Diary of a Network Geek

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!

Advice from your Uncle Jim:
They say integrity is what we do when no one is watching. What are you doing now?

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!

No, not “blue” content. Adult!
You may have noticed that this blog is getting more and more adult. I don’t mean that I’m talking about smut more, but about more adult, and personal, things. As I focus less and less on the family I lost, and keeping things safe for a thirteen-year-old girl who doesn’t want to talk to me, I talk about less and less family oriented things. Oh, sure, I still try to keep it “clean” enough for her to read, if she should so desire, but I’m afraid I talk about things that would mostly bore her now. Discovering who I am and what I want out of a relationship and how sad it is that her mother is so, so bitter even though she left for “greener pastures” and just what really matters most in life. Of course, she’s getting to be that delicate age when those kinds of things do start to matter. To the girls, anyway. At thirteen, the boys generally think girls are just wierd, as I recall. (Honestly, I’m not sure much has changed for most of us! I like ‘em, but they’re still a little weird to me.)
I don’t worry about what my ex-wife might read what I post. Frankly, if she’s still reading at this point she deserves to see that I’m happier without her than I was with her. That dose of reality might do the Harpy some good! Nor, do I worry about relatives, old or new or somewhere in between. Of course, my friends mostly know all this already, so, no worries there. I do try to keep it clean for future employers, though, which is why I have a delay on my comment moderation system. Just in case someone, or something, tries to hammer my blog with spam, I can kill it all.
But, still and all, the trend has been toward personal posts of increasing adultness. Eventually, I’ll probably end up bloging about new girlfriends, when I find them, and more about my explorations of spirituality and culinary grace. Eventually, I suppose, I’ll do something more interesting at work, and then, of course, I’ll write about that.
In any case, you’ve been warned.

No, not for me.
Though, if you want to contact me to revel in your geekiness directly, you can leave a comment that starts “Privatz: “, or something similar. I’ll keep that off the website. Just be sure to include a good e-mail address so I can respond.
But, what I was referring to was a call for submissions to a new essay project called She’s Such A Geek. Subtitled, “An Anthology by and for Women Obsessed with Computers, Science, Comic Books, Gaming, Spaceships, and Revolution”, the project is open to geeks of the female persuasion only and is meant to be an exploration of feminine geekiness in all its splendor. Specifically, they’re looking for essays from girls/women/ladies who consider themselves geeks on what it means to them to be a geek, what their mode of geekiness is to them, and how they found their geek niche. Frankly, for the sake of my poor, estranged step-daughter, I hope this book turns out well and stirs up some very positive talk about geek girls. I hope she’ll see it one day, and know that she’s not alone, or even all that different. In fact, I hope she’ll learn that what she thinks of as “geekiness” is really just a form of creativity or, even, genius that’s rare in this dull, grey age.
And, forgive me for mentioning my ex-wife again, but, if she were to write an essay for this work, I wonder if she’d be honest about who taught her the joys of comic books or Japanese animation? Could she be truthful enough to admit that she knew nothing about it until I made her watch Akira and Ghost in the Shell? Eh, probably not, but, then her memory gets a little flexible when it comes to her various ex-husbands.
In any case, if you’re one of my few readers who are members of the “fairer sex” and consider yourself geek material, think about contributing to the book.

That’s an interesting question these days.
The honest answer is that I don’t know. At least, I don’t know completely. That’s not to say that I’m particularly complicated or mysterious, because I don’t think I am any more complicated than anyone else. As a modern member of the human race, though, I’ve come to accept that I am often a walking contradiction.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m the man my father hoped I would be when I was born. Have I lived up to his expectations for me? Exceeded them, perhaps? I worry that I am a dissapointment to him. Too arty, too flowery, too sensitive and not hard enough, not tough enough, not, well, not man enough for him. I think that’s why I got my tattoos. To prove to my father, who once told me that nothing I could do would shock or surprise him, that I was a tough enough man to wear a dragon. I got the second to balance the first. And, I suppose, to prove to myself that I was brave enough to go back, knowing how much it would hurt. Oddly enough, after the second, my father at 60-something, went and got his first tattoo. I think so that he could prove to me that he was as tough as I was!
Somewhere along the way, I’ve become even more unflappable than my old man. Friday night, Steve the Zookeeper was telling me something that was meant to shock me. I could tell by the way he looked at my face afterward, searching for a reaction. I smiled at him and said, “oh, hmm, that’s not something most folks know, I guess”, or something like that. He started laughing and said,”oh, yeah, I forgot who I was talking to! You’ve pretty well seen it all, haven’t you?” And, I had to agree, I have. And, if I haven’t seen it, I know someone who has, or I’ve read a book about it. I just don’t shock easy any more. After the cast of characters that has populated my life, to one degree or another, little bothers me about people. So, I’ve become truly what my father told me he was, unshockable. Hell, even my therapist asks me questions about sub-cultures that I’ve participated in. Areas of expertise that help him gauge a couple of his other clients. I think he’s even impressed at how easily I talk about it, without shame, guilt or remorse. Just something I did once, but don’t do anymore.
Still, I search out the edges of who I am. Right now, I’m reading two books, which is a bit unusual for me. I usually stick to one until I’m all the way through. But, when I started Jesus in Blue Jeans, the little sections were so dense with eye-opening information and thoughts that I couldn’t read more than a few pages at a time. So, in between, I started reading Numbered Account, about mystery and intrigue in the exciting, fast-paced world of Swiss banking. It’s actually better than it sounds, though very much outside my normal genres of reading. I try to do that more these days. Push outside my normal, comfortable life. To find out who I am. New music, too. Or, sometimes, back to old. Everything from Lord of Acid to Frank Sinatra to Morrissey to Dar Williams to Foghat to Gorillaz. I just grab whatever seems appealing at the time. I guess, I’m trying to rediscover who I am alone, without a partner. So much of who I was got tied up into that relationship that part of me got lost.
So, like an explorer without a map or even a native guide, I stumble blindly into the unknown. Seeking for that person I was supposed to be. For the man my father wanted me to become. For the man I’d hoped to be. For the man I really am.
What is this all about? I don’t know. Maybe it’s that time of year, or maybe it’s just something in the water. I’m lost and confused and I want to know what this all means. I want answers! But, there are none. Ambiquity is just how the world works, whether I like it or not. I wonder if anyone reading this cares besides me. I just want to understand myself and find someone who wants to understand me, too. In that special way that only one other can. I wonder if I’ll ever find her… Or, if she’ll find me.

I love that movie.
I actually don’t care much for Rob Lowe or Demi Moore, but that movie, set in Chicago, always reminds me of what I’d hoped life would be like in my late twenties. Ah, well, maybe in my next life.

Anyway, dinner last night went well. My friend Steve’s timing was perfect and he got here just as I was sautéing the onions to go with my Chicken Masala. Here’s how the food preparation went, and notice that I don’t feel guilty at all for the cheating involved. First, I cut up the chicken and the onions and put them in separate bowls. Next, I set up the rice in the rice cooker, but didn’t start it. Per the instructions on the jar of India Chef brand biryani masala sauce, I sautéed the chicken in a little vegetable oil, then added the whole jar of sauce and put the lid on the pan. While that was cooking, I started the rice and chopped the cilantro. Then, I set the table with my every-day, white dishes and flatware, but the better, clear glasses. As a jokey flourish, I folded the white paper-towel “napkins” into squares and put them into the glasses. After a quick check on the chicken, which had already started to smell delicious, I made a pitcher of instant, peach-flavored ice tea and set up the music. (The music, incidentally, was, in play order, Level 42, Level Best, then a mix CD that Steve himself had made and given me the year before, followed by Roy Orbison, Super Hits, and finally ending with The Very Best of the Doors, because that’s about the best way to end anything, I think.) By this time, the chicken was done, so I put it into a casserole dish with the rice, again, per the instructions, and added some other spices and a few onions. That popped into the oven and I started the broccoli. After that, I started the onions with a little extra vegetable oil, some garam masala spices and a pat of butter. While that got going, I lit the candles on the mantle and the kitchen table, including all my Saint Jude santos candles, and started the music. Shortly into the second song on Level Best, Steve arrived with a blueberry pie. Yum!
I knew I’d done well when Steve’s first comment on entering the house was “Oh, what smells so good!?” After I’d reminded him I was doing Indian, and he made appropriate “yummy” sounds, he saw the table. Now, in all modesty, I didn’t really do much there, but when a gay guy tells you how nice your presentation at the table is, you know it’s been done just right. So, while I finished up the onions and took the chicken out of the oven, Steve checked some voice-mail he’d gotten on the way over. By the time he was done, I had all the food on the table and was ready to go. As I mentioned, perfect timing!

So, we had a lovely dinner, scintillating conversation, and a grand time spoiling Hilda. You see, Steve is not only a “dog-person”, but also a keeper in the bird section of the Houston Zoo. He’s eicked smart and knows more about animals than anyone I’ve ever known. Oh, the stories he tells about things that happen at the zoo! “When miniature ducks attack!” I made a pot of coffee to go with the pie, which was also breakfast this morning, and we talked all the way into the first CD of The Very Best of the Doors. It was a very good time.

Today, after cleaning up what was left from last night and starting laundry, I set up a chunk of catfish for tonight’s dinner and prepped the last of the uncooked chicken to do up at the same time. Then, I can microwave that later in the week for a quick dinner. The catfish was already spiced, but I added a slice of fresh orange to cut the “fishy” taste. The chicken got liberally dosed with nearly random spices and the rest of the orange. Actually, that’s often how I cook. No recipie at all, but simply spices that smell good together on meat, sometimes mixed with something fruity, like apple, or orange or other citrus. My ex-wife was always afraid that it wouldn’t turn out well, but I’ve never had anyone be dissapointed in what I made. So, that, with some of the left-over rice and veges will make a lovely dinner several times this week.
Hey, you know, I like this part of being single again! I love cooking like this. Sass, you’re right, I did win in the end!