The press is doing its usual “scare tactics” routine, which makes it hard to know what the real story is about Rita and the likely effect on Houston. It’s a big one for sure and there may be serious wind and water. My girls have evacuated to Gigi and Papa’s house, but I’m here for the ride.
Tomorrow, I’ll move all of our pool and deck furniture into the garage, get some supplies ready and wait. There have been other hurricanes and tropical storms in the 20 years I’ve lived here, but this one seems to be the biggest and baddest yet.
My sense is that there will be a lot of rain and a lot of wind, and probably some fallen trees. If we get that or less, I’ll be glad I stayed behind to manage and begin repairing any damage. If we get more than that, I may be sorry I stayed. Time will tell.
I intend to post updates here as long as I have power, and maybe even a photo or two. Hurricanes are just part of the deal when you live here. It’s time to dig in and wait.
Tom Evslin has posted the first installment of his blook (a book serialized on a blog) at Hackoff.Com.
The novel takes place during the dot.com bubble and bust period of 1999-2003. It involves the murder of the CEO of a network security company, who was, it seems, a reformed hacker himself (see the “Chat Board” comments).
The neat thing about this project is the depth of the experience you get via the Hackoff.Com website. Not only can you read each chapter as it is posted (chapter 1 is up and chapter 2 is scheduled for 9/22/05), you can also click around to embedded links such as the link to the fictional company, and once you’re there to normal company related “About Us,” “Team,” “Support,” and even “Careers” pages (I think the job posting for “Portfolio Manager” is notable). The story begins with the CEO’s death in 2003, but chapter 2 will go back to 1999, as the company works towards its IPO.
Based on chapter 1, I’m interested in seeing where the story goes and look forward to reading, and experiencing, this project. It’s early but so far it reminds me of a more immersive Michael Crichton experience, which, in my book, is high praise.
One minor criticism: I don’t like it when movies use gratuitious cursing, and I don’t like it when books do it either. It is virtually impossible to offend me and, as my secretary will attest, I have been known to use a lot of colorful language. But I don’t do it around my kids or other kids. There is a word used on the fictional chat board that simply doesn’t need to be used. Granted, kids are unlikely to read this blook, but there are other less offensive words that could have easily been used for the same effect (the “b” word, while still a curse word, would be less offensive). I think that as blooks become more common, we need to keep in mind that they will be more accessible than traditional books (now I’ll step off my soapbox).
You can read Tom’s blook via the web site (which I recommend for the total experience) or via RSS or email subscriptions.
I got back from my trip Friday afternoon. The trip was a sad one, as the reason for my return was to attend the funeral of one of my oldest friends, Kinney Stanton. There’s nothing I can say, in person or on the internet, that will dull the pain that Kinney’s untimely death has caused his family and friends. I was told that the line at the visitation at the funeral home on Wednesday evening was the longest in Cheraw history. I don’t doubt it- there were a lot of people there. I hope there’s a TV in heaven so Kinney could see how much he was loved and by how many. And of course so he can watch his Clemson football games.
One last gift Kinney gave his friends was to bring us together at and after his funeral. I saw some dear friends that I hadn’t seen for far too long. The afternoon at that bar on Highway 9 was special, as were the trips back to the ice house and dinner Wednesday night. Kinney was a “people person” and he brought people together, even after he could no longer join us. I rebuilt valued connections with a lot of people whom I care for deeply. Just one more in a long list of things Kinney did for others.
Kinney was not a perfect person- none of us are. But in the end people should be judged by their hearts. And Kinney’s heart was always in the right place. We were lifelong friends. We did good together. We raised hell together. We were allies and, on occasion, we strongly and even violently disagreed. We made each other laugh a lot, and we talked about life’s mysteries and challenges. But through it all, I never doubted Kinney’s heart. He cared for people deeply, maybe even too deeply.
Phil Lee has a song called The Mighty King of Love. The first time I heard it years ago, it reminded me of Kinney. The best part goes:
You call me the King of Love
Don’t I wish I were
I wouldn’t even call myself
A gifted amateur
I am the king of nothing
I am mostly skin and bone
And of all the broken hearts I broke
I mostly broke my own
One final thing I would note, to demonstrate the strength and kindness of the people who come from my hometown. At the visitation, in a time of almost unbearable grief, Kinney’s dad, who was one of my dad’s close friends, told me that he wanted to tell me a story about my dad sometime. The next day, just after the service, he sat me down in a folding chair and told me a story about my dad. The only stories I really know about my dad are the ones that he and others have told me, and I’m sure he knows that. The fact the he would take the time to tell me a story during such a sad time both humbles me as a human being and makes me unbelievably proud of where I come from. It is the Prettiest Town in Dixie, but not just because of the dogwoods.
My trip home was so intensely sad, but it was a healing thing as well. I am still sad about all the loss, but somehow it feels like things might turn out OK. There’s a ways to go, but thanks to the Mighty King of Love, we have a chance.
Kinney (right) with Thomas Burr, another lifelong friend, on the playground at Robert Smalls Elementary, 1971
(1) I was a robot in my kindergarten play. My dad made a costume out of a cardboard box, a hat box and some wrapping paper tubes. That costume remained in my mom’s attic until she died in 1998.
(2) I started first grade at Cheraw Primary School, in Mrs. Lawrimore’s class. I remember nervous about starting “real” school. Whit Fowler must have been nervous too. He threw up on my arm before I even made it into the classroom.
(3) Someone drug me to see The Sound of Music, and the scars still haven’t healed. I really, really don’t like that movie. I honestly believe that my continuing distaste for musicals originates from that one movie.
For the first time since 1998, when I went back to bury my mother, I am headed home today. The reason why is not a happy one. I will write about that this weekend when I get back and have a chance to sit down with a bottle of whiskey and reflect on things.
Today I am thinking about how long I’ve been away. I have warm feeling about my hometown and I love quite a few people who live there. My extended absence comes down to a couple of things. One is my mostly (but obviously not entirely) subconscious desire the break the chain of sadness and loss that began there with my dad’s death in 1968 and ended with my mom’s in 1998. More importantly, however, is the combination of the great distance and my post-9/11 desire to keep my children’s feet on the ground. Cassidy has flown once or twice in 7+ years. Delaney has never been on an airplane. Some (actually most) of my friends think I’m nuts, but anyone who knows me knows that where my kids are concerned, I’m not subject to peer (or any other) pressure. If my hometown was 4 hours away, we’d go all the time. But it’s not. It’s halfway across the country (actually it’s on the edge of it; we’re halfway across it). So until I can plan a cross-country drive, my kids are going to have to wonder what Daddy’s hometown is like, kind of like they wonder about Paris, Sydney and NYC. Yes, my position will soften as they grow up and demand to see far away places, but we aren’t there yet.
Nevertheless, as I return to my hometown, I fully realize that I am going back to face my failures. My failure to visit. My failure to call often enough. Sometimes even my failure to send a Christmas or birthday card to people I love. It’s hard, but it’s only hard because I haven’t worked to keep the connections that once meant everything to me- that made me who I am.
It’s going to be a strange and sad trip. But my hope is that some small good will come of it. That I can remind a lot of good people that I care about them. That they are a part of me, and by association a part of my children. That they have been in my prayers every night since I left (at least every night I remember to say my prayers).
If I can tell a few people that, maybe it will be easier than I think. I hope so.
I sort of understand road rage. I’ve never suffered it (though I have teetered on the abyss a few times). I’ve been the victim of it in small ways a couple of times. I’ve mostly honked or been honked at. Once in a while I’ll shoot the bird or have one shot at me.
What I understand much better is telephone rage. Specifically as a result of someone I need to call not having call waiting. I talk on the phone all day long at work. Sometimes, I am on a call with two more people on hold. I try as hard as I can to get through the calls and get to everyone, but that’s just the nature of business in general and mine in particular.
Because I talk on the phone so much at work, I rarely talk on the phone at home. I would estimate that I get maybe 6 personal phone calls a year at home. The other 7,000 or so are for Raina or one of the girls (technology has all but eliminated sales calls in our house). I probably make about 6 personal calls a year from home too. And you can be sure that 5 of those will be to the only 5 people in America who don’t have call waiting. It drives me nuts. I would like to have the Publishers Clearinghouse gig. The second I got a busy signal I’d do two things: first, I’d move down the list and award the prize to the first person who didn’t greet me with a busy signal; second, I’d book an add for the next Superbowl to announce how Mr. or Ms. No-Caller-ID forfeited the big prize by jabbering away while I was trying to call them.
The bottom line is that I have to need to talk to someone really bad to call back after getting a busy signal or two. Other than my sister, who has been on the phone for hours, I can’t think of anybody I need to talk to that bad.
I knew that, like anyone who ever had to work for a living, I intensely disliked Martha Stewart, but this latest nugget takes the cake. According to Martha, home arrest is worse than federal prision.
This lady, who was already a jillionaire, goes to jail (yes, jail) over a “well timed stock sale” (to quote CNN). She gets out and what does she get? Two new TV shows.
If you wonder why the rest of the world hates America, look no further than the Martha Stewart story.
“I’m tired” he said
“It’s been another lost day.
I think I’ll just go to bed”
He smiled at me
“Don’t worry I’ll be OK.
Some shut eye is all I need”
Chorus:
I’ve walked down that suffering road before
And there is darkness all along the route
But past the haints and the widow’s weeds
Are thorny bushes with the sweetest fruit
“It’s hard” he said
“When you outgrow all the dreams
That used to fill up your head”
I touched his hand
“It’s not as bad as it seems,
And you are such a good man”
Chorus:
I’ve walked down that suffering road before
And there is darkness all along the route
But past the haints and the widow’s weeds
Are thorny bushes with the sweetest fruit
Bridge:
So if you want to sleep
Sleep, my friend sleep
And in the morning
You will see
That it’s all right
Everything will be fine
The sun will still rise
And you’ll still be a friend of mine
Chorus:
I’ve walked down that suffering road before
But there’s a light at the end of the route
And past the haints and the widow’s weeds
Are thorny bushes with the sweetest fruit
This is my third year in a fantasy football league. While I’d rather watch paint dry than an NFL game (I greatly prefer college sports), I have enjoyed fantasy football much more than I thought I would. It’s a fun challenge to put the best possible team on the field week in and week out. It’s a bit of a thrill to check the box score on Sunday and find out that you’re thrashing your opponent. The problem is that, since my league uses ESPN’s fantasy football service, I can’t ever (and I mean ever) get to the box score on Sunday afternoon. What I do get is page after page after page of 503 errors. Essentially, there are too many leagues sharing the same server and the server simply can’t handle all of the resource requests it receives. There is no way ESPN could be surprised by the traffic it is receiving, since the very same thing happened last year. Thus, I can only assume that ESPN simply doesn’t care.
It is extemely frsutrating and makes me much less interested in the league. If you want to enjoy fantasy football, choose another platform. You’ll be glad you did.
I sort of understand road rage. I’ve never suffered it (though I have teetered on the abyss a few times). I’ve been the victim of it in small ways a couple of times. I’ve mostly honked or been honked at. Once in a while I’ll shoot the bird or have one shot at me.
Newsome.Org 