Summer of 2002 in Review: Jul - SepJuly 1stStill in the throes of planning CastleCon. We did a walkthrough on Sunday, and saw who we were double-booked with. Some MIBs. The real kind. I mean, they have installed security cameras, have armed guards, and are VERY serious people. Well, some people are freaking out, but I have worked with these kinds of places before, and usually, while necessarily humorless, they are good people. Bruce and Cheryl agreed to the double-booking because this was goodwill to the hotel and the unnamed federal agency the MIBs work for. I just hope some jerk who has a loose grip on protocol and reality vs. opinion doesn't go get themselves arrested. But, IMHO, there have been worse double-bookings for sci-fi cons. Anyway, it's fun doing the programming, but hard work, and I am getting the necessary learning curve I was looking for. So far, the seas have been rough, but we expected that, and I planned ahead with my brown trousers, so to speak.Cosmo got sick. Well, he was probably sick when we got him, but it's a common upper respiratory infection in kittens, especially ones from the kennels and the pound. On Friday, he was so sick, we took him to the vet (we had an appointment for Artoo and Ahfu anyway). His nose and eyes run constantly, and he sneezes and makes this horrible noise that sounds like a quack. That noise comes from him sucking in snot, so to speak, and his sinuses are full. Same as a human. He's on 24/7 antibiotics, but we got him in time before he was under danger of getting pneumonia. None of the other cats got whatever he has, which they think is just a common virus. The vets said he's an awesome kitten, and I have to agree. He's friendly, outgoing, curious, and really not afraid of much. He'll go anywhere, the dishwasher, shower, or even the dog's food bowl. He's not even afraid of the vacuum cleaner. This, of course, could be a problem if he gets stuck in cabinets or under our feet. He does listen and remember when you say "no," however. Pictures, soon, I promise! I saw "Lilo and Stitch" this weekend, and I must say, this is the best Disney film in a long time. It has the same feel as "The Emperor's New Groove" and "Mulan," but no musical numbers and no snappy sidekick, a formula Disney relies to heavily on. This film was convincing, well-edited, and not too black and white. It had some great lines without mugging for the camera or trying to be cute. It was not sugary-sweet, and while it had some plot issues that were a bit incongruous (like when you find out Cobra Bubble's previous job), on the whole I give this film a strong B, possibly B+. I like how Lilo and her sister are not portrayed as skimpy models (ala Pocahontas and Ariel), but a bit more realistically to the Polynesian body form. I think the beard has to go. I am getting an overdue haircut soon, and if that doesn't improve the look... off goes the beard. It's not growing in well, as I suspected, and it doesn't look so good. It's also kind of hot. July 17thOkay, so CastleCon came and went.Doing the programming for CastleCon (on such short notice) turned out not so bad. A lot of this was a "trial programming" so I could get the feel of what was going on. On the whole, it went pretty good. There were some errors that were made, but mostly they were the, "Oh, I had no idea you were promised this," kind of errors. Like someone's panel was *always* at 10am, but failed to mention this to me. There were also some no-shows, but I think the few that didn't show were simply not properly notified (again, time constraints). One flaked very badly, and he won't be asked to host again (he was too busy LARPing to attend panels he was supposed to host... ah... dude? Whatever...). Cheryl told me "this is normal," but honestly, for the attendee, it shouldn't be. Balticon had a lot of no-shows, and some fen were pissed off. Luckily, CastleCon was a small convention, and some panels played to empty chairs anyway. There was a miscommunication between a convention party and the con suite that showed my weakness in inter-departmental communication, which is part of the whole structure issue in FanTek, currently. But the one with Nth Degree magazine was my fault. So were the conflicting merchant and art show hours. But on the whole, these were minor issues, best dealt with humility and diplomacy. The MIBs turned out to be a real I got a lot of help from Tammy, Kory, Electro, Moggy, Gorm, Christine, Jim and Aynne, Cheryl, and the computer room guys. Tammy and Kory, especially. I want to thank them, and grovel a bit [grovel grovel grovel]. EveCon 20 is getting a better approach, now that I have more time. I am contacting groups in our area that are "FanTekkish," like Lego user groups (WAMALUG), LINUX/Open Source groups, other computer groups, plus a whole lot of schools. We need more younger people. Fresh meat... mmmm... In other news, while a friend of mine was discussing his problems with P166's and LANs at the recent H2K2, he mentioned he was trying to do default image installs on something called OpenBSD, and his queries had me go, "Hmmm... I wonder how that would do at my workplace?" So far, I have found OpenBSD to be the easiest yet to install. It's also, supposedly, the most secure, which means it will take an extra minute to get hacked by decent hackers than a default Red Hat install. I quickly defeated that security with Samba, but I need Samba. Samba was pretty simple to install, seeing as I had done it before, but on OpenBSD, I had it running from download to broadcast in less than an hour on a pretty terrible piece of equipment (a Technoland, don't ask). I even found a use for it right away, and I'll probably make a OpenBSD/Samba box at home. I also managed to procure a Sparc20, so I can get some Sun experience (Solaris ver 7). As of this writing, it's on hold for me at a friend's house. I keep meaning to build a LAN in my house... but never get around to it. I even have the perfect "server closet" picked out. But when it comes to getting a spool of Cat 5, some plates, and drilling holes in my walls... I am so lazy. Katsucon pre-regs are starting to trickle in. Not as fast as last year. We had one account of a woman who said hers got returned, but I haven't seen proof of that yet. CR graduated the 6th grade last month. Yay! Now onto Junior high for him, which I hope isn't nearly as bad as when I went to Junior High, a period akin to the Dark Ages in my youth. He's taking the summer off, which I am letting him because what he has coming will be an uphill climb. I am hoping to do a photo project with him soon, so you will see him online. I saw Men in Black 2, and liked it a lot. I only mention this because so many people said it wasn't as good as the first one, and while nothing can replace the original offbeat feeling of the first one (because now it's in our movie consciousness), I think it was up to par, and had some very funny lines in it, and seemed like a pretty well-written package. For me, the concept of "Men in Black" ("MIBs") was an old story back from the UFO enthusiasts from the 1970s. July 19thMy life is never normal. Things happen to me that never happen to anyone else, and this has been a fact I have had to live with since I was a small kid. In fact, as a teen, people would bring me along to gatherings simply because weird stuff would always happen if I was there. Walk around Georgetown late at night? Okay. Walk around with Grig, since last time he was with us, some guy dressed as a gay pirate was arrested by the police in Georgetown Plaza? And the waitress at Swenson's was totally cuckoo for cocoa-puffs? Yeah! Grig is FUN! I am like some sort of anti-normalcy generator.This is an example. I went to the dentists yesterday. The final repairs on my cracked tooth are winding down, and all I have now is a checkup in August. My dentist, a Dr. Sweeney, is an aging man who has little to say, but a sense of humor. He got me off of dentist fear. He cares about pain. Well, after the final cap was in place (had to be special-fitted), he was proud the whole ordeal was over (mine was a complex issue), and will only see me in a few weeks to make sure it doesn't pry loose or anything. I asked him about the teeth I had knocked out on the other side (an upper and lower molar from that horrible dentist issue six years ago), and he said he'd take X-rays, and submit them to my insurance to see what they'd cover as far as bridgework. They I could choose where to go from there. So they want a whole wrap-around X-ray. Fine. I go to the X-ray room. Now, despite what anyone ever says, I can *feel* X-rays. They are like a warm, tingling sensation. I stopped telling people this, because no one "has ever heard of such a thing." Okay, whatever. Take the damn X-ray. So this thing was like an adjustable tower where an X-ray tube wraps around your head for a complete photo. Okay. So they try it. Now, I used to have this "ability" to not be photographed. It was something my friends knew in high school, but I used to leave smears, colored lights, and even ruin whole rolls of film if I was photographed. But only if certain people took my picture. I am not sure what the criteria was, because I haven't had an episode since I was about 24. Maybe I can pull out some pictures of me that show the weird lights that surrounded me on film, and scan them on this site. Whatever. I am not even sure why I mentioned this at all except for the fact that this X-ray failed. Not because of an "ability" but the spinning X-ray gun hit my shoulder, and the force tried to push me into the tower. The sign right at eye level told me (in bold) DO NOT MOVE WHEN HE LIGHT IS ON. Yes, ma'am! But it was hard not to move, not just because I had my chin on a plate and my teeth on some bite-bar, but because the projector was pushing me forward where a solid object was, and even if I could have moved, it would have been backwards against the projector. Then, as I suspected, the machine simply gave up, stopped, and beeped. "Oh dear," they said, "You are too tall for the machine. We'll have to take another X-ray, but this time, squat down and force your shoulders back." Now I am six feet tall, even. Is that so tall? So they went to get more film. Bad idea. Of course, they didn't suspect what was about to happen. You know those wicker rattan chairs? Well, it seems that ... no, wait, wrong story. The nice nurse who had my glasses in her pocket (important), went into the darkroom to get more film. Time passes. I hear commotion of some sort, and even though my hearing is bad, I suspect that what I am hearing is "I can't get out" and dialogue that would be appropriate for people on the other side of the door where someone would make such a statement. I begin to gather the woman with my glasses is locked in the darkroom. Finally, another nurse comes into the X-ray room, and says, "Oh! Someone is already here." I explain what is happening, and she confirms that, yes, the nurse is locked in the darkroom, and they can't get her out. At this point, I decide the appropriate thing to do is ... run. No, wait, just kidding! I decide to help out, because I have repaired doors before, some with this very same problem. Luckily, the doorknob screws were on our side. Unluckily, removing the doorknob did little to help, because the latch itself was jammed into the flange. After a few failed attempts to dismantle the cheap plastic innards, it became apparent that the only way to un-jam the latch was to have the door open in the first place. And that was not a current condition. Now, half of the small dental office was assembled behind me. I told them, "I can force the door open by ramming it, but I don't want the door to flip open suddenly and hit the nurse on the other side." It was a very small room, the size of a normal closet, and I was afraid I'd break down the door into the nurse. All agreed this was the best and quickest way to get the door open. So... I backed up ... and all those cop TV shows paid off. One... BAM... door gives way, but does not open. Two... BAM! Door now cracking. This was oddly satisfying. Good thing I was on heavy painkillers. I said, "Gangway!" BAM! The door SPLIT IN HALF and flew open. Both halves hung on their hinges like some freakish Dutch door in a Tim Burton film. This must have looked impressive. I was given applause, and the nurse was now free. Then they asked, "What do we do about the door?" and I told them what they needed to measure, where to go, and to specifically ask for a new doorknob with no plastic innards. I even told them the approximate cost. They acted like I invented the cure for polio. "Thank you thank you thankyou!" they said over and over. Most of the girls there called me a "Hero," in a label that I surely didn't deserve. They apologized profusely, and I said, "Listen, if this is the WORST that happens to me today, then it's been a good day." This didn't help. Now I looked frickin' noble and humble. Oh well, that's not so bad, either. But of course, now they cannot use their darkroom until they get a new door. All X-rays would have to wait. So I have to go back and get new X-rays later. When I got home, the narcotics they put me on, coupled with the adrenaline I was on from the oddly gratifying action of busting down a door, put me right to sleep. I slept straight for the next 6 hours. I'd love to say this is abnormal for me, but this kind of stuff happens to me several times a week. Sometimes it's good ... sometimes it's bad ... but it's always weird. I have decided to try for the CCNA again. A friend of mine who is taking a re-cert wants a "study buddy" and so in addition to his wife, we're all going to try and pass the next CCNA exam. My son also just turned 12 this week. Yay! July 30thI was at Otakon this weekend, and I had an okay time. If you remember last year, Baltimore had several underground fires, Otakon staff was rude and unfriendly, and I was pretty miserable. This time was a lot better, although I didn't get to be with the Katsucon crew as much as I wanted to. And it was brutally hot in downtown Baltimore.Otakon ItselfLast year, some of you may remember, I had a formal letter of complaint which I won't go into again, but it's on my site if you want to search for it. This year, I have to say, I did not see one incident worth a hearty complaint. Most of what I thought needed changed were piddling minor at best, and in most cases, I said, "Well, I can't come up with a solution, either." I'll start with the niggling issues:
Good job, Sue (and your bazillion staff). :)
Best tee-shirt: The girl wearing, "Life is short. Make fun of it." The HomelessThere were a lot of homeless people in Baltimore this time around. I think about 4-5 of them came up to me on each trip back or forth from our hotel to the Baltimore convention center. I grew up next to DC where I was told not to give money to homeless people in the 1970s because of a certain scam that was going around. Those who went on field trips back then might recall their teacher saying that some groups of people were begging for money, and when you attempted to give them some, you were "tipped off" by hand signals if you had a wallet. Then you might be mugged, or "swarmed" by a gang of people, and in the scuffle lost a purse or backpack. But now I am older, and realize that I grew up in a place where homeless people were regarded as less than human. My parents certainly couldn't stand them. My father called them "Bums," and used to tell them he grew up in the slums of Chicago and made it, and if they got off their ass and got a job ... well, my father is an ass, so anything he has ever said in my presence is still regarded with skepticism and not taken too seriously. I realize that most homeless people are mentally ill, or victims of a lot of bad circumstances.But what do you do when one approaches you? I am still not comfortable with that. One friend I had used to go to the nearest restaurant and buy them a meal. He thought throwing money at them would just result in them buying liquor, and liquor, while dulling the pain of being homeless and giving the illusion or warmth on cold nights, "kept the cycle going," as he put it. What depressed me was how many homeless people refused to eat, they just wanted the money. But that was 14 years ago ... and I am a different person now. You see, in 1991, my family was almost homeless. I had no job, we had a sick child, two months behind in the rent, no phone or electricity, and about to be evicted. We didn't even have a car to live in. The plan was that if we couldn't get affordable housing, my wife would take our son and live with her mother, and I'd sleep at a shelter until I could find work. My father didn't care enough to help us out, and our friends didn't have money, either (although many helped with food). Christine's relatives were also financially strapped. I seriously faced being homeless. We ended up getting government housing, and getting a better life, but for a few months, it seemed assured it would be all over. I also have some friends in the punk and Goth community that used to live out of cars or shelters. But it's funny, the "free spirit" of a young person living off the land or city's handouts seems romantic and inspired. But when you see a guy who looks like he's 60 and smells like rancid urine, it's another breed. But are they just the result of a previous "free spirit?" How does one become homeless? Would it matter to my guilt if I knew someone was a mean alcoholic versus someone who was just mentally slow and socially rejected? I even saw a gang of young guys beat up and punch down a homeless guy for fun, early on Saturday morning. I gave one homeless guy some change, which stunned my son. I just felt torn apart inside on what to do. Not that I miss the $2, but then the next homeless person I met, I had nothing, and even saying, "I don't have anything," didn't seem like I was convincing myself I was right. I read about it on the web, and found this article by a student at Yale. I am not sure I can carry apples around with me, and what do you do when you run out? But it gives me some ideas, and hopefully, I can plan for this better next time I am in DC or Baltimore. Con Politics - The Slime Left After the Revolution Has EvaporatedAs for other things... I hate convention politics. I hate power moves, conflicts of major staff, and other petty, petty problems being blown out of proportion. I saw too much of this at Otakon, although not with Otakon staff. I don't want to mention was sci-fi clubs were suffering this, because it will just add to the fray. But I do think, "How friggin' stupid!" when I hear about a convention committee arguing, heatedly, about tee-shirt color for three hours. I have seen so much of this stuff for years, and you can never really avoid it, which sucks. Most problems are made via miscommunication. I usually avoid them by breaking things down thusly:
CampIn other news, CR went to camp for the first time. I went to camp once in 6th grade. It was called "Camp Highroads," and was the first time I was away from home for more than a few days alone with peers my own age. I had a pretty good time, but I was shy and didn't make any friends, even though many of my classmates were in my cabin. I hope CR fares a little better, but honestly, I have a few happy memories from that camp. Unlike popular media dictates, the food was actually good, our counselors were all around our age and friendly, and there was no bullying or dramatic love triangles.But it was hard to leave CR there. We got to see his cabin and some of his counselors, and they all looked like fun and happy people. I hope he has a good time. This is the longest we have been away from him since our visit to Salem, and it's kind of lonely without him. September 15thWell, it's that diary time again.That September 11th ShowI spent this day at home. Not because I was in some sort of deep, mystical expression of tragedy and mourning, but because my son had a bad cold all week, and I needed to stay home with him. I avoided the TV. The media whoring of this event has left me with a spiritual ennui about the whole thing. Please don't think I am not patriotic, but I have a different view of those events.It's time to move on, IMHO. The waves of patriotism that flooded my heart seems to have slowly evaporated, leaving the slime of media and security overkill behind. I watched some PBS thing about the events from people's eyes last night, and it was depressing, but what's done is done. The bastards attacked us when we weren't prepared for it. They hit civilians because they were cowards. They thought we'd flip out and run out into the streets, leaving our American Gods behind because they didn't save us... They are like most zealots, they have made their enemies out to be an overly simplistic unified force that has been molded by their own projections and fears. If someone attacked their "sacred places," they'd do that, so hey, so will the Americans. I don't want them to think they have won. I plowed through people's journals pre-and post 9/11, maybe because I am a sick bastard, I don't know. I guess I was trying to validate my own feelings. I recall that day with a mixture of "what the...?" and "Oh, fucking hell!" I recalled how I almost cried when AP News (the only news feed I could get in my office) said half of DC was on fire (it wasn't), that planes were dropping from the sky like rain (they weren't), and that we were under attack (they got that right). So when I got home where I could watch CNN, I realized "it wasn't so bad." That sounds like a terrible thing to say, but I was actually relieved that "only" four planes went down, that only the Pentagon was hit near DC, and that all of my friends who worked there were either off that day or somewhere else in the building. Kind of like hearing, "Your mother is dead and we can't find half of her body," and being relieved to hear later she was "only shot," and recovering in the ICU. I think stepping down from "the world is ending" to "okay, we got attacked, we've lived mainland-attack-free since 1812, haughtily blew off attacks in the rest of the world, and it's probably our turn, karma-wise" was a wake-up call. I think we responded okay. We didn't round up US Citizens who fit some profile in Internment Camps (like we did to Asians in WW2), we didn't shoot some nuke at someone, and we did politely ask the Taliban before we were forced to blow them out of the sand. The Taliban are our fault anyway, we supported them when the Soviets were invading. How embarrassing. It's like defending someone at a bar fight, only to later find out he is from the KKK. The great thing about our country is that we get pissed off. We don't sit and weep for the rest of our lives. When the Onion came out with their "Holy Fucking Shit: A Shattered Nation Longs to Care About Stupid Bullshit Again" section, I was very happy, and that made me feel like, "Okay, people are finally moving on." John Stewart gave a WONDERFUL speech when he came back on the air. I think for a while, the real "Stupid Bullshit," like racism, took a back burner, and I think that helped forge bonds. The attack made us stronger because we're a strong people. We may fight with each other, and debate gun ownership, and so on ... but in the end, we'll stop shooting at each other to shoot a common enemy. So I was already moving on with my life a month later. Then again, I didn't live near the WTC or have someone died in one of the plane crashes, either. I believe those people have a different right to grieve, but for me to steal that attention away from them like my own 9/11 was somehow equal seems like blasphemy. "Yeah, your fiancee died in the tower, and while waiting for you to be allowed to return home, in downtown Manhattan, your cats died of starvation, but man, I saw those buildings fall on CNN and boo-hoo'ed myself until my bib was damp. What about MY feelings?" Don't get me wrong, I *fully* support the right for anyone to grieve however they feel is right for them! It's just that I don't want some religious zealots with decayed figs for brains to ruin *my* chosen American lifestyle, so I will be doing business as usual because I'm still here, and most of them are in caves, living off their fantasies and the thrill of one lucky potshot at a large nation they could never even hope to understand. We're a great nation. We're made up of all the people that left other countries (usually for damn good reasons), and after one generation, all their old BS has evaporated away, and left all the goodies like culture, food, and cool physical differences. Thanks to immigrants, we're constantly improving. Those weapon zealots will die unknown, anonymous under a generalized label in a history textbook. Can anyone name one of Genghis Khan's generals? Not many, I can assure you. I hope whatever anyone does, as long as it doesn't harm anyone (or anything, like a Mosque) else, makes them feel better. They have a right to it. Cable ModemWell, cable Internet finally became available in my area, thanks for Cox, who is about 2 years behind in their promised schedule (the county is actually suing them for almost $2000 a day that they are behind schedule). Digital cable isn't that far behind. I know people always post experiences about what it was like to have it installed, so I'll do the same.Cox's web site has, for two years, claimed my neighborhood could get cable, but when we called, we got... "Oh, that naughty website, always wrong..." Sigh... finally, I found out from someone at work (actually an ex-Cox employee) the truth about Cox, and what's going on. Massive snafus, technical incompetence, and some sort of deregulation nightmare. Of course, he's an ex-employee, so he's bound to be bitter. Now, right now, one of my jobs is working with broadband testing, and I am working with various testing of DSL, Cable, and even Satellite HSIA (High Speed Internet Access). I can tell you... it's bad out there. Uptime, on average, is about 70% (unless it's Satellite, then it's much, much less). So when Cox sent me a postcard saying, "Yes, it's finally available," I wasn't very excited. But a month later, Christine called, and we got someone to our house a week later. It was three... well nice guys, but it was apparent that they were rather new. They spoke English to me, in thick accents, but spoke what I think was Ethiopian to each other. The one "main" guy was very nice, but a bit scatterbrained. I decided to have it in Christine's den, because it already had cable hookups, but the guy said they didn't work. Funny. They USED to work. He said that when he went into the attic, that the cable drops weren't connected, and to send someone out to go behind the walls was going to cost us. Then he said he had to drill a hole in our walls, string wire from our ceiling, and just drop it outside our walls the whole way like a clothesline stapled to the ceilings and walls. Lovely. Then he started to drill. His buddies found out, and convinced him to look in the attic again. They argued up there for a while, and it turns out when we had cable installed when we moved in, the cable guy took THOSE drops and put them in our bedroom. So they made another split, and I avoided having the clothesline look. I bought my own modem. It's $10/mo to rent one from Cox, and I could buy one for $80 at the store. In 8 months, it will have paid for itself. I asked my ex-Cox guy what he recommended, and boy, did have advice. He recommended two of them, but one was not for direct consumer resale. So I went with the Motorola SURFboard SB4200. It's nice. It's beige and unassuming, but the best feature is the "Standby" button you can hit like a panic switch to cut off all traffic. I installed ZoneAlarm and updated Christine's anti-virus protection. Cox has gone down a lot (especially between the hours of 6-9pm), which I expected, but it comes back up eventually. This is no different than most of our company's testing equipment shows, either. Then I splurged and got a Linksys Cable router so I could further secure my connection with NAT (network address translation). What NAT does is takes the IP address Cox gives me and splits it into private, non-routable addresses behind the modem. Now all our computers (except my son's) are on the Internet at high speed! Wheeee! LINUX ISOs take minutes, and now I don't have to download and burn them from work. And, uh, legal music downloads faster too. I wouldn't advocate illegal music piracy. Might get a virus, I heard it happened to this friend of a guy my friend knows! Even though I have the router filter out stuff, I still have ZoneAlarm on as a one-two punch on any hack attempt. Not that it's foolproof, because the future could contain a clever and sophisticated attack, so not all my stuff is networked to the outside, and I still make backups (in case a hard drive goes as well). The Twilight ZoneWell, it's official. I have been eating so poorly for so long, I had to radically change my diet, or live with being tired and fat until I died from a heart attack or diabetic symptoms, possibly as early as right now. So I have been put on the "Zone" diet, which regulates my blood sugar. This will also result in weight loss. At first, I gained three pounds, but the next week, I lost eight. I have to keep an eye on this, because I tried the Atkins diet, and gained ten pounds in the same period, which SUCKED. I mean, I am fat now, but no need getting even fatter. I am a little bit concerned because if I lose as much weight as they claim I could... I'm going to need new clothes. Luckily, my waist seems to have stayed the same. My "ideal weight/height" ratio is about 220 lbs, but I don't know if I want to go that low. I was once 190 on this frame, and I looked like a skinny Holocaust victim. Of course, now, I look like a fleshy pudding in a cotton sack, so that's not good, either. I will reassess this this when I get down to about 250 or so next year. Maybe I'll have this "more energy" everyone mentions.Of course, I should really exercise. This is a "no duh," but it's easier said than done. I don't have a lot of time in the day, but that's not really the reason. I hate exercising. I hate the concept. If it's towards a short-term goal, like walking to the store, yeah, sure! Or if I walked to work or something. But walking or doing jumping jacks just "because" is too idiotic for my bruised thoughts to wrap around and accept. I suspect it's a strong link to gym as a kid, being fat and klutzy, and hating... HATING gym. Now begins a dark path into Punkie's House of Horrors. Ready? Arms inside the car, please. Click click click... Gym (and in grammar school, "PE" that stood for Physical Education, which always sounded like education you beat into someone with your fists) was a mixture of memories of shame and lack of accomplishment. I could barely do situps, couldn't do ONE pullup, had no coordination, was always the WORST at the "Presidential Physical Fitness Test," (or as I called it, "Validation of failure"). I couldn't catch a ball even if my life depended on it. Not only was a picked last, but I often had to be thrust upon some team leader who would roll his eyes in disbelief like his whole day had been ruined. When PE turned to gym in 7th grade, they added nakedness to the list of ways Punkie could be humiliated. It was like a harsh, hot buring poker of shame and self-loathing thrust onto my skin over and over. Branded for life. Butterball. Lumpy. And bucket. Why "bucket?" Because the only difference between me and a bucket of lard was... yep. Thanks, Danny Jaris. That lame joke gave me a nickname all the way through high school, even though you were only in my 8th grade gym. I hope you can feel my gratitude. Burns a little, doesn't it? Same with Mrs. Flemming, my PE teacher from 4th to 6th grade. You make Lesbians look evil, Mrs. Flemming. I am happy to report that I never had a gym teacher as nasty and vindictive as you. While kids made fun of me, at least other gym teachers told them to knock it off, or even sent them to the principal's office for trying to beat me up. Some even told me not to worry, that not everyone is an athlete, and the fact I tried and actually suited up every day was noble. Not you. You were the one who taught me how dirty the word "failure" can feel during gymnastics. I hated gymnastics worst than the Fitness test. I literally could do nothing. Not one skill anyone tried to teach me which involved bars, vaults, and mats. I actually tried to break my own arm so I could get out of it by whacking the edge of it against the kitchen counter (It only gave me a bruise, which made gymnastics even worse). Ha ha, yes, I was so heavy I broke your uneven bars. I knocked over the vault many times by smashing my groin into the padded seat. How funny! Oh, you don't find it funny. You think I am doing it on purpose, all this bending over going, "OOoowwwww!" over and over. You say I am a failure? In front of 40 kids from my class? You say, "Get out!" You tell me to sit in the hallway until I "decide to be serious." I disgust you. Nice to know you expressed that to all those school kids, just to validate your frustration. I hope. You rot. In hell. Bitch. The gift of the burning shame of memory you still give me, even after therapy, will be accounted for in the afterlife. Pray you live a long time, because I am SURE I was not the only recipient of your love of children's fitness. After my sophomore year in high school, I BURNED my gym clothes. Thanks to Kate's wood-burning stove, we had this ritual every year to burn all our old school stuff on the last day of school, giving speeches like, "This is dedicated to that awful math teacher I hated..." and WHOOOFFF, there went Kate's math notebook. When we all burned our gym clothes, I recall it was a crescendo of blocked-up angst and frustration letting itself pour from our mouths like a spell, thrusting the passion of the hatred towards all gym-related BS into the green flames that licked our polyester clothes of shame. They didn't burn like everything else, no, they curled and hissed into a glistening bubbly black ball upon the ashes of previous papers and books. I recall seeing my reflection off of Kate's glasses, and seeing myself mirrored back, our mouths both with gritted teeth, wet with spit caught in the draft of our released verbal bile. Our faces glistened with sweat because, for God's sake, we were in front of a wood-buring stove in the middle of summer! But seeing that oozing melty school logo writhe and twist in the hell we tossed them into was immensely satisfying. Then Kate slammed the grate to the stove, because it was getting way too hot, and the black molasses of melted polyester was staring to crackle and spit. Later, I think it was a bitch for Kate's poor father to scrap that off of the bottom of the stove. But that tells you the poetry of hatred we had for gym. That concludes this ride of Punkie's House of Horrors. The sunlights is bright, please shade your eyes when we exit. Do not exit the car until the car stops. Yes, we know the part about Junior High was especially horrifying. Thank you for choosing Punkadyne Fairways, and make sure to tell everyone how painful it was, and to come see for themselves. August 20thThomas Wolfe once said, "You can't go home again." He must have lived in a small town that went yuppie.When I was a boy, I grew up in McLean. When I was 5, McLean was a sleepy suburb of DC. When I left at 18, already half of what I grew up with had been changed to some upscale toadstool. The local A&P went belly-up, and then Giant Foods opened up one of its first "Gourmet Giant" food stores in that vacancy, where you could buy fresh mussels from the tank, Toblerone, and other items not common to local supermarket shelves. The High's was gone, and the Laughlin Realtor house that was over 100 years old was replaced with a brick-and-brass Riggs Bank. Whole neighborhoods sprang up overnight, and rows of upscale townhomes replaced the woods and fields I used to play in. Old 70s-style buildings were knocked down to be replaced with trendy red brick-and-green glass structures. But it was a suburb of DC, and that's to be expected. Hell, in the last 5 years, the city of Ashburn, which used to be considered 30 miles left of Nowhere, is now selling townhomes "only" in the low 300s. That's $300,000 for those of you who cannot comprehend a 1600 sqft home for that much moolah. But I didn't just grow up in McLean. I grew up on the weekends in a small, dying oyster farming town of Solomon's Island, Maryland. I spent almost every weekend from 1976 to 1985 there. My father owned a 37-foot torture pen called "The Argonaut." It was a double-decked, wood-lined yacht with the fire of twin engines in her belly. God, I hated that thing. No, I take that back. I hated being stuck in that thing with my dad. The yacht had its own problems, and my father was always sitting in the belly, floor ripped up to expose the engine. If we weren't cruising some stupid part of St. Leonard's Creek or the Chesapeake, I made myself scarce by wandering off. Sometimes I'd go "crabbing," which is the futile act of catching crabs off of pilings with a long-handled net. Sometimes I'd wander the local marshlands until I was filthy with black mud. A lot of times I'd walk down to my friend Pepper's museum, which is not the Calvert Marine Museum. On cooler days, I'd even walk down Solomon's Island proper, and see what the locals were up to. My father was docked at Shepherd's Marina. I knew Mr. Shepherd, he was a good guy. Had a lot of crazy hillbilly relatives, though. There was a bungalow on the property, where one of the caretakers, Earl, lived. Earl was known as "Big Earl" because he named two of his sons Earl as well. There was Earl Junior and Little Earl. And a daughter named (I kid you not) Pearl. These people were the epitome of trailer trash, had I known such a term existed then. I tried to make friends, but being a fat, awkward kid with limited social skills and forced to wear a life jacket because my mother was sure I'd hit my head and drown (until I was 14!), stunted friendship. I was that "weeeeeird" kid. I got bullied a lot. I got blamed for even more, and I think a lot of adults, especially older ones, thought I might have been retarded, because sometimes when some kid blamed me, the adult would go, "Oh, well ... he can't help that." Last weekend, for no good reason other than an idea Christine and I had at Starbucks, we decided to drive down there to see what had changed. She had never been there, so I warned her I'd be going, "Wow ... that wasn't there before," for 90% of the tour. So we packed up CR in the Saturn Coupe, and drove to Solomon's Island. Of course, we used Mapquest or something, so we didn't go the route I recalled as a child, but instead we went "the back way" through Lexington Park and across the roller coaster bridge from hell. It was a 90 minute drive. I recalled a lot of my horror, and was afraid of all the flashbacks. But you know what? They didn't occur. I was more excited to see what had changed. I had heard from various people over the years that Solomons went yuppie, too. That Lexington Bridge is what did it. I recall them building this enormous bridge, which doesn't go very far, but is very steep. It connected Lexington Park with Solomon's Island, and suddenly, we got a lot more popular. I had last seen this place in 1985, so I wanted to see what 17 years had done. I heard Zanheiser's marina had finally went belly up after years of mixed success at being an upscale yacht club, and they sold the land to make luxury condos. I heard the Calvert Marine Museum turned their acre of grounds and turned it into a natural wetland for the Chesapeake Biological Laboratory. Well, it had changed. In some places, were almost exactly the same, while other changed radically. Woodburn's Market, for instance, was a small colonial home when I last left. The bottom floor had been converted into a cramped little supermarket, complete with shelves, a freezer section, and thin shopping carts. It contained the basic staples, plus a few local goods. Now? It's a frickin' GOURMET MARKET. It moved to a large shopping center a few blocks away, and as the sign says, "Contains fine world cheese and wines from all over the globe." Oh, dear God. For those who don't get the concept, imagine the local 7-11 turning into a giant 2-level supermarket that boasted fresh produce and live lobsters from a tank. Then I saw Travis Tritt was performing at the Calvert Marine Museum. A major country star? At the local museum? Sure enough, when we drove past my old stomping grounds, it looked like the museum had a large building where an open field used to be. The marina I grew up in? The house where Earl lived was gone, and now there was a huge hotel there. Shepherd's Marina was now "Comfort Inn's Beacon Marina." I was glad to see the "Transients Welcome" signs. There was a restaurant on the top of a hill when we first got there in 1976. The food was bland, and the floors were sloped badly. It went out of business. Then it was another restaurant that also went out of business. Then it was a cheesy marine supply store when I last saw it in 1985. Now? It's a booming restaurant. But still has sloped floors. A lot had changed. An abandoned Victorian-style home is now a B&B Inn. A cornfield is now a sprawling Holiday Inn. Solomon's Pier is still there, but now instead of asphalt up to a breakwater, it's a manicured boardwalk! A huge pile of crud pumped during a marina dredge in 1983 is now a man-made island with 20 foot trees. Man. But there was still a lot of the same stuff. Bunky's Bar is still there, although I heard Mr. Bunky retired to Hawaii. His Tiki Bar (which used to advertise "free drinks for any girl in a bikini") is also still there, and was crawling with yuppies. The last sad note was that I found an old friend of mine, "Pepper" Langley, had died in June of 2001. I used to hang around the Museum and we used to talk a lot about the past of Solomons, his Navy career, old shipyards, and the like. I even have a sign carved by him that says, "Greg's Grotto." I never got to say goobye, but it's good to see people remember him as I did, a really great guy and a skilled carver. I am severely bummed as I write this.
|