect one so I can bring that section up to date. Thanks!

Also if anyone has any trouble commenting, please let me know via e-mail (scott at kd4dcy dot net) … I think I have everything set up right, but time will tell.

In other news, I replaced my chat client today … from Trillian I have migrated over to Jabber, which is similar (multi-platform capable) but has its gateways on the server side and stores the contact list on the server for easy access.

If anyone feels like having me on their chat list, here are the particulars:

I will add another entry later after things have settled down a bit. It has been a bit hectic today.