Chester Gould's vision

A reminder was delivered to me this morning about how far technology has come during my lifetime. It is easy to remember black and white television, knowing which rings belonged to grandma's telephone on the party line, and marveling at Dick Tracy's two-way wrist radio. Still, to imagine that futuristic vision of technology would come to pass in my lifetime is humbling.

In many ways, I've had a front row seat to observe the changes. Watching the space program of the 1960s was the beginning as the transitor and miniturization became the trend of technology. My father purchase a Texas Instruments calculator around 1970 (a TI-SR10 I think). It was remarkable how those small red diodes could do all of the stuff that slide rule could and do it without those pesky human errors. Advancing on through my time in the Navy, I was able to watch our ship transition from morse code and HF frequency teletype signals to satellite relay networks that moved communications traffic with virtually no errors. An undergraduate degree in data processing introduced me to mainframe hardware and subsequently to microprosessor technologies. With the advent of the Internet, I watched as we expanded the interconnectivity of the world and continued the path of technology to smaller and faster.

It is against that backdrop of immense change my reminder came this morning. Sitting at my desk, unable to join several friends on a ski trip to Crested Butte, CO , I accessed a web camera sitting atop a restaurant at the base of the ski slopes. That I was able to look at the same mountain they was skiing was in small way comforting. As I watched though, it became clear three of the people standing at the base of the lift were my friends. A couple of text messages followed by a call from a cell phone one of them was holding and we confirmed with a wave that technology has linked us in a way Chester Gould could only imagine.

Grandma's ring was 2-shorts.

From the flight deck

That airline travel is no longer the luxury experience it was in the past is something of an overarching generalization suggesting air travel is no longer a pleasant experience. Crowded planes, confusion fare structures, hidden (or not so hidden) fees, and surly flight attendents along with the general stress embodied in terrorism seem to support this.

However, on occasion there comes a flight crew with a little sense of humor delivered in just in time to recapture some of the fun in flying. Sitting on the plane in the Atlanta airport on my flight departing nearly two hours late due to weather, the voice over the speaker system comes alive.

"Ladies and gentlemen, to ensure we can leave the gate as quickly as possible, please step out of the aisle once you have reached your seat. For those of you blocking they aisle, there will be a $70 blocking fee assessed."

"Sorry folks, we're going to be here a few more minutes. In their haste, someone forgot to empty the trash in the back of the plane. And yes, we are required to remove that trash before we can leave. We do apologize for the delay, but does it really matter since we're an hour and half late already."

"While we're waiting folks, I realize the plane is getting a bit stuffy. So, if you will reach above your head and turn the little eyeball one way, you will get some fresh air. If you turn it the other way, the wings will fall off the airplane. Oh, I'm just kidding, you know there is no such thing as fresh air on an airplane."

While all of that did bring a chuckle, the most entertaining comment of the trip came upon our arrival to our home airport: "Please watch your head as you exit the airplane and if you're not going to watch your head, then please watch your language. Thanks for flying Delta!"

Third Day

Admittedly, it was the first rock concert I'd attended since sometime in the early 1980s, so, my expectations were somewhat ambiguous about the event at best. Moreover, it was the first Christian rock concert I'd ever attended. Not that my musical taste don't span an eclectic array of offerings, it is just that the opportunity had really never presented itself to attend this type of concert. However, a dear friend offered up the ticket, I was available, the concert was close, and I knew the promoter - seemed as if destiny had a hand in things. The only potentially troubling point was that a dear colleage, knowledgable of my musical taste, was shocked that I would even considering going. My curiosity antlers were piqued.

The opening act, a soloist named Trevor Morgan, performed three original songs over a period of 15 minutes or so to get everyone warmed up. He seemed to be a talented guitarist with some vocal skills, but if pressed to choose, I'd give a nod to his guitar skills. Trevor was followed by a group known as Tenth Avenue No. Judging from crowd response, although relative young, they were evidently quite popular among those aware of their music. What struck me most about the second group as the volume. They were loud! After some 45 mintes of their musings, the concert took a break so the business of concerting (t-shirts, cd's, scholorship applications) could take place. My ears appreciated the pause. Eventually, the stars of the show, Third Day, came to the stage and performed at length to a very appreciative and receptive crowd. Not that I was really surprised, but I enjoyed the concert. Although I was not familiar with the music, the musicians were talented, the sound / mix was professionally done, and the performance was relaxed, God centered, and nicely delivered -- very glad I went.

Because this was my first Christian concert, I really had no basis for comparison against other concerts. Still, I had some opinions about what I observed. My first observation was obviously volume. The volume, in and of itself, was not a problem. The concert promoter is a church friend who graciously saved us seats in the VIP section - 4 rows from the stage -- 20 feet directly in front of the 8 foot tall speaker array. When the bass string was plucked everything in and on my body vibrated. In this respect, not really different from the old rock and roll days of the early 70s and I eagerly await the return of my hearing. The lyrics, for the most part were God centered and I really liked that. I was reminded though, during one of the songs, of a comment attributed to an unknown author some years back regarding contemporary Christian music. A song that can be sung to your dog, girlfriend, or God with equal compassion and enthusiasm is probably not a song written for the gospel. This was probably most evident in the Tenth Avenue No song "I'm Yours Tonight - Break Me Down", was seen as a Christian song, but only in that venue -- put into another setting, it could suggest something much more dark and secular -- maybe to the girlfriend. Highlighting that idea was the couple (married we think) sitting just in front of us. It's really hard to conceptualize how the gospel was fitting into what they were doing to the absolute dismay of their teenage daughter, but then again, I don't really know their heart. The other general observation had to do with the crowd. Those in attendance were a cross section of the polulation of this area. People of all ages (8 - 80), white, black, hispanic, and while it didn't come up in discussion, a variety of belief systems sat together in a celebration through music.

The musical charts and the sound of the bands is probably what I enjoyed the most though. The sound seemed to be a hybrid of a couple of 1970s rock bands, Uriah Heep and Deep Purple. The singers tended to push the upper limits of the vocal range for the most part. However, there were segments where the talents of the second tenor voice of the Third Day lead singer were really highlighted. Overall , the charts were well written and well played reflective of the talent of the performers.

At the end of the evening, I was left with a mixed opinion on the lyrics and the crowd, positive thoughts about the sound, and impressed by the commitment and talent of the musicians on stage. As we left, my thought wandered by to Philippians 1:18, But what does it matter? The important thing is that in every way, whether from false motives or true, Christ is preached. And because of this I rejoice. Yes, and I will continue to rejoice... In many churches, the musical divide is more damaging to the body than disagreements over doctrine and understanding. There is really no justification for either side of that discussion. Tonight Christ was the center, everyone there knew that, and when all is said and done, that is all that really matters.

Death, Taxes .... and Gravity

Lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairwell I gently moved each body attempting to assess what might be broken, bruised, or dislocated. The tumble down the steps was an accident of my own carelessness. In my haste to get to the gym, I changed clothes in my office and failed to close the zipper on the leg of my warm-up pants. Three rungs down the steps my right foot became entangled in the loose fabric on my left leg. Had there been a witness, the tumble to the bottom and subsequent crash into the wall would have made for great comedy.

I'm always amazed at how quickly the brain can process information. During my brief airborne adventure a cornucopia of peculiar fleeting thoughts dashed about in my head. As would seem obvious, the first thought was - "this going to hurt" - and it did. But there were other thoughts and they were random, "where is my gym bag?", "it's already dark?" , "should I try to jump before I land? ", "what are endorphines?", "can I still ski?".

With only a skinned knee and bruised shoulder, I calmly collected my things and continued down the remaining steps. As I walked, it occurred to me the death and taxes are not the only things of which we can be certain...there's also gravity and I have the bruises to prove it.

The Bunny Slope

It is an imposing and almost frightening sight for a beginning skier. Even the beginner slopes, as I learned on my first attempt on skis, seem more akin to vertical cliffs than what the trail map would have you to believe. There is a sanctum where pride and ego are set aside, skill is rare, and the birds of that feather are flocked together -- it is the bunny slope.

Peachtree, as it is known on the mountain, is the place where beginners go to protect themselves from themselves while gaining some mastery over the skis. As bunny slopes go, it is not the easiest of beginner slopes and actually has some incline along with a short run that requires a little work to navigate. Because it is a short slope, it's not altogther uncommon to find people, either too frustrated or too tired, carrying their skis to the bottom. It also the place where a beginner (like I was) can observe other beginners and start making sense of the mechanics of the skiing process.

After a morning of trial and error, I went back to the ski lift where my first misadventure in skiing took place to try again. Armed with the new knowledge of how to read a trial map, a knee brace, and a resolve to get to the bottom by myself, I lifted myself from the ski lift chair and began my descent. It was slow, but with each fall, the next attempt seemed to be a bit smoother and a bit easier.

I made a new friend briefly after one of the many falls. Lying in the snow trying to catch my breath, I looked up hill to see a young lady heading directly at me. Judging from the speed at which she was approaching and her comment "I don't know how to turn" confirmed she was also a beginner. The look on her face was probably just as surprised as on mine as I replied back "I can't get out of the way". The ensuring crash was cause for more than a little laughter. After exchanging our 'beginner' stories, we parted company never to meet again.

As the day wore on, I continued my onslaught against the mountain. Just a little more than one hour after embarking on this journey and after numerous falls, I finally reached the edge of the final hill. To be able to look down on the ski lodge was the mark of success I'd hoped for the entire day. Not long thereafter, I made it to the bottom and walked off to find the shuttle bus. Sitting there on the bench covered in snow with icicles dangling from the edge of my knitted cap, the slow realization overtook me that I'd actually done it -- I could ski.

In the years since, I've made trips to other locations as well as a return trip to Crested Butte, but nothing will ever beat that first trip where the Butte and I battled. Like so many things are in life, there's nothing like the first time.

Crested Butte - first touch

In just over a week, we'll be making a trip with our church group to Crested Butte, CO to go skiing and frolicking in the snow. For me, this trip marks the 2nd time I've returned since learning to snow here in 1981. While the bus rides to and from are tiring, the fun to be had there makes it all worthwhile. The "Butte" holds many fond memories and is a rich source of fanciful tales.

On my very first trip, I had the misfortune to be taken up on the mountain by an experienced skier who was going to save me from "ski school" and teach me the "right way". Unfortunately for both of us, on our first ascent up the mountain he forgot to raise the tips of his skis and fell on his face attemping to disembark from the ski lift chair. Although he tried to move out of the way, with no experience on the slopes, it was not in my power to avoid skiing up his face leaving him a 2 inch laceration on his cheek as a souvenir of our first ski lesson. My ski lesson continued by waiting for him to complete the accident forms then watching as the ski patrol put him back on the ski lift to ride back to the bottom of the slope -- without me. And there it was, the bleak reality that my first ski lesson would be a solo flight down the mountain side. To be blunt, the trip down the mountain was not a pleasant one. It ended about halfway down the mountain with me staring skyward with a twisted knee, broken pole, wounded spirits, and serious questions about my sanity. It wasn't very long before some kindly folks stopped to inform me the way to attract the ski patrol was to cross my skis over my body. This signal would let them know I was hurt. That was a handy bit of information I'd have enjoyed knowing a bit sooner. It wasn't long before the ski patrol stopped by, strapped my into the evacuation sled, and carried me to the bottom.

With nothing to show as a success, it was an inglorious end to a day rife with frustration and pain. Although day 2 was spent nursing the sore knee and contemplating the warmth of the fire, there was something magnetic about the slopes -- it could be done, people could ski -- I'd seen them and I would not be denied.

What was that they were saying about a "bunny slope"?

Who know what evil lurks....

From John in Bagram:

As the winter months come crawling our way, the nights here in Afghanistan have begun to chill and it often appears that they have taken on a life of their own. As the sun goes down the very appearance of normality is replaced by a hidden force. The sky is filled with a smothering dust that makes the moon fight for the very right to shine. What is this strange phenomenon in Afghanistan that causes one to feel safe and secure in the light and yet allows depression and despair to assault you at night?

You see, evil thrives in the darkness. It is under this shroud that my enemy does his work. In the black of night, Improvised Explosive Devices are hidden on the road ways waiting to steal life from the next convoy that dares to drive by. It is in the cover of darkness that would be heroes of the insurgency draw close to our base and launch missiles over our walls. They slither back and wait to hear if their prayers will be answered when their offering of terror strikes my base. The Afghans and the Americans both know that the night is owned by the Taliban. It was just a few nights ago that we found ourselves facing this very evil.

In the middle of a war zone, things that are harmless and gentle in the light of day become mysterious shadows well suited for evil in the black of night. On this day, as if frightened away by some unseen force, the sun had quickly fallen from the sky. A series of fighter jets had just taken off with a deafening roar and we were left with an eerie silence that sent chills up our spines. Wasn’t it “The Shadow” from the 1930 who taunted us with the line, “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” The thought of these words can haunt a man as he moves through the dim alleys of our base.

The path from our office to our living quarters is sporadically lined with a poor attempt at lighting. Instead of providing a path of security, we find that the faded glow from the overhead lamps only intensifies this world of shadows. Even when surrounded by thousands of soldiers, each one of us knows that in darkness, our enemy is always near.

Chief Warrant Officer Biggerstaff, whom we call Mr. B, was the first who dared to go out that night. Having traveled this path a hundred times Mr. B ducked his head and as the dust blew across the lot he shielded his eyes and began the walk toward his room. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw a dog lurking in the shadows across the parking lot. But there are no dogs on the base. Was this a dog in the darkness or a man couched down to the ground? He would have ignored the very idea had he not noticed that when he stopped… so did the figure.

The hair stood up on the back of his neck as all of his senses became aware of the danger that he faced. Slowly, he lowered himself down as his hand dropped to his holster. As his fingers took hold of his pistol he saw the figure also stop and duck down. As he contemplated his situation and began to evaluate maneuver options, he noticed that the figure in the darkness seemed to be mocking him. If Mr. B moved right, the figure moved with him. When Mr. B made a quick move left, the figure was there almost before him.

In a moment of revelation he noticed the two overhead street lamps, one forward and one to the read, both capturing him as what would appear to be a murky shadow on the other side of the parking lot. Mr. B moved on to his room pondering the unanswered question, “Do you get a medal for shooting your own shadow?”

- Major John Parker

Mariott crickets

Found the most novel little poem waiting on the nightstand in my room at the Mariott Plaza in San Antonio last week.

The Cricket Visit

It's that time of year
When the crickets come here
So we try our best to make
Them steer clear.

With the rise in water
And the rise in heat
There's a pretty chance
The two of you meet.

To keep them outside
Is what we are wishin'
But they make great bait
In case you go fishin.

So we apologize now
For the yearly occasion
Please enjoy your stay
For work or vacation.

Thanks for "Your" visit.
The Marriott Plaza Staff

Nice place and good people - never saw a cricket.

It's a just a convertible

It looked like this in the beginning when the yearning to drive a small convertible first became a part of my psyche. I don't really remember the first time the Triumph TR-6 caught my attention, but it was sometime around 1973 after returning from my first cruise onboard the USS Mount Baker. As we disembarked. a shipmate took delivery of his new car. Although his was green, it looked just like the one in this picutre. For a number of reasons, both real and imagined though, I continued to talk myself out of buying one for my entire tour of duty. It always seemed to me a bit silly to live on a ship and have need of a car. That was a decision I've reflected on with some regret for the past 37 years as school, family, career, etc. gave ample cause to continue to opt out of buying a small convertible in favor or more important things. For many years, my primary mode of transport was marked by one word - functional. Even within that rather limiting descriptor, I've enjoyed a variety of vehicles although they all shared that one common trait.

Not too long ago, my most recent minivan rolled past 175,000 miles. Over the course of 10 years, aside from tires and routine maintenance, the vehicle was only in the repair shop twice. By any reasonable measure it was a reliable vehicle and well worth its $25,000 purchase price in April 2000. However, the years of wear and tear marked by soccer and softball tournaments, family vacations, and commuting to/from school took a toll on the vehicle. While nothing was 'broken', things were signalling that trouble was ahead - broken exhaust manifold bolt and an odd humming noise from the transmission topped the list. Repairs (and money to effect them) loomed in the not to distant future. Even knowing there was some expense coming in the future, it was hard to make the decision to get rid of it. The bigger question was what to buy next.

I spent a lot of time looking at crossover vehicles, SUVs, pickup trucks, and even some traditional vehicles. Yet, each time I drove by the Mazda dealership, this little silver MX-5 would catch my eye and turn my thoughts back to early 1970s. At some point, the issues of rational and functional gave way to desirable and entertaining - and, as new cars go, it really wasn't that expensive. Those seemed like good reasons to buy one. And while I'm not yet old, I'm certainly closer to the finish line than the starting gate. So, it also seemed like a good idea to buy the little convertible while I could still get in and out of it without help. Amid the laughter and comments about mid-life crisis, I took this item off my 'bucket list'.

My only regret -- should have done this years ago!

Legacies

My grandfather died on June 23, 1943 about 12 years before my birth. By profession, he was a dentist; by hobby he enjoyed his 'white lightning' on a regular basis. Other than a few bent photographs and an abandoned dental office, there was very little I knew of the man.

However, I was reminded today through chance meeting that the things we do on any given day shape the opinions of those we impact in a way that may extend well beyond our lifetime. While eating lunch today, I caught a glimpse of a person who had visited my life group class at church a few weeks ago. Leaving the restaurant I stopped by her table to say hello and was introduced to her parents. Her parents, as it turned out, lived in a small town just south of where my grandfather lived and worked in his dental practice. As it often done in the south, our initial conversation explored who our relatives were looking to establish 'kinfolk' relationships or at least a shared basis of relations. After tossing out the name of my grandmother and a couple of aunts without any recognition, I paused for a moment, then told the older gentleman that my grandfather had been a dentist. He immediately asked for my last name again and was surprised to know that Alfred was both my grandfather and his mother's dentist. As I stood there thinking how interesting it was to always find common acquaintances in the south, he began relay the story of the last time his mother saw the dentist (my grandfather). Alfred pulled the wrong tooth. So, for 65 years his legacy, at least in the mind of this one person, is captured in that single event - pulling the wrong tooth.

Moral of the story is simply this, be kind, be fair, and be gentle to everyone you meet. You never know who may be telling your life's story after you're gone.

eBay

Curiosity finally got the best of me and I made the decision to give eBay a try. Having heard stories about the virtual cornucopia of inexpensive goodies available through this international storefront it seemed as if I was the only one to have never made a purchase this way. As a person with relatively few material needs, I really don't do a lot of shopping and generally find the trip to the mall/grocery store is adequate to supply what needs exist. Yet, if the entire planet (or so it seems) is shopping on eBay, then it would be prudent to be able to relate to the experience.

Like most new adventures, the beginning is filled with confusion and missteps. The eBay adventure was no exception. Security features to protect buyer and sellers are in place, but required several days to fully implement. It was admittedly a bit unnerving to give out my bank account information in order to set up a payment account through PayPal, but friends have assured me it is safe and offers a level of protection for buyers.

Although it took several days of searching to find something I might 'need', a CD by the Annie Moses Band caught my eye. Because the seller was looking for a minimum bid of $.99 (I was willing to pay much more), I entered the process by placing my opening bid above that amount. Then I waited and watched for several days until the auction for the item was closed. To my surprise, no one else bid on the item. So, for the ridiculous price of 99-cents plus $2.75 shipping, the CD I'd avoided purchasing for a couple of years was soon to be within my grasp. Like most things though, there is a process. So, on day 1, I won the bid; day 2, I received by $3.74 invoice, day 3, I paid the invoice through PayPal, and on day 4 the wait began.

The seller's advertising said the item would be in my hand between 6 and 9 days after my payment was received. After 6 days passed and hoping for the best, I checked the mailbox - nothing. 7, 8, then 9 days elapsed and still nothing. It seemed the appropriate time to send a note to the seller and try to find out if there was a CD actually in my future or if I had been scammed out of my $3.74. Seller assured me all orders that were paid on the day of my payment had been place in the mail just 3 days later. Okay, I'll wait. 10, 11, now 12 days -- still nothing, but another note to the seller & he assured me that he has more than one copy and a new one is coming my way today.

Perhaps the CD is in the hands of the postal service and on the way to my mailbox, perhaps not. It really doesn't matter because the most important thing is that now I've 'eBay'ed and can speak to the experience first hand. As a shopping experience, the process came up woefully short in terms of satisfaction and I'm struggling to see the attraction of the process. Locating a product, except for the most diehard shopper, is difficult and time consuming. Trying to navigate the jargon of keywords and searching through page after page of items only remotely associated with the sought item is boring and tedious. The anticipation of winning the bid, at least from my perspective, was novel, but the annoyance associated with trying to obtain the merchandise looms like a dark cloud on the whole experience.

Experience is never wasted though and as education costs go, $3.74 is a very inexpensive lesson. But, before absorbing it I may take another chance to extend my experience and test the 'guarantee' offered by PayPal.

Rules for Manhood

Man Code:

Under no circumstances may 2 men share an umbrella.

A pick-up truck is never 'cute'.

When you are queried by a buddy's wife, girlfriend, mother, father, priest, shrink, dentist, accountant, or dog walker, you need not and should not provide any useful information whatsoever as to his whereabouts. You are permitted to deny his very existence.

Unless he murdered someone in your immediate family, you must bail a friend out of jail within 12 hours.

If you've known a guy for more than 24 hours, his sister is off-limits forever.

The maximum amount of time you have to wait for another guy who's running late is 5 minutes. For a girl, decide how much pain can you endure.

No man is ever required to buy a birthday present for another man. In fact, even remembering a friends birthday is strictly optional and slightly gay.

Agreeing to stick around and escort the friend of a 'hottie' that your buddy is trying to hook up with is your legal duty.

Before dating a buddy's "ex", you are required to ask his permission and he in return is required to grant it.

Women who claim they "love to watch sports" must be treated as spies until they demonstrate knowledge of the game and the ability to pick a buffalo wing clean.

If a man's zipper is down, that's his problem - you didn't see nothin'.

The universal compensation for buddies who help you move is beer.

When stumbling upon other guys watching a sports event, you may always ask the score of the game in progress, but you may never ask who's playing.

If a buddy is outnumbered, out manned, or too drunk to fight, you must jump into the fight. Exception: If your buddy has, within the last 24 hours, violated any of these rules and is thus deserving of a butt-whooping, then you may sit back and enjoy.

Never talk to a man in the bathroom unless you're on equal footing: either both urinating or both waiting in line. In all other situations, a nod is all the conversation you need.

Unlocking a car door for another man is polite. Opening it is gay.