I still don’t get this whole writing thing.

One day I come up with something great to write about, while I’m supposed to be working. I think it through all day. Try to figure out how I want to set it up. Compose in my mind how to best convey to you what is in my head . I finally get home, rush through dinner and go downstairs to tap out my great post that I have been thinking about all day.

The next day I come home and sit in front of my computer. I think to myself, you should really write something. I don’t know what to write about. Maybe I’ll just write about this thing. I tap it out in 15 minutes or so.

Guess which one gets all the attention. This just goes to show, that I am no judge of what is good. It also tells me that I need to be careful not to overthink this whole blogging thing. It’s fine to try to write great things, but I can’t take it too seriously. You nice people started reading this just cause I was being me, I guess. And oddly enough I get the most favorable attention when I’m just being me.

On a related note, I would like to thank Shane for the nice words he said about my writing on his blog. He is a great writer and I enjoy his blog very much. The fact that he noted something I’ve written has made my week.

Wow. Wednesday already. Yes, I went backpacking this weekend. It was great. I will write about it soon. Really. I will.

Also, the great Linux experiment continues. I had Red Hat 9 up and running, but since RH9 is a couple of years old, I kept having to download and install new stuff. The dependencies would be out of date, I download more stuff. Vicious circle. Also, I am very comfortable compiling software from source, but it seems like you break as much as you fix when you do that on a RPM based system. So I fired up a third computer and installed Slackware. It is working very well. As a matter of fact, I am writing this from the Slackware box. It’s pretty good, but every time I sit at my computer to do something, I find myself tweaking. I think it will not be long until I put it on my P4. After I take a good image, of course.

Linux, yawn … compile, eyes glazing over. Yes, I am a geek, thanks for hanging in there. Here’s something different. For some reason, today I was thinking of a girl I knew in High School.

We called her Holly Hopeless. I guess I was kind of dating her for a while. She lived in a little row house with her mom. She constantly talked about her dad. He was rich. He lived in New York. On and on she went. The things she said about him were believable at first. But over time they became more and more incredible.

She would jet to New York to see him. He bought her lavish gifts, although she left them in New York. One day she called me, from her dad’s house. She was going on and on about the Broadway Shows and the Nice Restaurants. It sounded very sophisticated. I was actually a little intimidated. As she prattle on, it occurred to me that I had seen her earlier that day. How did she get New York? Helicopter, she answered. As we were talking, my friend called me on the line. I was a little doubtful about this whole thing, we compared notes. The notes did not add up. So I recruited him to help me. He called her home phone. Sure enough, she put me on hold, she had another call. He called me back to confirm it. She wasn’t in New York, she was there at her house. No Broadway. No sophisticated restaurants.

It seemed so obvious, after the lie was exposed. She cried. She said she was a pathological liar. She was seeing a shrink. She didn’t mean to do it, it just made her feel more special. But how did I fall for such obvious lies. I was smart enough to know better. The trick, I think, exists in two parts. First, I was ready to believe. I wasn’t looking for lies, I liked this girl, if she said it was so, then it probably was. Secondly, the lies were small at first. Lots of people have divorced parents. Sometimes the dad did spoil them, especially when he didn’t see them often. Once you accepted the small lies, it became easier for her to build on them.

If I was clever, I would use this story as an allegory, use it to make a statement. But I guess I am not that clever. It’s just a story, about a girl I once knew.

I’m going backpacking this weekend. Hurray! It, of course, is going to rain. I don’t care. I’m extra happy about this trip because it is the first time in a good while that my dad, my brother and I have all gone on a trip at the same time. Oh, and the dog too. It is going to be a pretty simple hike. Twenty miles spread over three days. But I am so psyched.

Backpacking is such an outlet for me. I think of it as kind of a zen release. My apologies to anyone who has a better grasp of zen than I do. It goes like this. You take yourself away from all the normal trappings. Put yourself in the woods. (We can’t call it wilderness, but close enough.) Then you start walking. Two miles, no problem. Five miles. Your focus begins to change. Or mine does anyway. Back up. Let me explain to you how my mind works.

My mind is in constant motion. Thinking about … well if you’ve read much of this blog you have a hint of what it is like in there. I go over the week at work in my head. I plan for the next one. I think about baseball, the NFL draft, my blog, your blog, how my Linux box is doing, about that time with what’s his face, about my kids, about my wife, about plans for future, about mistakes of the past. All the time. It just keeps going. And mostly that is good. But as you may be able to imagine, it can also be exhausting.

Now, as I was saying, walk five miles. With a pack on you back. You start to get tired. You have to push on. The mind begins to focus. On the walking. Walk a few more miles. Exhaustion sets in. The mind narrows its focus even more. It cares about one thing. Getting done walking. Just one step. And then another. Another. Over and over until I arrive at my destination. A shelter in the woods. I arrive with a mental silence that is rare for me. I sit down and my brains says, sitting, and nothing else. And then I can tend to the most simple yet crucial things in life. Getting food and establishing shelter. Back to basics.

It’s very refreshing. I will tell you all about it. And I am bringing a camera so there will even be pictures. Probably.

Have a good weekend. I will.

I finally got of my lazy ass and did it. Got my other computer running Linux. I tried to get Slackware, debian and Gentoo running. A variety of different problems kept that from working for me. So, I went back to what I knew worked. Red Hat 9. Kind of feels like Linux for dummies, but if the shoe fits…

I got it installed. Downloaded Firefox. And I’m ready to roll. Need to get gaim set up to take all of the different IMs. Otherwise I should be set. I get this urge every couple of months, to say to hell with Windows. I’m going all Linux. Why? Cause I’ll never really learn it otherwise. I mean I can function in Linux. Better than most I suppose, but I’m still an amateur. My inner geek screams, Windows is for the computer illiterate. Linux is the way. Your missing the boat son. And I scramble to comply. I am a geek. I want to be able to tune my own kernel. I want to compile packages and update depenancies. I want to know what is going on with my computer, not have some wizard say please wait while I sit back and wait. Assuming that some sort of magic is happening.

So why am I still running Windows? Two reasons. First of all, I support Windows at work. I can’t forget how it works. But more importantly, I have a very nice computer, I don’t want to screw it up. So I don’t go experimenting on it. As a result Linux get installed on some lesser computer and sooner or later I get sick of all the waiting and slowness. What’s going to be different this time? Maybe nothing. Or maybe I’ll be able to get this test installation to take care of my basic needs. Internet, email, IM and Music. Then I’ll ghost the current Windows environment on my Good computer (just in case) and then I’ll put Linux on there.

But just so you know, this post was composed in its entirety on Linux.

I ran into a old friend today.

Okay, that’s not really how it happens is it. My mom ran into an old friend of mine. He recognized her and said hi. He was there for his job and would be there for a few hours. She called me and told me, so I cruised over so I could say hi. just ran into

I hadn’t seen him since his wedding. He’d been my best friend in college. I walked and there he was. The same, but grayer. We chatted. It was awkward. Everything was the same, but everything was different. I’m killing with the cliches today. Let me try again. He seemed to be as I remembered him. I, on the other hand, have changed a great deal. Amongst other things we were drinking buddies. I don’t drink. I haven’t had a drink in almost five years. We hadn’t been talking for five minutes before he says something about buying me a beer. Uncomfortable.

It’s probably just me being all insecure. I guess I never really believe that friends really like me. Maybe they are just feeling sorry for me. I fear that when I say, I’d have to pass on the beer. He’ll say, well that pretty much settles it then. That isn’t what happens.
“I’d have to pass on the beer”
He looks at me, puzzled.
“I quit drinking.”
He says, “I quit drinking everyday.”
Still uncomfortable. “You know I was never any good at it, you were there.”
“But you tried ”
“Oh I tried like a bastard.”
Getting a little more comfortable.

We chatted for 20 minutes or so. I had to cut it short, I had to get home so the wife could go to work. I gave him my number. Told him to call me the next time he’s in the area. I’d have him over for dinner or something.

I’m honestly not sure if he’ll call or not.

That has been my problem, as I move on in my life, I tend to burn my bridges. I know people who keep up with all kinds of friends. I can’t seem to do it. As I grow older and my life changes, I don’t know how to bridge those changes and keep my old friends involved in my new life.

I hope he calls.

I know that some people don’t like baseball. I didn’t really care about it that much when I was younger. But in my old age I have come to appreciate the sport more. Now baseball is as much a part of spring as birds singing and mowing the lawn for the first time.

I particularly like to listen to the games on the radio. It is wonderful to hear that announcer paint the action with his words. They have a certain lingo. Phrases they use to quickly give you a lot of detailed information with only a few words.

Here comes the one and one pitch. Deals. Low. Outside. Two and one.

As I was driving home from an appointment last night, listening to the game. It occurred to me how much I enjoyed this. I remembered the first Big League game I ever saw.

It would have been 1978. I got tickets to see the Phillies because I had completed the one and only season of baseball I would ever play. It was tee ball. Yes, I did strike out, thanks for asking. My dad took me and my brother to the game. I believe they were playing the Giants. I was 6 or 7 so I didn’t follow most of it.

My dad had brought a long a portable radio, which happened to look like Bullwinkle. We listened to the call on Bullwinkle and watched it play out below us. Mike Schmidt came up to bat. I asked my dad if he would hit a homerun? He was one of the two greatest baseball players ever as far as I was concerned. Pete Rose was the other. Why wouldn’t he hit a homerun, isn’t that would great ballplayers do? My dad said something like, “we’ll see.” Schmidt hammered one. Homerun. What more could a kid want than to see his baseball hero hit a homerun.

But it was what happened next that is very clear in my mind, even today. Greg Luzinski was up. Luzinski was in a slump. How did I know that? Cause my dad said it, the guys behind us said it, the announcer voice coming from Bullwinkle said so. Luzinski stepped to the plate. And everyone booed. I was confused, my dad said it was bad to boo, why we would be booing someone on “our” team. Dad said it was because he hit better when he was mad, and the crowd was trying to make him mad. I asked if it was okay if I booed. He said, it was. Years later, I would realize that Philly fans would boo anyone given half a chance. Santa Claus, Allen Iverson, Dr. J., Donovan McNabb. Anyone.

Luzinski stands at the plate. Here’s the pitch, a swing and a miss. Strike one. The boos get louder. Even from the upper deck, I could see that it was working. He looked mad. A couple more pitches. The boos are deafening. The Wind Up. The Pitch. He Swings. And it’s a Fly Ball. Deep Center. It’s still going. It’s a homerun! Back to back Homeruns! Greg Luzinski’s slump is over!

I didn’t even know who Greg Luzinski was before that moment, I must not of had a card for him. I thought the Phillies consisted of Pete Rose, Mike Schmidt, Garry Maddox, Steve Carlton and Tug McGraw. And some other guys. Hey, that’s who I had cards for. But at that moment, I could feel the electricity. Something special had happened and I was there.

Sometimes, when I listen to the O’s on the radio, I still picture the game from the Upper Deck Of Veterans Stadium. The air thick with humidity. The action so far away, yet so close. And the announcer’s voice coming from Bullwinkle. Just for a moment. Then, I remember that they play at Camden Yard, a different place, different team, different generation.

There is something timeless about listening to baseball on the radio.

I was driving down the road this weekend, minding my own business. Of course, you never hear of some one who was driving along nosing in to everyone else’s business. Regardless, I saw a bumper sticker. It proudly announced “BOYCOTT FRANCE.” I began to think about that. Why would I boycott France. I’m not crazy about the French. They seem kind of snooty and pretentious. Their history leaves some thing to be desired. But what have they done to me? Nothing.

Oh, I think I know why that guy wanted me to Boycott France. It must be because the French didn’t want us to invade Iraq. Neither did the Germans. Why not boycott them too. Nope, just the French. Let’s see, what exactly did the French do to us. They didn’t want to help us invade another sovereign country. And they said that we shouldn’t do that. Wow. Now there is a reason to be mad. Did they threaten to send fighter planes to stop us. Did they threaten us in anyway way? I would understand this hostility towards the French if they had said (in an accent from Monty Python’s Holy Grail,) “Hey you stoopid Americans, don’t attack Iraq. Go and boil your
bottoms, sons of a silly person. I blow my nose at you, so-called Double-You, you and all your silly American kaniggets. I don’t want to talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough water! I fart in your general direction! You mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!”

But they didn’t do anything to us, that I can see. They just told us we were wrong. And for that I should boycott them? What about India and Pakistan. They developed Nuclear Weapons. WMD if you will. Why not boycott them? Or China? They have violated all kinds of human rights. Shouldn’t we boycott the Chinese? How about Saudi Arabia. They have cultivated all kinds of terrorists. Maybe we should boycott them?

But no. It’s France we want to worry about. Typical, small minded reaction. Some one told us we were wrong and we can’t have that. Not only do we want to be able to do whatever we want to. We need everyone to agree with us. And besides, if our reasons for attacking were flimsy, it was for the best if we were paying more attention to whether or not the French approved, rather than take a hard look at what we were doing.

A couple of years ago, when this nonsense began, I found the Boycott France thing to be pointless. But I see it in a different light now. And that is because the French were right. We shouldn’t have invaded Iraq. There wasn’t enough evidence of WMD to support it. Perhaps, instead of ridiculing them, we should have listened.

Of course, if I was any good at this blogging thing I would have had a great post over here for people to see, when they stopped by to see what the fuss was about. But I’m not good at this blogging thing. And that’s cool. If I was in this to get people to come to my site, I’d play Michele Sent Me.

I ran into to an old English teacher today. And it got me to thinking. Yes, everything gets me thinking, but let’s stay on topic, shall we. A lot of bloggers insist on call themselves writers. Many of them have aspirations to publish a book. Some of them succeed. That’s fine with me. Many of them are good writers. But I’ve always shied away from describing myself as a writer. Occasionally some misguided soul will compliment my writing and I just shuffle my feet and look at something else. This becomes even more awkward when the compliments come through email. Feet shuffling just doesn’t send well.

So why is it I have such an aversion to being call a writer? I mean I don’t think my writing is very good, but I’ve seen a few of these blogger “writers” that weren’t good either. I think it goes back to high school. I had a miserable time in English class. I never really grasped grammar for what ever reason. (It shows doesn’t it.) I was never able to write for pleasure, so to speak. I was always afraid about my sentence structure. I mean my strategy of creatively inserting comma when a sentence looks to long, really ticks off English teachers. So do fragments. I never tried to say anything, because I felt I didn’t have the tools to say it with. (that’s right I just ended my sentence with a preposition, take that English teachers! Give me a minute and I’ll split an infinitive!)

That is what blogging has done for me. It let’s me write (for the lack of a better word) without worrying about rules. What do I have to worry about. Practically nobody reads this. And If some one would happen to stumble upon my page and find my grammar offensive (perhaps they would think I use parentheses too much) they can leave. Go on get out of here. And here’s the ironic part. I’m starting to pay more attention to my grammar, all things being relative. I’m becoming a better writer. Practice makes perfect after all. It’s a shame I didn’t realize this a long time ago.

A sunny day. The first Monday in April.
Hot dogs for dinner.
I turn on the radio.

Sammy Sosa steps to plate. Eighth inning. O’s are leading four nothing.
He lets the first pitch go. Strike one. It got the outside corner.
Calero delivers. Its in the dirt at Sammy’s feet. One and one.
Here comes the pitch. Sosa hits it, it’s a hard grounder.
Scutaro reaches back and grabs it.
Throws all the way to first, but Sammy Sosa is safe.
Scutaro reached back and made a tricky grab,
but they are going to charge him with an error.

Ahhh Spring and Baseball.

Here I sit, listening to XM Radio. Online! They jacked up the monthly rate but threw in the online bit. Not a bad trade off if you ask me. It’s not Mango Radio or anything but it’s pretty cool.

We started to set up SUS Server at work yesterday. And I am more or less in charge of this venture because I have actually set it up before. It did not go too smoothly. When we went to launch the admin tool, which is web based, we get a 401 you don’t have permission to display this page error. Fun. It seems like I screwed up the setup of IIS 6, but I haven’t figured out where I went wrong — Yet.

Baseball is about to start. And I am excited. This is the only time of year to be excited if you are an Orioles fan. By June, all the excitement will be out of it. Daylight Savings Time is set to begin. All of this points to spring. And spring means … backpacking of course. I need to plan a trip soon.

I’m still mulling over the Dish Network thing. I hadn’t done before because the HD equipment was too expensive, but now they are giving the base HD receiver for free. It might just be time.

It’s another rainy weekend, so I will probably post again soon.