Archive for the ‘Personal’ Category

A facebook conversation like no other

Wednesday, September 16th, 2009

My friend Peter posted a video to Facebook last night, and it has sparked the first serious discussion about religion and science that I’ve ever had on the internet with a stranger. I’ve had many great conversations on the subject with various friends and family members over the years, but I couldn’t help but laugh today: I’m pretty sure nobody has ever had a conversation like this on Facebook before. I needed to archive it here, because it’s awesome. (more…)

The Whistling

Sunday, August 23rd, 2009

Since moving into my new place, I’ve had to get used to, shall we say, “the sounds of the city.” At night, as tempted as I was to leave the windows open for the cool night air, I quickly realized that there’s no way I’d ever get to sleep that way.

See, I kinda live on a major thoroughfare in Oakland. Pretty much every night of the week, I can count on a loud, belligerent drunk walking down my street, shouting obscenities to no one in particular. Or a jilted lover (or, y’know, similar) loudly badmouthing that ho what did her wrong. Within a week, I bought a table fan. Needed the background noise.

But the thing that got to me was happening during the day. From somewhere in the neighborhood, there was…a whistling. Every five seconds or so, there was what sounded like the squealing of worn out brake pads. At first, I thought maybe it was one of those rotating vent pods that you find on the roofs of older buildings. I can see a bunch of them from my window, but none of them seem to spin at the same frequency as the whistling. I thought about walking around the neighborhood to look for the source…but what would I do if I found it? Offer to go up to someone’s roof to lube their vent? Ehh…not in this neighborhood.

Then, I thought maybe it was a retarded child in the neighborhood. It really did sound as if a person was just sitting around on a porch, whistling every 3-5 seconds, and only during daylight hours. But, I thought, nah, that just can’t be. What parent would let that happen? I dunno, I never quite dismissed the notion, but I didn’t see it as very likely, either.

I did feel a little better one day, when I parked my car in Berkeley, had my windows rolled down, and I thought I heard the same noise for a minute or two. Made me think it was maybe a type of bird that was nesting somewhere nearby. After that, I just kinda ignored it for a week or so. I did, however, figure out that it was coming from up the street, rather than down the street as I had first guessed. One day, while walking home from the BART station, I clearly heard it coming from a particular street.

About a week after that, I finally found out exactly where the whistling was coming from, and it exceeded all of my expectations for awesomeness. Ladies and gentlemen, the whistling that I hear on my block, every 3-5 seconds of every single day of the week comes from…

Johnie the Watermelon King.

I shit you not.

Johnie the Watermelon KingJohnie (apparently, he’s the king of watermelons) has a small shop down the street. It’s a fenced-in lot with a tiny building the size of an outhouse, and a party tent. Under this tent, on any given day, you will see three or four old black men sitting around a folding table, shootin’ the shit, waitin’ for someone to come along and buy a watermelon. Look a little closer, and you’ll notice that one of these gentlemen, every time he breathes out, contorts his face just a little bit. His jaw juts forward a little bit, his tongue goes up to the roof of his mouth, behind his teeth, and his exhaling breath becomes…a whistle.

At first, I thought, maybe he’s just trying to get people’s attention, so they’ll buy watermelons. Hell, I even thought that maybe he owns the auto shop next door, too…so maybe he’s trying to fool people who stop at the traffic light that they need a brake job. But, alas, he even does it when the gates are closed and he’s just sweeping up in the back.

Either way, I figured I’d at least be happy to finally know. But jesus, how cool is it that it’s coming from the frickin’ watermelon king?

If your parents are not dead, TALK TO THEM NOW

Thursday, August 20th, 2009

Hi kids, it’s your old pal Jim here, with a public service announcement. If you’re reading this, it means I care about you and your family, and it is extremely important to me that you read this entire message.

With all the hullabaloo and rigamarole over the healthcare reform bill, there are mixed feelings all around. I’ll stay out of the political crap for now, and try to keep this brief:

If your parents are currently not deceased, and you are anywhere near my age (within ten years, let’s say), I want you to start planning, now, TODAY, to talk to them about writing up a Living Will, and a regular old Will.

My father died nearly four years ago. His first and only heart attack. One day, while I was at work in Baltimore, I got the phone call from my brother. Dad was just…gone. Some random, idle Thursday, I found out I’d never hear my father’s voice again.

Talk to your parents NOW.

My dad didn’t leave a Will. It caused heartache that you couldn’t imagine, and you can read about it in the archives of this blog. My brother had been trying to convince my dad to draw up a Will for nearly a decade, even bought some software to help the cause. For whatever reason, it just never happened. I’m sure the fear of even thinking about one’s own death can be crippling, and can cause a severe flight response.

I know some of you have parents who are similar to mine: maybe they’re simple folk, from a different time and place. Maybe a little bit of redneck in ‘em? Or maybe just a little more salty and real than most people these days. That’s great, and it’s part of why we love them so much, but it also probably means they’re stubborn. Seriously, if one decade of trying to convince my dad to write up a Will was unsuccessful, you’d better fucking start now.

I watched my mother slowly die from cancer. I’ve been living without her for seventeen years. My father died when he opened a door and entered a room. I’ve been living without him for four years. And I miss them so much, it still aches. Now, here’s the thing: I’ve seen a number of you write, on Facebook and elsewhere, things like “thank god I haven’t had to have those difficult discussions with my parents yet.” And each time I hear a new person say it, a very large part of my heart weeps for how much time you’re wasting.

Now, I don’t have any personal experience with “advance directives,” which is a fancy term that means “creating a legally binding document that tells the world what I want to happen if I can no longer speak for myself.” A friend of mine had to deal with this recently: his father — whose state of health was semi-unknown, but let’s say he was doing just fine — fell from a ladder one day, hit his head, and went into a coma and hasn’t come out. Now, ask yourself: what would you do? What could you do? Do you have any idea how to answer either of those two questions?

Just, please, talk to your parents. There will be tears. There may be yelling and denials. There may be jokes about immortality. That’s great. Laugh, cry, yell, and then get them to do something about it. And make sure they know they can change their minds whenever they want. If, today, your dad says “hell no, pull the plug on me if I’m ever a vegetable,” he might have some kind of existential epiphany next week that makes him change his mind. He can do that. Same thing with your mom, or your aunt or uncle (who are sometimes kinda the closest thing you’ve got to parents…ask me how I know) no matter what their wishes might be.

Part of the reason it’s hard to have the conversation is that we don’t really know what we’re supposed to put in a Living Will (not to be confused with a regular old Will). So, it’s probably smart to talk to your parents about consulting with their doctor. If at all possible, accompany them.

I don’t know, I guess that’s all I’ve got to say. Thanks.

How I got rooked into DirecTV

Friday, August 14th, 2009

After searching high and low for a new apartment, I settled on a place that — as luck would have it — didn’t offer Comcast as an option for TV service, or for high-speed internet. DirecTV was the only available TV service, and the building is already wired for it.

But here’s the thing: even though I was raised on mass quantities of TV and movies on cable, I haven’t been “a TV-watcher” for the better part of a decade. I go to movie theaters when I can, and I occasionally flip on the TV for something specific. But I’m not a channel-surfer, I don’t have any specific shows that I MUST be at home to watch, and I generally only watch a TV series when it’s available on DVD.

But I’m recently single, after a long-term relationship didn’t work out the way I had hoped. There’s a lot of silence and empty space, and I figured I might want to sign up for TV service before I drive myself completely mad. Sure, there’s a bunch of crap on TV, but I figured I could find the diamonds in the rough, and make do.

So, I called DirecTV to talk to someone about it. And talk we did, for about ½-hour. The prices seemed higher than I liked (especially since HD service is $10 more per month, and isn’t mentioned until you start the process of signup). But I decided to go for it, and take the deal they were offering. The woman who walked me through it told me there was a 12-month commitment, but that I could cancel my service within two weeks of activation, paying only for what I’d used. Well, I thought, at least there’s that. Odds are, I figured, I’ll just enjoy the service, and that’ll be that.

Of course, after speaking to the DTV rep for ½-hour, she told me (after beginning the sign-up process) that I had to call my local provider, Consolidated Smart Systems, to create my new account. Grand. I did so.

Cut to one week later, and  I’m really disappointed at the preponderance of complete dreck that’s on all 200 channels. I like movies, I like high-quality TV shows, I like comedy…but, in one week, I wasn’t able to find enough of any of it to justify the monthly cost.

So, I did what any right-thinking individual would do: I called Consolidated Smart Systems to cancel my service. And then, I called DirecTV, since Consolidated Smart Systems is apparently unable to handle cancellations. After a handful of infuriating voice-activated prompts, I got to a DTV rep. She had a thick accent, and seemed to have no earthly idea how to wrap her head around the notion that anyone in this world would be disappointed with 200 channels of pure HD bliss. I explained to her that it turns out I’m not much of a TV person, and that the service (while exactly what I was promised, and worked just fine) was a bad fit for me. Now, I’m not exaggerating when I say she couldn’t understand. She responded as if I hadn’t spoken. She read from scripts. She offered little discounts. When that didn’t work, she told me that she could cancel my service, but I would be responsible for a cancellation fee of $20 per month, for the rest of my 12-month commitment.

“What?”

I related to her that I was told I could cancel my service within two weeks, and I’d only be billed for the service that I had used. Her response was that, no, I had only 24 hours to review the service after activation. Of course, I started to get irritated, and told her what I’d been told when I signed up. She tried offering me “deal sweeteners” again. I asked to speak to a supervisor.

Now, when I ask to speak to a supervisor, it doesn’t bother me when someone asks “why?”. My response was honest: “Because I don’t believe that you and I are understanding one another. You’re doing a good job of trying to offer me things to retain me as a customer, but this is a service that doesn’t work for me, and I need to cancel it, and I need someone to honor what I was told when I signed up.” But, even with this explanation, she refused to transfer me to a supervisor, telling me that I had not given her a reason. It took another five minutes to convince her to transfer me

I was placed on hold for another 15 minutes, and someone on their end dropped the call, presumably when trying to pick up. Now, I’m a guy who understands one very important thing about customer service: you’re not gonna get anywhere if you’re a belligerent asshole. But, at this point, my composure was waning.

I called back, and spoke to a nice, well-intentioned — albeit very young and inarticulate — dude who, again, tried to offer me deal-sweeteners to keep me on-board. I told him I’d already explained my situation to a previous CS rep, and that I’d been hung up on (or accidentally disconnected) while being transferred to a supervisor. So, I asked him to transfer me as well. He did, and was reassuringly “shepherded” my call while performing the transfer, presumably to allay some fears. I appreciated it, and regained some faith in humanity.

The “supervisor” who picked up my call was clearly under 20 years of age, was definitely chewing gum, and — if I were to hazard guess — was likely perturbed that her lunch break at the mall with her girlfriends had been cut short for this bullshit customer service call.

A few minutes later, she disconnected the call while I was mid-sentence. And seriously, honest to god, it wasn’t a “belligerent customer” situation. If anything, I was being way too polite. There was no reason for her to hang up on me. But the one thing I got from her during the conversation was this: the only option she was offering me was to cancel my service, take the $20/month penalty, and write a letter to the billing disputes department. I’d have to commit to ending my service, commit to paying $20/month for twelve months to even have the opportunity to dispute anything at all. That’s my recourse, I can take it or leave it.

So I called back, and I spoke to another person, and learned that each of these people work in what’s called the “Customer Retention Department.” This last guy I spoke with was very understanding, very apologetic for all I’d had to deal with, and had a very good understanding of the Golden Rule. And he gave me everything he could: the address for the billing disputes department; the badge numbers for all the CS reps I had spoken with; assurances that my letter would result in investigation and response.

Of course, I put all the information in a text file, didn’t quickly save it, and my laptop randomly shut down shortly thereafter, because the battery is (apparently) now kaput. Being busy at work, and with other things, it took me a couple days to get up the energy to call them again.

So, this is just big, big rant to say this: I can’t recall a single instance, in my life, of ever getting a desirable result from “writing a letter.” Tomorrow, I’ll boil this blog post down to a reasonably cordial letter to DirecTV. Will report back if anything ever happens. If I haven’t heard from them in a month, I’ll make a short post about it. This one’s long enough.

My Father’s Cousin

Thursday, July 23rd, 2009

It’s odd, because I can’t call him my uncle, but I also feel strange calling him my cousin. Dick Thorpe is my grandfather’s brother’s son. My father’s cousin. My first cousin, once removed.

Dick and his wife, Stephanie, lived just up the road from us all my life. Well, when I say “all my life,” I mean they’ve always lived there, but I moved away from home years ago, and my childhood home fell out of family hands when my dad died. Dick’s first son, Ryan, was born the day after I was…apparently, hilarity ensued when the Mrs. Thorpes at the hospital each had to make sure they had the right baby. Ryan and I grew up together, and while we’ve gone our separate ways in life, I’ve always felt a pretty strong bond with him. His younger brother Aaron was always a good kid, and he’s grown up to be a pretty spectacular father, himself. I never really got to know their younger sisters, but I got to “meet them” again this past spring, and they seem just as wonderful as I’d expect.

At the end of this past March, Liz and I went back to NY for a way-after-holidays family fest. I hadn’t seen my brother in roughly three years (!), hadn’t seen my aunt and uncle (from my mother’s side) since they visited us in Baltimore a little after that, and I had been jonesin’ to have an honest-to-god family holiday get-together for the past decade, at least. Thanksgiving and Christmas slipped through my fingers, and my sister was unable to join us, but we planned the trip around my birthday weekend. While we were there, we stopped by Ryan’s office (he was working on his birthday, and he’s the boss!) to wish him a happy birthday and shoot the breeze with him and his brother.

It was great to catch up, but just as we were leaving, we got some troubling news: Dick’s health was really taking a nose-dive. Despite never having been “a drinker” and not having hepatitis, he somehow had developed cirrhosis of the liver. Apparently, the doctors had done a lot of testing, but it seemed to just be “a mystery.” I didn’t get too many details, but it was alarming to even consider the thought that Dick was in advanced stages of liver disease.

At the beginning of May, Liz and I saddled up again for NY, to attend Ryan’s wedding. When we arrived at the chapel, I honestly walked right past Dick, having completely failed to recognize him. “Hi Jim,” he said, just as I walked past. We spoke for a few minutes, a little about the wedding, a little about his health, and I’m pretty sure my super-attention to my composure was completely ineffective. It must have shown right on my face, how shocked I was at his gaunt, tired face. We ended our conversation politely, just before the ceremony began.

During the reception, I was taking photos of everyone, running around to try and get the good shots. I tried getting a few photos of Dick having a good time with various friends and family members, but I kept missing my shot.

But later in the evening, when the dancing was just beginning to fade, and everyone was beginning to get a little tired, I stopped by Dick’s table on the way to the bar, and ended up just pulling up a chair with him. It had really been a long time since he and I had even seen each other…I think, at least, five or six years ago. Much to my surprise, he even brought it up: I had been on a motorcycle, parked at the Raby’s Ace hardware store in Oswego, and had bumped into him at the entrance to the store. We had caught up on a few things then, talked a bit about family, life, impending retirement. Before that time, it had probably been another five years since I had seen him last. But there, at the wedding, sick as he had been, he remembered clear as day what kind of motorcycle I had been riding, and what we had talked about.

The more we sat there and shot the breeze, the more we both unclenched and got to laughing over old stories. He talked about my dad, told me some funny stories from the golden days. Stories about working in the IBEW electrical workers’ union. A little kvetching about how the whole system went to shit when the local union was merged with Syracuse. All the topics of conversation that still fit like an old glove.

The next morning, Liz and I changed our minds and decided to join the wedding party at a big breakfast they were having, and I’m glad we did. Everyone in their normal clothes, joking and jabbing at each other, it was a great cap to a wedding weekend. Of all the people invited to the breakfast, somehow Liz and I got to sit directly across from the parents of the groom, Dick and Stephanie. It seemed a pretty perfect extension of the “family fest” that we’d just gotten in March.


Cut to two days ago, and I began getting brief messages from Ryan and his brother: Dick was not doing well. After various trials and tribulations over the past month or two, his liver and kidneys were beginning to fail, and he had been removed from the donor recipients’ list. Over the last 48 hours, we’ve all been praying for miracles, but it seems it’s not meant to be. We’re all in the process of saying goodbye. His kids and grandkids have gone to visit him, to spend some time. From the messages I’m getting today, it’s fairly certain he will be gone by tomorrow.

This is not fair.

Picking up the Pieces

Friday, June 26th, 2009

We’re all fully aware of the number of blog posts, littered about the internet, which start with some variation of the phrase “I know I haven’t updated in a while…” I’ll spare you.

(see what I did there?)

My life is suddenly, rapidly changing, and I’m in desperate need of getting things said. Of course, due to the nature of these thoughts and feelings, I’m gonna need to start posting a lot more “private” entries, not for public (or friends’) consumption. But I need to write. And if I just go ahead and start posting, I’ll eventually find a way to write my thoughts in such a way that I don’t offend any readers (I’m sure the whopping two or three of you are picky buggers).

Anyhow, public posts will hopefully be coming soon. I’ll also be kinda bifurcating this blog, separating the technology posts from the personal ones. I’ve already got categories set up, but I’d like to have a more distinct “separation of church and state.” Like separate RSS feeds and everything. I’ve just got a constant stream of ideas and observations that are currently either being mishandled/ignored, or posted to some crappy forum or comment thread where the point is guaranteed to be lost on roughly everyone. I’d rather hurl the words into the void, and if people stumble upon it, and enjoy it, and keep coming back for more, then I win.

I recently moved punkassjim.com off of my old host (too much a pain in the ass to deal with), and moved it onto a server that I control, a Power Mac G5 that sits about 15 feet from me at my office. It’s not the most reliable box (unresolved mismanagement by a third-party), but I have 100% control, and can install whatever the hell I want. I’ll worry about reliability if/when I ever get real traffic. Anyway, along with the new digs, I’ll be setting aside some time very soon to upgrade my WordPress install, dust off my checklist for new theme creation, and put some creativity into it.

Big plans, stay tuned.

You’re doing a disservice to your people, man.

Wednesday, January 7th, 2009

I was “mugged” yesterday.

I put it in quotes because I wasn’t hurt, nobody hit me, and they didn’t get anything from me, even though there were three of them. I didn’t do what you’re “supposed to do.”

Let’s take a step back for a moment.

When a white man or woman walks down the street and clutches their belongings to themselves if a black man walks by, that’s a fucking tragedy. When I walk down the streets of Oakland, I make eye contact with the people I see, and if I happen to be holding my iPhone, I don’t shove it in my pocket when I see someone whose face doesn’t look friendly. White, asian, black, hispanic, whatever…I’m a trusting guy, at least to some extent. Now, there are places I don’t like to brandish my iPhone, and there are times I’d prefer not to take it out of my pocket…I’m not entirely stupid.

Yesterday, I was walking through Chinatown, on my way back to the office, reading an article on my iPhone. All of the following happens in the span of one half-block. I saw a couple highschool-aged black kids jaywalking across the street toward me. One tall pudgy kid with a backpack, one shorter and skinnier with a burgeoning mustache, and one tall and skinny with huge baggy black/white/silver Raiders hoodie and hat. The latter two were behind me after they crossed the street, and the big pudgy kid looked like he just got ahead of them. He doubled back around me, I assumed to just go back and stay walkin’ with his buddies. I kept walking at my pace, and I kept my iPhone out, now half-reading, half paying attention to my surroundings.

The skinny shorter kid walked a little faster, and was soon walking on my left. I looked over and made eye contact, since he was closer than I’d expect. “How you doin’,” he said with a smile. I said “how you doin’?”

We had just stepped off the curb where the old asian lady usually collects cardboard boxes, just near the 880 overpass (it’s dark and secluded under the bridge, but we weren’t quite there yet). She was there, we had walked past her. There were one or two other asian people walking close by.

“Gimme everything you got.” And I was surrounded. The tall kid in the black hoodie had his hand in his baggy pocket, aiming it at me.

And I did exactly what you’re not supposed to do.

I said “Man, I got nothin’,” and I held onto my phone with a death-grip, and kept my other hand in my jacket pocket with my wallet. I didn’t utter another syllable. “I’ma shoot this nigga right here,” said the black-hoodie kid. I looked at his bulging pocket, and immediately turned my head to look at the asian lady across the street. She was still there, but I wasn’t sure if she saw what was going on. The other two people were still in the vicinity, but again, I don’t think they saw me.

I turned and started struggling through them to walk away. “I’ma shoot this nigga right here,” he said again, no louder than before, while his buddies were trying to grab my arms and get me under the overpass. I squirmed out of their grip, yanked my arms every which way to get free.

Maybe they knew they couldn’t do anything within view of other people. Maybe they were just fuckin’ around with the dorky-lookin’ white dude to see if he’d just hand over all his shit at the slightest threat. I don’t know. I got free quickly, I didn’t get shot, still had my phone in my hand, and it quickly went in my hip pocket as I walked back into Chinatown, looking as if nothing had just happened.

I turned a corner a few blocks in, and went another way back to work. Along the way, I saw a patrol car stopped at a traffic light, but he was in the middle lane of a high-traffic five-lane one-way street…not safe to walk out and flag him down. I made eye contact with the cop, but I decided against it, and he drove away when the light turned green. The only thing I could think as I walked back to work was this: I’m glad I’m not in Baltimore. My shit would be gone, and I’d probably be shot anyway.


On the one hand, I’m proud and surprised with myself for not just caving in and surrendering. I walked away with all my shit, and I didn’t get hurt. I didn’t challenge the dude to prove he had a gun. I didn’t say anything pithy to provoke them. Sure, it’s a bit strange to hear a guy say “dude, I got nothin’” while he’s holding a $500 phone…but it’s not anywhere near challenging, like “that’s a gun?” Anyway, I think I did the right thing by saying almost nothing. It’s probably what kept me from getting (at the very least) beat up.

And on the other hand, I’m a fucking idiot. I’ve got Liz and my family to think about. What if I’d gotten shot? What the fuck was I thinking? Liz, Buddy, Kathy, Gary et al: I’m sorry. Next time, I hand over my shit.

Hidden Treasure

Saturday, January 3rd, 2009

When my dad passed away in December 2005, a close family friend took up a position as pallbearer for his funeral, just as he did when my mom passed away in 1992. Outside the church, he said “I think I got the heavy corner…the one where his heart is.” I still get choked up just thinking about it. It’s probably the sweetest and most poignant thing anyone said.

A few days before Christmas this year, a camera body arrived in the mail, a gift from my sweetie to me. I’ve already got a bunch of lenses to use with the body, and I’ve been keeping them in an aluminum hard-case, all of which I “inherited” from my dad. When I first opened this case, while cleaning up his house in that fateful December, I remember bursting out crying to see a couple of combs and a little bottle of cologne. You see, this was the camera case that he had recently been taking with him while shooting weddings for my brother’s photography business.

It’s a little sad to say, but at the time, my brother and I were both a little concerned about having Dad shoot weddings. It was becoming clear that, with age, Dad’s eyes weren’t doing him any favors. Most of his candid photos were completely out of focus, and his “artsy” shots often didn’t seem to have any rhyme or reason to them. This, compared to the tack-sharpness of his photos throughout our younger lives, and the creativity he had always exhibited.

But, all the same, it was clear that my dad really perked up when he had a gig to do for my brother. I’m not sure he’d have been able to put it into words, but it made him feel needed, important, special. And he was really all about other people, so he was just the perfect person to interact with a family on their wedding day. It was all about them, and he knew it, and he made it clear he knew it.

So, my camera arrives. It’s a good bit smaller than the older film camera I was using, and I’ve got to do a little shuffling of lenses to make sure they’re all protected in the case. I began customizing the foam in the main (bottom) portion of the case, and I noticed that the foam in the top of the case was kinda bulging a bit. I pulled it down, and out pops a big ZipLoc bag containing a manila folder full of papers…

Now, a little explanation for why this would make my heart skip a beat:

My dad didn’t leave a will, or at least we never found one. The assumption was, if he had one, he likely hid it from my stepmonster. He didn’t like her. Anyway, when a hidden folder of papers falls out of your dead father’s camera case, you sit up and take notice.

I opened the folder, and out popped one paper program after another, from every wedding he ever shot for my brother. Little snippets of happy days from people he probably only ever met once or twice. Commemorative napkins. Invitations with directions and maps on the back. Hand-written notes from a bride or groom, thanking him for being so kind, or maybe just directions on what photos they’d like him to take. These things, these days, these events, and these people…meant enough to him that he wanted to collect some mementos that he could maybe look back upon with a smile someday.

And the heavy corner was indeed where his heart was.

Programs

Under my Control

Tuesday, December 30th, 2008

So I’ve had a long, strange journey toward independence. From Livejournal to MySpace to Livejournal to Facebook, and now to Wordpress. Oddly enough, even though I’ve been building websites and related content for ten years, I’ve never owned my own domain name or hosted my own site until now.

It’s about time.

So, this past weekend, I took some time to finally do something I’ve been dreading: I migrated all my old posts (with comments) from Livejournal, MySpace and Facebook over to my own Wordpress installation. It’s nice to finally have my own CMS, so I can share, back up, control, and amass my own content without having to deal with restrictions and lack of stable APIs from service-providers (I’m looking at you, MySpace). It’ll also be nice not to have to host my shared images on MobileMe, which has been a minor pain in the ass for years.

But, for me, syndication has been the biggest goal. To put my words in one place and one place only, and have that content be visible from multiple other places via RSS and other means. Interoperability (like with Flickr and Facebook) should be easy and as non-redundant as possible. Facebook’s “import from blog” function is a joke.

Anyhow, step number one was to make sure my old content was safe and organized.
Step two will be to consolidate the features and functions I’d like to present on the blog.
Step three will be to create my own theme, designed from the ground up.

So, if you’re reading this, stay tuned. You’re looking at the blank slate (albeit, with lots of prior content). The design and functionality should change relatively quickly.

I shouldn’t be standing here

Monday, December 29th, 2008

I shouldn’t be standing here

She used to lay there, right between the fridge and the lazy-susan. We had to do this weird version of Twister whenever we were both preparing dinner with Rascal at our feet.

I couldn’t be standing here

Every morning, as I swung my legs out of bed, I had to be careful not to whack her across the nose. She was almost always there, snoozing by my bedside. I’d leave her there when I went to shower, and she’d always be in another place when I came out. More than likely, in front of the fridge.

I wouldn’t be standing here

More than a few times, while Liz and I were having a knock-down drag-out fight, right at the cusp of one of us leaving (perhaps for good), Rascal would interject with a loud, clear burp. And we’d take a step back from the precipice.

Surveying all that is hers.