Diary of a Network Geek

I'm a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.
Aren't I? I mean, isn't 36 (okay almost 37) a little soon for that? Most of my family lived well into their 80's before they finally took the dirt nap. But, I have no other quick way to describe how I'm feeling. I don't like what I do for a living very much any more. I'm tired of it. It's not that I don't like the place that I'm working now, because they're just fine. A mostly friendly group of people all pitching together to get product done and out. But, after 12+ years, it's gotten to be the same old thing. The same kinds of user problems. The same issues. The same unsolvable situation of doing more with less and less and less. I'm tired of it, and I'm not the only one. But, what else can I do? I've done this so long, it's all I'm really qualified to do without a lot of retraining. And, even if I were willing to do the retraining, what would I retrain to do? Then, there's the matter of pay...
I'd like to be an artist. And, not a digital artist, either, though I think I have potential there. I'd rather be a real artist. Drawing, painting, sculpting. If I could make a decent living at it, writing. (Though, I have to admit, I'm so burned out these days that I haven't even tried to write that much.) Frighteningly enough, I think I could make a better living making yard art than I could writing. So much paper, but so few who actually seem to read.
Actually, I remember as a kid being quite impressed with a particular metal artist's work. He did these incredible fountains that sold for thousands of dollars, and that was back in the late 70's or early 80's. They were impressive things, too. Usually, they were a good two or three feet across and at least as high. I remember one that looked like giant flowers of some kind and each one spouted a little trickle of water. There was another one that was all coppery maple leaves that picked up more of a patina as the water flowed over them. And, he had kinetic sculpture, too. Things that spun or bounced or rocked back and forth. It was a really amazing metal wonderland when he would bring his work to the art shows at our church. I can't remember his name, but I still have several of his little, inert, dry pieces: A cricket, a baseball player, a skier, a broken trio of butterflies. I used to have one of his desktop, spinning kinetic sculptures, too, but that seems to be gone. Well, maybe it'll turn up again one day. Or, maybe I'll make my own. I always wanted to design fountains like he made. Maybe I can find a welding class and buy, or rent, the equipment I need to make my own metal art.
I've always been a creative person, so that end of things isn't a problem. And, these days, hard physical labor is, occasionally, quite rewarding. It's certainly less stressfull than my current day job. I'm sure I can find a class that will teach me the skills I need to have to create the metal art, whatever shape it might take.
I wonder what that guy I so admired pulled down in an average year?

"What do you mean, I'm in charge of the project?"
Oh, if I had a nickel for everytime those words came out of my mouth! And, if I'd had this downloadable article from TechRepublic, Ten Things You Should Know About Managing IT Projects, I might have survived some of those "special" projects. It hits the highlights, but it's a good place to start. At least, after reading the article, you'll have a working knowledge of what you need to be worried about. God knows, no one is even going to tell you that much once they've stuck you with that project that no one else wanted!
Anyway, it's at least enough to help you survive your first IT project. In theory.

Or, Why Uncle Jim Is Smart Enough To Self-Edit.
Okay, I'm not sure why this seems to be such a hard concept for people to grasp, but I don't put everything I'm thinking or worried about or living through on this blog. I know, I know, that's terribly shocking to most of you, but it is sadly true. And, that's not just because my wacko ex-wife pours over every word looking for hidden meaning or messages, either. I've been fairly careful about what goes into this blog for quite some time. Heck, even back in the Before Time, when I thought my marriage was going well, I made sure not to get too deeply personal here. For one thing, I just don't want total strangers knowing certain things about me. For another, I don't care to have potential employers know other certain things about my personal life.
I mean, potential girlfriends/"life-partners"/whatever don't really need to know all my quirky habits up front. It's far more fun and interesting, not to mention amusing, to discover them gradually as we go along. They don't need to know that, on occasion, I will work for 20+ hours at a stretch doing a conversion or implementation. Or, that I might get a call at 1:00am that I have to respond to or the company will loose more than I make in a year. And, future employers don't need to know how far in debt I really am. Or, the details of my more intimate personal life. (For that matter, neither to potential girlfriends!)
So, I'm careful and thoughtful about what I present here, not just because of famous blog-related firings, but because I want this blog to be safe for a certain teenage girl, who used to think quite a bit of me, to read. (Yeah, okay, I've said some not-nice things about her mother, but, well, she's got to see that sooner or later.) So, while I'm not quite willing to go to the lengths that some bloggers go, and move my blog to another, anonymous name, I'm also not willing to be as brutally honest as other people, either. Nor, am I willing to be anonymous. At least, not yet. And, if I do, I certainly won't announce it here, where my personal stalker will see.
So, your Advice from your Uncle Jim? "Think about what you write before you let others see it. If you're not willing to be responsible for it for the rest of your life, don't write."

Sort of like a "lease light".
So, I'm all freaked out about having a roommate, right? I mean, at one point after college, I said that I'd never have another roommate unless she was sleeping with me. I'd gotten tired of the whole sharesy-waresy thing. Of course, that was from living in a ten-foot by fifteen-foot cell in a college dorm with some of the strangest people on Earth. And, yes, I'm sure they said the same thing about me. So, anyway, I fell back to the comfort zone of any good Republican-turned-Libertarian and started Googling for roommate agreements. Mostly I got things from college campuses, which did little to ease my tension. These, for the most part, were nice, little "contracts" that said everyone would play nice and work things out without killing each other. Sure, in college, probably a very helpfull thing, but for me, not so much. But, finally, I found a legal site that had the whole deal.
An interactive form to customize an agreement tailored to meet specific needs. It had standard clauses loaded with lovely, conservative legalese. There were places to customize clauses and even add in custom "house rules". Things about pets, quiet hours, parties and even over-night guests. Well, I filled out my little form in all its anal retentive glory, carefully considering each and every question. I finally get to the end and it displays on a new page, but, wait, only the first few sections. Then, it demands $12.50 for the entire document, with changes for up to a week. What!?! So, after doing some more searching, my need for boundries won out and I paid the $12.50. I got my document, which I edited with some helpful suggestions from friends, and we reached our agreement.
But, then I got thinking. Now, regular readers of this blog know what happens when I start thinking: TROUBLE. So, I got more and more irritated with having had to shell out $12.50 for this, basically, boiler-plate document. Finally, what I decided to do was run it again, but with all the possible options, and save it to my harddrive as a template. Now, if I ever do this again, I can just pick and choose my clauses and be all set. But, that wasn't good enough, so I've made it even more generic, but removing my actual address and both our actual names, and saved it in three formats: Word, Rich Text and Open Office. And, now, I bring it to you, faithful readers, for your use. Enjoy!
Roommate Agreement Template

Yes, jokes with politically correct punchlines.
Ironically, they're still funny! Yes, honest, realistic answers and endings to the start of jokes can be funny in their own uncomfortable, ironic way. These came to us via Boing Boing, but are on Something Awful (warning, this site might get a little bit more than PG-13).
I think my favorite is:
"Why did the blonde get fired from the M&M factory?
Repeated absences and stealing."

Or,
"Jesus is hanging on the cross and John approaches.
John says: "Jesus, its John. How may I serve thee ain thy time of need?"
Jesus replies: "YEEEAAAAAAAARGGHGGGHGGHGGGHGGHGGH!!!!!" "
(Yes, it's a little sacreligious, but, c'mon, it's still funny in a gross kind of way!)

Or, possibly,
"Knock knock
Who's there?
The wallet inspector!
Ditch the jokes and come inside, Tim, it's fucking cold. "

Anyway, it's the Friday after Thanksgiving, and if you're reading this blog, you probably have a warped sense of humor and could use a laugh, so click the link and enjoy.

You know what I really miss about being married?

No, it's not the sex. Though, I have to admit, a little nookie now and then sure takes the edge off. Funny thing about that, though... See, all the sex advice therapist type folks, like Dr. Ruth and Dr. Drew and so on, they all say that sex is supposed to get better the longer you're in a relationship, right? You get to know each other's moods and needs and wants. The communication is supposed to be better, so getting to the "good stuff" is supposed to get easier, right? Yeah, funny thing about that, in my marriage, not so much. In fact, the harder I worked at that, the worse the sex got. Hmm, have to sort that one out in therapy. So, anyway, it's not the regular, two-person sex that I miss.
Nor is it her cooking. Oh, don't get me wrong, my ex-wife is a great cook, when she wants to be. Might not be very imaginative or creative, and maybe she sticks a little closer to the recipe than I do, but what she did turn out was always, without fail delicious. And filling. In fact, at the end, I've seen e-mail wherein she told her new paramour that she was trying to a) keep me happy by feeding me well (didn't quite work, though the meals were to die for!) and b) kill me with high-cholesterol meals (obviously, since I've lost 8 pounds in the past three weeks, that didn't quite work either). Besides, I'm really enjoying my own cooking. My Near Eastern Spicy Chicken L'Orange fairly melts in your mouth. Trust me! And the beer bread I made for Thanksgiving keeps getting me invited back, year after year. Though, honestly, most folks like my sourdough best. And, I've started another sourdough starter just this week. So, it's not the super delicious food, either.
No, what I miss is something I used to call "Snuggle Time".
See, my ex could never stand sleeping with someone touching her, which I always wanted. I tried to get her to fall asleep resting her head on my chest, listening to my love drum hammer out its steady beat, but she'd never go for it. Instead, what we settled on was Snuggle Time. After I'd finally put down my book, turn out the light and slide under the covers, I'd slip over to her side of the king-size bed we shared and try to melt into her. She'd grab my hand like a little girl holding her teddybear, tucking our little combined fist under her chin while we "spooned". And, for five or ten or, if I was lucky, fifteen minutes, I'd get to feel close to that tender, soft, curvy mystery that is woman. It was the best part of the day. For a few minutes, I'd know that ten-hour days, late shifts, missed meals, extra hours on the weekend, being on-call 24/7, skipped books, or software and computers that I decided I could live without were all worth it, because for five or ten or, if God loved me extra that day, fifteen minutes, I could feel truly worthwhile and content and in love. It was better than sex and more important than food, those few minutes of Snuggle Time. I'd forego either, or both, for a few extra minutes of Snuggle Time.

So, you see, the mean, old bear of a tattooed, crusty computer geek has a soft side.
Makes you feel all mushy inside, don't it?

You can still learn to be a good guest on Thanksgiving.
Personally, I'm bringing home-made bread, baked in my own kitchen, to the folks that are taking me in for Thanksgiving this year. And, of course, I'll provide endless amusement with my wacky stories about my ex-wife. Those are always good for a laugh! Not to mention the fact that everyone will have at least one computer question for me. But, some of you may not be so lucky, so, for those unfortunate few, I offer this: the Men's Health Guide to Being a Good Guest.
It hits the highlights of good guestness, but I especially like the cheesey magic tricks. And, I would add that bringing something, anything, is always a plus. If you're not good in the kitchen you can always bring wine or beer. If your hosts are tee-totallers, you can still bring last minute flowers, just don't pick them in your host's yard.
(However, should your holiday turn ugly, may I reccomend The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook: Holidays? I have it, just in case things take a turn for the worse.)

Have a great Thanksgiving Day everyone!

Or, Uncle Jim becomes a slum-lord.
No, seriously, it looks like I'll be picking up a roommate later this month. I've got a friend who's hit a rough spot, gotten a little behind on rent and, basically, needs to get out of his apartment in a hurry. I offered to let him stay at place for a couple of months, then, start paying some rent. It'll be less than full rent on an apartment and he'll have about as much room. A bigger kitchen, though, he'll have to share with me. And, of course, it should help me with some of my own money issues, at least in the short-term. We're going to do it for about six months and see how it goes. He may stay longer, if we both find it agreeable. Or, not.
I'm probably going to draft a "roommate contract", just so we have our boundries set and clear before anything gets ugly. I don't think it will, but, just to make sure and give me that extra level of comfort, I think it's best to draw up a little agreement and both sign it. Again, it might seem a little extra anal-retentive, but better that than hard feelings later. I mean, we need to work out things like smoking. See, I can't abide smoking in the house. Even when I do it, which is fairly rare, I sit outside to smoke. In this weather, it's actually sort of nice to sit in the cool evening air and enjoy a smoke in the dark while the dog chases imaginary nocturnal interlopers. Hilda loves the cooler weather! Dealing with the utilities and the groceries and kitchen sharing will be a process of adjustment, I'm sure. But, it'll be nice to maybe cook for someone once in a while, not to mention that I know he's a good cook.
Still, I'm not sure how comfortable I'll be letting someone that close into my life. After college, I said that the only time I'd have a roommate again is if she were sleeping with me, but, that was a long time ago and, well, financially, it's not a wise rule to hold tight to right now. And, Hilda will like the extra company, I'm sure, once she gets used to him. And, then, there's dating... I think maybe a "rule" that neither of us will have overnight visitors that the other person hasn't met at least once is appropriate. Maybe an "at least one shared date" clause, or something. And, just like in college, some kind of early warning system will need to be setup. But, not a sock on the doorknob this time.

One last thing. To protect the more-or-less innocent, should I use a codename for my new roomie? If so, what should it be?

Allow me to explain...
I have recieved word that my sainted mother's world-famous orange rolls are currently winging their way to me from distant Chicagoland. This might not seem like a big thing, but, believe me when I tell you those orange rolls taste like love.
They're a holiday staple at that house. Lusted after and coveted all year long. Mom only makes them at either Thanksgiving or Christmas. Never both and almost always at Thanksgiving. They take hours and hours to make, mainly because massive amounts of orange peel must be carefully grated off only the freshest oranges available. They're deliciously yeasty little rolls all glazed over in a caramelized orange sauce that is pure heaven.
Mom generously made two dozen of them so I could share them with the folks who are taking me in this year for Thanksgiving. I laughed out loud when she told me this.
"Ha! Are you kidding me? Those are all MINE!" I told her.
"Don't you want to share any with them?" she asked.
"NO! What do they know from orange rolls, Mom? 'Sides, I'm making bread to bring. They don't need orange rolls."
My father, who started this tradition by insisting that she keep making them, some mysterious holiday before I was born, simply laughed his great, roaring belly laugh at my holiday greed. I don't think he'd share, either, if she'd let him get away with that.

The orange rolls should arrive tomorrow under armed guard via UPS.

I want one!
Hey, I know Negroponte designed these for kids in developing nations, but, uh, I want one. I mean, c'mon, who wouldn't want one? And, if I can load Linux on it, well, that would be just peachy.
I guess what I'm thinking here is, if Negroponte can make this happen for the poor of other nations, why not sell it here in the States, too? Couldn't some kids in the many impoverished communities in the good old US of A use them too? And, if not them, what about the poor, impoverished middle-class, like me? Or, even college students? And, why just the poor and downtrodden? Heck, if you can make it for under $100, just sell it everywhere!
And, apparently, they're even energy efficient. At least according to this article on AustralianIT, which makes mention of the fact that these sucker are "wind-up". Now, that makes them even more attractive to me. I could keep writing even after a power failure or a hurricane. Nothing could stop me!
Man, I gotta' get me one of these bad boys somehow, someway when they hit the market!