Minutes 2 Midnight

Health Care as a Horror Movie

2010-01-31T19:23:00.008-05:00

Okay. This is the first entry I have made in a long time. It's not that there haven't been things to write about. There have. Plenty of things. My goodness...America has elected its first Black President since the last time I blogged. And as an African American, don't think that the import of that event has been lost on me. It hasn't, and I should take the time in the near future to write about where I was and what I was thinking when that historical event took place. But don't assume that just because I am an African American, I am riding the Democratic Train and blowing the whistle myself. Quite the contrary. I am one of those apparently anachronistic entities that drive some folks absolutely crazy: A Conservative African American. Oh! The Horror! Speaking of which...that actually brings me to the subject of today's blog.

I've been watching the whole Health Care debacl...uh...debate as it's taken place in Washington, and today a singular image positioned itself firmly in my head. To wit, is it just me, or has anyone else out there ever gotten the feeling that this whole Thing known as Health Care Reform is nothing short of every horror movie baddie you've ever seen that JUST WOULDN'T DIE? You know. Like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, when you think she's drowned in the bathtub, but the music cues and she comes back, dripping, for one more scare? Or the liquid Terminator in Judgment Day (clearly the best of the franchise), when you think he's been shattered into a thousand liquid nitrogen-soaked pieces, but the warmth of hot steel slowly causes him to pool, puddle together, and rise from the metal shards to terrorize John Connor once more? Sheesh. What do we have to do to kill this thing? (I'm talking about Health Care, now). First, they said a bill would be on the President's desk by August (clearly an attempt to squeeze the bill out like a hard turd before Congress went home on their summer break to face the wrath of the pitchfork-wielding hordes...uh constituents). But the deadline was missed, and the Summer of the Town Hall was unleashed. Tea Partiers and non-Tea Partiers alike crammed meeting places and gave their representatives a piece of their collective minds. The news media sneered - writing off the discontent as false fomentation by a small group of plug-chewers backed by Boogie Man Republican Big Wigs. Even so, for awhile it seemed as if the message might be hitting home - as if the Democrats might pause their headlong jump off the precipice in time to take a few steps back and re-think their bill. But any hopes of sanity faded quickly, as the warm breath (read: hot air) of the progressive media pundits gave new life to the ready-to-shatter Bill, and lawmakers grew strong and resolved again - determined to ignore their constituents at all costs.

Flash forward to November, when a smiling Nancy Pelosi announced that her House (it certainly ain't ours) had passed its version of Health Care reform. For awhile, it had looked like passage might be aborted (pun intended), but two of the Blue Dog holdouts, Bart Stupak and Joe Pitts, got together and created the Stupak-Pitts amendment to prevent federal funding for abortion. For some liberals, this was a tough pill to swallow (pun intended) but enough of them eventually choked it down to pass the bill. Once again, the Spectre (pun unintended. I am, after all, a lady) rose from the puddle into which it was sinking - apparently not enough water thrown on it to complete the "I'm Melting!" process. Still, though, the Senate would have to pass something. And we all know they are not as progressive (read: Liberal) as the House.

Flash forward once again. This time to December, when Ben Nelson, Senator from Nebraska, had announced that he would not support the bill. Deprived of its 60 votes, the Bill would surely die. But wait! All it needed was a little Bribery to resuscitate it, and all would be well. And sure enough, ol' Ben latched on to a sweet deal for his state (and his state alone) like a baby latches onto its mother's breast. And on December 22, the Bill came roaring back to life again - stronger than ever, since there was now only one more hurdle to cross before it splatted onto the President's desk. That hurdle was the "conference" - the process wherein the House and Senate kick, scream, threaten and cajole in order to merge their two flavors of a bill into one giant monstrosity. As the process began, life for the Bill began to look bleak. Union bosses were upset that the President had proposed taxing "Cadillac" health-insurance plans. They didn't want their members to help carry that burden - preferring instead that the rest of us do so. Without their support, the Bill would be deprived of one of the necessities of its life: support from a key Democrat Special Interest. Things were looking bad. But the Unions squealed and squirmed, and finally secured a sweet deal that would exempt them from the extra tax until 2018 - thus opening up a multi-billion dollar cost hole in the Bill. Apparently, though, that bloody fissure was not enough to cause its death, and in mid-January it was on target to limp over the finish line to the Promised Land (that would be the President's desk). But then came B-Day, January 19, 2010, when Scott Brown won the People's Seat in Massachusetts, thus denying the Democrats their 60-vote supermajority in the Senate. This was the sword in the heart of the beast. It coughed, sputtered, and finally died that day...the glowing red light of its flame fully extinguished. The People had spoken, and the evil Terminator was vanquished. But...what's this?....Wha?.... Slowly, quietly, the Bill's flame is flickering once again. Democrats now, it is reported, are working quietly behind the scenes to pass the Bill via a means normally used for budget issues: Reconciliation. Most folks believe this won't work. They believe that the Bill is truly dead...never to come to life again for a generation (kind of like that thing in Jeepers Creepers). But I'm not so sure. I've seen enough horror movies to know how this story goes. People, gird your loins, 'cause it ain't dead yet.

Customer Service is Comatose. Where Were You When You Finally Decided You'd Had Enough?

2007-08-04T22:10:00.000-04:00

Updated as of 8/4/07) So here's the deal: It seems that I have in my possession both a laptop computer with a faulty part, and a warranty that the maker refuses to honor. It further seems that, although the maker does have a website where customers can post complaints and concerns, there is a limit on the number of words that can be posted....and my carefully-crafted letter to them exceeds that limit. It finally seems that said company has made it extremely difficult (if not impossible) for customers to find a bona-fide e-mail address to which to send complaints. So here's a thought: Since I can't post the letter to them, why don't I just post it to everyone else? Maybe then, someone from the company might run across it and cross reference it with the version (with my contact information) that I will most likely be forced to send via snail mail.

You know...I think I will.

Below is a letter of complaint that I have penned to Toshiba regarding my Qosmio G15 laptop. Think I have a valid gripe? Then please link to this page. Pass it on! Strike a blow for the little guy! (or the little woman - whichever the case might be). Even if nothing gets done, it'll sure feel good to vent (note: based on a suggestion from "YP5 Toronto", over at notebookforums.com, I've changed my original post to make it less wordy and more readable. Hope this is a bit better. Thanks, YP5!).

I would like to register a complaint regarding case. No 1-398-932960. Below is a re-cap of the events that have occurred since the purchase of my machine.

Qosmio G15 – Timeline of Customer Support
Event #1 – Purchase of Qosmio G15

Qosmio G15 purchased from Circuit City after significant research into the type of computer that I should buy. The system came with a 1 year on-site warranty.
Initial impressions: I loved it. Two disk drives (perfect for a dual-boot system), a fast processor, and Windows Media Center were huge upgrades from my previous laptop. I was in heaven.

Event #2 – The Honeymoon is Over

Around November of 2005, I was watching TV via Media Center when I noticed a series of green lines and blotches on the screen. I rebooted. Several minutes later, the lines appeared again. I rebooted. The lines disappeared until I shut down the system. Later that night, I launched the instant DVD player. The green lines re-appeared, and I realized that the problem was hardware related, since the DVD player had nothing to do with Windows.
I called technical support and was told almost immediately that I needed a new motherboard. I should have been suspicious at this point: The tech hadn’t needed much input from me to make the diagnosis. Had this problem been seen many times before?
The tech arranged an on-site call for me and sent the new motherboard to my home. A few days later, the board arrived and I scheduled a time for a Toshiba repair technician to install it. On the appointed day and time, the person arrived and installed the new motherboard without a hitch. I was a very satisfied customer.
Still a little concerned, I began to search forums and discovered that (as I had begun to suspect), the Qosmio G15 does have an issue with motherboard problems. The symptoms that I read about were exactly the ones that I had encountered. To ensure continued support, I purchased a 2 year on-site extended warranty.

Event #3 – Fire in the Hole

In February of 2006 (almost a year since I’d purchased the Qosmio), I noticed a short in the power cord. I was just about to leave for the airport on a business trip, so there was no time to address the problem via technical support. Instead, I wrapped the cord in electrical tape. That seemed to stanch the bleeding, and I went to the airport.
Three days into my trip, the electrical tape fix stopped working. I tried to tighten the tape along the shaft, but the cord began to spark. A little later, flames started to shoot from the cord. Flames. I unplugged the cord and wrote it off as a total loss.
After returning from the trip, I called technical support and asked for a replacement cord. Following is the gist of the ensuing conversations that I had during that, and subsequent calls:
- Asked technical support person for part no. PA3237U-1ACA.
- Technical support said they would send it to the house. I thanked them and then waited for the part to arrive. On the assigned date, no part appeared.
- The next day, I called technical support to ask where the part was. I was told by the tech that part no. PA3237U-1ACA was no longer in stock. I asked when it would be in stock. “Never”, I was told. Toshiba had stopped making the part.
- I expressed shock, since my system was less than a year old. How could Toshiba no longer be making the part? How was I to power my machine?
- No answer. Just a dead-pan statement that the part was no longer available.
- Went to Toshiba’s website and found that the part in question had indeed been discontinued, but that a replacement part was now available. That replacement was part no. PA3237U-3ACA.
- Called technical support to request the new part: PA3237U-3ACA. Was told by technical support person that that part wasn’t in stock either.
- Informed technical support person that, according to Toshiba’s website, part number PA3237U-3ACA WAS in stock. It was, in fact, a NEW part.
- Too bad. The technical support person informed me that he didn’t have access to the “Parts Department” database, and that therefore he couldn’t order it through them. I would have to do that myself and PAY for the new part – despite my warranty.
- I asked to speak to a supervisor, and was granted the privilege. However, the supervisor told me there was nothing he could do. I told the supervisor that it was his job to do something, and he told me to escalate the matter to the Customer Relations department.
- I hung up with the supervisor – fully intending to call Customer Relations the next morning when they were again open.
- Got home that night to find a box from Toshiba. I opened up the box and found part no. PA3237U-1ACA – the original part – sitting inside. The part worked, but I found myself wondering why I had been told that it had been discontinued. Why, also, was I told to contact Customer Relations if the part was already on its way? Questions were never answered.
- Update (12/03/06): Well, it's been less than a year since I received the PA3237U-1ACA AC adapter, and the part has developed a short in exactly the same spot as its predecessor. Knowing the flaming future that awaited the cord, I wasted no time and called technical support - thinking that my extended warranty would cover shipment of a new part. Silly me. Shortly after explaining to the tech that I needed a new adapter, she informed me that the part carries a one year warranty from the time of the purchase of the machine. So, unbeknownst to me, when my current adapter arrived in the mail, its warranty was only about 2 weeks - since the laptop itself was about 2 weeks shy of a year old. Ain't it grand? 2 weeks! Oh, and forget about the extended warranty: The adapter is not covered by it, at all. Realizing that this was a policy issue (albeit an exceedingly asinine one), I bit the bullet and ordered a replacement from the parts department. Grand total: $103.27. So just out of curiosity, has anyone else out there ever experienced these types of problems with power cords? I mean, a consistent shelf life of less than a year is a tad ridiculous, isn't it? My previous laptop was a Sony VAIO that is now about 8 years old. I've never had a single problem with it - power cord included. I would be curious to read your comments. Anyway, the upshot of all of this is that I will never again purchase a computer made by Toshiba. It's a shame, really, because my Qosmio (when it is functioning correctly) is a marvelous machine: It's ergonomic, powerful, and a joy to use. Unfortunately, its failure tally so far includes 1 motherboard, 1 system fan, and 2 power cords. And the machine is less than 2 years old. The truly sad part about all of this is that I could honestly put up with these failures if Toshiba's level of customer service was halfway decent. (Case in point: My cellphone carrier is currently Cingular Wireless. Despite their commercials, I have experienced more dropped calls with them than with any other carrier I have ever used. And yet (for now, at least), I still dutifully pay them my monthly bill. Why? Because they have amazing customer service. Their technical staff actually knows what they are talking about and can answer obscure questions, their troubleshooters are exceedingly helpful, and everyone I've spoken with has always been polite. In today's world, where the business mantra seems to be "the customer is usually wrong - and their first mistake was purchasing our product", that kind of customer service is invaluable. Would that it were more prevalent).

Event #4 – System Fan Failure

June, 2006. I started to notice a high pitched noise coming from my Qosmio. I bent down to listen, and figured that it sounded like one of the system fans.
I called technical support and was told that I was probably right, and that a fan would be sent to my home, along with a technician to install it.
Before the order could be set up, however, the tech suddenly informed me that my warranty didn’t cover on-site repairs.
Yes it did, I said.
No it didn’t, she said.
I found the documentation for the warranty and read it to her over the phone.
“Oh”, she was finally convinced. It did. The tech then said that their database was out of date, and I would need to call Customer Relations to get it updated. Then I could call back.
I called Customer Relations the next day. I was told by the “Relator” that she knew that I had an on-site warranty. The technical support database was not up to date.
The Relator then said that my warranty didn’t matter: Toshiba had determined that the Qosmio G15’s had a systemic motherboard problem, and that no on-site repairs could be performed on any machine until that machine was sent back to Toshiba for a motherboard repair.
I told the Relator that I had already had a new motherboard installed.
That didn’t matter, she said. This was an upgrade that had to be performed at Toshiba
I informed the Relator that I couldn’t send in the machine because it had been utilized as a company laptop (ie: the company that I work for). As such, and as an employee, I couldn’t send it away to a non-company approved facility. Repairs needed to be performed on-site so that I could ensure that no tampering had occurred. I therefore had no option to send it off to Toshiba.
The Relator told me that that didn’t matter. Toshiba had to repair the machine at their site.
“So my on-site warranty is useless?” I asked the Relator. In so many words, the Relator said that it was, since Toshiba would not relent – despite the fact that all I need is a new system fan.
Realizing that my warranty, which cost $224.10 was now useless, I ordered two fans (not knowing which one in my system was bad) – intending to repair the system myself. Later on, I realized that this wasn’t a good solution. If I open up the machine, I will never again have a claim on my warranty. What really needs to happen is described below. Toshiba should:
- Perform the on-site service, as requested, for the duration of the extended warranty period. This service will not require that I send the Qosmio G15 in question to the Toshiba Depot for a motherboard upgrade.
- If the on-site service cannot be granted, then I expect to be reimbursed, in full for:
  - The cost of the warranty ($224.10)
  - The cost of the system fans that I purchased to affect a repair of the current defective part ($100.66 – I decided to purchase both the VGA and the CPU fans, just in case my original diagnosis was incorrect and the other fan was actually the one experiencing failure).

Given the above synopsis of my continuing issue, I would appreciate it if you would please contact me immediately so that we might come to an agreement regarding which of the above remedies should be employed. My contact information follows this communication. If I cannot receive satisfaction, I will escalate the issue to the Better Business Bureau.

Thank you for your attention.

Updates (7/6/07):

I finally got hold of someone at Customer Relations who gave me the e-mail address to which I can send my complaint. In case anyone with similar problems wants to know, it is:

support@globalservice.toshiba.com

Caution: I haven't yet sent the letter, so I have no idea whether this address is really just pseudocode for /dev/null (for all you Unix geeks out there. English Translation for non-Unix geeks: /dev/null = Black Hole). We'll see...
There's another individual out there who has been having problems withToshiba customer support, and who has been blogging his experiences. Check out his posts at: Paucity of Support.
spybyscript: Thanks for the link!

Updates (7/7/06):

I received a couple of additional e-mail address from a poster over on Notebook Forums. They are:
CSD.Customer.Service@tais.toshiba.com
and
heather.hillewaert@tais.toshiba.com
The poster indicated that these addresses might be old, but I will try them out just the same. Thanks, Banana19!
I also received a response from an administrator over at the Laptop Magazine Forum. To quote the poster: "We recently did a review on tech support from all the major notebook manufacturers and Toshiba was the worst."

Updates (7/9/06):

Here's a very interesting article that was posted on Digg the other day. Given all of the above, it certainly makes for interesting reading.
I have sent the e-mail to Toshiba (actually, to all of the e-mail addresses listed above). I will post more as progress is made (or even if it is not).

Updates (7/11/06):

I received a call from a Toshiba rep (Heather Hillwaert) last night. Unfortunately, she called when I was in the middle of a meeting, so I couldn't get to the phone. Fortunately, she left a message that indicated that she would call back today. I am waiting with baited breath to see if anything productive comes of the call, and will post the results here.
It is interesting to note that I have not received anything other than an automated response from the "support@globalservice.toshiba.com" e-mail address that I was given when I contacted Customer Relations. I am glad, therefore, that I was tipped off to Ms. Hillwaert's e-mail address from a poster over at notebookforums.com, and also from the article on Digg.

Updates (7/12/06):

Looks like we may have liftoff! I spoke with Heather Hillwaert yesterday and again reviewed my situation (something I was beginning to tire of, as I've had to repeat the same thing over and over to a long parade of techs and reps). Initially, Ms. Hillwaert's response was annoyingly reminiscent of what I had encountered from everyone else I had spoken with up until then: "The repair has to be done at Toshiba", "A motherboard upgrade is necessary", yada yada yada. As she continued to talk, I realized that she simply didn't understand that I couldn't send the system back to Toshiba. I also realized that the reason why she didn't understand had a little something to do with the fact that she was doing most of the talking - so much so that there was virtually no way that I could wedge a word in edgewise. Finally, I became frustrated and brought her up short. I told her that she needed to be quiet for a few moments and let me fully explain my situation. Perhaps then, I continued, she might be able to fully understand where I was coming from (aside: I am convinced that Toshiba rep training includes verbal stonewalling as a technique to try when encountering a "difficult" customer. I ran across non-stop talkers on too many occasions for this to be mere coincidence). At any rate, once Ms. Hillwaert finally gave me a chance to participate in the conversation, she seemed to understand where I was coming from. Either that, or she was just sick of talking to me and wanted to find the most expedient way to get me off the phone. Either way, it matters not to me. The only thing that's important right now is that I have an on-site repair scheduled!!!! Yup. Ms. Hillwaert agreed to speak to the Powers That Be and arrange for a new system fan to be installed for me on-site and under warranty. I keep pinching myself, because this is all I ever wanted in the way of a resolution to the problem - and yet it seemed to be more difficult to attain than a cool drink of water in the desert. The repair technician is scheduled to come out to the house tomorrow, and hopefully, everything will go smoothly. I'll follow up with (hopefully) one last report tomorrow.

Updates (7/13/06):

Well, it may have taken awhile, but I'm finally typing this entry on a laptop with two brand spanking new system fans. Yes!!!!! Today, the technician came out and I sat and watched while he spread the laptop and all its inherent parts all over the kitchen table (on this model, one has to do such things to access the system fans). Fortunately for me, the tech was the same person who had replaced my motherboard, and I have a tremendous amount of confidence in his ability. This guy is smart - very smart - and he knows exactly what he is doing. Within 1-1/2 hours, the tech had the fans installed, and humpty-dumpty was all back together again (with no screws left over!!). After buttoning things up, the tech fired up the laptop and had me check things out before he left - just to make sure that everything was in tact. All I can say is: so far...so good. So! It looks like my saga will actually have a happy ending. I suppose that one of the morals of my story is: The squeaky wheel gets the grease. Sometimes you just have to keep bugging people to finally get the bowels moving, and once in awhile the trick is figuring out just who to bug. In that regard, I have to thank the poster on notebookforums.com who pointed me to Ms. Hillwaert's e-mail address.

Over and out...

Update (5/21/07):

Well, I've finally decided that it's time to retire the Qosmio after slightly over two years of use (er...subtract about 2 months from that two years of "use" comment). Have I made this decision because I'm ready to chuck an XP has-been for a bright new Vista model? No. Have I made this decision because my laptop is no longer powerful enough to meet my needs? Definitely not. So, why then have I suddenly decided to throw up my hands and graduate to Beyond Qosmio? Well, it's simply because I've come to the painful conclusion that (as much as I love the machine when it's actually working), the Qosmio's downtime is beginning to exceed its uptime. Uh, that's a nice way of saying that it's a steaming pile of crap that is now exhibiting too many failures to reliably repair. Repair at this point would have to consist of stripping it naked and re-dressing it one article of clothing at a time. So what happened?! you say. Well, about two months ago, one of the two hard drives started on a slow spiral towards death. It didn't fail immediately. Just got more and more annoyingly slow - coughing and sputtering during boot-up and any other meaningful operation. So, I had the drive replaced. Less than two days after I had the Qosmio back in my hot little hands, I started hearing a high pitched squeal coming from the speakers: While playing music, the combination of screech and music sounded much like the static one would get by turning up the volume on a pair of cheap speakers. Magnified by about 10 times. I was pretty sure this was a driver problem, and was in the process of tracking it down when suddenly a single vertical green pixel-wide line appeared on the screen. Oh crap. I was sure it was the motherboard barfing again. But then I hooked the machine up to my TV and the line wasn't there. So my guess is that the LCD is about to go belly-up. This lasted for about two days. Then tonight when I turned the machine on again, I found the single green line had been happily joined by a riot of additional thick vertical lines...the old familiar motherboard problem. That would be the REPLACEMENT motherboard that began my entire foray into the wonders of Qosmio-land. So, let's recap. In its short two-year life span, my G15 has had the following problems:

A burned-out motherboard
A broken system fan
A burned-out power cord
Another burned-out power cord (did I mention that a second one blew out?)
A failed hard drive
A failing LCD screen
A second burned-out motherboard

Amazing that one can fork over a $3,000 wad of cash to the local computer store - confident that they have purchased a quality machine worthy of said wad - only to discover that what they have really purchased is a very expensive turd. So, I'm done. I close out this chapter of my blog and lay it to gentle rest. But I will end with one admonition. Take my advice: Never NEver NEVer NEVEr NEVER by a Toshiba computer product!!!!!!!!!! Unless, of course - like me - you wish to be jerked around like a rag doll by various and sundry technical "support" personnel and eventually find yourself forced to resort to the only cathartic remedy out there: Writing a Blog.

Over and out...

Update (8/2/07): Well, just when you think I'm gone, I'm back. I couldn't resist adding this positive update - since the last one ended with such despair. So here's the update:

I am typing this blog entry on a brand new laptop!! Yup. I really can't be without some sort of notebook computer in my life, so I decided to do some research and find something that would suit my needs. Number 1 criterion: It had to not be a Toshiba.

Fortunately, right around the time that my Qosmio died, I ran into a friend who does computer consulting on the side. Since I hadn't ventured into the Land of Laptop for a couple of years and didn't know what was out there, my friend agreed to provide me with some advice. He recommended several different reliable brands, and I checked them all out. After running around the web for quite a little while, I finally decided on one of his suggested companies: Falcon Northwest (which I had never heard of, before) out of Oregon. There were many things that appealed to me about this particular company - foremost of which were:

They build your machine by hand when you order, and test it thoroughly before shipping it out. This might mean that your system will take a little longer to get to you (mine took 3 weeks), but at least you can be assured that the box has been put through its paces before it ever reaches your door.
They do not outsource their technical support. This means that when you call them for assistance with a problem, you can be assured that you're not speaking to someone half way around the world (well, unless you're half way around the world from Oregon, that is). If English is your native tongue, it's theirs, too, and you won't have to worry about the problems that arise from the ol' language barrier.
They custom paint their machines. Yeah, custom paint. I have to admit that this is what clinched it for me. They literally have artists on staff who will pretty much do whatever you want when it comes to decorating your new box. Want a special logo on it? No problem. If you provide them with a logo, they'll provide you with a freakishly amazing reproduction on your machine. For a price, of course ;)
They target their machines towards gamers, so they pack them with solid hardware. The laptops that I looked at basically came in two versions: Normal and Freaking Ridiculous. How ridiculous? Well, need a laptop with 2 video cards and 3 hard drives? Then the FR (my terminology) may be just what you're looking for.

I opted for Falcon's TLX model ("Normal", if you're keeping up with the above categories), since I didn't have over $6K to drop on a new FR box. It came about a week ago - clothed in this amazing auto paint that changes color depending on the angle that you view it from. One of my co-workers saw it and ruefully shook his head. He had just bought his daughter a very nice laptop for college, but it was plain black, and she was a little disappointed. "She will never know that this even exists", he said - smiling wryly. So far, I'm very pleased (although...you know...I've only had it a week): The laptop seems solid, and I haven't found a thing wrong with it. I still have many tweaks that I want to add to get it set up the way I like it, but so far so good. I must say that I was pleasantly surprised by Falcon's personal touches. How many times have you ordered a laptop from Company Huge and received a T-shirt and a cool coffee mug (and the vacuum-packed coffee to put in it) with your order? Falcon hasn't gotten too big for its britches yet, and I am just fine with that.

So! I guess all's well that ends well. The tech who originally worked on my old Qosmio has offered to buy it off of me, so at least it's not a total loss. And every time I think about my spit-shined new TLX, I get a satisfied little internal grin. And that's pretty much worth everything.

Oh, and I'll post some pictures of it when I get a chance.

Over and out (again)...

Update (6/4/07): Okay. Here are a couple shots of the new laptop. I have to apologize in advance for the quality. There's only so much you can do in a pinch with a camera phone.

Falcon TLX notebook. Is it blue?

Or purple?

Or maybe both?

Actually, there really is no true name to describe the color; it's different depending on the angle at which you view it. So far, I've seen: purple, aqua, emerald green, gold, brownish, and lavender. Falcon calls the color "Chromalusion" - and I guess that's as good a name as any other.

ABC News' Black Hole...Where Will You Be?

2006-09-03T19:34:00.000-04:00

I recently heard about a news piece that ABC did on the "looming possibility" that a black hole would one day swallow up the earth. After the comforting introduction, I heard follow-up interviews in which unsuspecting "men on the street" were asked what they would do if they knew the exact date and time of their demise. The answers were typical: spend more time with family, engage in copious amounts of partying, etc... As I listened, the news story eerily reminded me of a little experiment that I had conducted at my place of work not too terribly long ago: It began when, for apparently no reason whatever, I asked one of my deliciously frank and forthright co-workers what he would do if he knew that a nuclear bomb had been launched, was headed his way, and was going to make impact in only a few minutes. To my surprise, ol' Lou did not miss a beat: "I'd grab a lawn chair, crack open a beer, put on my sunglasses, sit back and watch the show," he said decidedly. I remember busting out laughing while simultaneously looking at him in disbelief.
"You're kidding!" I said, still laughing. "That's what you'd do? You wouldn't try to find a bomb shelter or something?"
"Of course not," he said - smiling in his own right, but betraying deadly serious under the grin. "What's the point of trying to survive it? The world won't be livable afterward, anyway. Might as well grab the beers, enjoy the light show, and go out happy."
I have to admit to a certain degree of admiration for Lou's bravado at that point. If it had been almost anyone else, I would have chalked the answer up to posturing. But with Lou, I had no doubt that an impending nuclear attack would indeed find him - beer in hand - basking in an SPF 5000 glow.
At least a year after that conversation, Lou and I once again found ourselves re-hashing the subject. "Remember when I asked you about what you would do if there was a nuclear bomb?" I asked. Lou remembered distinctly and re-rehearsed his original answer to the question. As we laughed at the memory, a couple of guys passed us in the hall, and - curiosity being what it is - wanted to know why we were laughing. It was then that I realized that I was looking at the perfect little petri dish in which to conduct the perfect little unscientific experiment. What would these others say, I wondered, if I posed the same question to them? And so I did. Or rather, we did. Seeing immediately where I was going, Lou helped me describe our original conversation, and then waited expectantly while I fired away: What would you do if you knew your home was about to be hit with a nuclear blast? The first guy to answer thought for a second, and then let loose with his answer: "Well, I know one thing," he said sardonically, "there are about 4 or 5 people that I'd take out before I went myself." I'd be lying, here, if I didn't admit that peals of morbid laughter followed that comment. Our attention then turned to the other guy standing with us. "So what would you do?" I asked him. Like the previous commenter, he thought for a moment, and then offered: "Well, at that point it sure wouldn't be a problem to run around nekkid, so I'd probably do that." At that point, we lost it. I laughed so hard I almost cried - all the while marveling internally at the vast differences in how the human psyche handles impending doom. From lawn chairs to the altogether, it was all there. Granted, engineers are a strange breed, and my bunch being perhaps stranger than most, we might not represent a perfectly scientific sample. But if I could encounter such diversity of response in my little circle, how much more would there be if we widened things up a bit? If the question were thrown out to a thousand, how would the answers differ, and how would they be the same? Perhaps that is what ABC was wondering when they did their piece. Black hole? Nuclear attack? The result is the same. Where would you be...if you knew?

Where were you on John Mark Day?

2006-08-29T08:54:00.000-04:00

So where were you when you heard that they'd found JonBenet's killer? And where were you when you heard that they hadn't?

I was actually in the same spot and doing the same thing on both occasions: working on my computer and taking a brief break to do a quick check of the latest news. When I first read that someone had been arrested in the case, my initial feelings all crowded next to the largest and most central emotion amongst them: disbelief. I could barely wrap my head around the idea that - after 10 years - JonBenet's elusive killer had finally been apprehended. Caught. Brought to justice. As my brain kneaded the news over and over again in my mind, the apparent truth finally started to tumble in. It wasn't long afterward that the floodgates opened, and a sea of roughshod thoughts rushed in: Who was he? What did he look like? How do they know it was him? And finally: There will at last be justice for the Ramseys, and that cloud of suspicion will finally be replaced by a silver lining. As these thoughts rushed unhindered in my mind, I couldn't help but feel a certain subsequent contempt for the media. How often had we been told by the wise punditocracy that suspicion had settled on John and Patsy Ramsey and from there had never taken flight? How many times had the media circus asked the parents snarky questions - their voices tinged with condescending disbelief? And now, how glorious would it be if they had been wrong all along? Oh, it was all just so irresistibly juicy. In short, I exulted in the news of the arrest - if for no other reason than to see the reporteratti proved wrong.

And then came the press conference. You know. The long-awaited, much ballyhooed press conference in which the media speculated that Mary Lacy - the Boulder D.A. - would answer many of the questions that they had been asking since John Mark Day. When I first turned it on, I was looking forward to a few answers, myself. I knew, of course, that the D.A. wouldn't be able to reveal too much about the case, but I was hoping she'd at least be able to toss us a few scrappy tidbits. What was some of the evidence against the accused? How certain was she that she had her man? That kind of thing. Needless to say, I was sorely disappointed at what subsequently transpired that morning. Frankly, to this day I'm not sure what it was called, but I know that "press conference" was definitely not the correct term. As I watched, my reaction ran the gamut from curious, to frustrated, to exasperated, to yelling at the TV. The lion's share of the event saw Mary Lacy congratulating (figuratively) Tom, Dick, Harry, Aunt Gertrude, and every other individual who had had anything whatsoever to do with apprehending John Mark Karr (and it seemed to me that "anything whatsoever" included breathing in the same air that had been at one time utilized by those working on the case). My exasperation was palpable. Why in the world hadn't they just held a nice private conference call to thank all of the players involved? Or a departmental awards ceremony? Anything other than a media-frenzied press conference. It only got worse. After the thank-fest, the floor was opened up for questions. And there were precious few answers. Large percentages of the queries were not answered for fear of jeopardizing the case, and I myself wound up scratching my head as a result. Why had they called a press conference? The only rationale I could fathom was the thank-fest, and - as I mentioned - that could have been done behind closed doors. And that was when I began to get a sense that things were not quite what they should be.

As the days went on, I watched the ensuing media circus spin itself into a rabid frenzy. Most of the pundits were doubtful about the guilt of the accused, but that didn't stop the questions from being asked, the speculation from being dribbled from the collective foaming maw, or the audience (myself included) from watching the entire spectacle.

And so we come to today. As before, I read about the news before actually watching or listening to it, and I was genuinely curious to hear what would be said in response. When I finally got to my car, I turned on my XM and listened attentively to the analysis. Within minutes, I was thunderstruck. One after the other, the pundits marveled at the media circus that had consumed so many since the original announcement. And one after another, the pundits seemed to lay blame at Ms. Lacy's feet for actually revving up the frenzy, and in the end committing the sin of rendering it unjustified. I marveled as I heard commentary of this type from one individual in particular - the same individual who I had heard pontificating when the circus was in full swing. Now, suddenly, this man was playing an outsider - a wounded news consumer whose delicate sensibilities had been offended by the overt blood lust of the media hounds. As I listened, I couldn't help, now, but yell at the radio. "Why is it that the media is the only institution that is granted full immunity in our society?" I fumed. Freedom of the press is one thing, but freedom to destroy anyone and anything at will is quite another. What other collective enjoys the privilege of yelling 'fire' in a crowded theater, reports on the subsequent chaos, and then shakes its hair-sprayed head at the irresponsibility of those who yelled 'fire' in the first place? What other collective can do all this while divorcing itself completely from the situation and looking with wide-eyed innocence at the chaos that it has wreaked? I know one thing. It must be good work if you can get it.

As I thought about the practically world-wide frenzy that had been wrought over the past couple of weeks - about how an apparently innocent (at least of this crime) man can be subjected to such intense, searing scrutiny - I wondered: How many other times has the unimportant been reported out of proportion? Any how many times has the important gone unnoticed and unheralded? If freedom of the press renders our media unquestioned and above reproach, are we not elevating them to a level unsurpassed by any other national institution? And does that not give anyone but me a less than warm, fuzzy feeling?

Anyway, that's how I see the whole thing. Funny how one's thoughts can begin from an initial topic of interest and then take a detour to explore one or two dark corners behind the glittering backdrop. So what are your impressions of the John Mark Karr case? Send us your thoughts. We'll keep you posted.

Where Were You When You Realized: Too Much Technology Can Be a Bad Thing

2006-07-20T00:07:00.000-04:00

Sometimes it's the little things in life that get under your skin; the things that you normally don't think about, but that occasionally reach out, smack you upside the head, and demand your attention. I was recently reminded of one such thing yesterday, and thought that picking up the keyboard and writing about it might prove therapeutic. So I'm writing.

When you were a kid, did you ever think about what new gadgets might populate the planet in the future? I'm talking "Jetson" gadgets, here: housekeeping robots, flying cars, semi-talking dogs...and hands-free toilets. Now, my recollection doesn't assign that last item to a Jetsons episode, but it certainly is right up the alley: cool, futuristic, and hassle-free. Well, such was my supposition when, one day at work, they ripped out all of the old "that's so 90's" toilets and put in state-of-the-art replacements. As an added bonus, the landlord also installed futuristic faucets - the kind that would automatically turn on when you held your hands under them, and turn off when you pulled away. I must say that all of us felt quite special with the new additions gracing our facilities. Such amenities were a luxury, so this was something to savor. And savor them, I did. No more touching of dirty bathroom surfaces for me. The future was here, and I was going to take full advantage of it.

Until the problems started.

Now, let's keep in mind, here, how these wondrous hands-free fixtures actually work: They are equipped with a sensor that detects reflected laser light (ie: when your hands pass under the faucet, or you bum is deposited on the porcelain) or clearances when the reflection is removed (ie: opposite of what I wrote before). Well, I don't know if these sensors wear out over time or if I started wearing strange-colored clothing - I just know that the future has not been looking too good of late.

At no time was this reality illustrated more clearly than yesterday evening. So what happened? Well, yesterday evening I was sitting at my desk, working late, when suddenly I became sick. Now, this happens to me occasionally for one reason or another, but until then it had always conveniently occurred at home. You know the kind of sick: The kind where you feel like you've eaten something that doesn't agree with you, and your furious body is determined to expel whatever-it-was out of any and every possible orifice. Yeah. That kind of sick. So I rushed to the nearest facility and did what one normally does when things are threatening to come out both ends in an inopportune place (I'm trying really hard to be as delicate as I can, here): sat down to take care of one end, and prayed very hard that the other end would hold off until the first one was finished. And, um, what happened while I was sitting? The toilet misfired. Yup. The toilet flushed while in use. Well (sill trying to be delicate) I don't know about your facilities, but ours tend to splash during flushage, and I myself have never really relished the prospect of taking a bath in public toilet water. So, I stood up. Waited impatiently for the flush to finish. Sat down again. At this point, I knew the all-too-familiar drill: If I made one movement (ie: reached for the nearby paper), the toilet would misfire again. In its entirety, the drill would be:

Sit.
Reach for paper.
***Toilet Misfire***
Stand.
Sit.
Reach for more paper.
***Toilet Misfire***
Stand.
Sit.....

You get the idea. There have been times when I've been treated to this "wash-rinse-repeat" cycle four or five times during a typical trip to the facilities. I must say, though, that (fortunately for me that night) this time the cycle was only repeated once. I don't know. Maybe I was wearing just the right colored clothes (I had some white on) to get the sensor to operate correctly at least some of the time. At any rate, I was thankful for the single loop. So afterward I was feeling some better, and simultaneously looking thankfully heavenward because I had managed to tamp down the urge to expel out the other end (first time I've ever done that. Amazing what untapped strength one will find when faced with the prospect of ralphing in a public bathroom). Pleased, I walked to the sink to wash my hands. Knowing what was to come, I held the hands under the faucet. Little streams of tepid water slightly wet my fingers. The water stopped. I held them under again. More little streams. The water stopped. Sequence:

Water starts.
***Water stops.***
"D'oh!"
Water starts.
Apply soap.
***Water stops.***
"You stupid...!"
Water starts.
Wash han...
***Water stops.***
"%$!*&!!%!!!"
Repeat.

Pretty clear. So after all this, I have to ask myself: Is the original purpose of installing the hands-free toilets ("they'll use less water!") being fulfilled? Something tells me that 5 or 6 successive flushes per use means "no". And what about the original purpose of the hands-free faucet? Well, to be honest, I'm not really sure what that was. Unless it was designed to frustrate the crap out of sud-soaked bathroom-goers (difficult in and of itself, considering the foregoing). In which case, it's been a glittering success.

Yup. Sometimes the future.....just needs to stay there.

So am I the only one that's had this problem? I've talked to my co-workers, and none of them have ever experienced it. Am I alone in the universe?

The 2006 World Cup

2006-07-15T04:07:00.000-04:00

2006. The World Cup. All who have breath hold it in anticipation.
Radio and television outlets advertise their schedules, animated announcers with European accents promise blow-by-blow analysis, and we here in America are giddy with expectation. Or maybe we're just giddy. Because we're laughing. At everyone else. Because most of us could pretty much care less about the whole freaking thing.

So where was I when the World Cub began? While it was going on? When it ended? Sorry. I got nothin'. And something tells me that I'm not alone. Now, don't get me wrong. It's not that we Americans have no regard for football (or, as we prefer to call it: "soccer"). On the contrary, we have entire classes of people (we call them "soccer moms") who shuttle their children off to leagues to learn to play the sport. They learn about competition. And about team spirit. And about how to bounce a medium-sized white ball on their heads. These kids, I'm sure, have a real love for the game - and many of them will probably grow up to be the type of World Cup fans that will do America proud. But most of us weren't raised by soccer moms. No. When we were growing up, the game was baseball - and in those years, parents patted their kids on the head and sent them off to play Little League, or T-ball, or softball, or some other such variant. Baseball, after all, was the great American past-time, and parents wanted to make sure that their kids weren't passing their time with any penny ante sport that involved precious little upper body participation.

And then there was football. True football. The kind of football where large men with great wads of padding try valiantly to injure each other while running a smallish oblong ball up and down a field. The kind of football where, on very special occasions during a game, the large padded men kick the living stuffing out of the oblong ball. Either way, the game has historically had all the elements that Americans love: gladiator-style combat on a bright, sometimes-indoors field (we like it better when its indoors. We don't like getting chilled), the occasional concussion-followed-by-removal-from-the-field, and - if you're lucky - a coach-thrown trantrum on the sidelines. Let's face it, it's macho to the max: No goal guarded by a single overwhelmed goalie in this game. Kidding, right? Real football goals are guarded by entire defensive lines. And when the goals are breached, there is no girlie netting to constrain jubilant, in-your-face, dancing displays of superiority (although those were constrained by P.C. fiat decree. Also very American). Yup. Along with baseball, we were raised on football. Practically weaned on it. This, despite the fact that many a skittish mother has refused to allow her young son to play the game for fear of the inflict of permanent damage to his un-scarred face - or legs, or arms, or what-have-you. Multitudes of American sons, however, have defied their nervous mothers and entered the game - sustaining time-honored injuries in the process. That's also very American.

So given our history of a love for Sports Americana, where does this whole "soccer" thing fit in? Will we one day bow our heads in obeisance because the rest of the world chides our current lack of interest? Will our streets - as those in Europe - one day be deserted in broad daylight because "the soccer game is on"? Well, consider this: It wasn't that long ago that Brandi Chastain became a national hero after the US team took the Women's World Cup in 1999. But it also wasn't that long ago that a resulting fledgling women's league (WUSA) flamed out due at least partially to lack of subsequent American interest. We're fickle that way. That's also very American. So it remains a valid question: Will we one day join the rest of the World and embrace the game of socc...uh...football? Oh, who knows? Yeah, maybe one day some athletic soccer czar will supplant Jeff Gordon on tomorrow's Wheaties box (okay, it was a Mini-Wheats box. Whatever). But don't bet on it. Jeff's got 800 horsepower. And in America, that'll get you a whole lot farther than a little fancy footwork.

So what about you? Do you share my rabid apathy for all things soccer? Were you into the World Cup this year? (oh, and it's an overt foul to say that you were into the head-butt. We were all into the head-butt). Send us your thoughts. We'll keep you posted.

The Reddit Down Vote: What's Up With That?

2006-07-15T04:00:00.000-04:00

This article is for all you redditors, out there.
I've got a question, I'm hoping that you can help me with the answer, and I'll get right to it: What makes a redditor down-mod a submission? I'll tell you right now that I've Google'd many articles on this particular subject and most of them didn't make any sense to me. There is, for instance, the classic high-and-mighty "yeah, right" that says that an article should only be down-modded if it's written poorly. The theory maintains that a well-written article should be left happily alone - even if one disagrees with its content. Yeah, that all sounds grand and noble, but it's so much twaddle as far as I'm concerned. An exquisitely-written article that provides instruction on baby harp seal killing is destined for a date with the down arrow as far as I'm concerned. Let's face it: Sometimes, content trumps style. But what about other articles? What about submissions that are from all appearances interesting, timely, and even helpful? Why do they get voted down? Case in point: A little while ago, I ran across an article discussing a gene therapy that had been used to successfully reverse sickle cell anemia. Sicle cell anemia! That's a serious problem that is probably faced by millions of people, and here a poster had discovered an article that offered a little beacon of hope. Hope that perhaps many people didn't even know existed. The article had a score of 1. Included in that score was a single down vote. Now, not even dealing with the paltry number of up-votes, how could someone vote something like that down? I mean, that's like voting down a post that announces the discovery of a cure for cancer. What's up with that? I felt sorry for the post and modded it up to protest the injustice - at the same time, asking myself: What in the world goes through people's minds? And here's the kicker: Today I ran across an article that asked readers to download an engine that would allow their computer power to aid in cancer research. That article had a more respectable 4 points (still with 2 down votes, though!). So why was this submission more worthy than the other? And for that matter, what was behind those 2 down votes? Is there a disturbance in the force that I am unaware of? Someone give me a clue, here, because I sure can't beg, borrow or steal a decent one for myself. I got nothin' but the few clues that I've run across in my reading, and they are listed below. Do any of these make sense? Are there reasons that I haven't thought of?

Theories:

No matter what the content, new articles get voted down because they are competing with someone else's submission. For the post from user "itsallaboutme" to live, the competition must die.
The article touches on a personal pet peeve. I've down-modded one or two submissions that committed this sin, myself, but I can't see how the two above examples apply.
Users check out another person's karma to help them make a decision about upping or downing an article. Good is up, bad is down. If this is the case, what's the magic karma threshold?
The article is a dupe, and so must die no matter how excruciatingly exquisite the content.

Hey, that's all I got, folks. What am I missing?

Where Were You The First Time You...

2006-07-04T12:56:00.000-04:00

Okay, an anonymous poster has suggested a new topic of discussion. You can read Anonymous' comment here.
Here at M2M, I want to keep my readers happy - so I am pleased to announce the birth of the "Where were you the First Time You..?" page. Wait! Don't get too excited! As my reply to Anonymous suggests, there is one particular topic that will be off limits (if you don't know what that is, think about the last "very special" episode of any teen oriented TV program you've ever seen). But anything other than that is fair game....within reason. Obviously, your story about where you were when you stole your first car might come under a little scrutiny. But you get the idea.

So have fun, and remember that all comments are moderated, so your post won't appear right away.

The Great Fire of '95 (...or thereabouts)

2006-06-26T05:14:00.000-04:00

I'm feeling in a bit of a quirky mood, today, and it occurs to me that I should take the occasion to write about The Great Fire. "Great Fire," you say? "Would that be the Great Chicago Fire?" No, no, that would be the Great-Kitchen-Fire-Caused-By-Overheated-Cooking-Fat fire. There's a difference. Yes, today I've decided to write about something with which none of my readers will have any semblance of familiarity. But hey, Author's License, right? Every once in awhile, Midnight must indulge.

So, let me set this up for you: It was early evening some 10 or 11 years ago at the family homestead (read "house"). My brother had dropped by for a visit and was downstairs somewhere while I was upstairs in the bathroom - looking in the mirror while getting ready for something or other. All of the sudden I heard a loud commotion downstairs: raised voices, rapidly approaching and retreating footsteps, the general sounds that one only hears when something-not-quite-right either has occurred, is occurring, or will be occurring momentarily. I flew downstairs to determine just how rapidly my heart should be beating, and quickly traced Commotion Ground Zero to the kitchen area. Stopping short as soon as I rounded the corner, I at last saw the cause of the melee: There, in front of me, were flames shooting upward from the stove - licking the cabinet and microwave oven above them. Said microwave was emitting a loud lowish-pitched moan - something akin to what you might expect to hear emanating from the gullet of a wounded water buffalo. More chaotic than this, though, was the sight of various and sundry members of my family, exhibiting unexpected reactions to the calamity: Dad had dashed into a nearby storage closet where we kept a fire extinguisher handy, and was holding the Red Avenger like a fearless hunter with his trusty weapon...but he couldn't figure out how to make it fire. Meanwhile, my brother - having learned from countless childhood classroom instruction the basics of Stop, Drop, and Roll, was crouched on all fours - exiting the immediate smoke-filled vicinity as best he could in the awkward position. Mom was there as well, but in the excitement I couldn't hear clearly what she was saying or see what she was doing. As all of this was going on, my mind blanked for a second, but then I remembered that there was a second fire extinguisher in the basement. Finally given something to focus on, I ran downstairs, retrieved the extinguisher, and brought it back to the site of the still-raging fire. Quickly, I adopted the same fearless hunter stance that Dad had employed. With the same result. In a flash, Dad looked over at me - exasperated - when he realized that I was apparently having no more luck with my extinguisher than he was having with his. "Well, how do you work this thing?!" he asked, annoyed and breathless.
"I don't know." I replied. "I'm pressing the trigger but it's not going down."
"You mean we've got 9 degrees in this house and no one knows how to work this thing?!" he asked, incredulous. This was too much. Mom, Dad, my brother, and I all burst out laughing. The fire would have to wait.

After finally regaining some measure of self-control, I tried to focus once again, finally thinking disgustedly to myself that I was going to have to read the blasted fire extinguisher directions (keeping in mind, here, that the geek aversion to reading any directions of any kind is legend). So, I turned the extinguisher around such that the affixed instructions were facing me (hey, we were nothing if not prepared. Even though we had no idea what the colorful metaphor we were doing) and began to read.

It took me a second to absorb the step-by-steps in the surrounding chaos, but I was finally able to make heads and tails of them. Carefully executing the instructions, I disengaged the trigger lock, pointed the extinguisher at the fire and squeezed. White foam spewed from the canister, and...oh...I felt the power. I was Conan. I was Xena. Hear me roar. Thrilled with the immediate death of the flames that were hit with the foam, I aimed the nozzle at anything that was red, hot, and sparkly - and probably at several things that weren't. All too soon (I was having fun at this point), it was over. The fire was out, and the kitchen was bathed in foam.

And then the fire trucks arrived.

After the adrenaline rush from the excitement exited unceremoniously from within to without, I suddenly came to the realization that all of the smoke that I had inhaled prior to my Conanic conversion was starting to take a little bit of a toll. Without the benefit of the adrenaline (which does wonders for those - like myself - who grew up with asthma), the reality of the situation was really beginning to kick in. And my lungs were the ones getting kicked. Not wanting to take any chances, Dad decided to run me over to the ER while Mom and my brother stayed behind with the firefighters.

In the hospital, the attending nurse did what I suppose they usually do in such cases: drew blood in order to take a gas content analysis. Fortunately, everything came back fine, and I just ended up taking a little something for the asthma. Then it was back to the homestead again.

There, the kitchen was sorry and damp - doused as it had been by the foam. The remains of the microwave were charred and cave-like, but I found myself glad that at least the annoying thing wasn't screaming anymore. In time the microwave was replaced, the damaged cabinets were repaired, and the kitchen gleamed again as if nothing had ever happened. I found out later that the fire had started in a pan where hot oil had been left on the stove for just a tad too long.

But all was well that ended well, and I must say that once the initial chaos, panic, and sheer annoyance (Dad) was over, it did make for a great story. I put it in my Christmas letter that year.

So! Obviously, none of you can really contribute to the question: "Where were you during the Great-Kitchen-Fire-Caused-By-Overheated-Cooking-Fat fire?", so we'll have to improvise. Do any of you have recollection of somewhat maniacal family events that seemed ominous at first, but that - looking back - just melded into a good story? Send us your thoughts. We'll keep you posted.

The Day that John Lennon Died

2006-06-24T23:41:00.001-04:00

Ok, before I start, I need to pre-exonerate myself by stating that this is probably one of the most embarrassing posts that I will submit (if not the most embarrassing).

Relief.

Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'll begin:

On December 8, 1980, John Lennon was shot and killed by Mark David Chapman, a sometime "fan" who was later given 20 years to life for his crime. On that day, I remember seeing images on the family room television - though to this day I honestly couldn't tell you whether those images were created by what my eyes saw on the screen, or by what my mind created from subsequent verbal accounts. The newscasters gave voice to the scenes, stating mournfully that John Lennon had been assassinated.

And my response was: "John Lennon? Who's he?" Yeah. So now you understand why I began by saying that this would be an embarrassing post. I honestly did not know who John Lennon was. I'd never heard his name. I'd never seen his face. I was completely ignorant. And my age at the time was no excuse: Although I hadn't yet been born when the Beatles first came to America, in ensuing years I was old enough to know who they were, and to have known and enjoyed some of their songs. Indeed, if someone had said that Paul McCartney had been shot, I would have been affected with the same sense of shock as everyone else in the world. But John Lennon? Ringo Starr? George Harrison? I knew who none of them were. To me, at the time, the Beatles consisted of Paul and some other band members - and I honestly cannot say why. Needless to say, when I found out who John Lennon was, I did experience shock and sadness: partially at the fact that a member of the Beatles had died, and just as partially at the fact that I had not known who he was.

On that day and for a long time afterward, I did not experience an overwhelming desire to research the band that I obviously knew so little about (I didn't even know how many band members there were). Although I had heard their music from childhood, my exposure to it was not "in the home". Sometimes I heard it in school, sometimes I heard it in Muzak mall speakers blaring overhead, but it was not the kind of music that I or my brother listened to as kids, and my parents had no real affinity for it, either. And so, as is always the case in this life, you only know what you know. Fortunately, however, I am happy to say that years later, I populated my dearth of Beatles knowledge. In 1995, ABC aired a mini-series documentary called "The Beatles Anthology", and I surprised myself by watching quite avidly. In those three nights, I absorbed Beatles A-Z - learning about how the band was founded, who it consisted of (finally!), and - most importantly - what they sang. The latter was an eye-opener to me, because it shattered many of the myths that had built up in my mind over a lifetime of hearing Beatles music and never knowing that they were the voices behind the songs (example: contrary to my initial belief, the version of "Twist and Shout" heard during the parade scene in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" was not sung by Matthew Broderick). After watching the Anthology, I even went through something of a Beatles phase - happening to catch "Hard Day's Night" on PBS and afterward developing a little bit of a crush on Ringo Starr. So, it may have taken me awhile, but the import of John Lennon's death finally hit home for me some 15 years after it happened. The senselessness of it, the tragedy of a life cut so short, the realization of the sheer magnitude of music that he had produced - I finally understood now why so many fans had poured out their grief at the site of John Lennon's death so many years before. But in a way I must say that I felt cheated. My ignorance in 1980 prevented me from fully understanding what had happened when it happened, and perhaps in some small way that knowledge is what fuels my now avid consumption of all things news and current events. Perhaps I never again want to find myself the only person who looks around - dazed - asking "what happened?"

So help me out, here. My bet is that if you were at least a teenager in 1980, you remember the day that John Lennon died: where you were, what you were doing, how you felt. Send us your story. We'll keep you posted.

A Little Levity: What do they Really Talk About in Meetings?

2006-06-23T01:34:00.000-04:00

Minutes 2 Midnight generally deals with fairly heavy fare, so it makes sense to carve out a little corner where lighter meals are served. This is the first entry of an ongoing "just for fun" section where you'll find some fun stuff to explore (well...I think it's fun, anway). Check out the "Just For Fun" links at the top of the sidebar for more.

If you're employed in Corporate America, you've probably been forced to attend the odd meeting from time to time. Ever find yourself sitting in your chair - fuming because you have a wad of work to do but you're stuck in a "productivity" meeting? Ever find yourself in a room with too many people and too few ideas? Too many ideas? Ever just want to scream maniacally when good ideas are unceremoniously flushed down the commode? (Southern for "toilet"). Then you might want to read on. Below, I've compiled a list of real quotes from my co-workers - uttered at various and sundry times during various and sundry meeting marathons. We might be talking about talking engineers, here, but somehow I suspect that meeting migraines are universal - no matter who's attending, and no matter what they're talking about.

Stated 1 hour and 5 minutes into a meeting:
"What should we be doing in this meeting?"

Stated in reference to someone who was on maternity leave:
"You realize we'll be doing these same tasks when she gets back, so we might as well assign her something now."

Stated during one particularly boring meeting:
Boss: "How do we make these meetings more fun?"
Engineer: "Large quantities of beer would be nice."

An unfortunate slip of the tongue:
Engineer: "We need to avoid the problem of isolating knowledge to one person and then that one person leaves."
Boss: "We've solved that problem on [our project]. No one person knows anything."

Stated during a late-night marathon meeting:
"Nothing I do on this project is not frustrating."

Said during a meeting that 2 groups were supposed to attend:
"The meeting would be more useful if they showed up."

A little diversionary conversation during a long weekend meeting:
Engineer 1: "There's something leaking in the women's bathroom. It sounds like someone's taking a shower."
Engineer 2: "They're probably just trying to keep the rats from getting thirsty."

Said during one meeting where a conflict needed to be resolved:
"If they can't resolve it, I've got ski masks and baseball bats in the car."

...More coming later!

Hurricane Katrina

2006-06-16T10:30:00.000-04:00

I hate to be blunt, but after spending days thinking and fretting about hurricane Katrina, one lesson stood out for me above all others: Crap Happens.

But let me start from the beginning.

When I began to hear weather forecasters predicting the devastation that could be wrought by a strengthening hurricane Katrina - straight from a category 1 cat-and-mouse with Florida - I sat up straight and took real notice. As I continued to watch and monitor, the predictions became ever more dire, ever more high pitched...until finally the newscasters were telling Gulf state residents to vacate their homes or risk losing their lives. My heart beat quickly as I watched these reports, and my curiosity of general human nature wondered whether or not these screaming predictions would be taken seriously. After all, how many times in the past had coastal residents listened attentively to frenzied forecasters as they predicted "ground zero's" location - triggering disaster-happy news outlets to send their breathless reporters fanning out like spokes from the site of expected landfall? How many hours had been spent fighting the Fellow Man for supplies, boarding windows, and sitting in interminable evacuation lines - only to find later that Hurricane Big'un had fizzled to a tropical storm before reaching shore? Or worse, that Hurricane Bullseye had remained furiously alive - only to hit the little town of Unprepared located miles away from "ground zero"? Let's face it...human nature is human nature, and crying wolf is crying wolf. Sooner or later, too many unfulfilled armageddons are going to cause more than one person to succumb to alarm fatigue. And so was the case, here. I watched intently as newscasters interviewed Gulf residents - many of whom were making calculated decisions not to leave, and others who had no means of leaving. Neither category of person seemed overly alarmed, and some referred to storms past that had often proved much less spectacular than predicted. Despite my complete understanding of the cavalier attitude, I must admit that the second category of people intrigued me: If push really did come to shove, how was it possible not to be able to leave?

As the storm's intensity continued to grow and the forecasts became more shrill, my own skepticism of the predictions began to give way to slight belief in their veracity. Slowly, reality began to seep in and I began to wonder what I would do in the shoes of those people who claimed that they had no means to leave. Accordingly, I started mulling over options while talking with friends and family: If I had no car and no money, how would I get myself out of town? Well, I most likely still had two feet. I would walk. If I thought the situation desperate enough, I would start out early and walk for two days if I had to. Ok, well and good...but then I added more difficulty to my scenario: What if I had small children? Or what if I had elderly relatives who could not walk to safety? I couldn't just leave them...so what would I do then? And slowly I began to see and understand that - if the storm did indeed hit a large city like New Orleans - the chances were very real that not everyone would be able to evacuate prior to lights-out. I remember being floored by that realization, because I had never before even considered the possibility that a person under evacuation orders would not be able to evacuate. Still, though, the stubborn geek within me refused to completely swallow the completely helpless theme. To this day, I believe deep within that a determined individual would find a way - like the young teenage boy who commandeered a bus and drove his family and neighbors out of harm's way. Where there's a will...

Finally, after all of the predictions and hours of pre-landfall coverage, Katrina slammed into New Orleans at estimated category 4 force. I remember initially thinking to myself that this was one of the few cases I could remember wherein a hurricane had actually landed so close to where the newscasters had said it would. I watched as the obligatory lunatic reporters covered the storm from the areas where it was most vicious. Ruefully, I found myself wondering how each reporteratti member considered his/her staked-out position along the storm track: If the positioning resulted in only a slight de-moussing of perfect hair, was the job considered a failure? If the positioning resulted in a newscaster screaming into a microphone while clinging to a stationary pole - legs flapping in the breeze - was the job considered a success? Was there hazard pay? Whatever the case, I watched the coverage far more than I should have - given my rueful musings. I watched as the reporters dodged flying objects ripped from foundations, as weathermen and weatherwomen predicted the storm's track with breathless gravity, as news anchors monitored the levies - waiting to pounce firmly on the first evidence of a breach. I watched until the wee hours of the morning...and by the time I went to bed that night, every 'caster and commentator was convinced that we had dodged a bullet. Every news outlet was sighing relief that Katrina had not been as bad as predicted. In fact, as it so happened, I did read much later that the storm had actually made landfall as a category 3 storm. Quite literally, then, Katrina was not as bad as initially suspected.

But then came the aftermath. The first time I realized that something was dreadfully wrong post- storm was on the Tuesday after landfall. On that day, news outlets began to discover that - as many had predicted and more had feared - the levies in New Orleans had not held. The city was flooded in many areas, and reporters were just starting to realize the scope of the disaster. As I watched the coverage, I began to fathom that things were bad, but the sheer magnitude of just how bad was only made clear when I started to watch new footage of those who had been trapped in the aftermath. As far as the eye could see, tired, bleary-eyed people were wandering the streets - clutching what few possessions they had as they walked with closely-held family members towards...what were they walking towards? I gasped inwardly as I heard the people pleading for assistance. "Help us!" one said. "Someone please tell us where to go," said another. "We just need to know where to go." I was horrified...but perhaps not for the reason that one might suspect: The first plea I could understand perfectly. "Help us!" makes alot of sense when you're trapped on a roof mere feet from rising flood waters, or when you are cracking with thirst as an incredibly hot wind tortures your skin. What I couldn't understand was the "tell us where to go" part of the plea. Looking back, I think that my lack of understanding was due mostly to the fierce independent streak that I tend to nurture. That characteristic within me would allow me to understand initial shell-shock, loss, and bewilderment, but it would not allow me to accept complete and utter helplessness. Where do I go? I don't stay in the reeking city. I walk out of it - if need be - or die trying. If I have family that cannot go with me, I am no longer constrained as I might have been before the storm. If I leave now, it will not be to flee the storm's wrath and save my life...it will be to launch a desperate attempt to get help for those that I love. I mean, how many old TV shows have we seen where Lassie leaves Timmy in the well to run for help, or little Gertrude leaves Pa gunshot in the gully to clamor out of the forest and look for the search posse?

Looking back at my emotions while watching the coverage, I will never forget that absolute sense of bewilderment. 20-20 hindsight, though, has helped me to understand the predicament a little better: How hardy can one be after surviving a hurricane-kicking for the last 24 hours? No food. No water. No strength. No clothes but those on one's back. And probably no money, either. Obviously, it's easy to find fault from the comfort of an easy chair. Still, though, that staunch geek within won't let me allow others to accept defeat so easily. If one has no strength to save one's self or one's family...then one perishes in the effort. But at least there was the effort.

As I continued to watch the coverage, I also began to feel myself becoming angry. That sense first dawned on me when I saw people milling around on a bridge to absolutely nowhere - afraid to go to the Superdome (who could blame them?) but not proceeding out of the city itself. At the point of watching this, I began to ask myself: Where are the trucks with ice? Where is the food? Where is the water? As I had tried to temper my initial bewilderment over the victims' reactions, so I tried now to temper my bewilderment over the government response. "Remember," I told myself, "the city is flooded. It's easy to say 'where are the trucks with ice?' but how does one roll them in when the ground underneath is quicksand?" As before, I still clung to my "where there's a will..." repetitive, and as before, I still think to this day that there had to be a way. Still, though, I did attempt to temper my incredulity, and I did meet with some success.

As one day led to another with no apparent relief for victims, I finally had cause to stand up and cheer when troops at last arrived and supplies finally began to make their way to those who so desperately needed them. I leapt inwardly as I saw a line of huge vehicles roll in - one after the other - and felt cooled within as I saw thankful residents receiving their first bags of ice or bottles of water. Hope continued as huge buses arrived to evacuate the Superdome, and aid from across the country began to poor in. This was the America that I knew, and I was thankful that it had not abandoned its countrymen in their time of need. True...my critical eyes had seen fault on both sides - in the initial ineptitude of the government response at all levels, and in the complete and utter dependence of so many of the survivors. But my spirit soared when I saw wrongs righted, mistakes corrected, and the grand heart of the citizens of this country as it burst and overflowed.

As time went on and the streets of New Orleans dried out, it wasn't long before the nation was battening the hatches for yet another storm - hurricane Rita. As I watched coverage in deja vu, I thought about the lingering lessons that I had learned from so vicious a teacher as Katrina: First and foremost, Americans have an overwhelming capacity for compassion, and they are so blessed with giving hearts. But ever so secondly, a new dark and sinister realization reached out and tapped me on the shoulder with a cold touch of reality: Crap happens. As Americans, we somehow seem to arrogantly assume that we are immune to the wrath of nature. If a catastrophe occurs, We are America, and that isn't supposed to happen, here. And if perchance it does happen, we (myself included) expect immediate relief and assistance - unlike just about everyone else in the world. The supply convoys must suddenly appear. Aid must fall like manna from the sky. And if it doesn't - despite the presence of hell and high water - someone must be to blame. But make no mistake: When there is a drought, we will go thirsty. When there is a famine, we will go hungry. When there is a hurricane, no amount of squalling or finger-pointing will stay its fury and damage. In the end, we are only human, and we are all fallible. And if we are such as individuals, how much more so are we in the collective? In a crisis, one can never completely depend on the fallible collective that is the government. In those times, one can only expect to depend on a minimum of two things: First on God. And then on oneself.

So what about you? Where were you when Hurricane Katrina struck? Were you in the eye of the storm, or watching its fury 1000 miles away? What lessons did you take away from it, if any?

Send us your thoughts. We'll keep you posted.

The Loss of Princess Diana

2006-05-15T03:36:00.000-04:00

So, it's time for our second topic. The first was rather morose, and I'm afraid this one is, too. I promise that the next will be a little more uplifting. But until then...

I remember getting up in the wee hours of the morning to watch the Royal wedding on the day that Lady Diana Spencer married Prince Charles. I remember admiring the long flowing dress and the ornate pageantry - and I remember feeling both envy and pity as I watched the obviously nervous bride repeat her vows. Following the ceremony, I distinctly recall watching a news feed that showed royal children waving from a balcony to crowds pressed below. Wouldn't it be amazing, I thought, to grow up like that? My thoughts along those lines were fleeting, though, as I quickly remembered that "growing up like that" often required one to have one's address affixed to a fishbowl - cramped, wet quarters, indeed. Cameras, constant attention, and eyes-of-the-world might be nice for a gorgeous wedding day, but the inability to turn them off might just begin to weigh on one no less than the very next day. And so my original awe and envy were quickly replaced by quiet sympathy - enduring in gentle percolation for years, and culminating in near tears on August 31, 1997 - the day that Princess Diana died. Following is my journal entry, written 5 days afterwards.

- 9/5/97 -
This is my favorite time of day: right before dusk in the afternoon. The sun comes streaming in my window and I sit on my bed and gaze at the world around me. My thoughts at this time sometimes come thick and fast - an ideal setting for writing. But I didn't decide to create this entry to reflect on the beauty of the day. I create it to record a little piece of history...one that will undoubtedly be spoken of during my grandchildren's times...Princess Diana died.

Almost a week ago (Saturday night, U.S. time) I was watching television, and the station sent a textual bulletin that she had been injured in a car crash. Initially, I didn't think much of it. After all, people are injured in crashes every day. But the message continued, and I learned that her boyfriend had been killed in the wreck. At that point, I sat up and took notice. An accident accompanied by death is not trivial - no matter who survives. I still had no doubt, however, that Diana would survive. Looking back on this certitude, I can only explain it by supposing that I held the subconscious belief that Diana was somehow immortal. She was, my quiet, unreasonable inner thoughts held, too famous to die.

A little later, the news station informed us that Diana had suffered only a wound on her thigh and a concussion. Again, I was sure in the belief that she would live. I was wrong. Around midnight, the news cut in with a full visual broadcast: Diana had died. The newscaster was, in my mind, shockingly glib. Perhaps he was not aware of the sheer gravity of what he was saying. Perhaps he was blissfully ignorant of the fact that each word uttered was a sledgehammer beating against the emotions of those within the sound of his voice. I was shocked, and remained so until just yesterday. Denial set in hard - like concrete. I kept asking myself: Why did I care [so much]? She was a continent away. Why was I so affected? Perhaps, for 2 reasons: First and foremost, I immediately felt sorrow for her sons, William and Harry. That those boys would be required to face life without their mother was sobering indeed. Secondly, I couldn't help but reflect on my trip this summer. As I watched the news and saw a reporter standing in front of London Bridge, I thought, "I've been there." When the news camera lens focused on Buckingham Palace, I thought, "I've seen that." It was all infinitely more real to me. Here were people mourning, pouring out their emotions in a place that I had visited not 3 months before. So real.

I will watch the funeral tomorrow. To see it, I will need to rise at [4am] U.S. time. Surreal, isn't it? Don't I seem to recall having to rise early to see the wedding 16 years ago?...

Additionally, we learned today that Mother Theresa died of heart failure.
I'm living history.
Two giants have exited life's poor play, and left the audience wanting.

So ends the entry. Reading it again brings back to mind the sheer disbelief that I felt when I first learned that Princess Diana had died. As it happened, I had been on my first trip abroad just months prior, and London had been one of our first stops. After Princess Diana's death, I felt that I had been privileged to see the city beforehand - when it was still infused with her life instead of solely her memory.

What about you? Do you remember that day in August? Where were you, and how did you find out?

Send us your thoughts. We'll keep you posted.

September 11th

2006-05-14T11:12:00.000-04:00

In remembrance of 9/11. Following is my journal entry from that day...

- 9/11/01 -

I will perhaps finish my above entry (I've gotten into a bad habit of not completing my writings), but I must now interrupt myself to convey the awful events of this solemn day. I have lived history today - not the mundane, vanilla sort that we all slip into every second of every minute of every hour of every day, but the heart-stopping thunderous history that punctuates the flow of time with infrequent severity. Today I woke up as I usually do - listening to Bob and Sheri on the radio. It was around 9:00 am, and I was in that calm state that follows drowsy wakefulness but precedes meaningful activity. As I listened, Sheri mentioned something about the World Trade Center. It was belching smoke, she said - the surreal result of an apparent plane crash. I was jolted slightly more awake as she continued. No one was sure, but a plane had apparently slammed full force into the building, setting off a fire. "I need to see this," I thought - rolling over to throw my legs over the bed and stumble towards the remote. I turned off the radio and replaced Bob and Sheri's voices with those of Fox News reporters. There, sure enough, was the image of the two towers - one of them with a gash 1/3 of the way down from its crown. Smoke was emanating from the wound - thick black smoke that billowed out like some ghostly glimmer of hell. I listened as the announcers speculated - some saying that it was a plane crash, others saying that no one knew for sure what had happened. As they were speaking, one voice suddenly became animated and shrilled above the others. "There's another one!" the astounded announcer said. "Another what?" I asked myself. "What is he talking about?" No sooner had I asked that question than I saw a fireball that hadn't been there a moment before. I was instantly struck by the presence of red fire flame in this new ghostly image - so much more like hell than the first. The former had boasted merely the cold pall of black smoke. This latter conflagration was hot - alive - and visibly burning. "Oh," I thought. "He means another fireball." My naive supposition was immediately belied when I incredulously heard the announcer say that another plane had slammed into the heretofore undamaged second tower. I still didn't believe it. Surely another aircraft could not have streaked unopposed into the World Trade Center - the pride of the New York skyline. But then my disbelief turned into, well, more disbelief, as they replayed what my eyes had previously missed: another plane, huge and lumbering in appearance, veering straight into the second tower. The pall of smoke now emanating from the second gash left no further doubt of what had just happened. How can I describe my emotions at that moment? I was at first unable to allow myself to accept the obvious: that this had been a deliberate act. "Wow," the fleeting thought streaked across my mind. "Another plane just crashed into the World Trade Center. What are the chances that such an inconceivable accident could happen twice within the space of 1/2 hour?" This first thought, perhaps because of its mere ridiculousness, was immediately evicted from my mind. "This is real." More rational, yet infinitely more painful thoughts took up permanent residence in my head. "This was a deliberate act." The announcers confirmed my thoughts - their words pounding the truth into my head like so many unseen jackhammers. This was a terrorist attack. We Americans, in our smug sense of security, had been attacked in our beds. We had been caught sleeping, slumbering blissfully, accompanied by false dreams of invulnerability. Those dreams were shattered in a moment.

I watched in horror as the footage continued. A million questions formed in my mind, were unanswered, and ran away - pursued hotly by additional unanswered questions: Where did the planes com from? Why did they fly into the buildings? Were the planes small commuter jobs? Were they larger passenger behemoths? How much damage had been done? Would the buildings collapse? One by one, the queries were answered - though these answers were not fully complete, and are still roiling and heaving as more information becomes available. The first inkling of an answer was provided by the announcers: A plane had apparently been recently hijacked, and there was speculation that a relationship possibly existed. Of all the explanations that could have been provided, this was perhaps the worst. A hijacking meant that the involved planes were commercial - laden with passengers. A hijacking meant that forces unknown had breached airport security and managed to wreak terror on their unsuspecting victims. A hijacking meant that any and all perceptions of airport security had been shattered. I continued to watch as voiceless horror gave way to words. "I don't believe this," I said to thin air. "This is bad. This is really bad." I continued to watch as the minutes passed. Suddenly, I was consumed with an overwhelming desire to talk to someone. Anyone. I rushed into Dad's study and asked, "have you heard?"
"What?" he asked.
"Two planes just crashed into the World Trade Center," I said, almost breathless. "They think it was a terrorist attack." Dad, incredulous, followed me into my room. He sat in silence, as I had done moments before, and watched the two smoldering towers struggling to remain standing even as their innards were hotly being eaten away. My desire to tell someone was not appeased. Perhaps I just needed to give voice to my emotions. Bottling them up would surely cause some type of explosion, and they had to be released. I grabbed my cordless phone and called [Joe], my friend and office-mate. Had he heard? "No", he said. "What happened? I was just about to read the story on the Internet but I haven't gotten to it yet." I told him the awful news as he reacted in shock. "Two planes?" he asked, his own incredulity reflecting mine.
"Two planes," I confirmed. We bounced our conversation back and forth, punctuating it again and again with intense disbelief. Finally, [Joe's] desire for information became overwhelming. He quickly left his desk and the conversation, rushing to one of the many television sets that had been hastily erected within the [building]. I hung up the phone - somewhat relieved of the awful burden that had until now been frothing within my being. I rejoined Dad at the television, continuing to watch as events progressed. Within minutes, that progression became heartstoppingly quick - horror after horror rolling and tumbling over themselves like waves crashing along the beach. Within minutes, the news came that another plane had crashed into the Pentagon. "Dear God," I thought. "It's not just New York anymore."

The awful burden again surged within me as I heard (unfounded) rumors that another plane had crashed on I-95, and that there had been damage to the Washington Mall. "I've got to call Washington," I thought. Acting on that fleeting intensity, I called [Julie] - hoping to hear her words on the other side of the line. Within seconds, her familiar voice brought me some comfort. "I'm okay," she said. "We're not near the Pentagon, and I think the Mall's okay." I was relieved, and talked with [Julie] as we both watched our respective television sets. My particular set was muted, and therefore showing closed captions in lieu of sound. As I watched, I saw the word "collapsing" flash across the screen. For a brief moment, I thought that the words were referring to one of the two World Trade Center towers. "No," I thought. "It couldn't have collapsed. The damage wasn't severe enough." Seconds after those thoughts breached the boundaries of my mind, I looked up and one of the towers was gone. "It's gone!" I said to [Julie] in disbelief. "One of the towers is gone!"
"It's gone?" she asked. "You're kidding!"
"No. It's gone!" I said, now sure.
"I've got to call my mom," [Julie] replied suddenly. I said goodbye and continued my vigil. Dad had now gone - his work duties finally overwhelming his desire to soak up more information. Within minutes, the broadcasters replayed the collapse of the Trade Center tower. For the first time, real fear and profound sadness gripped me like a vice - almost squeezing out tears. I fought them back resolutely, resorting to my habit of pacing the floor whenever I am upset. As time continued on, I called [Joe] yet again, updating him on the attack of the Pentagon. Again, the conversation was short. Both of us craved more information, and we couldn't get it while on the phone. I continued to watch my only line to the calamity progressing so close to my very door. Within moments, another report came in: A plane had crashed in Pittsburgh. No word yet on whether it was related to the preceding events. I thought immediately of [Mary] and her awful death on that flight that went down in Pittsburgh in the 90's. I felt an eerie sense of deja vu, as the impact of the event swept over me. What must these people have been thinking in their final moments? Were they hijacked as well? As time went on, the reality continued to sink in - taking root and giving life to fruit that I had never tasted before: simultaneous fear, anger, vulnerability, and still...disbelief. How could one mortal coil contain such disparate emotions? How could they remain without causing the shell to fly apart - its remnants fluttering silently to the ground? Somehow, they were contained and life limped along.

As I watched, the facts slowly began to emerge: Four flights had been hijacked within a very short span of one another. All were transcontinental in nature, and their respective planes therefore laden with fuel. All were destined for California, 2 originating in Boston, another in Newark. 3 of the planes had hit their targets with deadly accuracy - one slamming into Tower 1 of the World Trade Center, another into Tower 2. The third had winged into the Pentagon, while the fourth (whose target is believed to have been Camp David) crashed in Pittsburgh for an unknown reason.

The worst had happened on American soil, but it wasn't over yet. As I continued to watch, the second tower collapsed - like an accordion - top to bottom. My heart fell to my feet. I felt defeated and powerless. I felt emotions I had never experienced before, and I'm sure that hitherto unknown emotions will surge within me as the days progress.

They caught us today - sleeping in our beds, dreaming blissful dreams. Some have tried to sound the clarion call, but it has gone unheeded. Until today. Today, a nation with very little innocence left to lose has somehow bled more...[Today] we have awakened, and life will never be the same again.

Add a Topic

2006-05-14T10:48:00.000-04:00

Want to add a topic that you don't see listed? Post it in your comments here, and we'll add it to our topic links.

The purpose of this blog

2006-05-13T02:05:00.000-04:00

So what's the purpose of this blog? Long story long:

First: I want to be a writer.
I've had the aspiration for a number of years now, and I'm finally beginning to do something about it. Of course, mere sentience would tell someone that wanting to be a writer and actually being a writer are two completely different things. Will anyone like what I have to say? And even if they do, will they like the way I say it? So even if they do, will they spare any time to read how I've written what I have to say? You get the picture.

Second: I've always wanted to be an Engineer.
Fortunately, unlike the writing aspiration, I've got this second thing nailed: I studied, went to school, graduated, got a job, and am now employed as a Software Development Engineer. Yee Ha. Still, though, the writing bug was always there - buzzing like a little wasp in the back of my head. Every now and again the bug would sting me and I would be spurred into action: first this start, then that stop, then this start again. Alas, all of these attempts were light and non-cohesive - flying apart and fluttering to the ground like so many pieces of sad confetti. So now with one aspiration fulfilled and the other taunting me from its little perch just within my reach, I find myself thinking that in this age of unbounded Internet freedom, perhaps all that these two grand aspirations need is an introduction to one another. Courtship and marriage might then ensue - culminating in the birth of....well....a bouncing baby blog.

'Course, now a-days, one doesn't need a whole lot of Software Engineering learnin' to create a blog. Even better. So yeah, one day I'll write a book. I will. But it might be nice in the interim to test the waters with something smaller - just to see the type of response it generates. If any.

Now, unfortunately, the death of one problem often leads to the birth of another, and I have found that to be just the case in the Grand Blog Endeavor. To the point: what the colorful metaphor do I blog about? Well to answer that question, I have to ask: what do I know about?

Answer #1: I know Software Engineering.
Right. Move along, folks. Nothing to see here.

Answer #2: I know the names of obscure television stars.
Yeah. Better leave that blog to the obscure television stars.

Answers #3: I know myself. I know my friends. I know my life.
Uh huh. Unfortunately, something tells me that no matter how wildly interesting I might find my own existence, precious few people are going to flock to my blog site to hear about what-I-did-last-summer or what-I-ate-last-night. I mean, blogging on such an intensely personal scale seems to me to be nothing more than a worldwide invitation to the dreaded Family Vacation Slideshow. Scrap it.

So what else is there?
Well, there are always my journals. Yeah, okay, I know. Journals are beyond intensely personal. But stick it out with me, here! This is actually going somewhere.

I've kept some flavor of journal for quite a number of years, now, and I presently find myself reasoning (with some admitted desperation) that there must be some blog fodder buried in at least one of them. So I've wracked my brains a little more...and I think I may have finally hit upon an idea.

Of all of the entries in my journals, two often stand out in my mind whenever I allow myself to quickly catalog the writings. Both are personal entries, yes, but both also deal with national or international tragedies. So why did I make these entries in the first place? Well, as I was writing them, I remember thinking that perhaps one day my unborn children would ask me about what it was like to be alive when so-and-so happened. Wouldn't it be a learning experience, I thought, for them to be able to read an entry from a journal written on So-and-So Day - when the generated emotions were still raw and hadn't yet had time to harden and heal? Perhaps so, I reasoned - all the while extrapolating my musings to include the "archaeologist-from-the-future" scenario. In short: if an archaeologist were to dig up written words that described a singular event, what would fascinate him/her the most? Would it be the cold hard this-is-what-happened facts from the reporteratti? Or would it be the expressed joys and fears from an everyday citizen who was there when it all happened? The answer, I surmise, is "both", but balance is not achieved unless one is coupled with the other.

So! This idea has continued to gel (strawberry flavored, I believe), and I've come to a tentative conclusion about what might mold it into an interesting blog. In essence, I'm thinking that I could pick a topic, blog about where-I-was-and-how-I-felt-when-it-happened, post, and wait for commentary. That was my first thought, anyway. Soon after I had it, though, second thought wandered in without knocking and quickly proceeded to rearrange everything. How? Well, I realized that commentary about my posts would not be enough. What would round out the blog, I figured, would be comments from readers about their own personal experiences. In other words, when so-and-so happened, where were they? What were their first thoughts and emotions? How did a reader's initial thoughts change once they’d had time to think about things a little after the fact? How do we all differ from one another? And how are we all the same?

Does that make sense? I hope so, and I'd be honored to receive commentary from those of you who wish to offer your thoughts on the topics that you find here. Before we launch, however, I suppose there must always be the obligatory Setting Forth of the Ground Rules. So, uh, here they are (subject to change without notice, of course. What fun are Ground Rules otherwise?)

Ground Rules

1. All comments will be moderated to ensure that they are appropriate for this site. No base profanity or obscene content will be allowed.
2. Please keep comments on topic. Rambling is not a bad thing - just so long as it is at least loosely connected to the general theme.
3. Though I do have strong political opinions (as do most folks, now a-days), this is not a political site! Please keep commentary as free of political charge as you can (I know that sometimes politics might have to come into play to provide context, but screeds will not be posted).
4. No personal insults towards other commentators will be allowed. Disagreements are fine, but name-calling and slander will not be permitted.
5. Have Fun!

First topic coming tomorrow. It's bedtime, and Midnight's Oil is nearly spent.