A Quick Note
Posts may become increasingly infrequent in the coming weeks (Can you possibly get lower than almost zero? -ed I hope not. -bob) as there are big doings over here at The 1912 House. You’ll get a full update in a little while, but let’s leave it at this for the moment:
upheaval
Sigh,
bob
Hi Fruity!
I got an email this morning from my boss at the Local Omnipresent Charitable Organization that went something like this:
A local school is donating sixty three iMacs to us. I talked to their tech guy and told him that we wanted them all. Did you set this up?
No, I didn’t, but I welcomed the chance to work on them. In the end, we sent a dumptruck (OUR very own dumptruck! who knew we had a dumptruck?) to pick them up. We ended up with forty five or so. The driver said that the school was giving machines away to their staff while he was loading them up to explain the discrepancy. The tech guy at the school is upgrading to eMacs (G4 processors, you know), he explained, so they didn’t need the revision A and B machines any more. Now, what will we do with them?
Give them to the children, I guess. We have children’s programs and if we load them up with learning games and such, we can deploy them to the kids. I wonder what the four year olds will make of UNIX. They’ll likely find those still using Windows to be charming anachronists. I just hope that they’ll be polite and cover their mouths when the chuckle, like a grocery clerk who has to listen to an elderly customer’s protestations over the supermarket’s lack of Oleo.
The kids who we serve, who can hardly get a break in life, may end up lording their new computer skills over us all.
And that makes me immensely proud.
Your pal,
bob
No Half Measures!
No siree! The family converged on my sister and new brother-in-law’s new home to lay waste to 40+ years of neglect and throw it all in a great pile…
…to arrive at this…
…and this…
The electrical contractor was pleased at our progress when he stopped by today (Sunday!) as was the drywall contractor. I removed the ugly security bars on the windows with my special process (Vise Grips and a Sawzall) and I removed the ugly teevee antenna from the roof and actually secured the phone line to the house instead of letting it simply wrap around the raingutter downspout.
Busy!
And fun!
There’s no greater thrill than destroying somebody else’s property at their request in my humble opinion. You get to tear something down that the homeowner wants removed, then you get to leave. In between the ripping and tearing, you get to take copious breaks and the homeowners reward you with refreshments and treats.
…all under the orange tree.
Does it get any better? Perhaps not, but I have pretty simple tastes, so I may not be the best judge.
Your mileage may vary.
– bob
The Longest Four-Day Week In History…
…or at least my history.
Good gravy, where to begin? At the end, I suppose. Today was Car Crash Friday (likely followed by Body Work Monday and Insurance Adjuster Tuesday). A volunteer at the Omnipresent Charitable Organization mistook the throttle for the brake when entering the underground parking garage this afternoon and took out two cars as well as her own leg. Not what she’d bargained for, I suspect. Back at the office, I was waiting for our resident graphic artist’s G4 to reboot (for the umpteenth time after Apple’s disk utility pronounced it to be fine) when we heard a great thwak outside. We rushed to the window to see that one of the local Tuner Boyz had blown the stop sign as well as the left turn and cracked his custom Mustang convertible into the power pole across the street.
Surprisingly, he drove that heap away (despite the antifreeze puking from the eviscerated radiator). The elderly volunteer wasn’t so lucky. She got a ride to the hospital courtesy of the city’s ambulance service. He ticket to ride was a badly mangled leg according to unnamed sources.
Those events capped off a perfect week highlighted by me leaving voicemail for a staff member asking about her voicemail problems, a cellphone beta test that left security staff scratching their heads, and arranging phone service for an office that has yet to be built (and is actually being built by the gentleman who will be inhabiting said office).
I’ll be heading off to Los Angeles County this weekend to fix things at my sister’s new house, along with my Dad and my other sister. There is a lot to do, of course, but I look forward to the dogpile/attack mood that this weekend promises. Sounds like Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, doesn’t it? I just wish we had Disney’s budget to get it done (and 150 more guys). Dad and I will do electrical, gas, and plumbing. My sister will do the landscaping. The proud homeowners will drive to Home Depot (and Aliberto’s Cocina #17) and get the things that we need. That sounds about right.
Crap, crap. There was something else that I thought I should put here, but for the time being, it has completely slipped my mind (off that greasy dome? it’s no wonder. – ed Thanks for that. – bob). I’ll try to make a point to remember and post it, as the only thing I can recall about it was that it was lovely and poignant. I think.
Or something.
bob
What I Did On My Fourth Of July Vacation…
Dear Mr. Jaunty,
Goodness! What a weekend! The pomp, the pageantry, the family-enlarging, the gorging, the laughter, the religiosity, the destruction! You would have been proud.
We took something of a back way from San Diego to Pasadena for my sister’s wedding rehearsal dinner and ended up arriving just in the nick of time. Our alternative route, while kind of crowded, made sitting in traffic much more interesting than sitting in any old parking lot on any old freeway in Southern California. My eyes didn’t start tearing up from the smog until we had almost arrived, and that made my sore left foot feel a lot better (you know how the traffic miseries pile up when you have nothing but time to think about them).
We checked in, freshened up, and beat feet over to the groom’s father’s private club. My nieces and nephew were invited and proceeded to race around the banquet room. When asked, “do they allow many children here?” the groom’s father replied in his sly, quiet way, “not that I can ever remember.” Now that’s some pull.
As rehearsal dinners go (like I’m an expert), there was a lot more speechifying than I had anticipated. The groom’s chums let fly with the tributes and mildly embarrassing anecdotes. “Ho ho!” and “oh dear!” chuckled the mildly amused aunties. Then, more speeches, and toasts, and tribute. The groom is a wonderful person (true), the bride is a wonderful person (also true), they light up a room when together (handy in a blackout), they are nice… and so on. I was pressed into service to say a few words, and with the help of a niece and nephew under each arm, I advocated in favor of their happiness. I kept it brief only because by that time crowd was well aware of how wonderful the bride and groom are and have been. As you know, I’m all about the future, man, so I wished that they will be well later. Like tomorrow.
And what a good idea that was.
The big wedding was at a big Catholic church with a big Catholic mass. You may recall, dear sir, that I call myself a Recovering Catholic. I listen to the sermons, I remain respectful, but I don’t take part in any of the rites from kneeling to counting myself among “us” when the call goes out “let us pray.” That’s not my speed, chief. The people there who didn’t know anything about the religion felt comfortable playing along with the kneeling and the nodding, but I couldn’t manage it.
That said, the setting was lovely and my sister more so. The train of her dress was plenty long enough, certainly long enough to trip up the groom once or twice. Anywhere else, this would’ve drawn a chuckle, but we were all being very serious about the happiest day in their lives.
The reception, at the groom’s parents’ home was low-key, which leads me to this little observation from my Mom: “doesn’t [the groom’s father] remind you of your dad’s dad?” And indeed, he did, except with a drink in his hand that I never saw my grandfather holding. It was the mannerisms, the little grin, the deliberate shuffle, and the style. That style. Visiting his study was like visiting my grandfather’s own with leather bound books lining the shelves from floor to ceiling, a small lamp over the blotter on his giant oak desk. All those things, plus the Catholicism, plunked me right down at the kid’s table again. I wonder if I the only one who noticed.
But I know that you’re waiting to hear about the bride and groom’s new house. We took the tour yesterday, and I have to say that I was impressed. The view over Pasadena from their new hillside perch is dramatic, as are some of the problems with their new honeymoon bungalow. I’ve used the term before, but “advanced fortbuilding” applies here too. I’ll tell you a little fairy story:
Once upon a time, there was a little house. It was a cute little house with a great and productive orange tree in front on the side of the hill. All was well with the little house, and the little old man who lived in it, until one day, when the rains came. Oh! The great and powerful rains pounded down on the poor little house, and try as it might, the poor little roof on the poor little house simply couldn’t keep the thunderous downpour outside any longer. It was like it was raining inside too! “What will I do!” the little old man worried. “My beautiful little walls! My beautiful wallpaper with the little flowers! My beautiful ceiling! All ruined! My little old bank account surely can’t afford to fix all of this!”
But then, the little old man had a thought. “I’ll be smart! I’ll cover over the damage with wood paneling on the walls and acoustic tiles on the ceiling. I can modernize my little house AND fix the damage without draining my poor bank account.” So the little old man set about modernizing his little old house with much dark wood paneling and many ceiling tiles. “There!” he proclaimed proudly “it’s even better than new!”
Yep. Just cover it up.
(woof. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and yes, I’ve signed on to help, and no, the fairy story only scratches the surface.)
Your pal,
bob
Author’s Note: Other fairly significant events also occurred this weekend, but I couldn’t figure out how to write about them without sounding like a jackass due to some of the restrictions placed on this thing from outside sources. I wish I could though, because there’s a funny bit about the boy dog lifting a leg on somebody’s beach chair, but, well, apologies will have to do.
Why Go To Saturn?
The NASA site itself poses the question, but I think I have a couple answers:
- Because the science is useful to us down here (even I can figure that out, and I didn’t even read their spiel).
- Because the successful insertion of a spacecraft into such a hostile orbit shows that our guys can still do some pretty hairy stunts and come out of it without blowing up a bazillion-dollar machine which is good for the morale of the people working other programs.
- Because if we’re ever going to get the proletariat off of this rock, we need to know how to do long-term travel, and analysis of other planets remotely, and understand the hazards better before we even think about contemplating sending a senator’s daughter up there.
- And because the grainy B&W photos even caught dopes like me off-guard with their beauty and provided me with a glimpse of something I thought I understood, but clearly don’t (take a look at the pictures of the rings that show the waves! Cripes!).
Yeah, I think it’s money well-spent. But hell, I also thought that I’d see civilians flying into space in my lifetime.
Your pal,
bob
The First Friday Of The Week
It’s Thursday already? Crap! So much to do!
My sister is getting married this weekend. She has scheduled activities for the family members to partake in so we have to be ready with many changes of clothes, plans for pups, locking down the homestead, and all of that. Sure, it’s Bride Magazine stuff, the rehearsal, the rehearsal dinner, the wedding, the reception, the rest…
…and I know I say that I’m going to take pictures and post them here, but it has turned out that people don’t want their mugs posted on the Innernut (for good reason!) so the pictures of people that I tend to snap aren’t suitable. If it wasn’t for the bad lurkers out there, the big pile of electrons would be a much nicer place. If I were to say anything to the people with malevolent intentions out there poking around, I guess I would have to say, “you’ve won.” We’re frightened of you and the nonsense you bring to what should be a free and open network.
Thanks a bunch. Bastards.
– bob
“Do You Like Salads?”
Why, yes!
The telemarketer, sorry, researcher, called to ask if I’d like to participate in a taste test for a “national restaurant chain” this afternoon. I was clearly intrigued.
“Which one?”
“I’m not supposed to say…”
“But how will I know if I want to go there?”
“Well, we’ll pay you for your time. I can tell you which chain if you qualify.”
“I’m not interested in getting paid necessarily, I’d just like to have good food. What kind of food are we talking about here?”
“Salads. They have salads. Do you like salads?”
“Sure I do, but is it a salad restaurant, per se?”
“I can’t really talk about that. So, what’s your age?”
“I’m in the the 20-to-60 demographic.”
[click]
Oh, by the way, the Coalition Provisional Authority transferred sovereignty two days early to an interim government in Iraq today. Ho hum. Whatever.
Are we winning the War On Terror yet?
I hope so.
– bob
I Apologize In Advance For Using Up Your Oxygen
By a series of circumstances—some of which involving underwear—I found myself driving my sister and my nephew to the desert early Thursday morning for my uncle’s funeral service later that day. Dad had asked the local parish priest to say a few words, and he did, by delivering what amounted to a stripped-down Catholic mass at the funeral home. We family members sat in the first two rows so we could mostly make out what the padre had to say. He eschewed the microphone for most of the service though, so the remainder of the attendees heard next to nothing, mostly just the odd croak, wheeze, and “amen.”
The few Catholics in the crowd followed along with the call and response scheme, offering an “and also with you” and “in this we pray”when they thought it was time, getting it right a majority of the time. This part puzzled though, why was the priest dousing the wreath on the table behind him? There were no ashes there, no casket, just a wreath. Dad explained it as “symbolism. It’s symbolic. Duh.” Well, sure. Just like the Lazarus story.
The less than respectful parts came later during the eulogizing. One mourner proclaimed “oh yeah, he sure liked to party, we had a real good time, real good…” Another, arriving in her black “mourning shorts and chukka boots” described my uncle’s “giant stack of girly magazines, must’ve been this high” to the attendees—and the elderly Catholic priest.
Very tactful.
The wake was nice though. Friends and family got together and swapped stories about my uncle, their lives since they’d last met, and how they didn’t want to meet again under such circumstances. I tried to meet as many of them as I could, asking them about their lives and their recollections of the Coachella Valley in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. I guess I was hoping to hear from them how my uncle’s life might have turned, but that never happened. Or maybe it did. The recurring theme was that it never turned at all. He was always disinterested in the 9-to-5 rat race. He was “comfortable in his own skin,” as they say, never heeding everybody else’s idea of success.
And he surrounded himself with people who felt the same way.
With that, I had an epiphany. Drop the pathology line. Which is what I’m going to do.
By the way, it was 110 degrees in the desert at the end of last week, and the A/C in the Jeep Grand Livingroom hasn’t worked in months. Today, though, back in San Diego, I bought the part that I had suspected was the problem. A twenty dollar part, since you asked. Now the A/C works fine and pumps out very cold air. Twenty dollars! Bah!
For that I subject my nephew to the furnace blast of driving through the valley with the windows open to the point where he said, “momma, I’m gonna barf.” “Is he serious?” “Oh yeah,” said my sister, “he won’t say it unless he really means it.” So we pulled over on the way home so he could get sorted. My sister ran cold water over his head in the gas station restroom, so with that and a little air, he was fine.
Uncle Bob’s such a cheapskate it makes you want to barf, doesn’t it?
Well, doesn’t it?
– bob
Letters!
Okay, some letters, but mostly filled with hate. Here’s a sample:
“You were really hard on him. I mean, really hard, in your blog…”
– anonymous
San Diego, CA
That was in response to this post dealing with the passing of my uncle from a couple days ago. Yes, I was hard on the life that he had led, but I loved him and have wished for a long time that he’d clean up and figure out how to be well and get on with life. As I alluded to in that post, I was enamored of his quick wit. His ability to turn a phrase on a dime and give a nickel change. His connection to his generation, mine, and his daughter’s that could yield a pop culture reference to leave all of us spinning—and in awe.
That’s the waste, and that’s what we mourn.
I guess I shouldn’t make apologies for the comments I made in that post, so I won’t. I’ll only temper them to say that when I try to remember my christening as an infant, I can only recall Uncle Tim’s smiling face carrying me down the aisle to be doused. I’m told that this didn’t really happen, that only my real godparents were allowed to do that, but that’s the image I still hold. That, and the stencil outline of the Zig-Zag guy spray painted on the door of my uncle’s British Ford panel van. And a lot more that I shouldn’t go into here…
Where has your Beautiful And Talented Bride™ gone?
– anonymous
San Diego, CA
She doesn’t want to be a subject of the the blog anymore. She never did, actually, and she doesn’t think that her life should be a part of the spectacle made global in this thing. I disagree strongly. In fact, as this is my forum, I should have total editorial control, right? Well, yes, that’s right.
I just don’t want to fall on that particular sword at this particular moment. But that’s another story that I also can’t tell.
See? It’s tough out there.
Oh, I’m sure there will be more on this subject, but not right now.
Your best pal ever!
bob
Lumber!
I hate my Skil jigsaw. The blade was whipping around so much in the 3/4-inch oak plywood that the cuts turned out to be, well, terrible. I guess a little background is in order. There is an individual who wishes that there was a full-length desk in the office. I’m happy to oblige, so if you imagine the aesthetic embodied in this:
…built into this:
…and installed here:
…you get the idea.
The excuses from the Home Depot robots on price notwithstanding (they shipped all the plywood to Iraq!), plywood is really expensive, oak-faced plywood more so. I got one chance at making a good cut and blew it by way of that goddamnedable jigsaw. The cut itself was relatively straight, but the face of the plywood where the trim would go was alternately concave and convex.
Thank Jah for wood putty, is all I can say at this point.
Not a disaster by any stretch of the imagination, but the putty imposes a 24 hour delay as it sets up. Bah!
By the way, happy Father’s Day! I described the project to my Pa and he sounded impressed. I’ll take that.
Your pal,
bob
Silly Week-Ending Update Of Sorts…
First, the sad and terrible news, simply to dispense with it and move on: My uncle Tim died the other day. Apparently he had neglected to realize that it was no longer 1972 and that he was no longer 22. If you were 22 in 1972, tell me what you were doing at the time. I’m sure it was an anti-establishment, free-love, experimentation time for you at the time. Well, he never left and spent the subsequent thirty-plus years on that bent resulting in cascading failures that left him just north of vegetative for just shy of the last three months. And no, that’s not meant to be fun or funny.
He blew it in a big way, but underneath that he was a wonderful man with a sharp wit. What a waste.
I may actually go to the funeral next week if I can get away from San Diego’s Omnipresent Charitable Organization for a little while. It certainly wouldn’t be to pay my respects to a man who blew it, but rather to those who wished for something better for him but couldn’t quite get him to share their optimism for his future. I’d like to support them, his siblings, who had hoped that my uncle could use his intellect to pull himself out of the morass that he’d embedded himself in. Of course, no amount of encouragement could make that happen for somebody as unreceptive to outside interference as he was. Which is also a waste.
Next is the job thingy. The guy at work who had helped me understand how to navigate through the policies and politics of San Diego’s Omnipresent Charitable Organization has been reassigned. I’m now in charge of all desktop support, all landline phones, virus quashing, and every Mac. By “in charge” you must be thinking that I’m the supervisor, and that’s true, but I have no charges under me, so I have to actually implement all of my edicts as well. And I’m a terrible tyrant, so I’ve been very hard on myself lately. “You’re too slow!” “You’re too lazy!” “Why are there any tickets in your queue!”
Because I’m the only one I’m bossing around?
Just a thought.
The plus side is that they really think that I’m up to the task. The downside is that it’s going to take me a few days to get up to speed (again). By the way, if anybody has a good idea about how to back up a Mac OS 9 workgroup server to an Active Directory share, I’d be thrilled to hear it. At the moment, I think I’ll synchronize the server volume to the share daily, but if there’s a better (best practices) way to do it, I’d love to read your thoughts. My second thought is to convert the server to OS X 10.3, but I’m sure that I’ll hear howls about that. I love the manageability, but the guy who is running it right now might not grok the deal.
There’s more…
– bob
Big Problems!
Mr. Jaunty doesn’t seem to want to update. I’ve posted a couple of lovely posts since last Friday, but they’re not showing up. Having crabbed to Blogger Support, I have still not found out what’s going on.
Frustrating? Yes. But if this post shows up, that’ll be a good thing indeed.
I doubt it though.
Your cranky pal,
bob
UPDATE: Ha! Ha! I jacked up the setting my own self by publishing to the wrong URL! Ho! Ho! Hilarity ensues! (as well as serving up a heaping helping of steamed crow) Apologies.
So, Where Have You Been?
Busy! Big long days, evenings moving heavy things and drugging the dog, you know, the usual. I’ll be more thorough later this afternoon. I promise.
Your best pal in the whole wide world,
bob