Diary of a Network Geek

You'll notice the poll is gone.
Well, that's because while you all were out partying this weekend, I was giving in to peer pressure and recording the requested sound samples. I'm still not sure which of you weirdos wanted to hear me read SmooveB, but at least an equal number wanted to hear me read Robert Frost. I have a strange and varied audience. Very strange. I got one, um, "private" comment, but, so far, no one else has mentioned anything about the sound files. Not sure what to make of that this evening. Well, anyway, I hope you enjoyed them!

Ready to claw your way to middle management?
Well, then you better have a good resume! Luckily, TechRepublic is there to help with the downloadable article, Ten Things You Should Know About Creating A Resume For A High-Level IT Position. I'm not sure I agree with everything they're saying in this one, but, then, I'm not close to middle management these days, either, so it's worth a look. Still, I'd pay more attention to the headhunter I'm working with than a canned article. Again, it's a good place to start, but I sure wouldn't stop there.
Unless you like the endless round of interviewing for jobs you're not qualified for or interested in taking.

Not the worst book I've read.
Well, I finally finished Numbered Account this weekend. It was okay. Not great and not terrible, but obviously a first novel and probably a "one hit wonder". The author notes say that he was in Swiss banking for a long time and he obviously wrote what he knew. I suppose this was meant to be a kind of murder mystery/terrorist intrigue set against the fast-paced backdrop of Swiss banking. And, yeah, it's about as exciting as it sounds. Oh, I suppose that a banker or an accountant might have found the technical details fascinating, but, frankly, at just over 750 pages, I found it mainly tedious. There was just enough to keep my resolve to finish every book I start and play it all the way through, but just barely. Honestly, most of the reversals were so obvious that I couldn't figure out why the author took so long to reveal them. Who was sleeping with who and who was betraying who simply were NOT a mystery to me at all and that level of obviousness detracted quite a bit from the story. Anything that disturbs my willing suspension of disbelief ruins the purpose of reading fiction, for me, and the blatant exposure of clunky technique did that in this case. Frankly, I cannot reccomend anyone read this book. But, if you still feel the pull of daring-do in the fascinating world of banking, let me know and I'll GIVE you the book.

I also read The Lazy Man's Guide to Enlightenment this morning. Before you get all impressed, remember, this book is less than 80 pages long and is meant for a LAZY person, as the title suggests. Still, I like to reread this particular book on a regular basis to remind myself that being at peace with the world is as easy as making a decision to not let things bother me. Phrases like "Love as much as you can from wherever you are." and " Love is the only dimension that needs to be changed" and "Go beyond reason to love: it is safe. It is the only safety." and "Enlightenment doesn't care how you get there." all remind me about what's important and what I should be concerned with in this life. The whole attitude in this book makes life easier to live. It's a great book and I highly reccomend it.

Yes, there was Scotch involved in this post.
This will actually appear on a Sunday, but it was recorded Saturday night, after church and a fair amount of 15-year-old Macallan, because, believe me, that's what it takes for me to be this goofy. I'm so uptight, sometimes, I think I should have been an accountant, or a lawyer. In any case, we launch this descent into madness with a little riff I like to call "Jim Read's Robert Frost". Why start there? Because I'm hoping you get bored and stop listening. Sadly, I know my audience and suspect that you will stick it out just to hear:Jim Read's SmooveB, which is rated PG-13 and may not be safe for work.
You are sick, sick people. And, I love you all. I apologize in advance for anyone I might scar with these MP3s. Lord, I hope that second one doesn't give my ex-wife flashbacks! It's so close to our courtship that it gives me the willies! (Just kidding!)
Enjoy!

I have the oddest conversations at church.
And, no, this will not explain the cheerleader comment from earlier.
So, I've mentioned this cute girl at church that I totally have a crush on, but won't date, right? The ex-girlfriend of one of my best friends. Well, more like ex-fiance. And, yeah, that is why I haven't asked her out and don't plan on it, either. Well, and the other thing.
I met this girl, we'll call her "K", through my friend, who we'll call "J". When I started coming to church again, she invited me to join the prayer team. After a bit of hesitation, since I really don't think the average person wants to hear what I pray about, I accepted and joined up. Note that I still haven't joined the church, since I'm not much of a joiner, but, still, the prayer thing I could handle. Things were all nice and smooth-sailing for most of the year in that area. I got to know some folks at church, got to know K a little better and, eventually, thought of her as a friend in her own right. Then, J and K's relationship ground down into dust and I was left with a very attractive, artistic, spiritual friend. Naturally, an instant crush developed. A crush that I would not follow up on, because it would be too weird for me and my buddy, J.
Instead, I enjoyed having a female friend who I wouldn't date, even though my therapist and parents and strangers on the street were encouraging me to ask her out. I talked to her on the phone a couple of times, saw her at church and that was about it. Then, there was a "little incident" that confirmed why I should never ask her out. No, I didn't hear that she'd definately say "no". It was something else altogether. K asked me to bring a volunteer sign-up sheet to the prayer meeting before church, because she was going out of town on short notice. Of course, I did it without any real thought to it. That night, I sat with J in church. Afterward, as we were walking out, he asked one of K's other friends from the prayer team if she'd seen K. Withough thinking, and before this lady could answer, I blurt out that K's out of town. Oh, my, the look I got from J. Eyes wide in horror, mouth agape in shock. It was as if I'd hit him. I immediately cringe and start explaining at high velocity how I knew where she was and the limits of my knowlege. But, by then, it was too late.
The next night, I saw J and got him aside for a moment of privacy. I told him again how I'd known what was up with K. Then, I admitted that I was attracted to her, but would never ask her out because of how it would affect my relationship with him. Besides, I knew it wouldn't last and, well, chicks my come and go, but friends you can count on are few and far between, so they come first. Always. He tried to tell me that even if I did ask her out, it would be cool with him, but I knew he was lying. To himself more than to me.
Fast forward a couple weeks and throw in the knowlege that K is seeing someone else from church. This, incidentally, is where it gets really strange. Now, it's the Saturday after Thanksgiving and J's entire family is in church with us. I get to meet everyone, some for the second or third time. J and I are sitting in the row behind his family. Don't ask why, because I don't know. Anyway, as the band starts playing the "happy-clappy" praise and worship music that starts the service, J asks me if I know where K is tonight. I quickly tell him that I have no idea, holding my hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. He kind of chuckles nervously, knowing that his, well, let's call it "intensity" has shown again. I shake my head and tell him that's why I never asked K out. I knew he'd freak about it.
"Yeah," J says. "I'd have a hard time talking to you after that."
"Yep, that's why I didn't do it."
"Besides, you're not K's type."
"Yeah, I know. That's the other reason," I say, and laugh a little, but inside I'm thinking What do you mean I'm not her type? I could learn to be her type! And, at the same time, my wounded pride is thinking Hey, you're not her type either, remember, buddy? Besides, she's not really my type, either. But, I knew he was right, and then, before I could think about it any more, or say something stupid, we both started singing along with the band.

Later, though, I started thinking about that conversation again.
See, I don't think I am anyone's "type". I'm not sure I even want to be a type at all. Hell, I have enough trouble just trying to figure out how to be me. See, when I got involved with the Harpy, my identity got all tangled up in her's. Who I was became a reflection of who we were. Or, at least, who I thought we were. Turns out, I was wrong about that. I never really knew her at all. (Isn't that a line from a Phil Collins song?)
So, take a look at me now. There are days I feel like an empty space where a person used to be. Not always, though. Just when it gets really quiet. You know, about two or three in the morning, when it's so quiet you can hear God breathe. It's then, when I feel so alone, when even the dog is sleeping in another room, that I see all my flaws magnified. The lens of night blurs my self-image and I loose track of everything except the mistakes and the bad choices. All I hear are the lies about how I'm no good and never will be. And, I start to believe them. In the clear light of day, I know those lies aren't true, but, alone in the dark, the boogeyman in my soul looms large like a distorted shadow the wall of my psyche.
So, who wants a guy who's stumbling toward middle-age, has a good job and prospects for more and better, is well read, can cook reasonably well, is kind to animals and adored by small children? Is that a "type"? What type of guy is it who's stuck somewhere between the clove-cigarette haze of a coffee house and being the "hero in a grey flannel suit"? How about a guy who works with computers but writes a little fiction and poetry on the side? Or makes digital art for fun? Do the tattoos fit in there somewhere? Or the fascination with Japanese culture? Is it the detailed knowlege of criminal history and exploits that unbalance me? Or my collection of foreign language phrasebooks? I don't know, really. I don't see myself as all that different or interesting, but my friends tell me otherwise. I try not to judge myself too harshly. I've come this far pretty well on my own, as my therapist reminds me. Daddy never got me a job. I've always made my own way. That's got to count for something, right? So, who really is interested enough in me to look closely at the ways I'm broken that I don't show in this blog?
Who's type am I?

Hmm, should I warn my dog about this?
Hilda, my adorable, brown mutt, loves to chase squirrels. She actually caught one, once, when my ex-wife wasn't paying attention and turned her loose out in the yard without warning the furry, little tree-rats first. Hilda didn't quite know what to do with it, according to the Harpy, but, still she caught one. So far, I haven't seen her actually nab one of the interloping tree-rats, but she keeps trying.
So, since she has so much fun, I wonder if I should tell her about the really tough Russian syndicate squirrels? Apparently, when they gang up, they get really nasty. I mean, I always knew that Russian mob was tough, but I never realized that they'd organized the dang squirrels! Nah, I'll let her figure it out the hard way. It'll build character.

The title says it all.
As you all should know by now, I love my Scotch. Well, for those of you who stick to tropical drinks with umbrellas in them, Scotch is a particular variety of whisky. The finest variety of whisky, in my not quite humble opinion, but still, there are those who swear by Irish whisky and other such things. Regardless of all that, there's a magazine dedicated to all the various flavors and qualities of whisky called, of course, Whisky Magazine.
There's something to think about while you wait for the best part of Friday to start!

Just some random thoughts that have to come out.

You may notice a small poll to the right. You want to hear my mellow, syrupy tones? Tell me what you want to hear. But, keep it clean! I will NOT be convinced to read Penthouse Letters or the female equivalent. At least not on the first date.
Oh, and I need to find a microphone, too. I know I've got one somewhere...

My sourdough starter is really cranking, which is unusual for this time of year. Normally, it would be too cold. It's already very sour, which is good, and it's throwing off hooch like you wouldn't believe! Hmm, I'd bet most of you reading this have no idea what that means, but, I'll explain in another post.

I haven't slept well in weeks and I'm afraid I'm going to start hallucinating.

Can attractive, single women actually smell desperation and loneliness on a guy?

I miss the cats that my ex-wife took with her. Two of them, including one that she claims my dog killed, used to meet me at the door when I would get home from work. Even the cats, one of which was my ex-wife's from a previous marriage, were more loyal than she was!
I prize loyalty and dedication, even through tough times. I often bill myself as an indefatigable ally and an implacable foe. My friends tell me I read too many comic books as a kid.

I love to watch Japanese gangster movies and samurai dramas. I find them arty and restful in a way that American film can't match. I want to be Beat Takeshi.

I love the sound of Arabic and other Semetic languages. There's something about the sound of them that makes me think I'm hearing a secret from God. I bought Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ because most of the movie is in Aramaic and Latin, even though they're not historically accurate, and I think they sound wonderful.

I have to get a shower and run, or I'll be late for work. Anyone think I should develop any of this into a real post? :)

They're remaking the Prisoner.
This probably doesn't mean much to most of you, but this is worrisome to me. You see, when I was a mere lad, my father introduced me to The Prisoner. I remember being quite impressed with "Rover", which was this giant bouncy ball that sucked escapees into it and returned them to the sinister Village. It's a classic cold-war series about paranoia and mind control and duty vs. honor and, well, all the things that made my little head spin when I was a kid. I only saw two or three episodes as a kid, but I loved this strange, quirky show even more than The Avengers. (Don't get me started on Emma Peel in that leather jumpsuit!) If you haven't seen The Prisoner, it's well worth finding. Especially if you are actually old enough to remember the Cold War.
Now, I've read on SciFi.com that they're redoing The Prisoner. Sadly, they've already admitted that they're going to make significant changes, including the fact that they won't use The Village. That's really a shame, since that paricular piece of surreality was one of the things I loved about the show. No one could leave The Village, but Number 6 kept trying. Well, I guess, I'll just resign myself to the idea that this won't be The Prisoner that my father shared with me as a kid, but something else. And, of course, I have the classic series on DVD, so I can retreat to that time and place whenever I want.
"I am not a number! I am a free man!"

There's something missing from my blog.
I've been reading a lot of blogs lately, which has led me to think a whole lot. Combine that with a little therapy and the time of year and, well, you end up with a very, very introspective Network Geek. So, while I've been introspecting and the other day, two things came to me about my blog and my life. There are two significant forces in my life that are missing here: the sound of my voice and cheerleaders. No, it's not what you think. My interaction with cheerleaders has led to some of the most important realizations of my life. It's still not what you think, but, that's for another time.
Writers talk about finding their "voice" in their writing. Eventually, the writing books and pundits tell me, if you write enough, you will find your "voice". But, that's just not true. I've always had my voice, though it has changed over the years. It's a voice I share with my older brother and my father. My mother used to say that when we were all in the same room talking she had a hard time telling us apart. In the end, she could only tell who was who based on how we used language. Over the years, that little family quirk led to some interesting conversations. Often times, I would answer the phone only to have someone address me by my father's name and launch into conversation. "Oh, Bill, glad I caught you! Look, I have this problem and..." I learned some really interesting things about my father and the people he knew that way.
It wasn't until I was in college that I really learned how to use that man's voice. I was such child and, really, in so many ways I still am a little boy, but, somehow, I had the voice of a man fourty years my senior. In a lot of ways, it's a good voice. Soothing, relaxing. Like the deep roar of the ocean heard from miles away, lulling the listener to a state of calm trust. It was in college that I learned to use that voice to relax people. Laying in a small, dorm bed, pressed up against someone so that she could feel the subsonic rumble in my chest like the purr of a big cat. Eventually, in the cold, dark hours, hypnotized by that soft, slow, reassuring voice the secrets would start to spill out. That voice was trustworthy, like the NSA. Information went in, but never came out. Safe, secure.
People seem to want to tell me everything when they hear me reassure them that it's okay. That I want to listen, to hear. Even when I don't say it, somehow, people hear that in my voice and volunteer so much of their lives. At my first real job after college, I remember sitting in an office on the night shift hearing all about the affair one of the Food and Beverage managers was having the the married man from another restaurant in the hotel. One or two simple, direct questions and the story just came flooding out, like I was a priest in a confessional.
Later, when I had to travel so much for my next job, I learned to bark like a drill sergeant. "Make a hole!" I'd bellow at the tourists who stopped at the end of the gangway, and they'd scatter, looking for the uniform. "Coming through! On your left!" And it was off in a hurry, always in a hurry those days, to get my luggage and meet up with the other consultant to scramble to the job site and get started. Or, it was a rush to get my luggage and get home, to laundry and my own comfortable bed. I'd learned to give orders to strangers and expect that they'd be obeyed without question, my voice deep and booming and endlessly confident. Then, I changed jobs again and I stopped shouting confidently at strangers.
But, I was an officer in my Masonic Lodge, so, now, the orders were to friends and Brothers. Tact was the thing, but the confidence had been weakened. Me? Give orders to men older than my father? Or, worse yet, give orders to my own father in Lodge? I was surprised that I was up to the task, but, my voice was there to support me. Even when I didn't feel confident, my voice never wavered. I didn't let any hint of the questions I felt creep into my voice. Strong and reserved and confident. My orders were carried out, for that year, and then I could step down.

Two women have fallen in love with my voice. At least, two that admitted it to me.
One night, my now ex-wife called me in my suburban Chicago apartment. But, she hung up when I answered. I called her back.
"Did you just call me?"
"Uh-huh."
"Then why'd you hang up?"
"You didn't sound like you."
"Well, who did I sound like?"
Silence.
"Honey? Who did I sound like?"
"You'll laugh."
So, I laughed and said,"Probably. But, tell me anyway. Who did I sound like?"
"A..." She paused. "A large, black man."
Of course, I laughed. A little, white guy like me, and she thought I sounded like Barry White on the phone. I couldn't wait to tell my father who his future daughter-in-law thought we sounded like.
The other woman, well, she's a different story all together. She's never even met me, but she said she fell in love with that voice, that laugh. Even before she'd seen a picture of me. Then, it was those eyes. I have my father's eyes, too. But, he and I both know that the eyes are nothing without the voice. It's too bad I'll never meet her.

I was almost a therapist once. I was accepted into the program, but bailed out. The reasons are many and complicated. The joke I've always told was that I got into computers instead, where I could fix the problems. Everyone always laughs, but, deep down, I know it's true. I'd have had to fix my own problems before being any real use to anyone else. But, still, even today, when people hear my voice, it's not long before they relax and tell me everything.
So, I listen to my father's voice echo out of my mouth, reassuring them, and then, I just listen.