I Love A True Obsession

I recently got an early Xmas present: an expresso machine. I've barely learned to operate the thing, but in search of answers, I've found these fine fellows:

CoffeeGeek - Information, Opinion, Reviews, and More

For real fun, check out the long article on milk frothing.

Chafferers with Laptops

I'm in one of those inexplicable reading droughts again, and for once, it may be a good thing. I've been reading Barbara Tuchman's "Stilwell and the American Experience in China, 1911-45", which is an amazing book, but not at this moment compelling me to gobble it down in one gulp.

So, last night when I took the girls to a late Sunday evening skating session, I took my nifty 12" Powerbook.

And here's what happened:


Post Modem


Chapter 1

“So, Mr. Nash. How quickly can you help us fill this position?”

I really don’t like taking on new customers, but the economy of the last few years had finally caught up with me. My base of customers wasn’t half what it had been before the turn of the century and the ones that remained weren’t hiring much. But I was far from destitute and when times are bad, companies have to be sure and hire the right people the first time around. So they need me, but they don’t like it. They’re more likely to argue with my fee structure and try and bargain with me. I rarely bargain and I certainly wasn’t in the mood for it today.

“I’m sure I can find the right person for you pretty quickly. Just how quickly do you need someone?”

Mr. Bemidji managed a weak smile. “Today, tomorrow, any time this week.” He made a strange strangled laugh. “Really Mr. Nash. We need someone immediately. We wouldn’t be speaking to you if we didn’t need to find a replacement, er, well immediately.”

I took a moment and scratched behind my right ear and looked again at his desktop. Some people have clean desks, but very few have completely empty ones. The office was clearly his, but he had arranged it in such a manner that after every task he could return it to a complete null state. When I had been escorted in he was using a slim sliver laptop, but he closed it and slid it into a desk drawer before rising to shake my hand and offer me a seat. I waited, scratching and thinking until he looked close to tears.

“Perhaps you’re talking to the wrong man. It will probably take a few weeks for me to discover what you need and several more to find the right person. I’m not sitting on a stable of blank slates I can shoe horn into any opening.”

“Mr. Nash …”

“Let me tell you how I work, Mr. Bemidji. You’ve spoken to three of my customers already. That’s why I agreed to this meeting. The way I work and my fees are not negotiable. But if you let me do my job, I will find the right person for you.”

Time to wait again, but it wasn’t long.

“Mr. Nash, I was told you were the best executive recruiter in the area.”

“Headhunter. I’m a headhunter, Mr. Bemidji. I don’t dignify it with fancy titles. And I’m not here to find just someone to fill a job, am I? You need someone very specific, and I’m here to find that person for you.”

Bemidji shifted, but only slightly, in his chair. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes, Mr. Nash. We need someone very specific.”

“And I’d be happy to help you.” I took a single sheet of paper from my portfolio and laid it in front of him. “If you’ll sign here we can begin.”

He stared at the contract in front of him. He’d seen it earlier when I emailed him a copy and instructed him we would be signing it, unaltered, before we began. He spoke without taking his eyes off the contract. “This is a very unusual way of doing business, Mr. Nash.”

“It is, isn’t it? But it’s the way I work and the only way I work. Sign it and we begin or don’t and I’ll leave.”

My agreement is very simple. Once engaged, I research the company, the tasks, the history, everything down to the competition and market conditions. Then I bring back a single candidate. I name the salary and benefits package. There are no interviews, no committees, no HR vetting. The company receives a “dossier”, for lack of a better term, and they have 24 hours to decide. I do not offer a second candidate. My fee is equivalent to one year’s salary of this new hire.

“You can do this?” he asked.

“Yes. I can.”

He slid open the drawer to his left, selected a pen, and signed the contract without hesitation, then replaced the pen, closed the drawer and pushed the contract back across the desk to me. “Mr. Nash, last night the president of our company was murdered. We need you to find a replacement in no more than three weeks.”

Now it was my turn to sigh. I took out my pen and signed the contract, dated it and placed it in my portfolio.

“Then let’s get started.”

Why Fiction Is Important

The other day John mentioned that a friend of his didn't have a TV and wouldn't read fiction "because it isn't real".

I've been faced with this before, but it's clear to me that this attitude boxes one in on what can be known and experienced. How gray life would be without imagination. How unknowable would life and experience be if only cold analysis and reporting feeds me. Perspective is virtually unreachable without fiction's ability to say, "here's what it might have been like".

And there's power in fiction. A story, well told, can make the unthinkable real and in some cases, turn away the unthinkable by setting it out with "if we keep on this way . . ."

And I think this is one example: Fallout from 'The Day After'. I remember it well.

Abraham Lincoln is, by legend, reported as telling Harriet Beecher Stowe, ""So you're the little woman who wrote the book that started this Great War!" Is it possible that this nearly forgotten TV movie may have caused a war NOT to have been started?

Thank you, Mr. Meyers.

There And Back Again

So, on Monday I arrive at the airport before 7:30 A.M. to discover that my 9:10 A.M. flight will now leave at 12:38 P.M.. Too short a time to leave and return, but a long wait nonetheless.

We arrive in Las Vegas 4 hours late and miss our first 2 meetings. The 3rd I get to with minutes to spare. Then I rush to another hotel to do 3 solid hours of prattling about our wonderful software. When it's over and after midnight by my clock, we go to dinner with the President, Publisher, and Sales guy from PC World at the Top of The World. Wonderful view, very late for poor Randy.

But we're in Vegas, so we have to spend at least some time in the Casino. I'm not much of a gambler (risk taker, yes, gambler, no), but I'd received a complete tutorial of the game "Let It Ride" from a friend. After 2 hours, I actually got up having gained $37.

Total day from getting up to back to bed: 23 hours.

After a few spent sleeping, more meetings then a flight back. Home around 11:30 P.M.

Back at the office at 8 A.M. to discover 85 real, non-spam items to deal with in my email inbox.

Sometimes, it would be nice to be needed just a little less.

Memory From Your Milk Jug

Last summer on the beach, sitting looking at the stars, our conversation turned to the future. We pass through Kitty Hawk on our way to Buxton and vacation within sight of the famous Cape Hatteras lighthouse.

My daughters marveled at the technological progress of not just the last hundred years since that first flight, but on what's occurred since I left high school in 1978. They wondered what life might be for them in the next 20 or 30 years.

And I told them, without hesitation, that they ain't seen noth'n yet.

For instance, here's an article at newscientist.com: Plastic memory promises cheap, dense storage.

Sounds like pretty useful stuff. But I don't think one can imagine the impact of nanotech, bio-engineering, new materials.

Now I ask you, are our lives that very much different that those who have gone before over this last 10,000 years?

Hell yes.

A Glass Of Wine With You, Sir

Penny pointed me to the following article on Master & Comander

An interesting article, but unfortunately wrong. Way off. Sorry, Mr. Nevius, but you've missed the point.

I've been wondering for some time about two things. Would the movie be anything but "inspired" by the books I love so much. AND would the movie reviewers and critics bother to read the books. I'm less concerned about the first than the second.

The movie must stand on its own - I'm hoping it will be fun and not too unconnected from the characters as laid out by Mr. O'Brian. But the books are not, I must insist, a simple collection of seafaring novels. The Napoleonic Wars were NOT a footnote in history. For the most part, the readers of these novels have no desire to actually experience life on one of these voyages. It was at best unpleasant and dangerous. The books are not arcane and filled with impenetrable jargon. OK, well, they are, but that's part of the humor - got to read it to get it.

You see, these books are adventures. They tell a great, thumping story of war and adversity overcome. There's sea battles, storms, spies, and intrigue. There's romance, deceit, treachery, and triumph over incredible odds.

But what makes these books interesting is the development of these characters. Over the course of 20 books, really one long novel, we get to know Jack Aubrey and Steven Maturin. We really get to know them. They are amazing men, but far from perfect. Brilliant in their own environments, foolish in others. Weak, impulsive, jealous, compassionate, but most important, competent. These men know their jobs and that is always fascinating.

I recently read these novels again, not to experience the adventure once more, but to spend some more time with my friends. In a recent New Yorker interview, Quentin Tarinteno talked about "hang out" movies. The type of movie where you love the characters so much you watch them from time to time just to hang out and not feel lonely. Aubrey, Maturin, Killick, Bonden and all the crew are my friends and I enjoy spending time with them.

Another writer recently called these novels "anachronistic". Read the fucking books before you write about them! No, these are not Hornblower novels grown up. No, they're not a anachronistic mess like "The Alienist". O'Brian's characters don't know things they shouldn't in the early 1800's. Some of the funniest scenes are with Steven as a brilliant surgeon for the time, but who thinks that the naval officers are too concerned with cleanliness.

If you have not read them, please do yourself a favor and start. Don't try to force the story into something you know or think you know. Let Mr. O'Brian tell you the story at your pace. Steven Maturin will be at your side, clueless as you, as you try to make sense of the jargon and operation of a ship of the line.

And sure, go see the movie. Just ignore the critics. They haven't read the books and they don't know what they're talking about.

Fictional Places, Real Environments

In seeing Penny's recent post on Nero Wolfe it made me recall a surprise I had a year or so ago.

I was walking back to my hotel from Javits Convention Center in NYC when I spied this plaque on an otherwise nondescript building.

Someday I'll have to make a trip to Florida to the Bahia Mar marina and look slip F-18.

It's Not What You Know

I had a strange experience the other day. It was really more of a
realization that has lead to a long chain of thoughts.

Last Saturday night, we invited one of Diane's coworkers, his girlfriend and her kids (I'm not sure the word "family" applies, but that's essentially what it is) over to watch The Nightmare Before Christmas.

We all enjoyed the movie and after he asked, "Do you know how Penny doing? I had read about her surgery on her blog and hadn't seen anything since."

I assured him she was doing fine (as you can see from recent updates), but in that moment an entire chain of thoughts erupted. I've only met Brian twice, but he knows LOTS of stuff about me. He works with Diane. They are good friends and talk daily. Brian met Penny some time back and they are friends. Penny and I are close friends and have been for years. Penny has a blog and in it links to this blog.

QED: Brian could potentially know more about me than virtually anyone
else. Not all, not by a long shot, but lots.

Weird.

Of course, I know some of the details of his life, the kind of things that you'd expect to learn about the friend of a spouse, but that's only one point of contact. Brian has three, which puts him far ahead of a general reader of this blog.

Frankly, it doesn't bother me. It is, essentially, the writer's burden. Do your work well and people you don't know will eventually learn a great deal about you and everything you know, everyone you know. I can't and don't worry about it.

The tough but essential part: one can't care what people think about you. You can't control it, so don't try.

Early on in my training as a playwright I learned, to my horror, that I couldn't control every part of production. Even worse, the playwright can't control ANY part of production. I had the good fortune of a main season production at a major university. It was thrilling, until it was time to go see it. It was a very good production, but I wasn't in control. It made me nuts for a while, but once I learned that I couldn't direct the play, act all the parts, sew the costumes, paint the scenery, run the lights, pop the popcorn and sell the tickets AND be the entire audience, I was fine.

Actually, it's quite freeing. I write this stuff. You read it. We never meet.

Enjoy.

How To Overload A Book Shelf

If you don't know Gene Wolfe, you're missing one of the truly great living writers. This man is a master, someone who can tell you a story and with each step, each chapter, make you reconsider what you thought the story was about. Once you learn to listen, you'll learn amazing things.

And I see he has something new coming:
The Knight : Book One of The Wizard Knight.

If you have not read Wolfe, start with The Shadow of the Torturer. Let Mr. Wolfe tell you the story, don't try to force it into what you already think you know.

I have an entire bookshelf in my home office devoted, as I am, to Wolfe.

Here We Go, Into The Wild, Blue, Younder

Traveling for work this week, so posting is questionable (and yes, my posts are mostly questionable, but that's beside the point).

Talk about a mad trip. I leave from Columbus at 6 am Tuesday (which means I need to be to Port Columbus around 4:30 am). Thank god for Daylight Savings Time. I get to San Jose and rush to my first interview by Noon local time. Total of three all the hell over the place.

Three more appointments on Wednesday, then my return flight leaves around 10:30 p.m.. Puts me back into Columbus, if everything goes as planned, around 9:30 a.m. on Thursday.

Why do I do this? First, there's no good way to get back from the West Coast - just as well do the redeye. And Thursday night is "Beggars' Night", since having Trick or Treat actually on Halloween would be throwing our children to the devil or tempt them into delinquency.

So, long trip, short time. And next month I do the same thing to Vegas and back in less time!

Movies for Men

Penny and I have a long ranging discussion about movies and my assertion that there are some that speak specifically to men. I'm not talking about action movies, but movies that connect to men specifically and may leave women viewers uninterested and unappreciative.

One specific example is "Fight Club". Yes, there's explosions and punching, but that's not it. Penny disliked it strongly - I was surprised at how much I connected with it.

Another example is "The Unbearable Lightness of Being". No it's not about the nudity (very nice, though). There are moments when I really connect with the character that Daniel Day-Lewis portrays.

For both these movies and others like them, it's not that I want to be like these men, but I understand them.

Yesterday, Penny wrote:

Check out the latest J. Carroll column at sfgate.com.

Does this have anything to do with the fight Club discussion? i think we're probably not done with that yet, i can feel some more stuff trying to form itself at the back of my consciousness...

And after some thought, I replied.

Yep, Mr. Carroll is on it.

It may get down too a bunch of visceral emotions, which if expressed poorly, sound sexist and boorish.

Perhaps it's like this: at our core, men understand that women, females in general, are stronger and tougher than us. Able to endure more pain and stress and better suited to work out the details. Of course men and women are different, but what we also know is that they're better.

What we also suspect is that men, males, are also MORE emotional than women. Yes, women are better able to express emotions, but they also seem to tolerate them more. Emotions are frightening and are better mastered. At least that's what our instincts tell us. Don't get out of control. Don't get carried away. Find ways to yell and shout that don't end up in people getting killed.

Why do women long survive the death of their mates while men often quickly die? It's not that they can't fend for themselves, certainly not any more. But the pain and the loss overcome them.

It all boils down to this: I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.

In the company of men there is a comfort in belonging. There's a shared, instinctive pleasure at the demonstration of a mastered skill, regardless of it's useful value. We grope around for a way to express what we're feeling and it doesn't fully connect with the language parts. But when we see it, in a movie, in a novel, we connect.

Where's Mr. Pinker when you need him?

To which she replied:

Further thought -- oblique series of associations: in the movie Moonstruck, the character played by Olympia Dukakis asks several times throughout the films what makes men act the way they do? (She's in a particular situation). And she comes up several times with the answer: because they are afraid of death. She tells her husband of many years, finally, Cosmo, you're gonna die no matter what you do. Accept it.

and then:

I just went to your web site, realizing I hadn't read it yet today. This was AFTER I wrote the email about Moonstruck. And there you are, on the theme from a different side...

Amazing

Yes, we men are deeper than we appear.

So, if I were King of the forest, the first thing I would do is abdicate and hand things over for the women to run.

A Dream Of Dying

And now we turn in our hymnals once again to a song by brother Paul Simon

American Tune: "And I dreamed I was dying
And I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me
Smiled reassuringly
And I dreamed I was flying
And high up above my eyes could clearly see
The Statue of Liberty
Sailing away to sea
And I dreamed I was flying
"




Last night I went to sleep with a pain in my back, a kidney stone. Not enough to medicate myself into oblivion, though I probably should have. A strong drink may have helped as well. But I was determined to be stoic and quickly went to sleep.

But the pain was such that it trapped me in a dream, one that seemed to extend the whole night. It may have only been seconds, but the dream ran on and on.

In it I was dying. Confined too bed, weak, and the pain clear, in that same spot. Family, friends, strangers came to my bedside, on and on. The living and the dead visited me.

And such was the trap of that dream that I find it hard to escape now awake.

August 19, 1992

After Life

Aaron squinted as the spotlight swept over the crowd and he felt the approaching sensation of a wild sneeze. He continued to clap, then as the sensation grew, he pressed his forefinger to the spot under his nose and the urgency subsided. He sniffed, then stood, trying to clap in rhythm with the lead singer. He felt the twinge again and pressed the spot. Too late. He sneezed with surprising ferocity, and then jerked from the simultaneous burst of pain in his chest. It was stunning. So sharp and piercing, then gone.  He slumped back against his wife, then on to the isle between the seats. He could still see the elderly black man on his left. The man was still clapping. He looked down at Aaron and shook his head as Aaron’s vision blurred and dimmed.

“You sleepy, sugar?”

Aaron looked over at the old woman that sat close to him on the couch. He shuddered uncontrollably. The darkness and sudden silence of the room made his heart pump wildly in fear and surprise. He looked at the woman again and closed his eyes. When he opened them again nothing had changed.

“Grandma? What happened? I…” 

Aaron started to stand, but his grandmother put her arm around him. She looked frail, but she pulled him easily against her shoulder.

“You’re just tired sugar. You’ve had a big time and you’ll be all ready to rest soon. Let me read you this little story while you calm down.” 

She reached down to the side of the couch and pulled out a thin, old book. The colors on its tattered cover were fading and the corners were worn through, exposing the cardboard beneath.

Aaron threw his arms around his grandma and hugged her close, squeezing his eyes closed.

“Grandma! I didn’t think…” his breathing was fast and pained. Tears formed and ran down his cheeks, his throat tightened. 

He sobbed. “Grandma, I’m scared. I don’t want to die.”

“Shush.” She made soft noises and held him close. “I know. It was a big time, wasn’t it?”

Aaron raised his head and wiped the tears out of his eyes, still finding it hard to breath deeply. He looked around. Her living room was dark, but as he remembered it. The blinds were closed and curtains drawn. It was a room comfortably full of furniture. Books and magazines were in neat piles next to each chair or resting place. The black, Bakelite phone sat on the corner table, nearly buried beneath the … He looked up. Behind the couch where he sat was the huge mirror. Above it hung his grandfather’s flintlock rifle. The same rifle that now hung over Aaron’s mantle, in his own home. His throat tightened again.

He turned back and looked at her. His grandma smiled at him and pulled him close again. Aaron felt the pain slowly slide away and he breathed deeply and easily.

“Let me just read you a little and then you can rest.”

Aaron smiled up at her.

“I’m glad you’re here. It all happened so fast.”

“Shush, Aaron. Let’s not worry about that. I just want to ease your mind. You’ve been a good boy. Here.” She helped him climb up into her lab. She settled the book in front of him. Her arms enfolded him as she gently settled her chin on the top of his head.

Aaron looked down at the book. He ran his hand over the cover, smoothing a torn flap. His tears began again and he covered his eyes with his hands. Grandma pulled his head back on her shoulder and opened the little book.

“This is the story of Whatnot,” she told him. The picture was a pastel blur. He wiped his eyes again, but couldn’t clear them of the tears. She read slowly, but without effort.

“Whatnot woke one day and announced to his mother, ‘Mama, today I’m gonna go see what lives down in the tall grass.’”

Aaron heard the dry, brittle page turn. He blinked his eyes and could see a little better. A green and brown vista was painted across the open pages of the book. In the lower left corner was Whatnot, he guessed.

“Whatnot walked all morning through the forest till he came to the big field. It was wide and he couldn’t even see to the other side. He wasn’t sure if there was another side. Whatnot heard the tall grasses rustle softly in the breeze. He stood and looked out into the field a long time.”

Aaron lifted his head to see the book better. 

“Eventually, Whatnot summoned up his courage and walked out into the grass. At first it came up to his knees. It was cool and damp and tickled the backs of his legs.” She turned the page.

“Soon, the grass was up to his waist. He ran his hands across the tops of the wide blades has he walked.  Before long, the grass was up to his shoulders. Whatnot stopped and looked back at the forest. The trees stood high above the field. The trees seemed to go on forever. The forest was a good home, he thought.”

Aaron breathed deeply. He was tired. He hadn’t felt this way when he’d driven with Emily to the amphitheater. It was still early, but he felt like he could close his eyes and be gone in an instant. He struggled to pay attention, to keep his eyes open.

“…and wiggled its nose. Whatnot backed away and left the little rabbit alone. ‘So a rabbit lives in the tall grass.’”

Grandma looked down at him.

“You drifting away, sugar? I can stop here. It’s all right.”

Aaron smiled. 

“No, please, I want to hear it all.”

Grandma smiled.

“Just a bit more then.” She flipped through the remaining pages.

“All right, there isn’t much more to go.”

Aaron closed his eyes and listened to her read, pronouncing every word carefully, almost singing the dialogue softly. Aaron jerked, almost gone.

“… and I didn’t mean to bother you.’ He said. So he backed carefully away, then turned and ran as hard as he could. ‘Lion’s live in the tall grass too!,’ he said.”

Grandma paused.

“You’re not scared, are you sugar?”

“No, Grandma,” Aaron mumbled, “I’m not scared.” 

She squeezed him again. 

“Good. Then that’s enough. You were a good boy and you had a big time. I knew you would. I’m very proud of you.”

Aaron could no longer raise his eyelids, but he felt the warm spot of emotion in his chest. He tried to speak, but his grandma held him tight as he muttered in protest.

“Time to rest,” she said and he heard her switch off the light. In the dark he felt her close and reassuring. 

“The end,” she said, and closed the book.

An Ageless Project

Tripped across this one today: the ageless project.

Of course, I signed right up, shameless self promoter that I am. But I'm not sure how useful it is. I am pleased to see that all bloggers aren't 20 years old (or worse, 13 year old girls). And I once again confirmed that most blogs I find aren't terribly interesting.

You see, for me, age was important. Age and experience. When I left grad school at 25 with a "terminal" degree in playwrighting, I knew that I didn't really have anything to say. I wasn't mature enough, both as a person and a writer, to put down anything that wasn't all surface. I knew I needed time. At 25, when asked, I called myself a playwright. See? I have the paperwork to back it up and this nifty certificate. I just needed more time to make it true.

How long? Looks like about 20 years.

Now I'm feeling more in control of my "instrument". My picture of the universe is clearer and more verified. I've had enough time to make mistakes, get a few things right, and slowly fill in the gaps in my education and reading that 19 years of formal education left.

So, who is this guy, Randy Murray, at 43 years old? Ask me what I do and I can give you several answers. I'm an executive in the software industry with nearly 20 years experience in marketing and development. I'm a husband and father with 2 daughters who are bright, talented, and have phenomenal prospects.

But ask me what I am.

I am a writer. I don't think you'll see any plays out of me for a while, but I still think in those terms - it's excellent training. I write short fiction and will on occasion, publish a story or two here. I consider a novel from time to time, but haven't committed to finishing one. Yet.

And I write this journal. This is not a "throw-away" activity. It's not pencil sharpening or warming up. This activity is an important outlet, a publishing outlet, and perhaps a small audience for me as a writer. I value it.

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?