Diary of a Network Geek

Well, I’m not in the hospital yet.

Turns out having a fever over the weekend was a Bad Thing and the doctor didn’t want to start my chemotherapy if I were sick.  So, they sent me home with a perscription for antibiotics and I’ll be back on Thursday to try again.
I have to admit, I find it a little funny, frustrating and odd that they want me to be “healthy” before they start poisoning me again.  But, still, there is a certain amount of strange, medical logic there.  After all, if I’m already sick, and the chemo weakens me, what I’m already sick with might actually do me more harm than the chemo.  It’s just frustrating because I was looking forward to getting this all done and over with and now I’ve been delayed.  Ah, well, a few more days won’t kill me!

(Incidentally, for those of you not familiar with the term “hangfire“, it’s from gun/shooting culture.  Basically, it means “misfire, warning, danger, watch yourself on the range!”.  Lordy, the things you remember from Boy Scout camp!)

I have the broad hands of a German peasant farmer.
My hands are covered in the little scars of a careless life. Tiny chemical burns from High School chem lab. Fine knife scars from Boy Scout camp. Calluses on the knuckles from time spent with a heavy bag and doing pushups on clenched fists. Deeper scars from doing my own, inexpert, home repairs. Gouges from sharp metal inside computer cases.
My hands are strong enough to hold gallons of paint like a weekend athelete palms a basketball. Usually, my nails are uneven and bitten, the cuticles worried raw through absent-minded bad habits. I have old, smooth calluses on my palms, from my attempts at lifting weights, that have softened with time. But, for all that, I think they’re gentle hands.
They’re not the delicate hands of an artist. My fingers are short and broad. Not meant for etherial works of beauty, but the hard labor of the field. And, I have used these miracles of physiology hard. Time spent with nails and concrete and paint and glass. These hands of mine have tightened pipes and fittings and bolts that others would have needed a wrench to secure. Strong hands that have hurt people, both intentionally and accidentally. Never used like my father or grandfather or great-grandfather, all of who worked, at one time or another, in hard manual labor, but, still, hands that find a way when they have no choice.
I’m lucky, really, to have hands like that, but, truth be told, I always wanted those beautiful, delicate hands of an artist. Deft hands that pour magic out through a pen or pencil or brush. Hands that create beautiful art, art that makes the breath catch in your throat. I tell myself that they’re good hands. That gentle strength is good enough. That someone, someday, will hold those hands and smile. That those soft, strong hands will hold someone and make her feel safe and secure, even if only for a moment in a darkened theater while a slasher stalks the screen. I pray that those broad hands will one day hold a small child and make her feel safe, too. That those hands traced with tiny, careless scars will be daddy’s hands. Will be the safe passage from one side of the street to the other.
Hands are miracles made flesh. All the little bones and tight tendons and strong muscle that let us touch our world. That let us push and pull and poke and prod our world into the shape we make it. Hands can hold a weapon or a pen and change the world forever. They can show an opponent how we hate. Or a loved one how we care.
But, tonight, I’ll fold my hands and thank God for my miracles, both large and small. And, I’ll pray that He can use those hands to work a little more and, maybe, work a miracle or two yet.

Well, more brackish than fishy, I suppose.
I’ve been having some pond problems. First, there were the leeches in the skimmer. No, not the little red worms that turn into some kind of tiny fly that the dragonflies love to eat, but actual leeches. How do I know what leeches look like? Well, let’s just say I was the only one smart enough not to swim in that “special” lake at Boy Scout Camp. So, I poured a bunch of salt into that filter to get rid of them. That seems to have worked so far.
Then, the waterfall started to leak. Well, to be fair, I’ve been expecting this. The waterfall is really not all that great. It’s not very good as a waterfall and had gotten clogged with the nasty papyrus the former owners seemed to have liked so well. I tore all that out, trying figure out a way to fix the leak. The problem is, the leak is caused by the fact that the rotting wood which makes up the sad, sagging framework has given way in one corner, pulling the pond liner down below the water-line there. So, I had to bypass the waterfall with PVC and redirect the water flow back directly from the filters into the pond. I have to replace the water fall with something more aesthetic than two, plain PVC pipes. It just does not work with the rest of the decor!
And, now, two of the three pumps that run the filtration system seem to have given out. So, I have to buy at least two pumps and, if I do what I’m contemplating for the waterfall, most likely, three pumps. No small amount of change, but, unfortunately, neccessary. And, again, not entirely unexpected, considering the age of the pumps. I knew I’d have to replace them eventually, but I’d hoped to do this all next Summer at least. Ah, well, it never rains but it pours. (Which is true here in the Gulf Coast, but the additional fresh water going into the ponds works to my advantage at the moment, so I don’t mind!)

So, now here’s what I’ve been thinking about for the waterfall replacement… Imagine a boiler, or some other similar structure, with its top cut off and plants growing out of it with the final, center auxillary pipe emptying into the pond. Imagine a symetrical network of pipes feeding out of the structure, wrapping around the outside of it, being topped with three plumbing fixtures that have plants growing out of them and feeding into that final pipe before it drains into the pond. Of course, this entire monstrosity would have to be created out of PVC, so as to not poison the fish, but the exterior could be painted so that it would resemble old metal of some kind. It would be strange and surreal and, hopefully, fantastic, but I’m not sure that I’ll actually do it. It’s not the work or even the expense, but, rather, I’m not sure this is the artistic aesthetic that I really want for that portion of my backyard. If it works, it would be a great, cool, wonderous thing, but… But, if it doesn’t, it’ll be hideous. Thus my dillema.

And, yeah, this has been going on for weeks, but I’ve held off posting about it for fear of giving one of my regular readers more information about my life than they deserve to know. In fact, I may end up shelving the project for several months for that same reason. Or not. We’ll have to see.

Ever wonder what’s on that magnetic stripe on your credit card?
Well, there are ways of finding out. Or, as they say in Wilwauke, “we have ways of making you talk”! (That’s an old joke from Boy Scout camp in Pierson, Wisconson.) Interestingly enough, a gentleman with the prestigious name “Billy Hoffman” has developed a little project called StripeSnoop that is all about getting at the information. The link first came to my attention via an article at Slashdot, so if his site is down, give it a couple of days for the “new” to wear off and the Slashdotters to get over it, then go back. Mr. Hoffman’s site has information on everything you’ll need from the software to building the hardware reader. Pretty cool!
Now, some of you may be asking, “Uh, isn’t this illegal or something?” Well, as far as I know, no, it’s not. Reproducing what you read off these magstripes would definately be illegal, but just read ing it shouldn’t be a problem. Of course, the credit card companies might not want you to know what they encode on their cards, but I doubt that it’s illegal. And, what is encoded on those cards is pretty interesting. For instance, did you know that your ATM card has your PIN encoded on it? That’s why you have to go get a new card and reassign it a PIN when you lose your old one. Now, that may have changed recently, but I doubt it since banks generally fear change. And, I have to admit, I’ve always wanted to know just what that magstripe on the back of my driver’s license has on it.
In any case, it’s an interesting project and I thought I’d post it. Oh, by the way, this project is not connected with either my father, William F. Hoffman, Jr., my brother, William F. Hoffman, III, or my eldest nephew, William Thomas Hoffman. Just thought I’d clear that up. Though, you can see why the name caught my attention!