Christmas - 2022

 

Let me spin you a tale of unbelievable misfortune, a tale of mishaps and woes that, surely, you will consider to be a farce of reality. Surely, and without a doubt, you will come to the conclusion that this tale is a greatest hits compilation, all consolidated into a single tale for comedic effect…. But I assure you, that is not the case. This narrative is but one weekend in a storm of trials and tribulations that our protagonists faced over the course of months.

We lay the beginnings of our scene upon the morn of Christmas Adam, a wholly useless and unsatisfying day within which a vast horde of people scurry about their lives trying to do the last minute preparations for the coming storm of relatives and friends over the subsequent days. Our protagonists were not so much different from the others in this, with one out doing such preparations and the other working away quietly in his home office, whilst eyeing the wind storm that was raging outside. 

The wind blew and the very air screamed with pain at the intensity of the storm, but all seemed well for our intrepid heroes in their home for they had prepared for the storm. Their backyard hosted a welcoming ring around a rugged fire pit, made so by a ring of brightly-colored chairs who resided in perfect placement for any to watch the fire while sharing beverages and lovely charts. Our protagonists knew the storm was approaching and recognized the fragile nature of their blown-plastic faux Adirondack chairs and, so, they had relocated the chairs to the relative safety of the barn. Joining the chairs within the confines of the ancient barn were all of the other yard accoutrements. So, knowing all was as well-prepared as possible, our homebound protagonist paid peripheral heed to the storm while focussing on his workday. But no, their preparations were unable to prepare them for the thunderous CRACK that resounded through the home, jumping the dogs to their feet and resounding in a chorus of howling as all three dogs sang their dismay in a discordant chorus of disharmonic sounds. The CRACK was of such volume that it overwhelmed, and made silent the following WHUMP that must have occurred. You might ask “Why must there have been a WHUMP” to which the reply is, merely, “physics.” You see, the CRACK was the sound of a vast and ancient limb gaining its independence from its parentage. A limb of such age that its base spanned wider than the average man’s shoulders. A limb whose skeletal, craggy bends branched outward to obscure the front yard in a new forest of tangles and twigs. A limb whose dismembered remnants would go on to provide nearly a half cord of solid firewood and a domed brush pile spanning more than a fathom in diameter.  Following on the heels of a series of events that wouldn’t be out of place to the three Baudelaire children, it would not have been out of place for this giant limb to have crashed down upon the roof of the porch, or worse, the house itself; but, in this instance, our protagonists were saved from such catastrophe for nothing was directly damaged by this limb falling and, as such, the limb did not require immediate attention.

Our heroes know people and some of those people enjoy gathering. One of those people often opens his home for people to gather in and the night of the limb fall was one such night. So our protagonists, four in number, journeyed forth from their home to visit and be merry. 

Then they returned home.

The first indication that there was a problem was visible nearly a half mile away when it became apparent that the driveway of our family was cast in darkness rather than the illumination of the welcoming domes of light which had been intentionally lit upon their departure. Our family’s home is one of four homes that lie at an intersection of two roads; an intersection light by a streetlight each and every night. A street light that is an emblazoned icon of orange spilling into the windows of the homes and brightly announcing the intersection to all who approach it from any direction. They all noticed, the streetlight was, in fact, on and light so, surely, it must be an illusory visage of darkness that they beheld from within their motorized carriage as they approached. Neighboring the streetlight, as it occupied a prominent point at the corner of their lot, is a home whose lights were alight with friendliness. Across from was a home whose porch was alighted with a multicolored sparkle storm of Christmas lists winding their way around and through the styles of their porch and encroaching upon the domain of the handrails. But the home of our family of adventures lacked any such gleeful lights to meet them for it hd been plunged into darkness. 

Our family accepts darkness. It is a natural progression of light reaching its destination. Our intrepid heroes are prepared for short passages of time without the modern conveniences of electrical appliances and, so, fires were built within the wood stoves and extra blankets were gathered for a restful evening of sleep, all while taunted by the lit streetlight outside and the dazzling sparkles of the Christmas lights across the intersection from their home. 

Morning arrives without any sign of electrons moving throughout the metal encased within the walls of the home and, it seemed, the storm that frightened away the electricity had also pushed away the unseasonably warm weather of the day before, having plunged the air into a frigid temperature of 10 degrees. The lack of power, by itself, was not so concerning but the development of such frigid temperatures without power was. Suddenly, our family was in need of a solution that was quicker, and surer, than “the power will come back on eventually.”

So venture forth they did and, by some stroke of fabulous luck, they found generators in stock at the very first store they entered. BUT, and of course there is always such a conjunction in play when something goes right for our protagonists, the store was not only out of the necessary cable to connect the generator to the house but, also, they were out of all of the plug ends that might allow someone to make their own cable. Our family purchased the generator and moved on to another store; another store who was also out of such cables and all of the necessary plug ends to fashion a cable oneself. And another store yielded the same result. The remainder of the stores were not open to customers as they had closed for Christmas Eve and, thus, our family had a means to generator power but no way to pour the power into their home until another twist of fate provided a spare cable from an acquaintance, allowing our family to restore minimal services to their home. Minimal services that included heat, refrigeration, water, and a small selection of lights. At least they, and their plumbing, would not freeze.

The home of the family is ancient. It is, perhaps, more ancient than the tree who shed a limb into the yard. It is so ancient that it has a serviceable dug well in addition to the modern, drilled well. It is so ancient that the dug was attached to the plumbing of the house and serviced the water for many years prior to the drilled well being put in place and remains attached to the plumbing. This, it turns out, is a very fortunate thing as the generator wiring routes not to the pump for the drilled well but, rather, to the dug well. Our intrepid hero, knowing what to do, primed this pump and changed the valves over such that the house could receive water from the dug well rather than the drilled well and the switch was thrown - SUCCESS. Water flowed forth from everywhere it was supposed to flow from. 

For an hour. 

Sitting in darkness, prior to it being late enough for bed, our family heard a rushing sound as if a vast waterfall where nearby. A rushing sound that erupted from the silence of moments before, rather than a sound that merely was present at all times. The sound of running water when there should be none, especially the sound of a vast waterfall that could rival Niagara, is a distressing sound to the ears of modern man. Within moments the sound was amplified tenfold by the opening of the basement door, revealing that the flood of Noah was trying to burst into the modern age within the basement of our family’s home. Quickly the power being fed to the water pump was extinguished, but the gushing continued. Forcing a brave explorer to don boots and descend into the inky darkness of an ancient basement with nothing but the illumination provided by a dying smartphone to locate the source of the sound and do what could be done to stop it. The first order of business was to close the valve separating the pumps from the house, to stop the plumbing within the house from draining entirely onto the basement floor… but this did not stop the water. Our explorer encroached upon the rapidly growing perimeter of the newly-formed lake and found that the water was not gushing from a pipe or hose that had come loose. It was not gushing from a valve that was accidentally left open. It was gushing forth from a new chasm that had formed in the very metal casing of the pump, a canyon of such proportions that hundreds of gallons were able to flood forth from it in mere minutes under the careful and attentive efforts of the ancient pumping mechanism within the casing. Noting that there was nothing further our subterranean explorer could accomplish he ascended the steps and closed the basement door as the remnants of the pressure tank fled containment and sought the freedom of the dirt floor.  Once again, our family was without access to water.

It was at this time that the family was asked to host Christmas the following day. 

Bed time encroached and the entire family went to bed for another night of being taunted by the orange light of the streetlight that was so close, yet not providing a promise of all being well in their home. 

The new generator kept the critical systems running but it had to be closely monitored so the adults of our protagonist family slept little as they refueled the generator and restarted it when it happened to stall in the middle of the night. They kept the power running enough to keep the heat on and the food safe in the refrigerator but the expense was clear on their minds and in their bodies as exhaustion was overtaking them. Fortunately, a Christmas miracle came as our main heroine of the story sat, staring out the front window for it was none other than Santa Claus who leapt forth from a power company truck and dashed to the electrical meter, throwing the thumbs up sign back to the driver of the truck before both Santa and truck alike dashed off on their way. And, with that gift, the family was able to turn off the generator and restore power to the entire house, switching back over the to the drilled well, and restoring all of the modern services to which they had all become accustomed in their lives. 

Given that we have reached a Christmas miracle and a climax where Santa restored power to our family, it may seem like this is the end of the tale but, I assure, you, it is not yet over. 

In preparation of the arrival of extended family work began on clearing the giant limb that observed access to the front door. This work was performed using the most prevalent wood-management tool in the area: a chainsaw. Many of the smaller limbs were severed from the larger with great ease and efficiency. They were piled off to the side, where they ceased to be an impediment to the walkway. Significant progress was made in the effort to convert the limb’s carcass from a giant edifice into usable wood until the chainsaw bucked slightly and jammed the chain into the nose guard of the chainsaw and yanked the remainder of the chain off the bar. No injuries but, also, no means to dislodge the wedged chain without more tools than our intrepid amateur lumberjack had on-hand. And, since it was Christmas, no stores were open to acquire the necessary tool to dislodge the chain and re-seat it. 

But, they decided, this was fine. The walkway was clear and the house was prepared from company and naps were taken by all. Guests arrived. Presents were opened. Merriment ensued. Guests departed and our family relaxed to an evening of Chinese cuisine which only had a 90-minute wait after the order was taken. And then they all had a wonderful night of sleep. 

I awoke on Boxing Day to a delightful smile upon. My wife’s face as she was merrily assembling a new vacuum cleaner. She awoke before anyone else and decided that it was time for us to have a new machine to manage the hair of  the three dogs in whose home we reside and the hair of the two cats who have overrun the upstairs, tolerating the teenagers who dare infiltrate their domain. She rose early on the morning of Boxing Day and ventured out into the world, braving the vast sea of people who were fighting over the best discount sales now that the big holiday was passed. She braved the crowds and used the portable all-knowing device in her pocket to assess the array of vacuum cleaners available in the store and brought home the highest-rated model of those available. When I rose from my slumber she was attaching the handle (for upright vacuum cleaners are packaged with the handle unattached to minimize the box size). Her smile continued as she pulled out all of the various accoutrements that accompanied the core vacuum. It was truly a delightful experience to behold the happiness beaming forth from my wife as she, finally, would have a vacuum that could manage the pet hair our home produced. Meanwhile, the previous vacuum stood in silence near the door to the barn, waiting for its journey to the retirement home known as “the dump.”

The machine was plugged in. My wife turned the machine on and began to vacuum the little hallway rug. It was glorious. The hair was taken in to the vacuum with such intense veracity as to make one half of the rug look brand new. The vacuum was so vigorous in its efforts that, after mere seconds, acrid smoke spewed forth from the vents followed by flames the likes of which rod-road roadsters emit during car shows, shot forth from the vacuum. My wife, in her crestfallen moment, did naught but begin to laugh at the ridiculousness of our situation leaving me to act. I yanked the power cord from the wall and grabbed the machine, dashing to the porch where I hurled it over the railing into the yard as my wife, yelled “No, we need to return it!” As the vacuum landed far from the house, protecting the house from the risk of fire, I turned around and said “IT WAS ON FIRE! I think they’ll understand that we threw it away from the house to protect the house.” 

While the vacuum was bursting into flames our middle child was calmly making bread a mere 10 feet away. Her efforts were not interrupted by the flaming machinery for homemade bread is serious business and must be done right.

After the bread was done baking, and everyone had partaken of their share, the partially-melted vacuum was put back in the box and four of the five members of the family prepared to venture back out into the sea of deal-seekers to return the vacuum. It is during this process that we realized that each of the line of Pet Vacuums by this specific brand hosts a photo and adoption story of a particular dog on the box. The dog on this box strongly resembled the youngest of our dogs, with his mostly black fur and white shield emblazoned on his chest. Unlike our dog, though, who is named after a beloved character from science fiction, the dog on the box was named…. Smokey. This, of course, broke the family and we all spent twenty minutes laughing hysterically because it was just, simply, too much to bear any other way. 

We rode in silence. We entered the store in silence, We got in line at the customer service desk in silence. We waited for our turn in silence. When it was our turn we approached the counter and said “this was bought this morning and we need to return it.” The predictable question came forth: “is there a reason?” 

“Yes. It caught on fire moments after being turned on.”

The customer service representative’s eyebrows rose and her companion stepped over from the neighboring register. Upon opening the flap they concurred that it had been on fire as the acrid stench of molten plastic and rubber wafted forth and writhed its way around them. 

“Well, ok. Is everyone ok?”

“Yes.” 

And the refund was processed.

My wife and I then wandered the store to reach the display of vacuum cleaners that were currently available. She had acquired the last of that specific model in her earlier journey so we were forced to evaluate the remaining models to see which was best. We brought home a vacuum that boldly told us the adoption story of Spike and joked about how this might cause the vacuum to explode in spectacular fashion, driving a spike into the floor.

As we rode home the anxiety of the previous vacuum began to receded and my wife’s smile began to return. Upon arriving home she opened the package and took out all of the parts. We assembled the vacuum and, once again, we prepared to be excited that we could clean up after our pets. The vacuum was plugged in to the outlet. The vacuum was placed upon the target carpet. The vacuum was turned on. The vacuum worked AMAZING. It was working better than the first one and we were all excited that it was not on fire (such low expectations, right?) and then, as if on cue, smoke erupted from the vacuum in a spectacular pillar of opacity, blocking the living room from view and causing my wife and one of the children to start coughing. I, being ready for such a situation, yanked the cord from the outlet and, again, grabbed a BRAND NEW vacuum from my wife’s possession and hauled it outside. As this one had not yet ignited into flames I did not hurl it forth from the deck to land upon the frozen wasteland of a lawn we possess but, rather, eyed it cautiously as our new smoke machine stopped its apparent function and restored its disguise as a powered-off vacuum cleaner.

You may be wondering, as we did, if there is a problem with the outlet. The wifi mesh extender plugged in to the other outlet of the same receptacle has been operating for a year without bursting in to flames but it is not, exactly, a high-drain motor. So, I recalled the ancient and decrepit vacuum from retirement for one last mission. I went out on to the deck with the ancient vacuum cleaner (better to be safe than sorry, right?) and proceeded to plug it in to the same outlet. 

It is at this point that I must wonder what our neighbors, whom we have never met, must think of us. Do we have some sort of bizarre Boxing Day tradition? For, from their perspective, they saw me running out of the house and hurling a vacuum cleaner into the yard followed by retrieving it an hour later only to run forth from the same door with ANOTHER vacuum an hour after that and, now, moments later, they were to be able to witness me vacuuming my wooden deck in 10 degree weather.  What possible explanation must they have concocted for my bizarre behavior because, surely, they could not possibly believe that not one, but TWO vacuum cleaners caught on fire and had to be rapidly escorted from the premises to avoid losing the home in an inferno. 

While we have yet to return the second vacuum, I’m sure that will be a fantastic experience (especially if the same customer service representatives are on duty), we do have an anti-climactic conclusion to the saga. After verifying that the outlet did not cause the ancient vacuum to erupt into flames (and testing it with a multimeter and outlet tester) my wife went to an alternate store and bough the best of the available vacuums on display from a different brand. She brought it home and assembled it and, as if my magic, all of the pet hair was evicted from the target carpet without issue; without smoke; without flames. Without sparks. The hair was just sucked into the container exactly as expected. My wife went on to vacuum a few other things in the house, using multiple outlets and, boringly, the machine did exactly as it was supposed to do. 

As this tale is already quite lengthy, I won’t go into the difficulties we encountered later in the day while cutting up the rest of the fallen limb, not the difficulties my wife had when she tried to inflate one of her car tires. You, dear reader, can be assured that the chaos of our life has returned to the normal levels of ridiculousness and is no longer at the level of cracking water pumps and flaming vacuum cleaners. For now, anyway.

The Dogs and the Beerfall

May all who hear my message beware this tale for it is a tale of conspiracy and adventure and betrayal as perpetrated by our dearest allies – dogs.

Our tale begins in times deep in the ancient history, this past Tuesday, when an allotment of alcoholic root beer was brought forth from the foreign land of “the store” to the vast empire of the dogs. In the time that passed since the arrival of the grand beverage many meals were consumed by the mystical beings known as “Mama” and “Papa” on the magical table of coffee, upon which all consumables are placed; NEVER to be touched by any of the dog realm.

Peace reigned through the land for many times until a grand opportunity arose. Yester eve there was a bottle of the magical elixir of the mystical beings left, unattended, on this magic table. Lord enforcer, Eirik, snoozed quietly on his preferred throne of the squishy couch cushions when the two rapscallions, Ms. Ellie and Young Master Ender, opted to cavort in the play of puppies and ran about the entire realm not once, not twice, perhaps even more than thrice in a circular fashion. In their playful rambunctiousness one of these younger citizens of the realm discovered the unattended bottle of magical Mama elixir and opted to investigate it. This activity, far from being encouraged, is against one of the paramount commandments of the realm. This commandment, of course, being issued forth as “get off the table” by the mystical and benevolent rulers of all. With neither Mama nor Papa present little Master Ender took the opportunity to investigate the contents of the bottle. In doing so he also experimented, although it was likely unintentional, with the physics of how a bottle can remain upright and the volume of force required to overturn the moment of inertia as the center of gravity is shifted.

                With a sudden “thunk” the bottle overturned itself, spilling forth a vast fountain of the magical beverage contained within. A beverage coveted by the citizens of the realm for it is a beverage that MUST be special since Mama won’t let them have any. The fountain poured with wild abandon onto the table of coffee and cascaded into a beerfall over the edge and onto the floor.

                Ever-vigilant, Ms Ellie, immediately leaped into action to “help” the situation. She sacrificed herself as a mop by placing her head directly under the waterfall with obvious intent to soak up as much of the spilled liquid as possible so that neither Mama, nor Papa, would have to clean it. When this effort proved insufficient to remedy the situation she began her additional efforts to clean the spilled liquid from the floor as she would clean water from her bowl. Young Master Ender, an impressionable youth to be certain, saw Ellie’s noble efforts to prevent the mess from growing and joined her in her efforts to clean the mess from the floor and surface of the table of coffee.

                After an age, perhaps 10 whole minutes, Mama returned to the scene to find the vast adventure completed and the clean-up efforts nearly terminated as well. She, contrary to the intent of the perfectly innocent members of the canine realm, was not pleased with what they had accomplished in her absence. She relinquished their freedom to the dungeons of “time out” and asked Papa to carry out the sentence.

                Meanwhile, Eirik looked on, paw on face, with a mild level of amusement. Once could almost hear him saying “I told you so” to his younger companions as they were escorted away.

                This morrow brought new light to the situation and brought a fresh dawn to the lives of the canine citizens. All is forgiven and, yet, Ellie’s fate has not been completed for, tonight, she must face the wrath of “bath time” to clear the remnants of her efforts from the top of her head.

Fire Privilidge

When I was in college I had two particular friends, Adam and Robin.
Adam was from New Hampshire and Robin had spent the first decade of her life there before her family moved away. Robin has a younger brother and the catalyst for this story was his visit to our college to see if it might be a fit for him when he finished high school.

That, of course, is not where this story begins.
The reality of this story is that it begins before I met Adam. It begins before Adam even finished high school.
This story begins in the basement of Adam's home in New Hampshire when he was in high school.

Adam, like many of my friends, was involved in theatre. He did less (none) acting and more (all) technical aspects of theatrical production. He did lights and sound, he occasionally did set work; but, most importantly, he was fascinated by pyrotechnics. Adam liked fire and the process of things burning whether it was a slow burn or a fast burn.

This story begins with Adam in his basement with a very specific set of supplies. Among that particular inventory were a 9 volt battery, some steel wool, and some flash powder.
The experiment that Adam was conducting for amusement was, and remains, dangerous.
It's a simple experiment and can be conducted, to an extent, with only two of the ingredients: steel wool and the battery.
Steel wool is a conductor but it is a jumbled mess of a conductor and it has individual threats that are so incredibly small that they will ignite and burn under a very light electrical current load. This, in itself, is interesting to witness. It also creates a volatile situation as the metal rapidly oxidized under the current load induced by rubbing both terminals of the battery with the mass of steel wool. The steel heats to orange and evaporates into the air in a small trail of sparks. In essence, the steel wool portion of the experiment is a perfect ignition source for anything that is flammable. This include flash powder.

A tiny sprinkle of flash powder on the steel wool before introducing the battery forces the wool to burn and the powder to *POOF* in a sudden little flash. The key words being "a tiny sprinkle."

As Adam relates the tale he sprinkle some powder on and rubbed the battery: nothing happened.
So he did it again and nothing happened.
He repeated this a few times until something happened.
A large something.
Something that sounded like a shotgun blast and nearly burnt the house down.
A something that cost him the use of his arm for a few months.

Fast forward to Robin's younger brother visiting.

Robin's brother, in addition to wanting to see the college, also wanted to go see the town that haunted his memories. He wanted to see the house who had a shadow on his earliest childhood. He wanted to reclaim those shadows in his mind before they went extinct.

So the four of us headed to the town, which neighbored the one that Adam had grown up in, to visit.
The drive there, and the visit through the town, were uneventful. It was a pleasant drive and it satisfied the needs of Robin, her brother and Adam. I was just along for the ride.

As people do, we approached a time in the day when we were hungry. Adam suggested a place to eat and we went there to fend off the mortal needs for raw caloric intake. We forced the menu to testify to the specialties of the kitchen and cross-examined it for what we might like for food that evening and we placed our orders.

While we waited for the meals to be conjured from the elemental particles of food that they were constructed from we discussed a myriad of topics.

We chatted and joked and discussed when, suddenly and without any warning, there was a stifled cry from the younger companion that accompanied a frantic waving of hands; one of which was suddenly holding a fireball.
The brother, it appears, had been slowly shredding corners from his paper napkin and exposing them to the flame of the table's center candle but the flame got a bit more hungry than he expected and began to devour the entirety of the bountiful harvest that resided in his had.

The flame was quickly extinguished, leaving a small puff of smoke to explore the restaurant followed by the bold proclamation from Adam: "I'm revoking your fire privileges."

That's right, the man who had blown up his basement had to revoke the fire privileges of the visiting younger sibling.

Bad Parking Revenge

I've seen them; you've seen them.
Everyone has seen people who park miserably.
It's a fact of the modern world.

I've also seen people who appear to intentionally park badly.
People who feel that their status in the world, or their car, grants them an automatic guarantee  of privilege in the parking lot; a right to more space.

People whose sheer narcissism makes them truly believe that they are better than everyone else.

I hate these people.

For the last half of my college career I worked in retail (plenty of other stories on that can be found in my writing). When I finished school I moved to Ohio to be with my (then) girlfriend while she was in grad school. I had no job prospects so I transferred to a store local to where we were going to live. I couldn't afford a newer car so I was still using my beat-up, 10-year-old Honda Civic. This car had dents in all of the panels on the driver side and half the panels on the passenger side. The rear bumper was hanging. There was no passenger side mirror (never had one). The hood had a dent in it and it would not open without someone pushing down on it when the release was pulled inside the car.
My car was a solid and reliable piece of junk.

Now, I'm not a "car guy" and I never have been. I can't identify specific makes and models easily without reading the insignias off the car directly. I'm ok with this and I have always been ok with this. But I can tell a fancy, shiny sports car when I see one. I can guess at an expensive car when I see one.

One day, as I arrived at work, there was such am expensive sports car in the parking lot. The car itself would, and has, faded from my memory. It was black (that's literally all I remember about it). The parking job, however, was a masterpiece of asshattery that I shall never purge from the bowels of my recollection.

The parking lot was mostly empty so this particular car was easy to spot. It was the lone usurper of the block. It was standing in its glory; a beacon to wealth and self-importance. The sun was glistening off its perfectly clean exterior. It was also parked directly on the line dividing two spots.

The car, in and of itself, was not something I took offense to but the audacity of conscripting two spaces in a lot that would soon be full to protect its shiny exterior from the slightest ding infuriated me. So I decided I would make a point of the situation.

The shiny bastion of conceit was not perfectly centered between the two spaces and that provided me my opportunity. My car, small as it was, left a wide margin of space around it when I centered it into a single parking space the size of those in this lot (it had to accommodate a lot of large pickup trucks). I lined my car up and stopped, stepping out to examine my work carefully. When I was certain of my positioning I slipped quietly into the space I had chosen. That space was the very same space that the driver's side of the shiny monument of presumptive pride was trying to usurp for itself.
My car fit perfectly in the center of the spot with the other car where it was. My car fit so perfectly that I still had the full margin around it to get out of my driver's door with ease. My car fit perfectly with about three inches to spare between it and the shiny assholemobile.

I took a moment to admire my work and strolled over to my store to open.

Within a half hour the parking lot was filling and both cars were still there.

I wish I had been able to see when the owner of the other car came back to see what I had done because the look on their face would have been priceless. Their realization that I had called them out on their egocentricity and vanity should have elicited a vengeful peak of rage. That rage should have elicited an intent to vandalize my car which would have generated a crestfallen moment when they realized that my car was so shitty that there was little they could do to it that would make it appear any worse. Sure, they could dramatically vandalize it but they must have known that I, quite likely, took their license plate. They could call the police and reveal that my car was parked perfectly. They could try to have me towed and find the same statement of reality about my parking being perfect.

I know that they had two potential solutions to their self-created predicament: have their own car towed out of the spot so they could get in OR climb in through the passenger side and carefully back out of their space.

I know not which path they chose to take and I do regret I never got to observe it happen.

I hope, though, that this experience was as significant to them as it has been to me. I hope, too, that it was significant in the right way although I am certain that they just have a story about "that asshole who parked me in" instead.

Debbie in Purchasing

Like many people, if not most, I hate homework.
Especially I hate homework that has no purpose other than to inundate the student with busy work.
By the time I finished sophomore year I had had enough. I was burnt out. I needed a break.
I felt the impending wave of despair and desperation that would envelope me if I went into another semester of pointless homework and reading for classes whose ultimate purpose in my life was unclear to me.
The obvious escape route to this unending torrent of pointless busy work was to withdraw from school for a semester. But this was not a simple matter. There were two channels and only one of them was cost-effective: a co-op job or paid internship.
Before school let out in the spring I was reviewing all of the opportunities I could find and, eventually, I settled on one that met my needs and whose requirements I met. I interviewed for the position and I got it.
I commuted an hour each way, into the next state over, and I began my first "real-world" work experience in the realm of Management Information Systems.

I started on a Monday.
I began with a tour of the facility and introduction to the rest of the team.
Then, without much additional fanfare, I was tossed "to the wolves."

I worked on things that could be handled via phone for the remainder of Monday and through Tuesday.

Wednesday morning I arrived to work and, promptly at 8:00am, the phone rang. All of the other team members looked around and smiled. "Let's let the new guy take this" the sysadmin named Dave said.

Admiral Ackbar, with his most famous line from Return of the Jedi, popped into my mind as I replied "ok" and answered the phone.

The call was from Debbie in purchasing. Her computer would not turn on and, yes, it most certainly was plugged in. I promised her I would come down to check it out and got off the phone.

"Where's purchasing?" I asked.
"Go that way" Dave pointed "and stop at the end of the building. She's, literally, against the far wall."

I began my trek down the building, passing through accounting then the main lobby. I passed through manufacturing and shipping. I passed through service and another area of offices that I have either forgotten who they are or never knew and entered into the domain of purchasing.

Debbie was easy to find as she was standing, impatiently waiting for her solution. Her expression of sternness melted a bit when she realized that I was there to help her and that I was new.

I took a look around and verified that the computer would not, in fact, turn on.

My investigation ended a moment later when I discovered that the plug for her computer was only barely in the outlet, enough that a haphazard glimpse made it appear to be plugged in but loose enough that it was not making any significant contact with the terminals inside the outlet.
I reseated the plug into the outlet and tested the computer.
It sparked into life and Debbie was able to begin her workday.

I began my trek back through the various departments, pausing momentarily to note the terminal in manufacturing with the Budweiser Frogs screensaver that was burning frog images into the screen and the machine operator that was playing solitaire over the front of the CNC operation program.

I logged the case of Debbie and went about my day.

8:00AM on Wednesday, the following week, I answered the phone. It was Debbie. Her computer would not boot.
The process was identical in every respect. My journey, the nature of the problem, the solution, etc.

8:00AM on Wednesday, the following week, I answered the phone. It was Debbie. Her computer would not boot.
The process was identical in every respect. My journey, the nature of the problem, the solution, etc.

After the second repeat of this I inquired as to what was causing this and my colleagues provided me the answer. Apparently the housekeeping crew vacuums Purchasing on Tuesday nights and they fail, every week, to properly plug Debbie's computer back in. No amount of effort has managed to make them accomplish this simple task so, each Wednesday, Debbie calls MIS with the same problem.

8:00AM on Wednesday, the following week, I answered the phone. It was Debbie. Her computer would not boot.
This time, though, I deviated from the routine. I explained to Debbie what we had discovered and what we thought was causing the issue. I outlined that it was as simple as pushing on the plug to ensure it was fully in the wall. Debbie, accepted that this was possible, and watched me prove it.

8:00AM on Wednesday, the following week, I answered the phone. It was Debbie. Her computer would not boot.
I realized, then, that Debbie was never going to do the simple task of plugging her computer in to I began my trek.
The process was identical in every respect. My journey, the nature of the problem, the solution, etc.

I repeated this journey every Wednesday for the duration of my experience with the company and I had the great fortune to have my replacement and I overlap by a week at the end of my time.

On Wednesday, that week, at 8:00AM the phone rang. This time I got to be the one to say "How about we let the new guy handle this one?" as everyone else smiled.

He began his journey to Purchasing moments later.

The Rogue DHCP Server

Some things are best learned through experience.
The horror and frustration of them is a far more valuable lesson than the actual knowledge if read from a book. Losing data is one such lesson and there is really no way to make light of that event.
One of the horrors of losing data is that it can affect anyone.

Another such lesson, though, only affects network managers. Only plagues those who are responsible for the smooth operation of the network and the reliable access of resources for their users.
What makes this issue so insidious is that it is not obvious and it can plague the most well-prepared individuals; even more so those who are learning the eddies of troubles that managing a network can bring.

Imagine, if you will, a basic network built of the most basic networking equipment.
A network that is working perfectly and reliably. A network that maintains access to the core resources used by all of the users and which allows them to pass through to the outside world for general internet access. Imaging this should be no special task because, as you read these very words, you are using such a network or you used such a network to gain access to them. Such a network is seamless and the users make no notice of it just as they make no notice of the hallways or streets that they use until there is a problem.

The first indicator that I had that there was a problem was a routine helpdesk request. One of my users was unable to log on to the computer. Investigating the issue yielded a message that, at first glance, seemed a bit odd for my network but which was in the realm of possibility: an IP conflict.

The users could not access the network because the workstation had been shut off from the network because it had an identical address to another workstation. A simple reboot solved this problem and I verified that the workstation was getting its address from the network itself, as intended. I made a note of the address and began my investigation.

I checked my sheet of static addresses and found no matches.
I checked all of the devices that were supposed to have static addresses and they all had the addresses they were supposed to have.
I noted other machines around the building and none of them were having an issue.
I chalked the issue up to a random fluke and continued on.

Until another user informed me of the same problem the following morning.
And another.
And another.
And then several more.

I knew, then, that I had a serious problem on my hands but I had no idea what it could be.
I also knew that I had a limited window to find and solve the problem before my professional reputation was damaged and my "personal capital" in the organization would be completely and totally, and irrevocably, spent.

I examined the problem and found no inherent and obvious cause.
As I could not treat the disease I began preventative measures on the symptoms.
I reduced the range of assignable IP addresses and began statically assigning addresses to every affected user. I did this on the network side and hard-coded the addresses into the workstations themselves.
This, it turns out, was exactly the measure I needed to buy myself some more time.

With that time I turned to some online resources, which in the time of this tale were greatly diminished as compared to today, to get assistance on the root cause.

Reading and testing; more testing and more reading. I spent considerably time trying to understand where the problematic addresses were coming from but, regardless of my lack of comprehension they were still there. They still were being issued to anything that requested them. I was merely preventing things from asking for them.

The main clue that I received was that computers still pulling the addresses automatically were trying to use a different gateway than I had configured on my network. This little clue allowed me to deduce some more information, now that I had a few moments, as to the originating entity.

Most routers, if not all, have an interface that is visible to the network from the "inside." This interface is accessible by pointing a web browser at the address of the router. Unless otherwise specified this is the address that the router will hand out as the gateway.
So took the gateway address that I was seeing and entered it into the web browser of my affected machine.
BOOM. I was fed back a web interface to configure a router.
I now knew what I was looking for. I knew what the device was and how it was destroying my network.
What I didn't know was WHERE it was nor who had installed it in my building.
Somewhere, in my domain, was a Rogue Router.
And so began the great hunt.

After hours I went on safari, seeking the beast that was destroying the stability of my equipment and which was poised to consume my career prospects.
There was no better way, with the limited equipment I had to work with, to hunt this beast than to roam the vast halls; exploring room by room. I sought the beast.
For three nights I spent time migrating through the wilds of the network, physically examining the devices attached to the network in each of the many rooms I connected.

Until I beheld it.
In a room on the back wing I found a table.
On that table lay four additional workstations.
Four machines that were not supposed to be there.
Four machines that were not in my inventory.
Four computers that, combined with the other two in the room, could not POSSIBLY, connect into the four network ports that existed in that room.
Six machines simply could not use four network connections: the math just did not work.

I climbed under the table and followed the leads out of the wall. I moved around the edge of the table so that I could examine where the lines went as they moved from beneath to above the table.

I traced the line and I found my quarry.

Buried in a nest of cables it lay, lurking and waiting. Eating the productivity of all and consuming my reputation little by little.

There was the netgear router that was not supposed to be there.
It had one port that was not in use with one feeding into the wall and the remainder going to the computers. But the one that was not in use was the NOT a downstream port. It was the uplink.
Whomever had installed this router didn't know what they were doing and had uplinked my entire network into this router.
This was the source of the wrong addresses. This was the source of my pains.
This was the cause I consumed so much Tylenol in the previous week.

I unseated the cable that fed to the wall from the port it was nestled into and I seated it into the uplink port.

I made this change and I waited.

A week passed without any additional problems.
A week in which I could not find any trace of the issue.

A week in which I rebuilt my confidence and allowed others to believe I had contained, and eliminated, the problem.

A week that lasted an eternity while I waited, hoping that I had resolved the issue.

The following week I began the slow restoration of systems back to the proper configuration now that the danger had passed.

And then I went to the user who had built the mini lab in their room.
I went to her and I asked her why she had built it and where she had received the equipment.

I also, kindly, let her know the specifics of how it could disrupt the entire network in the future and that I needed her to ensure, if she hooked it up again in the future, that she matched how it was plugged in now.

My first IT crisis was averted.
One of the most important lessons was learned and I learned it the hard way.

Self-Powered

Sometimes, as an IT Professional, one encounters users that are happy to try to reassemble their computer on their own.
Given the reputation of scary IT people and those who are condescending to users, I have always found it important to allow users who wish to try the opportunity to try it out. Nothing reduces fear of the equipment faster and better than demystifying it.

Once upon a time, in my journey through a career as a technology manager, I encounter a user that was happy to reattach all of their equipment after a room move. I was asked, prior to their efforts, if I found it acceptable for them to undertake the effort and I assured them I was. I even stated that  if they encountered any trouble to please let me know.

Later that day the user appeared in my door with an expression of concern adorning their face.

"I have a problem" they informed me, "it won't turn on."

I rose from my seat and escorted them back to their office area. Of course, the first question I asked was "is it plugged in" and the answer was an affirmative.
I began my troubleshooting, examining first, and last, if it was plugged in.

I found, to my acceptance, that all of the necessary cables appeared plugged in to the appropriate spaces. Network to network, USB plugs in USB ports (side note: a USB plug WILL fit into a network jack so "plug it in where it fits" doesn't work for all users). Monitor attached correctly. Everything seemed to be plugged in correctly; that is, until I looked at the wall socket.
There was nothing plugged into the electrical outlet in the wall. I knew, suddenly, that this MUST be the problem but where was the plug that needed to go there?
I traced all of the cables with my fingers until the culprit became clear. One of the plugs that is plugged into the surge protector was also the source cable for the surge protector. I gently unplugged this and slide it home, into the wall socket.
I rose, out from under the desk, and sparked on the system with the power button.
Everything fired up exactly as expected and my user was back in service.

Upon being asked what had been wrong I merely answered "one of your connections was arguing with us. It wanted to take a nap. I woke it up."
My user found this response amusing and accepted it.

I left their office and returned to my own to continue the tasks of monitoring servers and standing by for additional help as needed.























This is another true story tagged as "fiction" due to the story-telling nature of it.



The tale of the office move and the computer that wouldn't turn on because the power strip was plugged into itself

Is It Plugged In?

Users are a magical resource; an unending fount of  challenges and puzzles.

An individual's level, aside from being a user, is completely irrelevant to whether or not they are a challenging user or not. It is also completely irrelevant as to whether they will successfully examine their own situation or not.

There are two initial questions that must always be the starting point of any technological troubleshooting:
1. Is it plugged in?
and
2. Is it turned on?

These are the logical first points of failure and they are asked because they are EASY to solve. These questions are asked not in a condescending manner and have even tripped up experienced technical individuals (the author acknowledges one incident of where each of these questions was the solution to his problem after considerable troubleshooting).

This is the story of one such situation.

---

It seems quite obvious, and was widely acknowledged, that no one in IT could assist a user unless they knew of the problem the user was experiencing. It was also quite widely accepted that IT did not have a magical clairvoyance that would allow them to know of the problems without them being reported. These axioms are the reasons that IT departments, and maintenance departments and, really, any service department, has a means to manage requests. The user who needs a service puts in a request and it is serviced as soon as it reaches the top of the queue. Many IT departments have a very strict means of submitting requests and others have a very lax manner of accepting requests; the important constancy is that they must get requests to be able to provide any service or support.

After a decent career as an IT monkey I made my way into a role as the entire IT department for a small school system. I held this job for two years before moving into a larger schools system where I became the department head of the IT department. Upon taking control of the department I went about the process of familiarizing myself with the helpdesk system that was in place and, through necessity, investigating the reason why no one would use it. After considerably examination of the administrative side I opted to examine it from the user side and my quandary was resolved. The previous director had made the system nearly impossible to operate from a user viewpoint. I corrected the issue and proceeded to campaign heavily for users to use the system while still accepting requests via email.

In a shameless effort to decrease efficiency and increase bureaucracy the Superintendent of this district required all department heads (including Principals) to attend a half-day meeting every other week. This meeting, which rotated around the schools, was designed to bring up items for discussion that were concerning to anyone in attendance. Most often the items placed on the agenda affected only the member who was discussing it and the Superintendent. With the exception of budget preparation these meeting were, primarily, a waste of time for me.

About a third of the way through the school year, long enough for me to have revamped the entire helpdesk system to be more user friendly and have had my campaign be heard nearly everywhere, I was attending one such meeting in one of the schools.

Moments after the meeting began we started around the room to address agenda items from individual users. That's when it happened.

The metaphorical bus was driven by an elementary school principal. It was driven hard and fast and it was driven true. It hit me with the force of managerial shame and stained my reputation in front of all of the principals and the superintendent. The bus took the form of a single question, asked in a sarcastic and snarky tone: "When are you going to fix my printer?"

"Did you submit a request for it?" I replied, attempting to hide my contempt for the manner of inquisition and working to retain an innocent and professional demeanor.

"Of course I did!" was the, still snarky, reponse.

"Oh, I see. Did you use the helpdesk system or just email one of us?" I asked, in an effort to narrow down my options.

"Both."

"OK. While I look for it, could you tell me what it is doing?"

"It's not printing" was the only answer I received.

"I can't seem to find a ticket in my email, in the helpdesk or even in the emails of either tech. Let me just take a moment to go ahead and make this ticket for you."

"Well, I know I submitted it."

Closing my laptop again, as the Superintendent did not like them present in the meetings, I asked the first of the two questions, "is your printer plugged in?"

The reply was explosive. Based on the response one would have assumed that I had criticized the principal's ability to do simple arithmetic or tie shoes. "Of course it's plugged in! I might not be a technical person but I know to check THAT." Hiding behind the words were additional messages that that could not have been clearer had they been spoken aloud. "How DARE you question my intelligence in front of our boss with that question? How could you possibly insult me like this? Who do you think you are?"

Chuckling a bit I replied "It's the first question we always ask, the first thing we check. The next thing is whether or not its turned on. You'd be surprised how many times one of those is the problem; even when we're the one experiencing it. I'll pop across the hall during the break and check on it for you."

The next hour passed slowly. The principal spent the time talking about issues in the school or glaring at me for the perceived insult I had laid upon them in front of our peers. Invisible daggers were flying through the air and, as needed, I dodged them skillfully.

The mid-morning break rolled into being and I popped up "Let me see what I can do about that printer." I was pleased to get out of the room for a variety of reasons.

The office was, literally, directly across the hallway. I walked into the inner office and found the laptop, resting happily on the stand that was used to hold it. I noted that the power cord was plugged into the laptop and so were two USB cables: one white, one black. I noticed the printer, sitting quietly in the corner of the desk with its power light lit up green. One quick look over the top of it showed me an important clue: a transparent USB cable.

I reached out and looped a finger under the cable and gently pulled. Up, up and up some more: there was no resistance to my efforts. Moments, and about three feet, passed when the far end of the cable appeared from behind the desk, dangling in the air before my eyes.

Turning my head I found that the black USB cable that was plugged into the computer ran to a palm pilot docking cradle and the white to the keyboard. Examining the keyboard yielded two USB ports, one of which had the mouse plugged into it.

I simply unplugged the palm pilot cradle from the laptop and plugged it into the remaining port on the keyboard; replacing it with the USB able that ran to the printer.

Immediately upon the cable being seated into the laptop the printer woke and responded. It came to life and began to print a document. I took the moment to examine the printing queue and found that 57 copies of the same document had been sent to the printer (because, obviously, if the print command didn't work one should just do it again, and again, and again). I closed the print queue and grabbed the one page that had finished printing to take with me.

Crossing the hall felt good. I had solved the problem and I had the chance to redeem myself in the eyes of my peers and my supervisor.

I strolled into the room, the last to rejoin the group, and handed the paper to the principal whose office I had just quitted.

"Is this the document you were trying to print?" I asked, politely and nicely.

"Yes" was the short reply, "thank you."

"No problem. Glad I could take care of it for you. The rest is printing now."

I sat, ready to rejoin the meeting without another word but the snarkiness from the other side couldn't be contained. "Well, what was wrong with it?" I was asked, in an effort to corner me in the room with everyone watching; an effort to back the bus back over me after the earlier inflicted professional wounds.

"Oh, it was easy. It wasn't plugged in, as soon as I plugged it in it started printing. If you'll all pardon me a moment I'll just go ahead and close the case I opened for this in our ticket system."

I opened the laptop. I opened the ticket file. I changed its status to closed and applied the status to my laptop, too.

The meeting resumed with me trying to avoid smiling and with another party fuming so greatly that one might mistake them for an active volcano that is ready to explode.

No one in that district questioned my inquiry about being plugged in again.

Cutting the Cheese

I own swords.
I one a fairly descent sized collection of them.
I'm a fencer and I have had some experience with armored combat as well.
I understand the nature of blades and how they can be used as weapons.
I also understand how dangerous they can be and how to properly handle them.

But I, like everyone else, can make mistakes.

Distractions lead to mistakes.

When I was in college Farscape turned out to be a distraction and, ultimately, caused a mistake.

I was, at the time, nearing the completion of my undergraduate experience.
I was a double-major who did theatre as an extra-curricular (also for credit) and who had to work 20 - 30 hours a week to live within the credit limits of my creditors (e.g. I was racking up debt).

My budget on time was limited and, as such, I had to pick my leisure activities carefully.

Farscape, I had determined, was not optional.
Farscape was a staple in my weekly routine.
Farscape was part of my luxurious Friday evening.

One particular Friday evening I was home alone and had been delayed in making my dinner and, as such, was preparing a snack when Farscape began on the television.
I was cutting slices of a block of cheese and watching the show from the kitchen.
I, one who knows how effective and dangerous blades can be, was not paying enough attention to what I was doing. My alignment with the cheese was poor and the blade slipped. The cheese wedge popped free from the glacial chunk of the full block and flew to the floor with a grace matching only my that of any other food item that frees itself from a serving tray to relentlessly seek the lowest potential kinetic state around. My eye glanced at the cheese that was rotating through the air as the consequences of my poor attention struck me.
Literally.
When the cheeseburg was freed from the larger mass the resistance on the knife was released and the pressure I had been exerting to cut the cheese was freed into new kinetic motion.

The point of the knife was the first to enter my flesh followed by several inches of the serrated blade.
I watched as a fissure opened at the touch of the knife. A fissure at the base of my left thumb.

"FUCK" I yelled.

My next recollection is that of sitting on the couch, paper towel wrapped around my injured hand, watching The Invisible Man. This was the show that aired immediately after Farscape (to this day I have not managed to watch the episode I missed, but that is besides the point).
I have snapshots, even a couple of video snippets of memory of what happened in between.
I recall looking in the mirror in the bathroom and seeking a sterilization agent.
I remember calling my, then, girlfriend who was living ten hours away.
I recall telling her what had happened while looking into the wound and seeing white.
I recall telling her "I suddenly feel very light headed. I need to lay down. Bye." and hanging up on her (side note, I still, to this day, get chastised for this).
I recall laying on the floor in the bathroom and putting my feet up on the toilet.

What I do not recall is cleaning up the mess.
The cheese was put away.
The knife washed.
The cutting board washed.
The floor mopped.
The bathroom cleaned.
I recall none of this.

I was sitting on the couch, with The Invisible Man playing when the youngest of my roommates returned home.
I think, in retrospect, that her key sliding into the lock is what grounded my memories such that I can remember from that point forward.
She looked at me and, before even noting my blood-soaked, paper-towel-clad hand, started to ask me what was wrong. Apparently I looked paler than normal to her eyes. Before she finished the inquiry, though, she cut herself off at the sight of my impromptu bandage.

She made me show her.
She spent the remainder of The Invisible Man, chastising me for being home and not at the emergency room. She argued with me and offered to take me. She told me I was being belligerent and stubborn (those whom have read my story, "The Walk" will detect a theme here when it comes to my being when intersected with any sort of physical medical trauma) and that I really needed to seek medical attention.
She was annoying me so I made a bargain.
My bargain was that when either of the other two roommates arrived home, if they agreed with her, I would allow one of them to take me to the ER without issue, resistance, or complaint.
She understood that this was the best she would get from me so she acquiesced.
At this point I was hoping to stay up to see the reairing of that evening's Farscape.
As I mentioned above, I did not get that opportunity because, about twenty minutes later another of my roommates returned home.
This roommate, at the time, was a veterinarian student and had accumulated significant experience working as a veterinarian technician. This girl knew medicine well enough that I trusted (and, in fact, still do) her opinion more than most. She had, I knew, assisted with emergencies and with routine surgeries and knew what she was looking at with traumatized flesh.
She barely had her key in the lock when the first roommate materialized outside her bedroom to intercept the new arrival.
Barely was the door to the apartment open when she said "He's an idiot. He hurt himself and won't go to the ER. Go look." (this MIGHT be a bit of a paraphrase; if it is I am being gentler to myself than she was).

The new arrival forced me to remove my inappropriate bandage and reveal the wound which was still bleeding fairly heavily.

I will never forget what happened next.

The Voice came out.

I don't mean the reality show that premiered many years after Farscape was done. I mean the Bene Gesserit power. The Voice. My roommate looked at the wound and then at me.
She uttered "get in the car NOW."
And my body obeyed.
Not me: my body.
My body, of its own volition arose from the couch and headed to the door.
I was halfway down the stairs before I regained the ability to comprehend what was happening.

While I remember the ride to the ER as being in silence I don't think it was; in fact there is a shadow of a memory of my roommate forcing me to call my girlfriend and they discussing how stupid I was; but, that might be an incidental hallucination.

In fact, I don't even remember the ER visit much.

What I do remember is that it was my first time in the ER and it was my first time with stitches.

I HATE needles.
Having never had stitches before this was a problem.
Where I was injured was also a problem.
The wound, had it been a straight wound along an expanse of flesh that would accommodate it would probably have received 20 or even 25 stitches; but where it was made that impossible.

I received five.

A mere five stitches to close a significant wound at the base of my thumb.

Putting in the stitches was a problem.
First there was the needle to numb my hand and then, the second needle to finish numbing my hand because the first dose did not do it well enough.
I did a poor job managing the situation with those needles.

Then came the stitches.

I tried, with all my will, to let my hand relax and to remain steady for the doctor.
I failed.
He was unable to stitch my hand because it twitched and flexed too much each time I felt the pressure of the point of the needle.
My roommate had a solution for this.
She put her hands on my lower arm and restrained it.
It took all of my will and all of her weight to generate an environment in which the doctor could do his work.

I don't remember much of the ride home, either and only a vague recollection of any of the remaining aspects of the story exist.
The only true memory that is associated with this experience after the stitches going in was the stitches coming out.
I heal fast.
I heal very fast.
I healed fast enough to heal into the stitching.
Taking out the stitches was worse than having them put in.
Ultimately some of the threading had to be severed and left in.

Years later it did work its way out.

The scars from this incident still mar the base of my left thumb with a brilliant white zig-zag.
The mobility was, surprisingly, not impaired by the cut but the scar tissue has caused some tightening in the surrounding tissue.

There is a lesson to be learned here.

Always pay enough attention when you cut the cheese or you might hurt, or embarrass, yourself.