I Think Dylan Would be Proud

No...not THAT Dylan.
I’ll be expanding on this post later, when I have time, but now I’ve got a bunch of stuff I need to take care of in my offline life. I just wanted to take a minute to let those who care about this place know that at long last, actually two full years after beginning this project (and nearly four years after I was goaded into doing it), I have finally upgraded the design of my blog’s template, and will hopefully follow suit in my overall goal to upgrade my presence in this place that has been such a special part of my life for the better part of a decade.

Please look around and note the new, static pages in the horizontal navigation bar above. Two of the pages are merely updated versions of the linked info pages I had hosted myself before, but which now are a part of the blog itself, thanks to Google/Blogger finally adding the feature that Wordpress users had enjoyed for years.

For those previously unfamiliar, the ‘About’ and ‘Greatest Writs’ pages are, respectively, an introduction to my blog and a little bit about me, and a self-appointed ‘best of’ list of the posts I've written over the years about my life, family, and experiences.

Additionally, there are two new pages. ‘What Happen?’ is the definitive recap of how this blog got its name. I've also added a brand new Contact page, with a form from which you can throw out a general comment or message not necessarily pertaining to a post. This is also a great place to call me to the carpet on a typo or other unintentional misinformation that might have slipped through my fingers. I appreciate constructive criticism and welcome any other general comments you might have.

Still Workin’ on it
There are a couple of features that are still under construction, but which will both be completed soon. One is already on display: the Archive Story Index is a long-standing feature I added a few years ago, but haven't done a very good job of keeping current. It now it lists each AYBABTU post from May 2004 through the end of 2007, but I’ll be bringing it up to date shortly.

I'm also in the process of adding a detailed ‘Faves’ page, which will include a blogroll and site description of all my favorite folks on the Net, both from the ‘old neighborhood’ of Blogger.com, as well as the new friends I’ve made in the last couple years through my involvement with the hockey blogging community and on the social media phenomenon that is Twitter.

All that said, I hope you like the new AYBABTU. It’s been a long time coming, but for me, anyway, it's been worth the wait.

finis

So Long, Spymeter

Tracking Betrayal
It’s a hard thing, dealing with betrayal. It elicits an emotional response unlike any other: simultaneous shock and sadness, quickly evolving into anger.

Some betrayals are obviously worse than others; and while this one may not rank right up there with marital infidelity, on a more general, personal level, the violation isn’t too far off the mark.

Hopefully I’m not making too big a deal out of it all, but I’ve been really bummed, disappointed, and saddened by what I’ve discovered over the past few days about a company and a product that I used to trust.

Y’know it’s amazing how we anthropomorphize things; just look at people and the love affair they have with their Macs. As a consumer society we’ve become so enamored with ‘our’ products we use in the course of our daily lives; those inanimate things that bring us comfort and joy, especially if we have any kind of ‘history’ with them. The longer we’ve used them, often the deeper that relationship grows. The loyalty can be fierce, or warmly passive, as in our dependence on something so common as a chair: we’re confident that it will be there every time we take that leap of faith we call sitting down — the act of falling backwards onto something we can’t really even see at the time.

But what if the chair breaks and we wind up flat on our ass? What’s our reaction? Who’s responsible? Whom do we accuse? Do we blame ourselves for unwisely assuming our former four-legged friend would support our weight, despite the fact that it had performed the feat perfectly numerous times in the past?

Of course not; we blame the chair.

Stupidfriggin’chair.

Sometimes it’s like that in the virtual world too.

We depend on things like web sites, computer programs and hardware to work as they’re supposed to, and when they don’t, we become frustrated and angry, even if they’ve for the most part been a dependable, consistent part of our daily lives.

Take the Internet, for example. There’s nothing more frustrating than waking up one Saturday morning to discover that you ‘have no Internet,’ right? And far more so when you find out the reason you have no access is because ol’ Butt-crack Bobby, the construction worker, dug up your underground coax line with a backhoe.

Now that’s bad enough, but imagine how pissed you’d be to learn that he did it on purpose?

Me and My ‘Meter
Those associated with this blog for any length of time know how fond I have always been of ‘my’ Sitemeter. It’s that little bit of web-counter tracking code that many of we bloggers use to ascertain details about those who visit and frequent our sites.

I have a number of times written fondly of my attempts to gently bring out into the open a number of ‘lurkers’ on my blog; those of whose existence I learned only through seeing them in my Sitemeter logs; they’d visit but never comment. However through these public invitations to coax them out of the shadows, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by my ability to get them to finally speak up and contribute. I like that

I just think it’s fun to go through the Sitemeter logs and try to imagine who my visitors might be and speculate as to what brought them here. It satisfies that basic human instinct that I have in great abundance — conceit...er..um...I mean, curiosity!

And as those of you who use it know, Sitemeter is (or was) the greatest thing since sliced bread. It’s simple, easy to navigate, reasonably comprehensive in the types of basic information it provides via the ‘free’ account (which is how I’ve always rolled). There’s also a paid service that provides much more in-depth statistical analysis and broader features, but I’ve always been happy just to have the ability to know where my visitors are from, when they stopped by, and what referrer (search engine, web link, etc.) brought them here.

So WHY did they have to go and mess it all up?

Counter-Intuitive
I am now in the process of converting my three blogs from Sitemeter to its chief competitor, Statcounter, in the wake of the inauspicious ‘upgrade’ of the Sitemeter web site this past weekend (Sept 12-14, 2008).

It was a disaster by anyone’s description.

Fortunately for everyone who uses them, they immediately rolled back to the previous version of Sitemeter within hours of the new launch debacle of the new interface Sunday afternoon; one that they had never even bothered to beta test with ACTUAL USERS.

To their credit, the new interface did offer a wealth of information that users never before had at their disposal. However it was so counter-intuitive and clunky, the thing was virtually worthless (no pun intended).

I was extremely frustrated, but refrained from taking my frustrations out on the company directly; however my show of restraint was apparently in the vast minority. It’s now obvious that the company’s customer service forum was absolutely inundated with complaints and the incoming hate e-mail was off the hook.

But that aside, I still assumed that it would all shake out eventually, so I stepped back, watched some football and revisited the situation later that evening. It was only then that I learned the rollback was in process and realized the level of hell that must have broken loose.

So I did a little digging around the Intertubes to gage the reaction. I figured that any response so drastic must have sent at least a few bloggers screaming straight to their keyboards.

And this is what led to my current action; my decision to say sayonara to Sitemeter. It’s not because they experienced a major gaffe in execution of an upgrade attempt — hell, I hope I’m not that unforgiving.

Nope, this was something that was most likely related (more on that later), but not obviously so. But much more importantly, what I found shocked me, saddened me; infuriated me. It opened my eyes.

To Catch a Thief
Sure, I was all about the frustration with the Sitemeter upgrade alright, but not the one; not the one that happened last weekend.

I did a little Googling to try and unearth recent reaction to what had just happened, but didn’t find any right away. Instead, the material I came up with was over a year old; several blog references from the spring of 2007, revealing the non company-publicized news that Sitemeter had teamed up with SpecificClick, one of the better-known (and most despised) spyware/tracking cookie companies.

Now I was hot!

I learned that I had for the past 18 months unwittingly been serving up spyware to all of my blog’s visitors, and had myself been spied upon by this piece-of-crap excuse for web technology. I just sat there, my mouth agape. I couldn’t believe what I was reading.

And then it hit me like a wet mackerel across the chops. In their advance e-mails and site blogs, Sitemeter, in touting the coming new features of ‘Sitemeter II,’ touted new information-gathering capabilities for its customers that would employ visitor demographics reports as well as ‘User Interest Reports,’ that would reveal “what categories of content people are reading when they are not on your site,” promising to “find out what your visitors’ real interests are.”

I had read that several months ago and it didn’t really faze me at the time; I figured that all these new bells and whistles would be lost on my being a ‘free’ user who used only a fraction of the available features Sitemeter offers its ‘paying’ customers; I pretty much dismissed it without really taking the step of logic to realize just how the aforementioned new features would be employed.

Well, Sunday night was my V-8 moment. I immediately checked my cookie list in Firefox and sure enough, there was SpecificClick.

To assure myself that the illicit cookie wasn’t placed there by a site other than Sitemeter, I cleared out all the cookies in my browser and surfed around a few other sites and checked again.

No SpecificClick!

Then I went to my OWN blog, waited a minute and then again checked a third time, and sonofabitch...there it was, back again.

Needless to say I was livid then, as I am to this minute, 72 hours later.

A Breach of Trust
Sitemeter, I’m sad to say, has betrayed the spirit of the Web in my opinion, and that sentiment is spreading rapidly, especially in the aftermath of their aborted upgrade debacle. They’re taking on water faster than the Titanic.
So I’ve decided. Sitemeter is out; StatCounter is in.

I’d heard good things about StatCounter over the years, but was already emotionally invested in my trusty Sitemeter. I know it’s silly to think of it in those terms, but I considered Sitemeter a true partner in my blogging life. If they’d gotten a dollar for each time I’ve visited their site over the past forty-eight months, well...I’d be broke and they’d be a heck of a lot richer than they are today. Maybe then they wouldn’t have felt the need to do this deal with the devil; but I doubt it.

I suppose that’s really the root of all this: the apparent need to profit at the expense of not only their customers’ (and by extension, the blog-browsing public’s) dollars and cents, but also their privacy.

I don’t begrudge any company the legitimate attempt to gain an honest return on their products and services, but not when it involves the unwitting acquisition of the personal information of its users.

These SpecificClick cookies record and categorize the browsing habits of the web browsers they spy upon, allegedly transmitting that information to Sitemeter’s customers for use in augmenting and/or creating topical content to better attract and interest the violated party who visits their blog or other web site; a pretty audacious means to a purportedly innocent end.

For one thing, that’s a fairly diabolical way of gaining the upper hand that absolutely NO ONE would approve of if reported of in advance to the user. It’s no different than illicitly reading someone’s diary for the purpose of currying favor with them by catering to their innermost hopes and dreams.

However beyond the out-and-out distastefulness of that flavor of data mining, there’s also no guarantee that the collected data will stop there. There is no way I can believe that anyone who could stoop to that kind of technological subterfuge would refrain from using it for other purposes, such as the selling of it to a third party or some other unscrupulous end.

Call me paranoid, but as it is I have enough of a battle on my hands in the battle to retain my freedom, my identity, and my integrity of choice.

Losing my Cookies
So, as of this post, Sitemeter has been officially dispatched. I’ve removed it from my Blog code and it is no longer tracking the visits of this blog’s users.

I now use StatCounter exclusively, which also uses cookies, but not ones that follow you around like a slimy private eye.

Unfortunately, regarding the Sitemeter/SpecificClick spyware problem, that’s not where it ends. I’m obviously not the only one ever used that Benedict Arnold-ware utility. More specifically, a number of my friends and Blogsville neighbors have used it for as long as I did, and likely will continue to.

So the hassle remains; unless all my friends join with me in kicking Sitemeter to the curb, I’m going to have to make it standard procedure to constantly cleanse my cookie roster each and every time I visit their sites — which is not an idea I relish. I hardly expect that anyone besides myself would necessarily follow me down this path I’ve taken. Maybe they don’t see this kind of thing so passionately as I do; maybe they don’t care. And be that as it may, whether or not they do it’s neither my business nor my place to lay such a burden on them.

Making the switch to StatCounter has, admittedly, been an adjustment. I’ve been using it for nearly a week and I like it okay, but I’m just sayin.’ It’s actually a more powerful tool than Sitemeter (at least in its own ‘free’ version). Many of the features it offers free-of-charge are only available in the paid version of Sitemeter, and that’s a nice perk indeed.

However the interface is taking a little getting used to. It’s not that it’s so bad, or that Sitemeter’s was so good; it’s just that it’s not what I’ve been used to looking at for the past four years; and every time I do, I’m once again reminded of why it is I’m looking at it in the first place — because I’ve been betrayed — and that still bums me out, even now..

So I guess the bottom line is, it’s going to be a painful transition — perhaps not drastically so, but uncomfortable nonetheless.

Not that There’s Anything Wrong With That…
Again, to any of you who believe that he doth protest too much, believe me, I’m almost in agreement with you. However in this case, it’s really not that I have anything to hide, it’s like my dearly departed Step Mom, Maxine used to say, “It’s the principal of the thing, dammit!”

Those records of your web site visits hither and yon, around the Interwebs my well never wind up in some shadowy Homeland Security database, but then again, who’s to say they won’t? And even if they don’t, it just doesn’t make it right for anyone to keep tabs on you like that. Again, call me paranoid, but I’m funny about my freedom that way.

So if you’re still into SM (not that there’s anything wrong with that…), fine. Stay with them. I’ll gladly take the time to purge the beasties from my browser after I leave your site. But if you really want to send Sitemeter a message — as I do —letting them know that it’s NOT okay for them to pursue this unscrupulous tactic — then I’d invite you to join me and make the switch to StatCounter or any of the other dozens of similar web traffic utilities out there that won’t spy on you or your blog’s visitors.

It’s up to you, and I’ll like you just as well no matter what. Feel free to contact me if you have any questions.

Now back to some hopefully happier subjects…


finis

Upgrade Hell

Just a quick note to cry ‘wolf’ for a second. Well, hopefully not that, but just in case something else comes up I guess my bases will be covered.

I’m pretty frustrated right now over something that, given past history, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised about in the least.

Every time I go to make any kind of significant system upgrade to my computer there are always hiccups. It’s been this way for the past several years, and is one reason I hesitate to make such changes very often. It’s not that I’m not competent to do the work, I suppose it’s more that I’m just too damn cheap.

I’ve never purchased a ready-made computer; I’ve built every one of them I’ve owned since 1989. Only my first machine, which in turn was built by my friend and former business partner, Randy, came to me ready to use. I have since, with much guidance from Randy those first few attempts, been switching out motherboards, processors and components as PC technology has increased from the days of the 486 to now.

And why do I put myself through all this instead of just going out and buying a computer from BestBuy?

As of this moment, who-the-hell-knows?

Back in the 90s, it was a no-brainer as to the logic in being a computer Build-It-Yourself’er: cash-o-lah. Computers were comparatively much more expensive back then, with the average Macintosh setting you back well over $2,000.

Quality PC Clones, powerfully equipped enough for my purposes as a graphic designer ran at least $1,200-$1,500 out of the box as well. So why wouldn’t you want to put one together yourself for half-to-three-quarters of that cost? Personally I really had no choice; that’s the primary reason I never bought a Mac; couldn't afford one and I bristled at the idea that they had to be so expensive in the first place; after all, I know what goes into the darned things.

So I built, and I continue to build almost twenty years later — but unfortunately, almost never without some sort of hang-up. Usually it’s user error, but I always seem to figure things out (usually after a call or two to my comp-guru, Randy).

But in the end, I guess it’s the satisfaction of putting it all together — something I’m not all that accustomed to doing in other areas — that has driven my ‘puter BIY’er tendencies.

Some guys are really well-disposed to do-it-yourself stuff; be it cars or home improvement. I just kinda get by on that sort of thing. Again, it’s not that I can’t do it; it’s more that the perfectionist in me won’t leave ‘good enough’ alone. It has to be done right. I don’t do half-assed, and I’m just anal enough to refuse to even try if I have any doubt that I can finish the job to my own high standards.

But building computers has always sort of been ‘my thing.’ It’s one of the few things I do well that the majority of guys I know wouldn’t even attempt. I suppose it’s my compensation for not being an (auff-auff-auff) ‘Tool-Time’ kind-o guy.

But geeze-louise, I’m a little out of practice with today’s computers! The speed of these new dual-core processors requires heat dispensation like nothing I’ve ever dealt with before. The cooler fan and heatsinks attached to them are ginormous, and more than just a little daunting when you’re installing one for the first time — knowing full well that you could easily cook your entire system in a flash if you don’t do it right.

So now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, suffice it to say that things haven’t been going smoothly in my latest venture, which began a little less than two weeks ago.

I decided to make the quantum leap from a 1.7 MHz processor to a new-ish 2.6 MHz AMD X2 Dual-Core processor. The differences between the two are like night and day, system requirement-wise. Of course I didn’t know just to what extent those differences would figure into the hassle factor related to all of this.

My goal in building systems — and another reason I’ve never been keen on buying ready-made machines — is upgradability. I always like to leave my options open to adding functionality and speed to my system incrementally if possible. That's the best way to keep costs down as well as providing the most bang for the bucks you do spend. This is why I hadn’t upgraded my motherboard since 2002 — I didn't really have to. I was able to, however, upgrade my processor three times along the way, and my RAM memory twice.

But I had pushed that mobo as far as I could. It was time to move up to the new generation of dual-core-ready interfaces for the trusty AJ-built machine. So I sunk the ungodly sum of $300 into a new, state-of-the-art Gigabyte mobo, a not-the-latest-but-still-recent AMD 64 X2 processor, and 2 Gigs of very fast DDR2 RAM. Not a bad haul for so little dough when it comes right down to it.

However, the cost I didn’t anticipate was that of my time — and sanity, not to mention the realization that this wouldn’t be just a hardware-only upgrade.

What it all boiled down to was this: I successfully negotiated that stinking massive heatsink and fan, got the mobo installed without a hitch, and then hit a brick wall when I tried to boot up WinXP on my old (but still very compatible) hard drive.

I thought it was something to do with the configuration, maybe a wrong BIOS setting, maybe the faster-than-necessary RAM I obtained strictly for its built-in upgradability when I eventually upgrade my processor to an X2+...

I went through every possible permutation, but still no love.

Then Trey, my Web-mate at work, and also the person who guided me through the minefield of choosing the components for this system upgrade (he had recently done the same upgrade on his own system at home, and ironically had been using the same processor that I had previously), told me pretty much the last thing I wanted to hear.

“Man,” he sighed, “I think it’s your Windows installation.”

Fabulous.

He said he believed the configuration of the hardware, the drivers, settings, etc., from within Windows XP was just too different for the new hardware to accept. I know, I don’t really understand it either, but given that Trey did an almost identical upgrade on his own system, I’m inclined to go with his suggestions. Unlike me, he did a clean install of Windows when he did his upgrade, whereas I just plugged the old hard drive containing the operating system back in, expecting it to work like it always had.

So all that to say, guess what I’ve been doing every night at home this week?

Yeah. Joy. Five years-worth of programs and personal files that have to be moved from the hard drive I can’t use to a temporary place so that I can re-format the drive, then reinstall Windows, then spend the hours and hours it will take to reinstall the programs.

And to make matters worse, I’ve been covered up like mad with work here at The Company, having to bring some of it home with me as well (to be done on Michelle’s computer).

So all that to say, the reason you haven’t seen me in this space lately is because I’ve been in hell — Upgrade Hell.

I actually have a post that I’ve GOT to post tonight before the subject matter gets any colder than it already is (I wanted to post it on Monday).

Look for it this evening. And pray for my deliverance.

From Hell.


finis

Two Tales of One City...or Somethin’ Like That (Part VII)

The Long Goodbye — First Movement (continued):
Such a Deal(ey)
I’ve really been looking forward to this part; it really could have been a series unto itself, the afternoon my Dad, Alex and I spent in Downtown Dallas at Dealey Plaza, the site of the event that truly changed America for my generation, and quite possibly all else to follow it: the assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

The time of year wasn’t quite the same — early February instead of late November — but given those two dates juxtaposition to opposite sides of winter respectively, the effect seemed nearly identical. The air was crisp and cool and the sun shone brightly in the clear, blue Texas sky just as it did a little more than forty-two years earlier on that fateful day of November 22, 1963.

As someone old enough to remember JFK’s presidency and the way that just his name captured the imagination of people of all ages (I was seven years old when he died), this was a pilgrimage; a trek upon holy ground. It was hugely significant to me if for no other reason the event’s profound historical relevance to my generation.

But this time was just as special for its rareness; the opportunity for the three of us to do something together, just we boys. I really can’t remember when that had happened before — if ever — as crazy as that might sound. But then again you have to remember the circumstances in which we grew up. Being the two youngest of five sons, and particularly given the tragic timing of our Mom’s Alzheimer’s onset beginning within a year of Alex’s birth, ours was definitely not a ‘normal’ early childhood. Having concentrated access to our Dad simply wasn’t something that came along often. His time was stretched between increased hours at work to cover the hospital bills, and dealing with the sometimes-tumultuous goings-on of my three older brothers. Although we knew it was never intentional, Alex and I sort of got the short end of the stick when it came to our Father’s personal attention during those years.

But we never once felt abandoned or incomplete in any way, and I for one wouldn’t trade the relationship that I’ve had with my Dad as an adult for any amount of time we might have spent together as a child. I truly believe Alex feels the same way, and has indicated as much in many a conversation we’ve had on the subject over the years.

We were indeed victimized by our Mother’s illness and all that surrounded it, yet we never felt like ‘victims.’ We knew that we were loved regardless of the circumstances that swirled about our family. And on the occasion of this opportunity — the three of us spending an afternoon together sharing an activity which itself represented a great deal of meaning for all of us individually — that love was never stronger.

Alex knew who he was, he knew where he was, and he knew what he was doing. We had fun.

But once again, I’m getting ahead of myself. We haven’t even started the day off properly, that day being Day Three of the four-day 2005 visit.

He’s a Lumberjack and he’s okay
I actually made a lot more notes than I’ll elaborate upon in this story, but one point I wanted to touch upon was that our accommodations for the three nights we spent in Dallas. As I said before, our first concern was to not be a disruption. Seraph had to keep on working and school was in session, so kids and parents alike had their routines to keep; we didn’t want to be in the way. We opted for sharing a room at a nearby Super 8 motel about five miles away from Alex’s house.

It was good to have the opportunity to be able to unwind after the sometimes emotionally draining all-day sessions with Alex, especially so for my Dad as this was the first time he’d seen his baby boy in his tragic condition, not that he hadn’t been through this before.

We would commiserate and decompress, then hit the hay and sleep like logs; especially Dad — only he sounded like he was actually sawing them.

I’ve always kidded my Pop about his snoring. Back in 2000 when I came home for Maxine’s funeral, I stayed with him at their place in the assisted living center where they lived (and where Dad and his wife Helen still reside currently).

It only took one night of that experience to remind me that any subsequent circumstance in which I found myself sleeping within 100 feet of my Father would require earplugs as standard equipment. As it turned out on this trip, they were my singular ticket to dreamland.

I suppose I shouldn’t be too critical; Michelle tells me that I snore a little myself, but gawd help me if I ever duplicate my Pop’s performances on an average night. Yikes.

Momma Maxine always said, “if you can’t change your situation, change your attitude.” I’ll amend that here to say, ‘if you can’t change your situation, change your accessories. I did, the earplugs worked great, and everyone slept superbly.

On Wednesday morning we ate breakfast at the motel and then headed over to Alex’s. After receiving a few thumbnail directions from Seraph (I had the printout from the Dealey Plaza web site in hand that she’d given me), at around 10:30 A.M. we were on our way.

Mia Botha
Although it was in fact my second visit to Dealey Plaza, it was my first occasion to circumnavigate the Dallas Metroplex behind the wheel in more than five years — easily more than sufficient time for whatever familiarity I might have had with the freeway system there to be long gone.

Back in 1998 most of our family convened in Dallas to celebrate Thanksgiving at the home that Alex and Seraph owned prior to their current one. Three out of my Dad’s five boys’ families were represented, including Alex, myself, and even Son #3 — my brother Kenny and his wife — along with Dad and step-Mom Maxine, scant more than a year and a half before she passed away.

As a part of the long Thanksgiving weekend festivities, we all piled into cars and traveled em masse down to Dealey Plaza. I’m not sure if it was simply the fuss associated with making such an excursion with thirteen people (including my two whiny, mostly disinterested kids) or what, but I don’t remember getting a whole lot out of that visit. Thankfully this time would be different, but I still didn’t know where I was going, but it was a lot more fun getting there.

Maybe I didn’t listen, maybe I’m just a knucklehead (remember that one; it’ll come into play again in a later trip), but on the way to Dallas, I took a wrong turn — a wrong split, actually. After about a minute I realized my mistake and announced that we’d have to exit the freeway and double back to the place where we had gone astray. Alex however insisted that we were in fact going the right way and argued passionately to that end. Using the directions that Seraph had given me, I tried to explain to him that we had gotten turned around and needed to be heading east. “Well I LIVE here!” He protested, insisting that we needed to go west instead.

Nevertheless I had to go with my gut even if it meant upsetting my brother.

“Tell you what, Alex,” I offered, hoping to smooth his ruffled feathers a bit. “We’ve got all day; we’re in no hurry. Let’s just go east a little bit further and if the signs tell us we’re going the wrong way, we can always turn back around.”

Reluctantly, he accepted.

When we had gotten back to the original point of departure, this time I took the correct split and got back on course. Alex suddenly could see that we were headed in the right direction and began apologizing profusely.

“Mia culpa, mia culpa,” he exclaimed, disgusted with himself for making such a big deal to no avail.

“No, Alex; I screwed up first. Mia BOTHA, bro; We BOTH made a mistake,” I replied.

Alex chuckled. The tension was broken, and we were back on our way.

Wheelin’ and Deal(ey)in’
Negotiating downtown Dallas traffic was a nightmare. I didn’t exactly know where I was going, Dad didn’t either; and Alex, well, he wasn’t quite sure; you could tell that he wanted to help but was understandably struggling to get his bearings as well.

When we finally reached the general area, the real headache set in — I was driving down Houston Street trying to find a parking spot. At one point I nearly turned the wrong way up Elm — which is a one-way street.

We finally found a parking place across from the Hyatt Regency hotel, but some four blocks from Dealey Plaza. The lot was packed but still had a handful of open spots so we snagged one. That left us with a bit of a hike, which was fine with Alex and me, but a little tough on our Dad, who at a still-spry age of 84 was nevertheless having some trouble with one of his knees at the time. On a couple of occasions as we were strolling along, Alex and I would look up to realize that Pop was straggling behind us some 40 or 50 yards. We chided the old man to hurry it on up — we didn’t have all day y’know (even though we actually did). We all laughed about it; Alex seemed wonderfully relaxed and at ease. It was the official start of what would become an extremely enjoyable and memorable afternoon.

Again, the weather was perfect for the occasion. The previous time we’d visited, it was overcast and rather cold. This day, however, the bright, sunny conditions and the time of day made the setting absolutely surreal. The landmark event of my generation, the JFK assassination, was coming alive to me as if I had actually been there on the scene 42 years earlier.

Next: The Long Goodbye — First Movement (continued):
A three-hour tour

Two Tales of One City...or Somethin’ Like That (Part VI)

The Long Goodbye — First Movement (continued):
Papa’s got a brand new (used) bag.
Remember when I mentioned earlier that my Pop discovered he had forgotten his luggage — after we’d already arrived in Dallas and were just minutes from Alex and Seraph’s house?

And remember when I said that we decided that the first thing we were going to do was to go visit Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas?

And have you ever heard of the old adage, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry?

Such was Day 2 of this initial latter-day trip to Dallas. However in the long run it was actually a good thing, as it gave us something more to do than just hang out at the house and in the end provided some of the most enjoyable memories of the trip.

I had honestly forgotten about the incident until I started going though my notes I’d written in off-moments while we were there; hence my not mentioning it in the previous post. In my unaided memories of that trip, Dealey Plaza and touring the site of the JFK assassination was the event that really stuck out in my mind. But thankfully, I managed to keep a pretty good, dated outline of all we did during that four-day trip, including our actual Day 2 activity: shopping for a replacement suitcase for my Dad.

The fact that he’d left his clothes behind in Franklin could be remedied. But the course of action we took required that we find a new suitcase — albeit a temporary one — to service him for the time we’d be in Dallas, and to get him home without having to check a Hefty Bag at the airport counter.

The whole thing was a fairly comical circumstance. After arriving at Dallas Love Field Airport, we were shuttled on over to the rental agency to pick up our car. We were happy to find that they upgraded us to a minivan because they were out of the mid-size sedans I had reserved.

So once we’d secured our wheels for the tour-day trip, we were “off like a herd of turtles” as Pop would always say as we’d embark upon a new destination via automobile. We headed northward on the short trek to Alex’s home in the suburban Dallas Metroplex.

About ten minutes out from our destination, I thought it prudent to give Seraph a call to let her know we were on our way, and to have her refresh my memory as to which exit to take from the freeway. This was my first time driving to their new house as well approaching from the south. Although they still lived in the same area, before it still wasn’t all that familiar so I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss a turnoff.

As I broached the subject of getting directions, Pop was quick to go for his ever-present AAA mapbook to see if he could offer some assistance. He reached for the suitcase that he was just certain was in the back seat of the minivan, then suddenly it dawned on him — not only wasn’t it there; he realized that he’d never placed his suitcase in the minivan. In fact, we hadn’t even visited the baggage claim area after we arrived at Dallas Love Field.

Didn’t think about it even once; the subject had never come up in conversation since we left Nashville.

Personally, I hadn’t given my Dad’s luggage a second thought because I never check baggage myself. I always travel as lightly as possible, and if it doesn’t fit into my suit bag and duffel — both carry-ons — it just don’t go, yo. So given the fact that I’m just not normally disposed to even thinking about checked baggage, inquiring about my Dad’s lack o’ luggage when we set off from the rental car place was by far the least of the numerous details that were racin’ ‘round my little head.

So as calmly as possible I began to retrace in my mind’s eye the events of the previous five hours since we’d left my house to head to Nashville International Airport.

On Monday my eldest brother Jack and one of his three daughters had driven Dad down to Franklin from Anderson, Indiana where he’d spent the weekend. They stayed the night and were due to head back home after we left for the airport Tuesday morning.

I clearly remembered seeing Dad carrying his suitcase out the front door, as I was right behind him as we were leaving the house. I went straight to our car, parked in the driveway, to load my two bags into the trunk. However Dad continued on down to Jack’s van that was parked on the street, apparently for one last look-see to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind on the trip down from Indiana.

I left the trunk open and went ahead and got into the car. From that point on I didn’t remember seeing his suitcase at all, nor did I remember unloading it from the trunk when we got to the airport. Apparently in all the excitement we decided that Dad must have left it on the street or sidewalk when he went to double-check Jack’s van.

I quickly made a cell call to my house, where luckily, Jack and my niece still were, waiting for us to contact them, for yes indeed, Dad had left the suitcase behind. But what were we gonna do now? The thing weighed a ton and would cost a fortune to ship overnight.

Being his own problem-solving-big-brother-kinda-self, Jack wanted to help. He offered to take the suitcase to the airport and see if Southwest Airlines would be willing to stick it on a later flight to Dallas. I told him no, I thought that was too risky; he’d have to provide proof that Dad had even taken a SWA flight and the logistics of accomplishing that would have been a nightmare. Alternatively, shipping the suitcase overnight would probably exceed the cost of Dad just buying all new clothes & toiletries for the time he’d spend in Dallas. I asked Jack to just proceed on home and thanked him for his willingness, but that we’d figure something else out. I would look to Michelle for help.

You see, at the time (unfortunately they don’t offer the service any longer) Michelle had the ability, through her work, to ship even personal items via a popular express shipping company at a drastically reduced employee rate.

Once we got to Alex’s I made the call to Michelle, who immediately swung into action. Fortunately she was able to leave work and go home to grab a few items of Dad’s choosing from the suitcase, re-pack them in a lighter-weight box, and then return to work and overnight the package to Alex’s place, to arrive late Wednesday afternoon.

Geeze…whattawoman!

Later on we would ship the suitcase containing the balance of Dad’s things back to his home in SoCal, only we shipped it freight-rate; it would take a week to get there, but at least the cost was reasonable.

Nevertheless, Michelle’s deft action wouldn’t solve the ensuing problem of how Dad would get the clothes and other things she was sending him back to California when we returned home on Friday. He wasn’t coming back to Nashville with me on the flight home, but instead I had booked a direct one-way flight for him from Houston (and oy…I’ll talk more about that scenario a little later…) to San Bernardino, CA, the airport nearest to him.

So with all that said, our primary activity on Wednesday was no longer that originally decided pilgrimage to Dealey Plaza, but to tour the local thrift shops to locate Papa’s brand new (used bag).

Wednesday is ‘Errand Day’
Point was, we could have just gone to Sears and bought him a ‘new’ new suitcase, but Dad liked the one he had, and would still have to use after he returned home to California. Why waste the money on a new case?

So Seraph suggested we try out one of the area thrift stores to see if there was something passable yet cheap enough to be essentially a ‘disposable’ replacement that Pop could use then set out at the curb once it had accomplished it’s purpose.

At that point in his onset, Alex was definitely still able to travel. He was only a few months removed from having his privilege of driving a car removed, having smashed in the front of his cherished Chrysler LeBaron convertible just a week or so prior to our trip to Indy that previous November. So there was no problem with him accompanying Dad and me on a little shopping trip to find a Papa a replacement travel bag.

So while we were out, we asked Seraph if there was anything else we could do. She asked if we’d pick up some coffee. With our mission plan set, we headed out.

We tried two separate thrift stores in the area, but the second one was where we found both a suitcase and a nutcase in the same location.

The Second Glance Thriftshop is a part of (from what I’ve been able to glean from Internet searches) a national network of stores whose proceeds go to benefit Battered Women’s groups and like charities across the country. The local store was just a few miles from Alex’s house and was the one Seraph seemed to be the most familiar with.

After really not finding much of what we were looking for at the first place Seraph suggested, we hit the jackpot at the second. Second Glance had a number of older, but still-sturdy suitcases. It was just a matter of deciding which one was best for the job.

Dad’s decision was based strictly upon performance rather than looks, as the hardy-but-hideous 1970s-vintage brown tweed-like suitcase looked almost new, but set Pop back about eight bucks.
So we came, we, saw, we rubbed our eyes and bought. However it wasn’t until we were leaving the store that we realized how well-spent the $8 actually was.

A man we had seen in the store, wearing a broad smile and friendly disposition was walking out to the parking lot at about the same time as we were. Seeing three men in a thrift store to buy a single suitcase I’m sure tipped him off that there was an interesting story associated with it, so he stopped and thanked us for shopping at the store and asked why we had purchased — of all things — an old suitcase.

We thought it was kinda weird, but he seemed to be a regular guy so we talked to him for a few minutes, explaining the need for the suitcase. He introduced himself as ‘Cap’ Ellis (and yes, I’m using his actual name) and that he did volunteer work there at the store. Cap went on to talk about the work that stores like Second Glance does with Battered Women’s charities and we all kinda looked at each other like, “Hmmm, that’s pretty cool.”

The smalltalk continued, but when he learned that we were all originally from SoCal, his eyes lit up. He related that he used to live in the LA area as an actor/comedian and that he used to do voiceover work in Hollywood on animated shows like Fox’s King of the Hill. He then gave us a sample of that talent, delivering a killer impression of Bill Clinton. We were all in stitches.

Soon thereafter we parted company, but that little meeting stands out as one of the more unexpectedly enjoyable moments we had together. Seeing my Dad and brother nearly doubled over in laughter will always be one of the more prominent freeze-framed images I’ll carry in my mind from that memorable trip.


Next: The Long Goodbye — First Movement (continued):
Such a Deal(ey)

Two Tales of One City...or Somethin’ Like That (Part V)

The Long Goodbye — First Movement: Allegro
To begin, let’s back up a bit; like, say, three years ago this month. If you’ve read the series I wrote about this and the circumstances surrounding the discovery of Alex’s tragic victimization by the family curse, you already know the back-story.

The Alzheimer’s research team at Indiana University Medical Center, who had been working closely with my family since my Mom’s AD diagnosis, had agreed to run tests to determine Alex’s medical disposition and find if indeed it was AD that was causing his rapid mental and physical decline.

I flew down to Dallas to pick my brother up, continuing on to Indianapolis, where together we submitted to two days of psychological and physical testing. I had been asked to partake in the same battery of tests as a control subject for comparison with Alex’s results. But inside I was wondering if I too could still be subject to a more latent AD onset, as was my maternal Grandfather, the portal of the disease’s introduction into the family gene pool. Whereas every affected male in the family has displayed an age onset consistent with Alex’s (i.e.: early 40s), our Grandfather’s was much later, lasting well into his late forties before his death at age 53.

In November 2004 I was 48, so I figured I still wasn’t out of the woods. I wanted to help the diagnostic effort for Alex’s sake how ever I could, but I too wanted to leave the door open to find out for myself, if I too carried the genetic mutation.

As of the time of this writing I’ve still never applied for those test results, now three years later. Fortunately at this point I am (as far as I can tell) still symptom-free, unless of course you want to count the natural absent-minded tendencies that I’ve displayed since childhood.

It appears as though I’ve lucked out. However the determination for Alex at that point appeared to be pretty much the confirmation of a foregone conclusion.

It was nevertheless our first purpose to definitively evaluate Alex’s condition, determining for certain that it was indeed Alzheimer’s, and then go from there. We hoped that in making the determination then that we could catch it early enough to allow the staff at IU to possibly help him — if not to get better — then at least to hold on to what he had for as long as possible.

And now, in looking back on the three separate instances I’ve had to observe him, I’ve seen a clear pattern of decay in his mental state. It’s almost remarkable as I scan the notes I made from that first trip following indy, how much better he seemed and how hopeful we were that his progress would be indefinite.

By late 2004 my brother was still conversational — more so at some times than others — and it was hoped that the new drugs he was prescribed would extend his remaining cogent years by a considerable margin.

The following year was mostly upbeat in its outlook for Alex, but we were nevertheless realistic; we knew that at best, the new drugs were merely postponing the inevitable, but for how long? At what point and how dramatically would he begin to regress?

Naturally I wanted to see him as much as was feasible, to spend as much time with him as I could while that borrowed time was still ours. But my desire to see my brother paled in comparison to that of my Dad’s.

Immediately following my return from Indy, while reporting to him the details of that momentous three-day trip, our Pop was inquiring as to when he and I could return to Dallas together to spend some time with his youngest son. I certainly expected it but I couldn’t have even anticipated how much he would depend upon me to make the arrangements. I guess I had always just assumed that because he was my Dad that he would do what he wanted to do and take care of what needed to be taken care of.

I was honored to help my Father in this way. I planned the trip, purchased the airline tickets, and reserved the car and hotel. The first trip was set for February of 2005. We decided that it would be best for all involved to make the visit short and sweet; fly in, spend a couple days with Alex and see the kids (who would still be in school during the day), and then return home with as little disruption to Alex’s family’s routine as possible.

SuperSeraph
My sister-in-law, Seraph has completely had her life turned upside-down; there are no words that can accurately describe just how emotionally wrenching this entire circumstance has been for her. And there’s no amount of praise I can heap upon her to accurately describe the respect I have for how she’s dealt with the incredibly harsh hand issued to her.

I touched upon it a bit in the original series, but something that I became keenly aware of was just what an incredible change that Alex’s condition wrought in the family as a whole, not just in my brother’s life.

Alex was the sole breadwinner. He was a successful attorney in a prestigious international law firm. His wife devoted all of her energies into managing their home and raising their three incredibly bright and vibrant children.

Seraph is a brilliant woman, make no bones about it. She has a MENSA IQ, but never went to college, as she and Alex married just a year out of graduating high school. She forewent any career aspirations that she may have had to be a devoted mother and wife to her husband’s rising star in the legal world. It was a choice they made together and one she never doubted or for which she ever expressed regret.

But now, she was being thrown headlong into a world for which she’d never dreamed she would need to prepare herself. My number one concern in planning this visit was for it to have as little impact on the routine of the family involved as possible.

Given that he’d be traveling halfway across the country, my Dad made the trip a nearly all-inclusive national tour to see his boys. We made the arrangements to have him fly one-way from his home in California to Indianapolis, where he would spend the prior weekend with my eldest brother Jack, who then drove him down to Nashville to our house on Monday. The next morning we would depart from Nashville and proceed on down to Dallas.

We flew into Love Field on Tuesday, February 1st, and after dealing with the realization that Pop had left his suitcase at our house (he would have Michelle ship some essential articles of clothing overnight the next day — more on that later), we found ourselves walking up to the front door of Alex and Seraph’s home late that afternoon.

I was pretty encouraged to see Alex’s reaction to our arrival. As opposed to the tentative, almost apprehensive lack of emotion he displayed at initially seeing me three months earlier, this time his face was full of joy to see us. He hugged his Dad for what seemed like five minutes as Pop returned the favor. He seemed so much more animated then when I had seen him last. He wasn’t the ‘old Alex’ by a long shot, but he was considerably closer to that standard than the person I’d accompanied to Indianapolis.

We exchanged small talk and everything seemed wonderful. Seraph was happy to see us and caught us up on what the doctors were saying and the remaining peripheral health issues her husband was dealing with. We talked about all the medications he was taking to deal with everything from Alzheimer’s to the ‘myclonic jerks’ (a mild form of epileptic seizure) he still experienced in his sleep.

We discussed the routine that was such an important part of Alex’s life, and how much his change in disposition was a result of being in his home and in a familiar space.

And as he always had been, my brother still knew how to get a laugh.

I exclaimed to Alex just how much better he looked and sounded. I was just so happy for him and the fact that the medication was obviously working so well.

“Well, I take like eight pills, y’know,” he replied.

Pop chimed in, “Well, I am too, Alex.”

“Yeah, but I’m not as old as you are…” my brother deadpanned.

Open-ended agreement
There was really no activity agenda planned for this trip. We were gonna play it by ear, not knowing whether or how much Alex would be up for doing anything away from his familiar home surroundings.

Seraph had taken the liberty to print out some information from the Web on Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas, site of the JFK assassination. She thought it might be a good diversion for the three of us. I thought that was an excellent idea and we decided that would be tomorrow’s primary activity.

But for now we would just hang. Seraph prepared dinner and we had an enjoyable evening together catching up and trying to be as normal around Alex as we could be. For despite the fact that our spirits were buoyed by his apparent improvement, the sad realization remained that each passing moment from that point on was the best it would ever get. Alex would have some days that were better than others, but his descent had merely been slowed, not stopped. We would likely have him for years longer than could have been otherwise expected, but we would never have him back.

It was a tough balancing act to negotiate those two emotions for me, and I know it was excruciating for my Dad.


Next: The Long Goodbye — First Movement (continued):
Such a Deal(y)

Two Tales of One City...or Somethin’ Like That (Part IV)

The Long Goodbye — Prologue
Perhaps a better title for this post might be The Long Layoff. It’s been over a month since my last entry in this series, and while it was always my intention to separate the two main subjects of my recent trip to Dallas a bit, I really hadn’t planned on making the time-gap quite this wide.

Admittedly these two stories could have been (and in retrospect, perhaps should have been) totally separate series, given that the subject matter of each part was so emotionally divergent for me.

On the front end there was the 2007 Webmaster Jam Session, a wonderfully enlightening and heady experience. The flavor of those two days was almost transcendent. I was so buoyed by the camaraderie and positive reinforcement of a group of like-minded individuals of whom I felt a small, but inclusive part. It was comforting to know that I was a part of a community, a movement of professionals seeking to have a real impact, not only upon the livelihood they’ve chosen, but to actually make the world a better place, giving high import to the way that everyone, regardless of physical handicap or station in life, operates and navigates the now ubiquitous world wide web.

It was a pretty tasty bit of pie-in-the-sky that my associate Trey and I enjoyed along with our Starbuck’s that Friday and Saturday in late September.

Sunday, however, was something else altogether.

Immediately upon learning that Trey had secured permission for us to attend the weekend conference, my first thought was of possibly using the final day to visit my brother Alex, who lives in the Dallas Metroplex area, and then take a late flight back to Nashville. So Sunday morning, while everyone else was rushing bleary-eyed to the airport to catch a return flight home, I was headed to Budget Rent-a-car for a ride to catch a few rare hours with my brother.

After losing my way on three consecutive occasions, I finally gained my bearings and at last found the way to Alex’s house, where we would spend the afternoon hanging out and watching football together for what could well be the very last time.

Although I’ve seen him at least once in each of the past three years, the sands of time are rapidly slipping away with regard to Alex’s condition; it’s uncertain as to how many more of my visits my beloved little bro will really be cognizant of.

As you probably know, Alex is the second of my four brothers unfortunate enough to carry the genetic mutation passed down from our Mother for Early-Onset Alzheimer’s disease. He’ll be 48 years old this coming May — the same age our Mom was when she succumbed to complications from that horrible malady back in 1968.

The good news is that Alex, as of late 2004 has been on the two leading AD-inhibiting drugs, Aracept and Namenda, which have been effective in slowing down the progress of the disease’s ongoing efforts to shut down his brain.

As was in the case of our Mom and my other afflicted brother, David, the fatality of Alzheimer’s doesn’t necessarily lie in the disease itself, but in the complications that develop as a result. In nearly all of the seven cases of Alzheimer’s-related deaths in my extended family throughout the years, pneumonia has been the actual cause.

AD first begins its path of destruction by sabotaging the transfer of chemicals between brain cells, disrupting thought and memory processes. The literal suffocation of brain cells by the formation of ‘senile plaques’ covering the neurons eventually causes the brain to atrophy, leading to the eventual breakdown of motor skills and overall body functions. In the end, most AD sufferers are left bed-ridden and hence susceptible to things like pneumonia as that which ultimately claims their lives.

And while Alex is still extremely vital, physically, this latest visit to see him made me realize how quickly he’s deteriorating overall.

In each of my past two visits to Dallas to spend time with Alex and his family, my Dad and I made the trip together. This time, however — in a big way — I’m glad that it was just me; it was a pretty tough scene.

But as hard as it was for me to see my brother in the condition in which he currently exists, it was indeed a special time. There’s an awful lot of the old Alex still in there, and we had a wonderful, if brief time together.

But again, it’s hard to say just how many more opportunities I’ll have to look into his eyes and know that Alex sees me back. I don’t know how many more times I’ll be able to say some of the things I was able to say to him that Sunday afternoon, and know that he understands, as I know he did this time. I dread the future for my brother; I dread it for his family, and selfishly, I dread it for myself.

I’ve avoided saying this — or even thinking it, but as of this visit I’ve finally begun making that sad, long goodbye to my life’s best friend.

I’ve avoided thinking about it to the point that in each of the last three visits I’ve made to Dallas following the trip in which I accompanied Alex to Indianapolis in 2004, I’ve not written about the events that surrounded them. No blogs, no personal journals; only hand-scribbled notes — pages of them — most of which I have yet to read, let alone transcribe.

And therein lays the true reason this ‘second tale of one city’ has taken so long to surface. The fact is, I just don’t want to write it. I don’t want to put it all into words because I don’t want them to be true. I don’t want it to be out there, staring me in the face in all its obnoxious, pugnacious reality. I’d rather it remain off to the side; swept under the rug; out of sight and out of mind.

However that’s not reality. Alex is sick, and it’s time, now, to talk about it; I don’t want it to be, but it is.

It’s time to chronicle all that I’ve seen and observed as Alex’s condition has regressed over the past three years. It’s time to begin to close the book on this shell of former brilliance that now walks in his place. It’s time to say what needs to be said, so that it can be over and done with and never dwelt upon again.

I look forward to spending a lot more time later on talking about the real Alex; the brother who gave me my definition of brotherhood; the little kid that I looked up to as much as he looked up to me.

That’s a story that’ll never be finished.


Next: The Long Goodbye — Part One

ComPurgatory

I guess I deserve it.
After talking about how much I know about computers a few posts ago, I guess the fates wanted to put me in my place.

Three weeks ago I purchased a new processor for my old, yet reliable computer motherboard. It was the fastest, most powerful processor the old mobo was designed to handle; I figured it was the best and cheapest temporary upgrade I could perform to get a little more speed out of my five year-old system before spending a bit more money after the first of the year to completely replace it, saving my current system to replace Michelle’s machine (which I’m being forced to use now), which is older and significantly slower than mine was to start with.

Well I don’t know what exactly has happened — and that’s the frustrating part — but now, three weeks later, after buying the new processor and not being able to get it to work, I decided to try a new, more powerful motherboard, which I received earlier this week. But still no luck; nada; zippo; the system won’t boot or even beep upon startup. I just get a black screen with everything apparently running except the processor.

I’m so frustrated right now I could scream. I’ve run into snags in building systems before, but never anything so frustrating as this. I’m now stuck between deciding whether to return everything and start from scratch or continue to flail away at the problem and try to figure it out.

I’ve spent the past two full days scouring the Internet for answers, and have found numerous threads on computer message boards, with people claiming similar or the same problem. However I’ve yet to see any follow-up comments confirming that the suggestions given to solve the problem actually worked. I’ve tried nearly everything that has been suggested, but to no avail.

However I still have one major resource that I have yet to tap: my old friend and compu-guru, Randy. I'm gonna give him a call just as soon as I finish this post. I’m expecting him to tell me I’ve got a bad processor (which is what I have believed from the start), so I’d imagine I'll just be packing all the stuff up and sending it back on Monday.

The worst part of all this is that I’d timed the purchase of the new motherboard to coincide with all the vacation time I’ve got off here in a row (eleven straight days as of this past Thursday), to have time to get everything set up. However a large chunk of that time will be wiped out by our traveling to Memphis this coming Wednesday to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with our friends the Franklins. We’ll return home on Saturday, but that would give me only one more day before heading back to work on Monday the 26th.

It’s been agonizing not having access to any of my files and most of my programs for the past three weeks as I’ve been chained to Michelle’s slow-as-molasses-in-January machine. I’ve spent a lot of time duplicating efforts, copying browser bookmarks from my machine at work, and reinstalling software that’ll barely run on this underpowered computer, just to be able to carry on in a semi-normal manner. I guess it could be worse, however — I could have no computer and no Net access at all right now; ’suppose I should just count my blessings, huh?

Anyway, if you’ve wondered why I haven’t posted, that’s the reason. I’ll know here in a few hours what my final disposition will be, and I’ll move on and deal with it from there.

Ahh, technology...don’tcha love it?