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Rembrandt |
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8/23/2006 4:12 PM |
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Mindless rantings of a dizzy geek. |
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Corporate non-conformity |
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By Rembrandt on
8/22/2005 10:28 AM
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So, the switch from Fortune-500 mentality Black & Decker, to my new job, has been different.
Different is good, by the by.
Granted, there is probably twice or even three times the pressure, more deadlines, and I certainly think that I spend much more time 'working', even when I'm off the clock so to speak. [Christa must know by now that when I go to 'check my e-mail' before going to bed that it will turn into a three to four hour programming session.] On the whole though, its been a great transition.
I have more responsibility, which is a double edged weapon of course. On one side, it keeps me interested in what I am doing - and lemmi tell you, some of the stuff I'm working on / responsible for is some really cool shit. On the other side, it means I've got a lot more work to do :P
My morning commute now consists of dodging the dogs and cats on my way back up the stairs from the coffee machine. No more I-95 and 695 traffic jams. Sometimes I have to drive to VA, but hey - two or three times a month vs every day, I'll take that trade. I can see my kid whenever I want, if my wife really needs a hand for five mins - its all cool. Over all my schedule is more flexible - as long as I get stuff done. Of course, the neurotic programmer in me says that I should be coding all the time then. What can you do ?
So more work + more responsibility - commute = less stress.
Who woulda thunk it ?
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The Walking Undead ?! |
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By Rembrandt on
8/16/2005 10:15 AM
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What is it with me and ZOMBIES anyways ? I know they can't possibly exist, regardless of what the internet says. Sharks exist, and eat people all that time - so that fear is justified, Zombies are fiction. But yet, I fear them. Did I see Romero's "Night of the Living Dead" too young ? On the tail of a horrific zombie nightmare this morning, I actually remembered that as a child I was plagued by a reoccouring nightmare involving The Mummy.
Not a mummy, THE MUMMY, Boris himself. You know that one scene in "The Mummy" when he comes to life. There is a zoom in on his face, his eyes filling most of the screen, and then they open! and he gets this HORRIBLE look on his face. This chilling movie moment seemed to have imprinted itself on my childhood brain, because as a child in preschool, I had this reoccouring dream where my school was on a picnic, and the mummy appeared.
That's when I would wake up. Not wake up screaming like in the movies, but with that my heart is beating through my chest, I'm so terrified that I can't make a SOUND and if I open my eyes I know I'll see what I was just dreaming about, kind of afraid.
He didn't *DO* anything mind you, rather tame as far as the undead go - he just woke up and looked mad. I can't even blame him really. "Nothing like having a 2000 year old nap disturbed by a bunch of six-year olds eating sandwich squares infront of your house - WHICH by the way is falling apart, where did those grounds-men indentured to me go anyways? And who in Osirus' name moved my tomb to Connecticut?! What am I, a Stepford Mummy??! ArrRRAARGHH!"
Actually, He didn't make any noise, that's what made it so creepy. Perhaps its not the walking undead I fear, its the QUIET walking undead. Zombies are relatively quiet too. Sure, they groan, but its not like its an animated conversation. Shuffling zombies, groaning quietly. *Shudder*
You know you have a problem if you spend more than 10 mins a day thinking about what you would, make that will, do when the undead storm your neighborhood. I mean, even if your a crack shot - you'll run out of ammo eventually. Not to mention the sounds of a rifle will just alert more to your presence, so better learn how to build a silencer.
SEE WHAT I MEAN ? Either I am really messed up about this, or I missed my calling as a horror film screenwriter.
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Tick-Tock |
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By Rembrandt on
8/15/2005 10:15 AM
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This weekend, we received a clock.
Perhaps I should start differently.
Christa's grandmother can be rather unpredictable at times. She is a nervous person, who makes herself even more nervous. She is a stunning conversationalist. She is also one of the most random people I have met, which is why it didn't really surprise me at *ALL* when we received a clock this weekend.
Its original home was to be my in-laws house, I was lead to believe, per the conversation in her living room, which was rapidly becoming a clutter of packed boxes waiting for the movers. 'Charlie, you have to take that clock, your father built it.' There was (and never is) any room for argument. This conversation took place less than 16 hours from the arrival of a 1980's computer programmer with a pickup truck, a story about 'the fish that got away', and of course, the clock.
If you know the grandmother in question, you won't be surprised when I say I half expected it to show up. [For all you that don't know her, consider the last sentence an in-family joke and move on with a quizzical look.] 15 minutes later, not that one could tell by looking at its face, the clock was in the garage, and the 1980's computer programmer was loading the grandmother back into the truck - exit stage left.
Said clock, sat in said grandmother's living room for roughly 33 years. It was built by her husband Charles S. Gagliano on February 18th, 1972. Which is stated on a brass plaque on the inside of the pendulum door. To my wife's knowledge, it hasn't worked since he died, which could easily be counted in months from the date on the plaque. It could be called a Grandfather clock, both in manufacture as well as appearance, although it is just over six feet tall. The clockworks were made in Germany, have three independent weights, and a day of the month wheel which has historically never worked. Its made of cherry, which has patinaed very well over its lifetime, apparently while contenting itself to warp slightly, as the cabinet has roughly a 3 degree corkscrew from the bottom to the top.
It was also, a mess.
The clockworks were covered in dust and lint. The cabinet itself likewise. As I said it had not run in 30 plus years. The bolt holding the minute hand was lost to time. Heh. The hands, by the way, were set to 2:06 - which for the slightly-creepy-ghost-story part of the tale - was just about the time Charles S. Gagliano died of lung cancer in a Baltimore hospital.
Actually, I honestly didn't mind the surprise of its arrival. We have acquired a number of artifacts that belonged to my wife's grandfather. He died when she was a child, so things like this clock - something that was prominent in her childhood - are fitting tributes to the man. Recently being faced with the impending and all too real mortality of my own father, I even encourage the immigration of these things to our house. When someone is gone, you take what you can get.
On Sunday afternoon (yesterday actually.) I honestly intended to clean the garage. We had been traveling the last three weekends I believe. Traveling with a baby doesn't leave you with a lot of time to keep your house orderly. So around 2:10 in the afternoon I was in the garage, throwing stuff into a garbage bag to try to make room to move stuff around, when I heard the clock ticking. Naturally, I had to investigate. It was running. The even-more-creepy-ghost-story part of the tale is that it was approximately the right time, and that the correct time was, as I found out later that afternoon, just about the time of day Christa's grandfather died. Ghost stories aside, all thoughts of cleaning the garage fled my mind, to be replaced by thoughts of taking a look at this mysteriously working clock instead.
I have always been told that I am a lot like my wife's grandfather. He was supposedly a quiet man who liked science-fiction, and gardening. He liked to tinker with radios and electronics. (something I consider to be the computers of the 1960's) He played the mandolin, wrote music, and liked to crack jokes. He was a woodworker, as evidenced by the clock, and I am told, had a decent pipe collection. All in all, he was a guy I think I would liked to have met.
Woodworkers are a strange lot I think. I tell you this not to be random, but to set the stage. Whenever I see a nice piece of furniture, I inspect it. Most people *LOOK* at furniture. A woodworker will pull out the drawers, examine the joints or the finish, and try to figure out what the person who made it was thinking. They may cluckingly approve or disapprove, but that is really only an excuse to keep looking. To me, looking at someone else's work is like looking at that person. What kind of joint they used on a door - tells me something. Did they think about wood movement ? Did they measure many times ? Or just once.
I started to look at this clock. With q-tips and an air compressor at hand, mineral spirits and pledge, I cleaned this piece of furniture. And in doing so I met the man who made it.
The cabinet told me that he was mostly cautious about things, he planned what to do more often than just jumping into it. There were a few oopses here and there, maybe a corner that didn't quite line up on the back, but detail was observed on the front. The grain of the wood was matched, and even dyed which says he was patient, and willing to take the time to make something right. The cabinet warping slightly suggests that although he was a planner, when it came time to take action, he didn't dawdle with the work.
He liked to tinker, and adjust things so they worked 'right'. I know this because all the bracings and fittings for the clockworks were held inside with screws, not nails. The holes in the bracings were countersunk, telling me this was the plan from the beginning. This would give him (and years down the road - me) easy access to the mechanical parts to make sure they ran correctly. He built this clock expecting to have to fix it, humble - perhaps by experience - in his abilities.
The glass on the bottom door is held in by brad nails, suggesting it was built first. The top by staples bent to hold it in. I think the curved section of glass at the top might have broken a few times in the construction, making him think about how to replace it if it happened again.
The back and top of the housing is fiber board, telling me he was a realist and not a perfectionist. These parts of the piece wouldn't be seen, why waste good wood on them. A clock to him was something to build. A *TOOL* to build, not an art piece. The decorations on the front, and the crown molding carved by hand tells me he wasn't against making it a NICE clock however.
It took me four hours to get this machine running again, currently its in our living room - and it seems that with a little fine tuning of the balance, it will keep very good time. Amongst the smell of mineral spirits, wd-40, and furniture polish - I was able to spend four hours meeting Christa's grandfather. Not quite the same as sitting down with a pipe, sharing a long conversation about topics of mutual enjoyment, but when someone is gone, you take what you can get.
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Chilling way to wake up |
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By Rembrandt on
8/15/2005 8:33 AM
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Nightmare suck.
This morning, around 7:00, it was one about my dad dying. In my dream, I had called to talk to him and my step-mother told me over the phone that he had died, and that they couldn't use a coffin for some reason - so they buried him in a body bag.
I didn't get back to sleep.
I'm not sure if its because I was afraid it was real, or because it mimicked real life too closely. Some sixteen odd years ago, my dad was the recipient of a new heart. Years of police work, cigarettes, alcohol, fatty food, and I believe the occational bullet or two - caused his heart no end of misery. I of course, found out three days later. You see, I never find out when he has gone to the hospital. I am not high on my step-mother's list of favorite people. None of my dad's old family is. Infact I'm not even on the top of her shit list - my social standing is THAT low. Her kids know if he is sick before I do. While it sounds like I am bitter about this - I try not to be. I don't live there, I am not the one who has to take care of him when he is sick. She certainly has a rollercoaster with him I'm sure. Of course, she signed up for it. I mean, she married him - after finding out that he was dying. I remember hearing it was a rather rushed affair actually - of course, I wasn't invited.
My dad has been not only stoically staring at Death for sixteen years, he has been laughing at him, flipping him off, and screwing his wife on Sundays as well - you know, just to drive the point home. He was given one to two years tops when he had his transplant - in the stone age of transplants - and being the type of man my father is, I'm sure he decided that certainly was not an acceptable amount of time - So he took more.
Maybe that's why his wife is so crabby. My evil twin whispers in my ear that she married him thinking she would have a few years of fun, some sadness - possibly some money - and then move on. My good twin likes to tell me that maybe she really loved him, and wanted to make his last years good - and is now terrified that he will die on her. Either way, that doesn't change the fact that I never get a phone call when he is rushed to the emergency room.
Of course, the old bastard probably figures that its not like he isn't going to be driving home when its done - I mean, who is Death to him ?
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