Diary of a Network Geek

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!

Where are all the women like Sandahl Bergman?
So, Thursday night, after I got home from therapy, I’m watching Conan the Barbarian on cable with my dog and there’s that scene where they bring Conan, played by the Governator, back from the dead. To refresh your memory, Conan has died after being crucified on the Tree of Woe and his paramour has brought the body to a wizard to be ressurected. The spirits that the wizard summons try to steal the body instead of restore it, as per the standard sorcerous contract, and Valeria, played by Sandahl Bergman, throws her body on top of his to hold him down and force the spirits to bring him back from the dead. Later, when the bum lets her die, she comes back as a spirit to dazzle and confuse Conan’s enemies. Now, that is what I call devotion!
I mean, c’mon, can you beat that? A woman that first throws herself inbetween you and dead spirits and then comes back from the grave, even when you cremate her instead of trying to bring her back, just to save your bacon. Who would do that for any guy today? For that matter, what guy today would do that kind of thing for his woman? After all, they weren’t married. They didn’t have kids. She was just his partner in crime, literally. Now, as someone pointed out in comments on another blog, my experience with women lately hasn’t been all that wonderful, so, it is possible that cynicism fairy has sprinkled me with a little extra magic dust today, still… Still, even though I have a hard time imagining this, I long for it.
I long for my own personal Sandahl Bergman. The one who would go through Hell for me out of sheer passion. The one who’d put me before herself. Not that I’d let her, just that I’d like it if she really felt that strongly about me and wasn’t motivated by greed or need or anything but pure love and desire. I don’t know, maybe I’m an optimist. Or a romantic. Or, maybe, just a fool, but one day, I’d love to find my Pearl of Great Price for whom I’d sacrifice everything else. And wouldn’t it be nice if she felt the same way about me…

Oh, and now it smells like the Chicken Masala is done! All week I’ve been making a Freudian Typo and calling it Chicken Marsala, but I’ve been making Chicken Biryani Masala. It’s a whole different idiom!

Do they really help?
Tin-foil hats, I mean. I’ve had some small experience dealing with nuts who are convinced everyone is plotting against them, so questions like this are very important to me. In fact, I’ve often wondered if wearing one would have improved that poor soul’s disposition and mental health. Probably not, but one can dream. And, I have to admit, it usually seems that the members of the Tin-Foil Hat Brigade actually hear more voices than the average schizophrenic. Well, there might just be a reason for that, according to this paper by an MIT researcher.
He found that tin-foil hats actually seem to improve reception of certain frequencies that just happen to be reserved for use by the Federal Government. Is it a vast, sweeping plot? Just an amazing coincidence? Well, if you ask a member of the TFHB, they’ll say it’s a conspiracy. Of course, most paranoids will also be convinced that any evidence contrary to their delusion is just proof that the person offering such “proof” is part of said plot.
My advice? Take off the shiny hat and try eating some protein for a change. The cult programming will wear off eventually.

Update: After writing this and posting it, I read my e-mail and saw that today is the anniversary of the Jonestown mass suicide. This topic suddenly became sadly appropriate.

Advice from your Uncle Jim:
"Whether you call it Buddhism or another religion, self-discipline, that's important. Self-discipline with awareness of consequences."
   --Dalai Lama

No, I’m not irritated.
But, I have to admit that it gives a little warm spot inside knowing that this blog irritates my ex-wife. It’s sort of funny, and sad, that she has nothing better to do with herself than obsessively read my blog. Oh, I’m sure she’s been posting on her own blog about what a terrible person I am, listing a litany of my sins, real, imagined and invented. On last report, she was mainly going with the imagined and invented sins, though. Apparently, my actual wrong-doing just isn’t quite salacious enough to keep her new meal-ticket, or, if you prefer “boyfriend”, and her therapist entertained.
I wonder why she has such a hard time with the truth of our relationship? Really, in the end, it wasn’t anything complicated or grand or dramatic. We had problems, as individuals and a couple. She decided it was easier to run than stay and work it all out, which it is, and off she went. Honestly, I don’t have any hard feelings about her leaving anymore, though she could have done better than taking the only working car and running off with no explanation while I was in the shower. And, yes, it does help that I ended up with everything because she abandoned it at my house after the divorce. She could have made a better choice of places to land than in Phoenix, Arizona, with a guy who was married for 19 years when she met him, too. His divorce should be final Real Soon Now.
In the end, it was better that both those marriages ended, of course. Not so that those two could be together, as much as so that their partners could be free. And, yes, I know this will really light my ex-wife right up. It’s so easy, really. Just tell the truth and watch her get angry. I’m not quite ashamed of pushing her buttons, though. After all, for years when we were together, she pushed mine.
But, it doesn’t work that way anymore, does it? I don’t read her blog, so I just don’t hear her rantings. Well, except for when I day-dream about it and then she sounds like the helpless, little chimera at the end of The Fly. (Not the “modern” The Fly, but the old one. You know, the one with that little voice crying “Help me! Help me!”)
I wonder just what color she’ll turn upon reading this post?

Oh, and the Advice from your Uncle Jim? “Don’t try to mess with the guy who controls the publication media. Letters to the editor about how the world is out to get you just confirm your paranoia to the rest of the world.”

Advice from your Uncle Jim:
"The only difference between saints and sinners is that every saint has a past and every sinner has a future."
   --Oscar Wilde

I’m not married.
But, I still have many of my old, married habits. I come straight home after work and don’t socialize with people from the office. Of course, most of them are married and head home to their families, like I used to do. And, when I get home, I hurry about doing my nightly routine of making dinner, setting up the coffee for the next day, and wolfing dinner down so I can… What?

There’s no one I’ve rushed home to see. Oh, there’s Hilda, of course, but she’d be happy to see me any time I went away and came home. That uncomplicated, unconditional love is one of the things that make dogs so popular. But, that’s not enough. I want someone to talk to. I can talk to Hilda, but if she starts answering me in complete sentences, I’ll have to pay my therapist a bigger premium every week! Oddly, my ex-wife often didn’t listen to me, either, but, of course, I didn’t know that at the time. Foolishly, I thought she was contemplating what I’d been babbling about and not just plotting her escape.
I tell myself that I rush home for that silly, brown dog that adores me so, who won’t eat until I’m safely home at the end of the day. And, when that’s not enough, I tell myself that it’s the money I don’t have that keeps me home. But, neither are true. Or, at least, they’re not excuse enough. Honestly, I got into the habit of not talking to women when I was married. Even mentioning a woman from work more than once in a week would draw fire, though it was expected that I would simply ignore or forgive the reverse. So, it got to be habit to just not notice the opposite sex.
I know I’ll never find someone being quiet and bookish at home, but I live in terror of the idea that I’ll find someone just like my ex-wife. In my saner moments, I know that won’t happen, because, not only is she, thankfully, unique in all the world, but I’ve changed. I’m a little more suspicious now, a little less willing to let small things slide. Maybe that, too, is why I’m alone. There are just so many opportunities to find silent fault and turn them into excuses for why it’s not even worth asking someone out.
You girls have it easy, let me tell you! Just sit and look pretty or bookish or whatever and veto the “rejects” as we shuffle past. (“No, too short. No, too poor. No, too sensitive. No, not sensitive enough!”) Though, in college, I had the startling opportunity to be on the other end of that. Asked out in an Ethics class, oddly enough. By a Senior Psychology student who found the odd, plain Sophomore Pre-Business Major too interesting to pass by. I wonder what she’s up to tonight?
So, I’m trying to break out of the old habits. I flirt inexpertly with ladies on-line, and in line at the store, or even at church. I’ve been cooking again, instead of eating those deadly delicious Marie Calander Pot Pies. Last week Friday, it was fish. This week Friday, it’s Chicken Marsala. Maybe Chicken Garam Marsala. And, I’ve invited a friend over for dinner. It’s not a date, even though he’s gay, since I’m straight. Just dinner.
And a step closer to changed habits.