Oooh - Fun With iTunes

Here's a little something nifty to work with the new iTunes music store - one can link directly into it to a specific song.

Here's the link I made to point to the cartoon song I've been harping about:



Fun.

Nitpickers and Other Idiots

I spend a good portion of my waking hours working for a software company. It's a small one, so I wear as many hats as I can stack on. Marketing is supposed to be my job, but I run our customer services as well. So as you might suspect, I get to hear, sometimes directly, from unhappy people.

That's OK. When you work in the sausage factory, you know what's in there. You try to make people happy, and for the most part, you can. But there's always a group that can't be made happy. In fact, the only thing that makes them happy is complaining.

I saw this clearly yesterday from the outside - thankfully not my product for once. Apple announced its Windows version of iTunes and the iTunes Music Store. I'm a long time Mac user and am well familiar with both - great product and service. Then, minutes after the 1 PM presentation was over I began to see threads on sites like Metafilter (do your own damn linking) with reports complaining about the download size "why 19 megabytes for an MP3 player" and the performance, "it's painfully slow - no way I could use it - I can't even move or resize the window".

Lots of complaints. Fast.

OK, so I walked next door where someone was downloading the installer. It is 19 mb, but it's not just and MP3 player. That installer includes Quicktime 6.5, which is software for audio and video playback, the iTunes software itself, that does play mp3s, but also catalogs audio, does internet radio, provides "smart list" organization of your musics (very cool) AND does CD burning - which on Windows has always been a crap shoot.

So it's a lot of software, doing a lot of complex things - stop your bitching.

Next, Corey, sitting next door, completes the download in less than 2 minutes (get off dial-up already, it's 2003) and clicks through the installer - very simple. iTunes fires up, looks exactly like the Mac version. He clicks on the title bar and whips the window around the screen. Clicks on the corner and drags the window smaller and bigger. No problem. One click and there's the music store.

So are these posts lies? No, for the most part. It's just that the posters are idiots. They don't read the readme. They complain about things the manufacturer can't control ("why doesn't Apple let me use this in Canada" - it's not Apple, it's the copyright holders). And they complain to get noticed.

Apple is only the example - it happens to everyone. I just get tired of it from time to time.

Underrated But Famous

I like Clint Eastwood. And I think that he's not received his due recognition as a director because of his perception as a tough guy actor. But he is a terrific director. I give you "Unforgiven" as an example. I've not yet seen "Mystic River", but the reviews are coming in strong.

Then there's this: Clint Eastwood on politics and the movies:

"'I knew I was in place for two years and I had absolutely no desire to present myself' for re-election, he said. 'I was able to direct two movies during my mandate without failing in my duties as mayor. Everyone imagined me on course for the White House, especially with a former actor, Ronald Reagan, in power. But I love cinema too much for that.' "

Good for you, Mr. Eastwood.

This Just In: Boobies Are OK

My friend Penny took the time to respond to my muddle headed and testosterone addled musing on the "Boobies for Breast Cancer". Once again and as I've said before: you should listen to her.

More and more I feel like the character in Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al."

He looks around, around .....
He sees angels in the architecture,
Spinning in infinity,
He says, Amen! and Hallelujah!"

Don't know why. Just do.

Kelly Mayhew, R.I.P.

Yesterday a friend and college, Kelly Mayhew, passed away. He'd been in hospice for the last few days, so it wasn't a surprise. He fought and lost the battle with cancer for over long two years.

I met Kelly in 1999. For two years he worked as our in-house graphic designer and reported directly to me. He was talented and fast, an unusual quality for a designer. He had a wide ranging career, including work for Disney. He was also the designer for the logo for Heinz Field, home of the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Two years ago, just before he learned of his cancer, I had to fire him in a round of job cuts and typical for Kelly, he expressed sympathy for me in having to make the call.

Kelly was one of the good guys. I spoke with him just last week. He could no longer walk, but still wanted to work. It is some comfort to me that I'd been able to supply him with a steady supply of free lance jobs. Lately, the jobs didn't have deadlines.

I've got few enough friends that I can't afford to lose any of them. My thoughts are with his family and loved ones as we all prepare for life without Kelly.

Getting Old (but not that old)

I was born in 1960, which made me too young for the summer of love. Didn't matter. I was raised in a strict religious community, so no free love'n for me, even if I'd been old enough!

No regrets there, just fodder for perspective. I also did all of my dating between 1978 and 1981. Just enough to give me some rather painful disco memories (god, how clueless I was), just get the hang of asking out girls, then married!

That also put me safely monogamous for the last 22 years, protected from nasties like HIV and Herpes. I shudder to think about me trying to date again. Yikes. Happily married, thank you, and I'll just stay that way if I have anything to say about it.

But that doesn't mean that I don't enjoy looking at a pleasing female form. I enjoy it a great deal. I just don't know what to make of this: The Second Annual Blogger Boobie-Thon for Breast Cancer.

It's an excellent cause. I'm well aware of the problems. My sister-in-law is a survivor of breast cancer. I'm the father of two daughters. I'm concerned about their health as well.

It's just that I wonder about tying the two together. I'm not sure it's an outright bad idea. Frankly, there are some excellent "racks" displayed there. I guess I'm more surprised that so many are willing to lift their shirts and send in photos. Sure, many are anonymous, for the most part. Maybe I'm just sensing a bit of the generation gap. Always been a bit of a square.

Are young women really that much more sexually open and available than they were 20 years ago? I'm not concerned about myself - that's not a problem I have to face. But how do you prepare a kid for life like that?

You know, that whole burka thing is growing on me.

Don't 'cha Just Love The Onion?

Now there's a job I'd love to have. Reporter for The Onion.

The Onion | IBM Emancipates 8,000 Wage Slaves

Won't someone free me?

Join The Tribe

Here's something interesting, at least it has the potential: Tribe.net.

I'm not overly concerned about privacy - my public persona and private are pretty much one - at least for now.

If you join up, link me as a friend!

Something A Bit More Pleasant To Think About

Diane says I can't quit my job and operate a theater and convention center out of our basement, so I decided to turn my mind to other pleasant thoughts. Here's something delightful from the New York Times.

88 Keys, Many Languages Be sure to see the slideshows and listen to the audio.

I myself am a "hack" piano player. I can read music, but I have no theory. Good ear, poor training. So I play for my own enjoyment, and not enough at that. A couple of years ago I got the bug and upgraded from the really quite good Baldwin "Hamilton" studio piano, to a wonderful Baldwin baby grand. Mine is the model M1 Artist Series in traditional ebony.

Sure, if I had the $$$ I'd have looked at the Steinway, but frankly, it's too much piano for me. The Baldwin is an excellent instrument, far superior to the cheap Korean and Japanese pianos. It has a rich, powerful sound and terrific feel.

If there's time, I'll spend some time at that keyboard tonight.

How Much Straw Can This Camel Haul?

I've been afraid to have my blood pressure checked lately. A few weeks
ago, the day I had another kidney stone attack and I learned my
grandmother had passed away it was something like 158/120. In fact, in
the last couple of months the job stress has been steadily mounting.
We closed a remote office and laid off a lot of good people and close
friends, then a few weeks later we changed our management structure and
laid off another friend - I was part of the decision making process on
both, so my stress has been high all along.

Then this past Friday was a doozie. I had a pretty good day planned,
end of the week, looking forward to the weekend. As I came through the
door just before eight I was greeted with "the web site's down".

OK, no big deal, that happens from time to time. I checked my email
and saw the site reports and a message from the ISP - the main server's
drive had crashed and they were replacing. Still no problem. I had
two separate servers, one with the FTP and SQL (the real data of the
system) and a second with the web site and processing structures -
that's the one that had crashed. I was also confident they could fix
that as well, since not two months in the past I had specifically
requested daily backups.

Or so I thought. They informed me mid morning that that drive was not
backed up. Hadn't been since July, when they changed their backup
procedures. And their backup rotation had wiped out any backups.

So I began reloading both primary sites from my machine, but that was
only HTML. I started looking for other backups and calling for outside
help. My contract programmer was on the road, but would be back in an
hour. He then called me and told me his girl friend had been in an
auto accident and he couldn't help. I called for the original site
developer, a former employee, Jamie, and left messages everywhere. And
the clock continued ticking - our online store generates on average
between $1,000 and $2,000 per day and it wasn't looking good to get
back online soon, maybe days.

Jamie left a message that he could help around 4 p.m. and that left me
fairly confident, but I soon learned he didn't have any personal
backups. I met him at the office, called in the boss and we started
tearing the place apart, looking for backup CDs. No luck. Jamie went
home to search some more and the boss kept looking. Before I went
home for medication I made a series of calls to get the drive packaged
and sent to a drive recovery specialist, a move that could cost up to
five grand.

Around ten Jamie called and let me know that basic operations were
restored, then the boss called that he had found a backup - only two
years old. With that we were back by Saturday morning. I was able to
call off the drive recovery, but we still are missing some
functionality we've added - I don't know the prognosis of getting it
back.

So, we pull another one out of the fire. Not so much fun, though.

Makin' carrot biscuits

If you misheard the lyrics, you might have thought this was me as well.

Makin' carrot biscuits, everyday.
Makin' carrot biscuits, everyway.
Makin' carrot biscuits, it's so fine.
Makin' carrot biscuits and work'n overtime

My Sentiments Exactly

Lore Brand Comics: More Things

Goodnight, Columbus

Most Wednesday nights I take my daughter to her orchestra rehearsal in downtown Columbus. Typically, I have a book and sit in the quite nice Capital Theater at the Rife center and happily read for two and a half hours.

But I'm in a reading drought now. Don't have anything in my possession that strikes my fancy. No problem, I'll walk across the street to the City Center Mall and buy a book or magazine.

Problem one: forgot my glasses. Saddly, now a requirement for anything inside the reach of my arms.

No matter. I dropped Kathleen off and walked across the the mall. The first bad sign is that the entrance to the mall was crowded by a large, rowdy, milling group of kids. Inside it wasn't any better. Not many people there at all and a strong show of force by security and police, which oddly enough, didn't make me feel more comfortable.

If you'd visited the City Center four of five years ago you'd have seen it as one of the top malls in the country, every store occupied, all high end retailers. Now, the place is a ghost town, huge space empty and blocked off, and several very low end retailers, even a "dollar store". Someone had converted a thousand square foot plus store into a dance studio. One prime spot was now a "conference center", filled with folding chairs. Many of the smaller stores the remained open only had a single clerk on hand.

And I should have known better about the bookstore. The typical mall Waldenbooks. Nothing struck my fancy, and their magazine selection was so poor I couldn't find the New Yorker (my preference) or even any home theater magazines. Walked the three floors over twice, then left. I'd been there less than forty-five minutes.

A walk around the downtown wasn't any better. It was dimly lit and not a comforting sight. I walked by the statehouse, then turned to walk past the Palace Theater, in Columbus's "landmark" skyscraper, the Leveque Tower. Here I found the only sign of life, outside of the few poor souls waiting for COTA buses. Philip Glass was performing and a small crowd was waiting under the marquee. But as I turned south to head back to the Rife building, it could have been three A. M.

There were no open restaurants, coffee shops, bars. Nothing.

I know Columbus isn't New York, San Francisco, or Boston. But this is pitiful.

He Ain't Wrong

Mark Morford column at sfgate.com: "Oh right like you even care. "

Well, you should.

I recently had the need to purchase a Windows PC and bought a Sony laptop. I thought, "hey, Sony's a great company. They'll package and treat it just like Apple."

Wrong. It was a horrible experience. It was a brown cardboard box, printed with endless specifications. Inside the components look like they were dumped in there. The laptop itself had several very hard to remove stickers from everyone, including Intel and Microsoft - how often do you see people using laptops with these still on.

After using the laptop for a week I took it back. It felt cheap and breakable - the drive door did fall off.

Every time I've gotten a new Mac, I've been impressed at the experience of opening the box and setting up the machine. It is a thing of wonder.

Who didn't know this already?

Male brains give clues to nagging questions: "The male brain secretes less of the powerful primary bonding chemical oxytocin and less of the calming chemical serotonin than the female brain.

So while women find emotional conversations a good way to chill out at the end of the day, the tired male brain needs to zone out all that touchy-feely chatter in order to relax -- which is why he wants the remote control to zap through 'mindless' sport or action movies."

I'll admit it, I don't do my fair share of the household chores. I'm not a slob, and I do most of the cooking, but Diane does all of the laundry and most of the cleaning (not all, most). I, of course, should do more.

I'd love to hire someone to do it all, but that's not gonna happen any time soon.

And if you're interested in the subject here's a really scary book.

Also see virtually anything by Steven Pinker. What? You haven't read Pinker? Man, you're missing some excellent stuff. Who'd of ever thunk I'd have fun reading a book about grammar?

Uncommon Cold

Hazy days in golden Domme - Jon Carroll - sfgate.com: "I like being sick, always have. I like the excuse for sloth; I like the huge pillows and the solitude and the dreamy way the days pass. Give me a good head cold and a comfortable place to have it in, and that's paradise enough."

Made me think of a little story I did (had to look it up - fortunately, all of my writing sits on a handy folder on my iPod! - written 13 years ago!).

Enjoy.

Common Cold
by Randy Murray - Copyright 1990

"Achoo!"

"Knock it off, Bruce. You don't have a cold." Littermeir peeked over the cubicle, shaking his greasy head. "Just cut it out, will ya? You didn't have a cold last month, not last week, and not today."

"I had the flu last week."

"You did not. Nobody's had any of those things for over twenty years. I bet even you've never been sick. Now just cut it out." Littermeir hoisted himself up and threw his arms over the top of the divider.

"Don't lean on that, you'll break it." He looked up at the beefy arms and bulbous face that towered over him. He practiced a sniffle. "I had a cold once."

Littermeir snuffled in reply.

"I caught a cold when I was eight and had to stay home from school for two days. I think I'm catching something this time. I'm almost sure that my ears are plugging up."

"My God, it's probably cholera. Wasn't that one of those childhood diseases?"

Bruce shook his head weakly at him. "No, it wasn't. I just think I'm catching a cold."

"Isn't it about your nap time?" Littermeir reached down behind the divider and produced a single, white powdered donut, which he leered at before popping it whole into his mouth. "Just take a little nap and you'll feel
better," he said with a mouth full of yellow and white, then he laughed in clouds of crumbs and dust. He flapped a hand at Bruce as he thumped down from his perch.

Bruce felt his forehead and cheeks. He was flushed with embarrassment, not fever. He'd just moved to this cubicle from his comfortable one in the corner last week when Littermeir had peeked over the divider and had caught him staring at his terminal with his eyes closed, his cheek resting in his hand. The worst part was that it was true. This job was so boring and undirected that he regularly took naps and went to great pains never to be caught. It was his only sport. He opened the center desk drawer and plucked out a small mirror, then held it close to his face. With the fingers of his right hand he pulled down his lower lids. The whites of his eyes were clear and white. "Damn." Open mouth, tongue extended--pink, even flesh everywhere. He put the mirror away, then pinched one nostril closed, inhaled, then the other nostril. His breathing was unobstructed. He rested his chin in his palm and stared at his terminal and with his free hand, reached out to the keyboard and punched random keys. Tomorrow he'd bring in his Merck Manual of Disease and Diagnosis. Maybe during his forty-five minutes of lunch he'd flip through the pages of the tattered volume and find something that he could still catch.

Three o'clock. Bruce straightened in his chair and looked across and up the narrow aisle to the woman who was furiously working there. She would, in moments, answer the first of at least fourteen telephone calls. The first would be her daughter checking in from school. That would be followed by calls of what to wear, when to do home work, what to wear, and so on throughout the remainder of the afternoon. This was the best part of the day. Bruce tried to imagine the other side of the conversations, but that ended up boring him too. A couple of aisles over he could hear two other employees arguing in increasingly louder tones. He stood, pretending to stretch and
catch a peek of who it was, but when they both stopped their arguing and stared at him he changed his stretch into
reaching for a manual on a top shelf. He grabbed at random and sat back down. Flipping it open he discovered it to
be terribly out of date, probably from the previous inhabitant of this cubicle. He flung open a lower desk drawer to
drop it inside, but it was already overflowing with out-of-date materials. He rolled back from the desk and dropped
the manual in the waste can, then began pulling thick memos, stapled, clipped, and folded documents, and dropped
them one at a time into the can with only cursory glances.
He tossed out hanging folders, envelopes, and then in
the back, pulled free a heavy plastic bag zippered at the top. He moved aside his keyboard and papers and set it unopened on his desktop to examine its contents without disturbing them, in case it held something important or illegal. Instead, Bruce saw with growing wonder and nostalgia the packages, bottles and containers that would push aside his boredom.

The bag was full of over-the-counter cold remedies.

Bruce smiled broadly. He laid the zippered bag on its side and carefully shook it so the contents were evenly displayed. He pressed his face close to the murky plastic so he could see the shapes of elixirs and unguents that would offer him relief, if only he were sick! He twisted the bag around, pulled it close to his nose, and then gingerly peeled apart the seal. A short sniff brought the long missed hint of dust and the bitter-sharp tingle of acetylsalicylic acid. Aspirin! He reached in and carefully brought out a little tin and followed the instructions to,
"Press red dots with both thumbs". The lid popped back to reveal the crumbling white tablets. His grin broadened. He wet the tip of his finger to collect a few grains and place them on his tongue. He tasted the healing tartness. He closed his eyes to savor its astringent dryness. Had he dared, he would have crushed a whole tablet between his teeth. He considered it a long while, but thinking it over, decided it was stupid, foolish to take a drug that could be, well, who knows how old. Oh! If only it were orange too! He remembered being bundled up in bed,
hot cocoa on his nightstand, and the tiny orange pills his mother had him chew. He had loved the way the tiny, hard pills snapped and crunched between his teeth, lingered on his molars. He snapped the lid closed before he was
overcome with temptation.

What next? A bottle of liquid cold medicine that smelled strongly of alcohol, an unopened box that revealed some sort of nasal spray. He read the directions, and then removed the cap. He cautiously sniffed, but inhaled a fine mist of the decongestant. It startled him, but within seconds he could feel the membranes shrink and move within his passages. Suddenly frightened, he scooped the discovered items into his top desk drawer and hurried to the restroom, cupped his hands under the faucet, filled them with water, and sucked it into his nose. He
coughed and choked, then did it twice again. When he looked up in the mirror it seemed as if he were in a cold sweat. He grinned hugely. "Oh, you look sick." he said.

He returned cautiously to his desk, but no one took notice of him. At first, he went back to the report he had been working on that morning, but all he could think of was what was in his desk drawer. He cracked the drawer open and slid out an individually wrapped packet of capsules. He pushed one out through the foil backing and fingered the thin gelatin case that enclosed the multi-colored balls. He spread a sheet of clean paper on his desk and creased it to form a trough, then twisted the capsule, pulling the halves apart. He poured the tiny pieces out on the paper and it rustled gently. He stirred the pieces with the end of a red pencil. "Too bad I'm not sick," he said
with regret.

The rest of the package contained a small box of paper napkins, some sort of eye drops, a gelatinous blue mask, and several hard candies that smelled of honey and menthol. The last item was a cobalt blue bottle, half full of a thick, greasy stuff that let off such a strong odor that he quickly recapped it, then stuck it back in the bag and resealed it also. What a treasure! What a joy it would be to have a cold.

* * * *

Bruce remembered the day, in the vagaries of his youth, when they released the vector. After the years of testing and argument they announced the day and hour when the bulk of human suffering would end. His parents had graciously allowed him to stay up for the midnight television broadcast, then threatened to send him to bed for fighting with his little sister. Someone read a speech, and just before he dozed off, they released the balloons.


The leading causes of death today are:

1. Suicide

2. Domestic Disputes

3. Household Accidents

Bruce wanted to add boredom to the list, but acquiesced that it probably fell under category one.

* * * * *

At home that night, Bruce dreamed.

He was swaddled in blankets and wore a huge sweater that wrapped around and about him. His dream self tried to stand, but gently swooned and felt the room slowly move. When he closed his eyes and the entire room accelerated with him at its center, but it stopped jarringly when he forced his eyes open again. He dabbed his nose with tissues. They piled in mounds about him. Suddenly, he felt the sensation growing within him; the odd, high feeling in the front of his nose, the small catch of breath, the anticipation was over! He sneezed. He relaxed back to the womb of pillows with a sigh that released the burden of years. Bruce stirred and woke, but the smile of the passing dream took him quickly, easily back to sleep. Maybe tomorrow.

* * * *

He just couldn't concentrate. Today, of all days, he had many important things to do, some of them actually interesting, but he couldn't find a place to start. His hands kept slipping off the keyboard and down to the desk drawer. Twice he found his hand inside it, turning the little tin box of tablets over and over. Each time he'd close the drawer, re-straighten his desk, and turn back to the bit of work in front of him.

He looked for things to do. He called his home phone number to see if he had any messages on his answering machine. He did not. He dialed for time and temperature to check his watch and desk clock, then dialed again to make sure it was accurate, but the urge to peek and explore did not subside. Finally, he pulled the entire bag from the drawer and tossed it in his waste can, then thrust away from the desk and headed for the restroom. He marched briskly down the aisle and reached out to push open the door. It moved away from his hand and he fell forward, into the pillowy softness of Littermeir on the other side. He looked up at him as he tried to squeeze by.

Littermeir looked as if he had held his head under a faucet, then combed his hair with his fingers. He held an open and partially eaten candy bar in fingers that themselves had been nibbled and eaten down to slivers of nails and puffy, wrinkled finger tips. Littermeir grinned down at him, huge and unsafe, now freed from the cubical divider that normally protected him.

"What is it today? I think you've made at least four trips down here."

"Nothing. Excuse me."

He didn't move from the partially opened door.

"Diarrhea? Are we pretending to have diarrhea today? You're really pitiful, Brucey, really pitiful."

Bruce pushed past, avoiding contact. Once, he had stood at the bus stop out front and Littermeir pressed up close to his side in the crowd. When Bruce had reached down, he accidentally placed his hand in Littermeir's coat pocket, not his own. It was lined with moist crumbs, the remains of a dying cookie. He'd pulled back quickly, but the revulsion and shock of the moment made him want to keep clean, open spaces between them. The
door closed slowly with Littermeir still standing there, grinning in at him. He hurried to a back stall and shut the door, then leaned his head against the cool surface.

Standing there, he discovered a strange, hard lump in his pocket. He felt it through the fabric of his trousers. Ah, of course, he thought. Sometime during the fidgeting at his desk he had placed the little blue bottle of ointment in his pocket. He pulled it out and popped the lid, just enough to catch the aroma of menthol. He inhaled deeply and decided with no hesitation. No one was here. He stepped out of the stall and up to the mirror, threw his tie over his left shoulder and opened the top buttons of his shirt. He dipped two fingers into the opaque,
sticky-thick goo and pulled out a mobile lump, bringing it to his chest. He rubbed it in circles, matting the black hairs into tight, flat curls. The rising vapors made his eyes water. The last bit he worked into each nostril and smeared across his upper lip, as directed. It was exhilarating. His grin widened, making his face feel tight and hot. The reflection looked manic and dangerous. "This is good," he said without dropping his rictal smile, "if I can't get sick, I'll get insane."

He let the smile fade and the muscles in his cheeks relax. The fumes were making him dizzy, tired. He reached up to rub his eyes, instantly stinging them with the residue of the ointment. Instinctively, he cupped his hands under the faucet and brought the captured water towards his face, but then he stopped and let it drain away. He pressed close to the mirror, holding the basin on both sides and slowly forced his eyes open, waiting for his vision to clear. They were shot with red. He shook his head at himself, then bent and washed his face clean.

Bruce dried himself as best as he could with the blower, and then returned to the stall. He thought for a moment before lowering his trousers. It was impossible to sit comfortably on a toilet with your pants up. That, and it would look strange to anyone walking in. But this was too strange for Bruce, sitting with his pants around his ankles, his shirt sticking to his chest, his eyes watering. He could barely catch his breath. He pulled
free several turns of toilet paper and reached up under his shirt to wipe away what he could. That seemed to just move it around. He stood, rearranged himself, flushed for cover, and exited without rewashing his hands.

On the way back to his desk he firmly resolved to complete a memo and to append the weekly report, and . . . he walked past his cubicle, his stride lengthening. He passed his supervisor's desk. She took no notice of him, but the medicated aroma settled on her in his wake. She peeked around the corner as he forsook the elevator and pushed open the door to the stairs.

Bruce took the stairs two at a time. His hand slid down the rail and propelled him in tight turns down the well. He burst into the lobby, past the reception desk, then out into the morning sunlight. There he slowed, then stopped as he reached the curb. The exertion of his escape made his heart pound within his chest. For a moment he stood there, at the stop, by the bench. He stood in this exact same spot every day, but he had never been out here mid-morning. He stuck a finger behind his tie and into his shirt to feel the greasy mat of hair and
shirt. He pulled it out and it was coated with the pungent ointment. He wiped it on the concrete bench. 10:30.
He sat on the bench and considered what he might do next. The answer came immediately: Go back.

With that settled, he sat a moment more, waiting for his second wind. He didn't know how long that might take, since he had never pushed past his first one. "I'm not strong enough to stand being sick," he muttered by himself. His eyes hurt, he was sticky and smelly, and who were these people? Here it is, mid-morning, and the street and sidewalk is full of people. The strangeness of being away from his desk and out caused Bruce to scan the faces. The injustice of their freedom agitated him. Why weren't they working? What were they all doing out here?
"If I have to work, everybody has to work." The reverse did not occur to him. Surely they weren't all runaways like him. Even now, within minutes of his flight, the guilt of his absence grew. He reluctantly stood, turned towards the office, and cursed the happy multitude behind him.

Back at his desk, a grimy candy bar wrapper sat on the floor near his trashcan. He cautiously picked it up to drop it in . . . the can was unexpectedly empty . . . the bag of medicines was gone. He listened. Soft, unpleasant sounds came from over the divider. He peeked. Littermeir was cradling his head in his hands and moaning. In front of him, on his desk, were the cellophane wrappers of medicated candies and a little plastic
cup/lid with a residue of green liquid. The bottle lay on its side, empty. Bruce gasped, then laughed sharply. Littermeir turned to look at him. His face was pale with panic and pain, and . . . He hiccupped slightly, then turned and threw up on the floor. Bruce stared in disbelief as Littermeir leaned forward and rolled from his chair. He lay on his side across the aisle. Faces peered above and around dividers.

Bruce ran to the end of the aisle and back to where Littermeir lay.

"What did you do?" he whispered to him. Littermeir looked up at him, then retched and threw up again.

Bruce stepped past him, lifted the empty plastic bag from the corner of the desk, and quickly swept the empty wrappers and remaining medications into it. He reached over the divider to his own desk and tossed it back and under his desk. He turned back to kneel beside Littermeir. After a moment, the supervisor strode down the aisle and looked down at them both: Bruce cradling Littermeir's head in his lap.

"What's going on here?" she demanded.

Bruce looked up at her and with a grin of triumph said, "He's sick!"


Word Count: # 3093

Powerhouse

"Not the works!"

And yes, this is running through my brain, most of the time.

I'm Not The Only One

Dan Levey helps out on the search:

"I've been obsessed with seeing that cat and dog cartoon again but it's not on a DVD or VHS anywhere.  Anyway the song is by Raymond Scott and is called "Powehouse",  There are two cartoons with that cat and dog and I got one from VCD.com "Early to Bet" and the one I can't get is called "It's Hummer Time"  which has the classic "No, Not the Works" line.  Just figured I'd help you out but if you can find this cartoon anywhere, let me know."

That's it! And for 99 cents I bought a copy at the iTunes Music store and am listening to it now! Wow! The theme begins at about 1:20 into it.

Original post link.

Bet you thought this was going to be a John Lennon post.

Technical Problems?

If you're not reading this, you should be.

Baghdad Burning: "My father has a friend with a wife and 3 children who is currently working for an Italian internet company. He communicates online with his 'boss' who sits thousands of kilometers away, in Rome, safe and sure that there are people who need to feed their families doing the work in Baghdad. This friend, and a crew of male techies, work 10 hours a day, 6 days a week. They travel all over Baghdad, setting up networks. They travel in a beat-up SUV armed with cables, wires, pliers, network cards, installation CDs, and a Klashnikov for. . . you know. . . technical emergencies.

Each of the 20 guys who work with this company get $100/month. A hundred dollars for 260 hours a month comes to. . . $0.38/hour. My 16-year-old babysitter used to get more. The Italian company, like many other foreign companies, seems to think that $100 is appropriate for the present situation. One wonders the price of the original contract the Italian company got. . . how many countless millions are being spent so 20 guys can make $100/month to set up networks?"

The Age of Men

I'm 43 years old, and other than physically (especially at the moment with this damn kidney stone), I've always maintained an image of myself as that skinny kid, that not quite eleven years old, joining up with the Boy Scouts. Everyone back then was huge, stunningly competent, deeply knowledgeable about everything, and largely (thank god), benevolent.

I'm sure that picture was off, but that's how I saw them. I've worked to be like that. To others my own age, especially as a kid, I had a reputation of maturity beyond my years. Little did they know.

Earlier this week I returned home for my grandmother's funeral, and there they all were, a group of men whom I can't help thinking of in that same way as that little boy scout.I shouldn't be surprised, but I am.

My uncles, old men now, still each a force of nature. My Uncle Jim, a retired Navy fighter pilot. Uncle Charlie, an engineer and jet engine designer, also an accomplished pilot. Mike Munter, tall and white haired, gifted with natural authority. Even Raymond Richardson, now in his nineties. My grade school principle, and my father's before me. He worked his farm, just down the road from us. Imagine Abraham Lincoln as played by Buddy Ebsen.

They're just men, each with their own failings. Not supermen, certainly. They don't know me now, but they knew the child I once was, each from their own perspective. I wonder if they have the same feelings of giants preceding them as well. I suspect they do, when I hear them talk about my grandfather, long gone, and others of his generation. I suppose it is the way of things.