A Lesson Learned

I am -- and let me be very clear about this -- an idiot.

Oh, sure, I scored in the 95th percentile on the ACT. And I can offer at least one intelligent contribution to a conversation on just about anything. I can explain the fundamentals of flight, the internal combustion engine, relativity, Grimm's Laws of Phonetic Shift, most household physics, electricity, biology, and astronomy. I can read and navigate by maps. And I can offer insights into the way computers think.

But I'm too stupid to make a simple note. I'll explain.

This morning, as my lady wife and I were lazing around in bed, trying to come to grips with the day, she said something. I said something back. Soon we were laughing uproariously. And I said, There's an essay for you.

And she said, No, I think it's yours.

And I said, Hmmm. Maybe I'll use it for my blog.

And she said, Excellent idea. Write it down so you don't forget it.

Bwoop! Bwoop! Bwoop!

I wrote the first paragraph in my head while showering.

I had the punchline ready before we got to the Chinese Lunch Buffet.

Now it's about 9:30PM and I've been trying for two hours to remember what the original idea was, much less any of the details.

Nothing. I got nothing. A big old blank void in my head, an empty space on the map labeled "Here be dragons."

Actually, that's not entirely true. I happen to have a very nice notepad. It's green and spiral-bound at the top, and it says "Memo" on the front. Amy got it for me and made me promise I'd jot down ideas as they came to me. And I've been pretty good about it. It has all sorts of notes in it, some of which are legible.

But right now I'm a-feared that a brilliantly funny idea has slipped past me, and I'll never recover it. And that's a pity, cause you would have laughed your butt off.

So she said, looking at my piteous moroseness, I want you to sit right down and write a paragraph on how you learned your lesson.

So I said, Better yet, I'll post it.

The moral of this story is: No matter how intelligent you think you are, and no matter how brilliant an idea is, never never never trust yourself to remember it.

Anybody who does that is an idiot.

And now if you'll pardon me, I'm going to write that down somewhere.

She Gave Me a Tagomite Sandwich

Well, it happened. Amy over at Mind Over Mullis tagged me. At first, I was pleased. Aha! I thought. I finally got a comment! Somebody's actually reading my drivel! Then I actually read the comment. Ah, crud! I thought. More work for me to do!

So here's the deal: I reveal seven little-known factoids about myself, then tag five of my blogging friends. Now, I did little research revealed that all the bloggers I know have already been tagged. So, a request for all my loyal readers (I reckon there's about three of you out there): Leave me a comment with your blog address, and I'll tag you faster than I can say something really difficult....

So here, without further ado, we present

Seven Little-Known Facts about Kindly Old Dr. Bill: the Doggerel King

Fact the first: I polled the teenagers in the room, and discovered the following surprising item: I'm a pain in the butt. Who woulda thunk it?

Fact the second: For several years I had money thrown at me while performing musical parodies at SciFi conventions in the Carolinas, the Virginias, and Washington, SC. The most memorable moment came when a real flesh and blood woman dropped a handful of change down the front of my pants.

Fact the third: I once owned a cat named Maybelline. She was a grey tabby with big green eyes. She had a habit of showing up in unexpected places (the refrigerator, on lamp shades, in the shower). And she was made entirely of cardboard.

Fact the Fourth: I'm Pentecostal by upbringing, Baptist by membership, and Lutheran by disposition. Screwed up? Me? Hahahahaha!

Fact the fifth: My ancestry is German, Scots, and Irish. This means I love to drink, I'm too cheap to buy the stuff, and that fills me with huge amounts of angst.

Fact the sixth: My favorite stress reliever: baking quickbreads. I can't explain it. I just accept it.

Fact the seventh: Because of when my nineteenth fell (after Vietnam but before the re-institution of the Selective Service) I never had to register for the draft.

Fact the eighth: I don't follow instructions very well.

There. I have answered the tag. My work here is done.

You Know the Drill

I had been at work this morning just long enough to eat my cinnamon bun and get halfway through my first cup of coffee, when the phone rang. It was our network architect with a very important message.

"This is a drill. We're having a major weather emergency in the Data Center."

I knew this was coming. It had been three months or so since our last drill, and as a valued member of the Desktop/Network Support Team, I was sure to be on the call tree. (This had been an oversight during our last pseudo-emergency. More on this in a moment.)

Now obviously the best way to conduct these drills is to pretend that it's real. So I tried to get into the spirit of things. I popped up so I could see over my cubicle wall at the weather. It was cloudy, and the forecast was for scattered showers throughout the day. I could work with this.

"Oh my God! What's the situation?"

There was a pause on the other end, then: "Remember, this is just a drill. We don't know if it's a tornado or a microburst, but a tree just crashed through the windows in the Data Center. The power's out so we can't get in to assess the situation, but we know that SAP's down, and it looks like some of the servers are offline."

"What about phones? Do we have phone service?"

Again that annoying pause at the other end of the phone line.

"I think the phones are OK. Ummm. Why don't you come to the command center?"

I refilled my cup and made my way to the conference room. Somebody had brought donuts, so I snagged one on the way in. A man's gotta keep his energy up somehow in the face of disaster.

Unfortunately, there's very little for a Desktop/Network Support Team member to do in a meeting like this. All the damage was in the Data Center. In the case of an actual emergency, I'd be involved in cleanup, but that's for later. I was assigned to the phones. I was responsible for contacting the other techs and getting the word out to the userbase.

I hate being phone boy. My mood was ruined.

The Disaster Manager confirmed the tree through the window, and added that another set of windows had blown out. "The floor is flooded already, and more rain and debris are lashing through the openings. All the servers on the south side of the Data Center are down and probably heavily damaged. The rest of the servers are still online, but that could change any second. Any suggestions?"

The Network Admin was tasked to bring down the remaining servers as gracefully as possible. Manager, Architect, and a small team would inspect the Data Center for safety and to make a preliminary assessment. I pulled my cell and called the lead tech at our other campus as the team filed out to cross the hall to the center.

Once they were gone somebody raised his own concern: "Reckon we should have had Facilities cut the power before they entered a flooded out room with live high-voltage outlets running across the floor?"

All in all, this drill went a lot smoother for me than the last one.

As I might have mentioned, I wasn't notified of the previous drill. So I didn't have a clue that when I barrelled into the Data Center, to my little work area in the corner, that I was entering an inferno.

The security guard stuck his head in the other door. He looked surprised to see me. "You're dead."

"I am? Why?"

Turns out the huge power supplies against the wall had burst into flame, and the entire roomful of very expensive computer equipment was burning with an intensity that was melting the aluminum trackways conveying cables across the room.

I had to hang out in the hallway for a while. I called my wife and informed her that I was dead. She wasn't nearly as upset as I thought she'd be. I sure didn't expect laughter.

At the drill post-mortem (which I thought was a poor choice of words, given my sorry demise) I was mildly ridiculed for leaving a black mark on the drill results.

"Now wait," I said. "Are we assuming that all the alarm systems worked during the emergency? Then you're also assuming that I ignored an evacuation order, didn't notice the flashing alarm lights, didn't hear the sirens, and forged ahead through intense heat and impenetrable smoke, just so I could get to the workbench long enough to finish setting up Tony's laptop.

"I think anybody that dedicated deserves a raise."

The Cruelest Invitation

I got it in the mail this week, along with the junk and the unwelcome bills, and, of course, the distinct lack of any checks. The plain, innocuously white envelope belied its true nature, but the bright red logo on the return address stopped me cold in my tracks.

"What's wrong?" Lady Wife enquired, eyeing me with concern.

"It's the AARP," I whispered. She gasped. "It's got a card inside."

Yes, a card. With my actual name on it. This was not a generic mailing to Current Resident (Dear Current...). No, this was the real thing, complete with a letter noting that I hadn't registered yet with the organization.

I always figured I'd had my midlife crisis at 25, when my first marriage blew up. I whipped past my thirtieth birthday without a second glance. Forty was a cause for celebration. But next month is the beginning of my fifth decade on the planet, and I find it's looming up like a vast shadow to eat my soul. This surprises me.

Sure, I have more trouble climbing stairs than I used to. My knees lock up unexpectedly. What's left of my hair is starting to go gray, trying to catch up to my beard. It's been years since anybody thought I was younger than I really was.

But none of that really bothered me until I got The Card. They send it out just before your fiftieth birthday, which is, I reckon, about ten years too soon. For me, anyway. I'm not old enough.

So I brace myself and open the envelope, and yes, there's a card inside. I can activate it by sending $12.50 before my birthday. There's a nice letter explaining all the benefits this will afford me. It's signed by the CEO of AARP.

I hate the CEO of AARP.

The Lady Wife tried to comfort me. Secretly she was tickled pink that I'd be bothered by something like this, but still she tried.

"There's no law that says you have to join," she points out. "What if you didn't send it in?"

She has a good point. I don't have to admit to being old. I could join the Hair Club for Men, start playing hip hop on my radio, use modern lingo like groovy and gnarley, wear my khakis around my knees, and in general do everything that would embarrass my teenage sons in front of their little friends.

And yet....

"Naw, Baby," I say. "I just need to accept the inevitable."

"I hate it when you get all noble!" she pouts.

"Are you kidding?" I retort. "Have you seen the discounts you get with these things?"

Carbing up with a vengeance

I sat to write about watching the season premiere of American Idol, when this email came in, and my stream of consciousness hit a log jam. It was from the alumni office of my alma mater, and I reproduce it here:

Calling all runners!

If you are running the 2008 Country Music Marathon & ½ Marathon in Nashville we hope you’ll join us for a time of great food (our treat) and fellowship before the big run on Saturday.

Anonymous University Alumni will gather Friday evening, April 25
for a “pasta pig-out,” 6:30 pm at Fancy Italian Restaurant in
Franklin, TN. Fancy Italian Restaurant is located in the Cool Springs
area, 1722 Pseudonym Blvd, Franklin, TN 37067.

We will also arrange a group photo in Centennial Park before the race begins on Saturday morning.

Please let us know if you will be running the CMM and joining us for dinner (email alumni@anonymousuniversity.edu or call 1-800-555-1212). Spouses are welcome.

See you soon!

Let's begin with the Country Music Marathon. Now I listen to my share of country. And as much as I respect, say, Alan Jackson and Martina McBride, I can't get rid of the picture of Conway Twitty in jogging shorts and bouffant hairdo running full out while singing "You want a man with a slow foot...." And there's a half marathon, too! For folks who only sorta like country, I guess.

I went to the website for Fancy Italian Restaurant. I have to say the menu looked pretty good, but what struck me is the three portion sizes: Buca Small (serves 2 or more), Buca Large (4 or more), and the new(!) Buca Mio (the exact right size for, ahem, one).

Now, seeing as how they're calling this shindig a "pasta pig-out", I'm guessing there won't be many of the Buca Mios sitting around that night. Except maybe as appetizers.

One thing that won't be served is wine. AnonU is owned by a religious body that frowns upon strong drink. Of course, this fellowship isn't at the school, but way across the state. And frankly, serving Italian food without wine is a sin in and of itself. So what are they to do?

The biggest problem, though, is the very idea behind what they're doing here: they're serving all the pasta you can eat to a bunch of people twelve hours before they run 26 miles! Seems to me they'd be wanting to keep their alumni healthy, not kill them off. Unless they're hoping for a nice bequest from a few of them. I reckon that's why they're having the photo shoot before the race. There won't be enough runners left after the race to make it worthwhile.

I have no plans to do this marathon thing. I do love me some lasagne, though. I wonder how they'd know whether I was actually going to race or not.

Hmm. Free Italian.... And my lady wife could come too....

Let me check my calendar.

Out of the Mouths of Babes - Part 1

It was a quiet evening. I sat at my computer, pretending to work, while in fact I was learning the intracies of Freecell Solitaire. The wife busily checked her email. (I believe she was planning a family gathering with her sisters, but the details are now lost in the shadows of the past.) The younger son was taking his evening nap after a hard day goofing off. His older brother was playing his favorite video game of all time (that summer). The dogs were napping peacefully on their love seats. It was, overall, a nice, quiet, peaceful evening.

"I hate the undead!"

Ryan, the aforementioned elder son, blurted this out amidst a hail of machine gun fire from the family TV. Naturally, my interest was piqued.

"What?" I asked.

"What?" he replied. The machine gun fire had morphed into the explosions of rocket propelled grenades. "Dang it!"

"What did you just say?"

"I said, 'Dang it!'"

"No, before that."

"Oh. I dunno."

"I believe you said you hate the undead."

"Oh. Well, I do. I do hate the undead."

There was a pause while I waited for an expansion on this statement, but my wait was in vain.

"So," I tried again, "is there some reason you would say that?"

"You mean besides the fact that I hate them?"

"Well, why do you hate the undead?"

"They keep stealing my ammo."

Let's pause for just a second and consider these words:

I hate the undead. They keep stealing my ammo.

Apparently, the undead, who used to be a technologically backward, ubertraditionalist, mysteriously self-reliant type of being, have discovered guns. Or at least ranged weapons. This does not bode well for normal humans like you and me.

Also, they seem to have embarked on a life of crime. Besides murder and general mayhem, that is. What's next? Are they gonna start shoplifting at the Walmart? Knocking over liquor stores? Mugging little old ladies for their pocket change?

This does not seem to me a welcome change. I liked it better in the old days when you could count on zombies shambling around making unintelligible noises and grasping at your skull. Now you have to worry about the Saturday Night Special the zombie might have tucked into his waistband.

Leave 'em Wanting

(Note: This piece is full of dialect. Down here we -- most of us, anyway -- know it's not Standard English. We just like to talk this way sometimes.)

Down here in the South we're just eat up with couth. That's why The Department took us all out to The Upscale today for our Holiday Luncheon.

For those of you who might not have heard tell of it, Upscale is one of the high class joints in Greenville. You can tell because it's right next to the TJMaxx and just down Haywood Road from the Mall. Also it has little lights along the floor inside so you can see where you're supposed to walk.

Don't get me wrong. I got no complaints about the ambience, or even the decor. Upscale is a classy joint, and I've eaten in some of the classiest. And this ain't no franchise, either. There's only one Upscale.

Anyways, we straggled in about 11:30 and were immediately directed to the big banquet room. And it was big: big enough for about forty folks, even if we did have to play like we liked each other, we had to sit so close. Each place setting had a little saucer (what the high-toned might call a bread plate), two forks, a knife, and a cloth napkin, folded up real neat-like. (The napkin was black: another sign of class.) Oh, and a goblet with ice water. There was a single page menu, photocopied, and it didn't have prices, because The Department was paying.

I ordered the Seafood Thermidor, which is lobster, crab, and shrimp in a white-wine cream sauce, covered with melted cheese. The menu said it was en casserole, which means it was served in a little round dish right out of the oven. The server (what we would normally call a waiter, but we was in high-class society) told us we were also going to have a salad with house dressing, garlic mashed potatoes, and French-style green beans. Very nice.

And the salad was very nice. They were a little bit skimpy on the vinagrette, but they cut the tomato up into little squares. There was something with roots on it, but I didn't want to look uncouth, so I ate it anyway. I sipped on my water, waiting for the sweet iced tea, but it wasn’t showing up, so I figured it was coming with the entrée.

Finally, my en casserole came out. It was very nice, but there wasn’t much of it. It was about two inches across. I could have covered it with my green beans. Now I’m sure that some folks would eat a meal like that and say, “Good lord, I don’t think I can move for the rest of the afternoon!” I don’t know any of those people. Well, that might not be entirely true. I know a couple artsy types who wear black turtlenecks in July and weigh about nine pounds. But you know what I mean.

I ate it. All of it. It was delicious. It was one of the best things I have ever eaten. And then it was gone. Just like that. It’s taken you longer to read this story than it took me to eat that Thermidore.

I looked sadly at the little white bowl. I still had some roll left, so I tore some off and wiped up the leftover sauce and ate it. I looked up just in time to see the server successfully cover his horror. So I used the rest of my bread to finish it up. I reached for my tea, and it still wasn’t there. Maybe they’ll bring it with dessert.

The speeches started. They were nice. My stomach rumbled through them, waiting for dessert. There was no dessert. There was no tea. There was no coffee.

The last speech was made, and we all went back to the office.

I stopped on the way back and got a pack of peanuts and a Coke.

On the way back I realized how good these guys were at marketing. The food was outstanding, the service was impeccable, and the portions were small. It made me want to go back and finish my meal.

Because it really is true what they say: “Always leave ’em wanting more.”