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Author: Rembrandt Created: 8/23/2006 4:12 PM
Mindless rantings of a dizzy geek.
Why the internet is a really bad place late at night.
By Rembrandt on 1/25/2006 1:10 PM
So after an arduous day at work yesterday, I felt like having a pipe full of tobacco, but honestly just didn't feel like firing up the pellet stove in the garage. [No smoking in the house for me.]
Just as a ha-ha .. I started reading reviews on tobacco reviews to pass the time.

This is akin to going grocery shopping before lunch [after skipping breakfast] ! I started looking at some McClelland blends that I've considered interesting for a while, with an eye towards picking up some to cellar - preferably for a number of years.

To my sleep addled brain, 5 seemed like a nice number of tins. Given my current rate of consumption - 100g of a tobacco lasts me 2-3 months; if that’s the only one I smoke. [My smoking habits are irregular; sometimes 3-4 bowls a week, sometimes one. There is really no pattern other than free time, or work to do in the garage. [Or a power outage.] Five tins would, I reasoned, allow me to have two tins for long term storage, we are talking multiple years, and 3 tins would certainly be a years supply of any given tobacco. I could replace them as needed singularly, rotating them out to allow at least 6-8 months of 'shelf time'.

Of course, coming to this decision was also helped by the fact that a website I have ordered from in the past offers a price break at a 5 count of tins.

This decision was based on an experience over the summer. Previously, I had sampled some VA Woods from a freshly opened tin, and was shocked at how something that smelled of ketchup could burn my tongue like Tabasco. At a local Ren-Fest (I know, I know .. don't laugh.) A friend of a friend had cracked open a 3 year [since he bought it] tin of Va Woods and was kind enough to let my have a bowl. I was amazed at the difference, and that’s coming from guy with a relatively unsophisticated palate.

Then I started thinking, which is always dangerous, what if I Picked up 5 Tins of VA Woods, AND 5 tins of British Woods? That would allow me to have easily 3 tins of each in long term storage, leaving me 3-4 tins to consume in the year, replacing them as I needed. Seemed like a good plan, more variety, better long term tobacco.

But wait .. if I also picked up 5 tins of Blackwoods flake, which I heard was also very nice, man .. that would allow me to keep 1 tin of each for like 3-4 years before touching it, with 2 tins on storage for a year or two, and 3 tins of each - easily allowing me to keep one for a year, and rotate the remaining two as normal smokes, allowing me to replace them as needed.

Well crap, I forgot St. James Woods .. I've been meaning to get some of that after the same friend of a friend who gave me the matured VA woods recommended it. Hmm lets see ... If I got 5 of those, gee that’s a lot of tobacco, well .. if I got 5 tins of that too .. hmmm. That would be 1 tin of each for easily 5 years. Maybe another of each for 3-4 years, with anther for two years in the cellar. That would leave me two tins of each blend to enjoy over the year, to be replaced as needed of course, and allowing all of them to be at least 6 months old before I open one.

Darkstar, that’s the only blend in this family I left out that really holds interest for me. Lets see:

1 Tin of each blend for 10 years
1 Tin of each for 5 years
1 Tin of each for 3 years
1 Tin of each for 2 years

leaving me with 1 tin each of five blends to enjoy over the year, certainly allowing enough rotation so each crosses the 6 month mark.

Having now entered the theoretical realm of fancy, I went to the above mentioned website, which I have ordered from before, to see what this dream would cost me.

After loading up my virtual shopping cart my eyes melted at a $323.00 price tag (minus shipping). Well, since we are playing crazy now, lets throw in 2 each of Frog Morton, Frog Morton on the Town, and Frog Morton on the bayou .. just for giggles. $401.45 was the sticker shock, certainly a lot of tobacco, but man that’s almost paying retail over the internet.

Now having my curiosity peaked, I started looking to see if there were other vendors that could beat these guys on price. Having to buy in lots of five to get a discount seemed a bit excessive when you take it to these extremes.

My first stop found a site that offered tins at a flat rate of $12.75. for singles .. gee, that would allow me to go to 3's of each, including the frogs, for roughly $310.00 - that’s cheaper than 5 of each, and still allows me a decent rotation.

Still, I wanted to be thorough. I stopped at another site that I order a particular Aromatic from, and hey .. they offered McClelland tins at $12.75 too, with free shipping, and the frogs were at a daily special of $11.75. Three of each here would be $297.00 with free shipping.

This is the point where my brain *STOPPED* thinking, which is an even worse situation to be in than when it starts. Tins of good tobacco started swimming in front of my eyes. I would have an awesome stockpile. I wouldn't have to buy tobacco for years! The rationalizations flew left and right faster than my synapses could shut down. What if I .. dare I dream .. *bought* this tobacco. The checkout button is right there. I mean its *RIGHT* there. Right. There. No No, I must not, that’s still a lot of money, it wouldn't break the bank or even dent it, but still.

Then, in a hideous voice that sounded a lot like Gollum from Lord of the Rings I heard :
"But what if we can finds it for cheaper .. precoussss ?"

Well, certainly, if we could find it cheaper.[Notice the usage of 'we' here, signifying the total disconnect from reality.] If we could find it cheaper, then we could certainly feel its a good deal. Confident that I was saving myself from being crushed in an avalanche of tinned bliss, I smugly went to froogle.com.

Never be smug about anything is the lesson to be gleamed here kids.

Froogle told me of the existence, the HORRIBLE existence, of a website that had McClelland tins at $11.50 a tin. I didn't believe it, and of course I had to tempt fate and go look. It was very bad, because not only did this site offer them at that price, but being January 24th .. they had this horrible marketing gimmick of throwing a 24 hour sale, where selected goods were marked down.

Selected goods which included McClelland tobacco.

Gollum danced gleefully through my head, capering like a fool and juggling fish. "10.75 a Tin my precious ! You saids, you saids if it was cheaper, we would gets it! You SAIDS!"

I began dancing with him, infected by his madness, and looking at the clock. It was 11:55 PM and the sale ended in five minutes! There wasn't much time. We danced and cavorted about throwing Fives of this and Fives of that into our cart. "FIVESsss yes FiveSssss!" Gollum chanted, exchanging his fish for a smoking briar which he then put into his slobbering mouth and puffed like a mad man.

"Gollum! Gollum! Our BUDGETsss!" I cursed at him. "The Frogs! The Mortons-es. We dont NEEDS them! Throw them back!" was his reply. As he started, instead, throwing MORE of them into the cart.
Outraged at his hypocrisy I started throwing them out almost as fast as he could place more in the basket. "We don't need those! Too expensive already." I puffed out my exerted lips. "No! CHEAPER! only $9.75 each! he cried!"

Giving up the fight I changed tactics and started pushing the cart towards the virtual register. One of us was shouting "BUYSsss IT! Buys THEM!" and laughing maniacally. I'm still not sure which one it was.

At the register Gollum pounced on a tin of Sam Gawith Westmoreland, gibbering something about cheap shipping if we only buy it. At this point, I was in no condition to refuse, as the cashier had already taken my credit card information, and clicked the 'confirm order' button.

All was quiet. Gollem was gone, crickets could be heard in the background. I was sitting in front of my computer, all flights of fancy driven from my mind. As if waking from a bad dream, I looked around and saw a new e-mail in my inbox.

What had I done ?! My answer was found in an un-read E-mail at the top of the pile :

Name Code Qty Each Options
----------------------------------------------------------------------
McClelland Blackwoods Flake 100g mcclelblacfl 5 X 10.75
McClelland St. James Woods 100g mcclelstjamw 5 X 10.75
McClelland British Woods 100g mcclelbritwo 5 X 10.75
McClelland Dark Star 100g mccleldarsta 5 X 10.75
McClelland Virginia Woods 100g mcclelvirwoo 5 X 10.75
McClelland Frog Morton 100g mcclelfrogmo 2 X 10.75
McClelland Frog Morton on the Town 100g mcclelfrogmo1 2 X 10.75
McClelland Frog Morton : Frog on the Bayou 100g 2 X 9.75
Sam Gawith Westmoreland (50g tin) 24slegawitwest 1 X 5.99

Subtotal 337.24
Shipping 2.99
Total 340.23


Blinking at the screen, I thought "oh crap." then shrugged and went to get ready for bed.
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Its wierd what triggers memories.
By Rembrandt on 1/18/2006 4:23 PM
Today, I prepared navy bean and ham chunk soup for dinner. Not five minutes ago, I went upstairs to stir it around in the crock pot. Upon taking off the lid, I was hit with a face full of steam - and I remembered ...

It was a summery New England night, probably up in Vermont. We [being me and a bunch of friends] were at a 'Realms of Wonder' event. [a very old - like 1988 ish - LARP game.] It was a camp out, it had rained. Rathcluen ! That was the name of it. Ben, the guy who owned the property was drunk. A few guys and girls were playing Wiz-War (by Tom Jolly) under a Pavilion. Someone 'Lady Anne' I think, was cooking dinner. It was a nice evening, spent in good (if not rather geeky) company. Laura Greenly flirted outrageously with me, but I was still a kid and didn't pick up on it. My friend Nana lit himself on fire drinking his Sixth(?) flaming Kamakasi. Later that evening he delared his ceramic mug the most comfortable pillow a person could have. There was a fire, and general geek talk around it. And there was bread and ham stew .. which smelled exactly like ...

what I was stirring on my counter. I blinked once or twice, put the lid back on the pot, and went downstairs and back to work.
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Today, I met a guy ..
By Rembrandt on 12/23/2005 4:30 PM
I pulled into the Sheetz (gas station) on route 40 today, after stopping off at Home Depot, and a local Hearth store to get 3/4 of a tonne of pellets.

While I was pumping my gas, the fellow at the next pump over looked up as his wife shouted across the parking lot at him saying she needed to use the restroom.

He looked over at me and we both chuckled, then he asked me 'How cold does it normally get here ?' to which I replied 'It usually doesn't go below 20.'

'Thats pretty cold' he responded.

'Not for me' said I, 'I grew up in New England.'

'Oh? driving south to visit family ?' he asked.

'No, I live here now - how about you ?'

'Oh, I'm driving down to florida to see my family before I ship out again.'

This is when I noticed he had an airborn ball cap on.

'I'm almost afraid to ask - where are you headed?'

He looked at me and smiled before saying 'Iraq - they flew me home for 3 weeks to visit my family for leave.'

I asked him 'Is this your second tour over there ?' to which he replied 'It's my third, if you count 1991.'

I asked him if he was nervous about heading back, and he surprized me by saying:

'No, I'm proud to go back. I've been in the army for 22 years, in 2 more years I'm going to retire, at full pension - with combat pay and benefits, its gonna help my family out a lot. I could spend my last 2 years at some desk job here, but they really need NCO's over there to help these kids get through this alive. Would you believe they go over there and act like its a vacation or something ? Video cameras, and dvd players and crap. I tell all my soldiers that they are gonna be filming the horizon [at this point he slowly turned in a semi-circle - like he was holding a video camera] and they are gonna be really shocked when they see a rifle barrel pointing at them, but hell - it will look good on tape. I teach my kids to hit the sand whenever they hear a crack, its better to look stupid and be alive, than to be cool and dead.'

This man, was *PROUD* of going back over to the desert. And he should be, we talked for several minutes, and he didn't once talk about shooting people, or terrorism, or any of that crap - he talked mostly about protecting his soldiers, and teaching them what he learned over his 22 year carieer. He talked about keeping them alive, so they could do their job, and go home to their families. He told me the sand sucks, and that putting all the steel plates on the HMV's actually slows them down too much, not worth the trade off of speed vs small arms fire, since a RPG would just punch through it anyways. He told me how he tells his soldiers to not bribe the local kids with candy, because it will just make their parents mad. He told me alot of things, about who he was, and how he felt about his job - without even meaning to. Which oddly enough - made me almost choke up. This simple man - who I met randomly at a gas station - was an amazingly nice guy, who was willing to go back into a shit storm - to keep kids he doesn't even know alive.

Something people should think about the next time they bitch about the military.

Instead of crying - I shook his hand, said thank-you - and went inside the gas station and paid for his gas before his wife could get out of the restrooms and do it.

I felt it was a small price for me to pay compared to what this guy was willing to do.
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Corporate non-conformity
By Rembrandt on 8/22/2005 10:28 AM
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 ?!
By Rembrandt on 8/16/2005 10:15 AM
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
By Rembrandt on 8/15/2005 10:15 AM
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
By Rembrandt on 8/15/2005 8:33 AM
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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