My boss reads my website. He commented on my lack of posts regarding work. So, here we go!

I have a great job. I truly, truly, love it (by the way this doesn't mean I don't want a raise, boss!). I was an intern at Sun back in 1996. I thought it went badly, but was offered a job when I returned to school, even though I had a year left to complete me degree. I've been here for over seven years, and have never worked anywhere else. Some might say that that doesn't give me a point of view for the way other companies work. I look at it positively that what I have is great. This company affords me the flexibility to work long hours or short hours, depending on the need, and I can take care of my little one.

The question is: what do I do? I assist in the design of computers. All computers emit radio waves, and I help make sure that our computers are bad radios. I've very proud of my work. First, I've helped design some amazing machines:

Second, I get to help educate and provide design guidelines for the next generation of products. Yes, I’m a geek, but dang that’s great.  Look, I help make the most amazing computers on earth. For a lot of cell phone providers, when you make a call, it’s on our machines. A lot of on-line business commerce? Our machines. Pardon my arrogance, but my brain works for these kinds of things. I’m good at it. I constantly want to learn new concepts, and create them.

Then again, I’d like a raise (hint, hint). 

Helping design the future.

I was very blessed as a graduate student. Not only was school/research great, but I had the greatest home. I owned (ok, the bank owned) a house on the Gasconade River. Hands down, the most beautiful river in the world. It was a wonderful living experience. I wish I'd done a post-doc just to stay there a little longer. It was supposed to be my retirement home, but hey, sometimes things don't go like you plan.

The river was great, though. I used to skip school to go fishing on our twenty-foot bass boat (sorry, Dr. Drewniak). Before my friend Flanders moved out of Missouri we would go fishing every single night.

We had a great time. Our boat could go through 2-3 inches of water with the jet assembly. It rocked. One time, while fishing in the middle of the day, the game warden pulled up to the boat. He looked warily at my 190 pound Great Dane, and asked if he could look in the live well. I was a catch-and-release person, so there was nothing in there. I don’t think he ever actually looked at the live well, because he kept staring at Soren.

Then there were the times that I was going around a tight turn, and Soren would move. I can’t tell you how many times I thought I was going to bury the boat in a bank on a shoal.  Another great memory was when my friends Flanders and Chris were swimming next to the boat, and I was at the helm. I steered the boat through Boiling Spring and they practically walked on water to get out of the cold. Don’t mean to be a turkey, but man that was funny....

Maybe someday Annie and I will venture back there. That was two lives ago, but it was one of the greatest…

Happy that I had it for a while.

My human neighbors are great. During some very difficult times they have been totally there for me. I have some four legged neighbors, though, that talk even more to me. When I'm out in the morning drinking my coffee, they tell me all about their lives and the problems they have. It brings me a great deal of peace and happiness... This is Zoe (before I actually met a person named Zoe). She has a boyfriend named Spike, but that was last year. He'll probably need a new name this year. Is there a name for Duo-Spike?



In touch with the fauna

You think you have computer problems?
Filing a bug report

Our current dog Tolkien is intellectually challenged, so I have little concern that he will read this and be offended.

As a kid, I had a number of dogs that were important to me, and played a significant part in my growing up. Sam, the border collie, protected me in my early years. He accompanied me at three to four years old when I thought I was going to run away. When we moved to town, he jumped our fence no matter how high it was. He couldn't stand to live in town (I know the feeling), and had to be placed with a family that could give him the freedom he needed. Bandit was a blue-tick mutt. He was great. He accompanied me on my miles-long horse rides and every dog on the way backed down from him, despite his small stature. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that after a couple of years, most of the young dogs we encountered looked a lot like him. But despite all of this, no dog can match the dedication and connection I had with Soren Kierkegaard Hockanson.

Soren was a Blue Merle Great Dane. He was the most intelligent dog I've ever encountered. He was the ultimate dog. I came upon him quite by accident. My mom was in the hospital to have a tumor removed from her pituitary gland, and while waiting in her room, I was going through the paper. I had wanted a dog, and knew that I had a tendency for giant breeds. This lady had decided to breed her Great Dane. After making sure that mom was ok, and cool with me leaving, I went to see the lady with the Great Danes. I was in love. The first Dane I wanted was a Boston (color). Fortunately, it walked up to me and urinated on the floor. I turned to the next dog. It was grey with black spots. It was happy, and seemed to be in more control of its bladder.

I bought him for the astronomical price of $200. (You don't want to know what I paid for Tolkien.) I'd never bought a dog before, and thought I must be insane. At less than three months old, he fit comfortable on the floor of the S10 pickup I had at the time. He grew out of that rather quickly. My life with Soren was very involved, and I hope to give Soren stories from time to time. Mainly, because Annie became very attached to him, and I hope some day she reads these ramblings and sees what I saw...

Well, Soren lived for eleven long and wonderful years. That’s a long time for a Dane, for those who don’t know. He and I survived two failed marriages, and a lot of wonderful times. I used to skip school (sorry, Dr. Drewniak) to go fishing and swimming with Soren. Annie thought he was her best friend (he was her dog). It’s hard having a pet that has a short life span, but he gave more than anyone can imagine. When I was having emotional times, bowing at my bed in an effort to reach someone who was supposed to be watching out for me, here comes Soren nuzzling under my arm, and slobbering on my face. He helped me get through so much, I can’t explain it. Granted, the screen is getting strangely blurry here, but I’ll end it by saying that his last breath was drawn trying to make me happy. I ensure you that I will have stories to share to make you chuckle from Soren.

I wonder if I’ll ever have a connection like that with another individual…

Rembering a great friend

Can't help it. I have one more brief post.

Our English Mastiff, Tolkien Salinger Hockanson, is like one of those people who wants to be terribly polite, but still would really like to do what he wants.

I defrosted the chicken for tonight in the microwave. After placing it on the grill, I thought he might like to take the cooked fat off the plate. I showed him the plate, and he took a tentative taste. His tail wagged ninety-to-nothing. But, then he stopped. "No, I'm done, thank you." I began to take the plate away. "Well, if no one else wants it, maybe one more taste." He cleaned the plate. He seemed to be done. "Maybe one more check." Ok, now he was eating the plate, so I took it away.

What I don't understand is with that mentality, how could he seek and devour the pizza Annie and I orderd the other night. We made the mistake of walking away for a few minutes while he was in the house. Yeah, I know. Idiot. We came back in, and the pizza was gone, but Tolkien was on his bed. The tail was waggin' hard, and there was the last piece of pepperoni and black-olive on his bed.

Should keep away from animal husbandry

One of my best friends is a stellar engineer and scientist. Unfortunately he hates technology. His girlfiend has as much conflict with him on this subject as I. All I can say is that the internet is one of the greatest advancements of mankind in the last fifty years, and you need to move out of DOS. Sorry, Dude, but it's the truth...We can find so many pieces of information (patents, journal articles, how to get somewhere, the operating hours of the local post office). Technology is a wonderful thing, and that's why we get paid what we make...You rock... adapt.
Encouraging Assimilation

I just read Lilo's post, and was shaking my head at the wisdom of the fourth point. My family has always had cats. The earliest I can remember is Samantha, when I was four. She was a black-and-white long hair, and perhaps that's why I have a fondness for that kind of cat (like Lilo). After moving into this house, I discovered a tendency in cats that I can't explain.

For reasons that I won't go in to here (let's just assume they are valid), we don't have a door on the master bathroom. If this is too much information, you better stop reading here... There have been three cats that have lived or live here since we've been here. They all seem inclined to take advantage of "the captive audience" of me on the toilet. When my last wife was still here, her cat Simba (Indian name: Climbed and scratched Expedition and was subsequently removed of claws) would corner me on the throne to tell me the stories of his life. Strangely, he would feel the need to get comfortable with this telling, and would try to nest in my ankle-located pants and underwear.

Well, Simba has moved to another house now and I'm left with Sandy and Lilo. Sandy (Indian name: Poops on floor and doesn't give a damn) saunters in and proceeds to rub against my legs and talk about her day as well. You have no idea how difficult a cat's life can be. She is a bit skittish, and leaves as soon as Lilo comes in to do the same. Lilo (Indian name: Rules the world and will kick your butt if you disagree), however is more bold on the story telling. If he thinks I'm not paying attention, he puts his front paws on my knees to make sure I'm focused on the important things (which does not include the business for which I'm on the porcelain throne).

I love all animals, and have had some very smart dogs. Dogs have some respect for people and accept that people have at least some intelligence. Cats, however, think we are stupid. That's why every morning they ball and wail until they get their breakfast. They figure we must have forgotten from five seconds ago when they asked for it. Being on the toilet just gives them an opportunity to corner us for conversations that we don't understand (ok, maybe they are smarter than us).

I swear that when Sandy and Lilo leave the bathroom after one of these episodes, they shake their heads in a way that indicates I must be an idiot...
Feral

Yes, in times of happiness I sometimes recall the mantra of Stimpy from Ren and Stimpy. A couple of hours ago, the Fed Ex lady returned to me my notebook computer after its trip to the computer doctor for a new keyboard. The clouds broke open and a sunray from God followed her as she walked in slow motion across the deck. The angels sang.

I had become so accustomed to the mobility the notebook provided that I really missed it. Once again I am free, free I say, to work just about wherever I happen to be. I can punch away at the coffee shop overlooking the San Lorenzo River, the cafeteria at Sun, the dentist/orthodontist office (where I discovered an wireless access port), on the deck with my view of the valley, even the bathroom. Ok, too much information...

Mobile Again

Here I am, essentially 35 (one week shy), and I have been fitted for braces. For some strange reason, my dentist has determined that I have had my fair share of stress in my life. I've ground off quite a bit of tooth material in my attempts to clamp my mouth shut and not say something that I'll regret later.

What sadistic dental professional ever came up with this idea? I went to have my wires changed and had the orthodontic assistant that I will unaffectially name Moron. I'm sitting there like a good patient, mouth open, trying not to spit, belch, or do anything else offensive, and she begins remounting the wires. I have a few teeth that need to be moved quite far before they go to the next stage, so (if you don't know) they have to use wire wraps around the anchors to move the teeth more. I do play a part in making this difficult for the sadists that have chosen orthodontia as a profession: my jaw bones are at least twice as thick as a normal person. I didn't do it on purpose. That, and I have a rather small mouth.

So, Moron goes to work at wrapping the wires around the anchor. She cuts a seven-foot length of wire, and goes to work. She stabs the end of the wire into my podigious jaw.... once... twice... I'm having visions of reaching up and squashing her larynx. I'm close to ripping the vinyl off the arm of the chair. She apologizes, but somehow makes it sound like my fault. "I'm sorry, but your anchors are just so small." I didn't pick 'em. She tries again, I think this time the wire was eight-feet long. She stabs me once... twice... three times, and continues her less than sincere apologies. She turns to get some other torturing tool, and I tell her I need a second. I don't think she realized that it was not just for my sanity, but for her health.

The Moron's volume during her complaints has reached a level in the open orthodontic department that the Orthodontist comes over. I have wire hanging off my teeth, on to the floor, and eventually spilling out into the parking lot. I look at the Orthodontist imploringly. Please, kill me now. Grab this wire and garrote me. Instead, the kindly doctor looks at me, having all the appearance of going through a seizure, and indicates her own willingness to continue extracting what must be some sort of Karma payback for my sins.

She asks for another tool, firmly graps what now feels like a cable the size of which would be used for support on the Golden Gate Bridge, and goes to work.

Low and behold, this Asian angel deftly whipped those wires around the anchors, and the wire got smaller and shorter with each turn. In the time it took the Moron to complain, the doctor was done. My gratitude was the only thing that kept me from giving the Moron the bird, and a quick kick in the butt. During this procedure, the Moron indicated to the doctor that she hadn’t yet finished placing one of the rubber bands on an anchor (not that she was incompetent, of course).  I’m not sure if the doctor didn’t fix the band, but when she was finished, the Moron never went back and fixed it, but just excused me (thank you, o’ Queen of putzness).  I was so irritated that counter to my normal behavior, I didn’t ask about it. Screw it.  A rubber-band fell out (didn’t break) in about two weeks.

I go back in a couple of weeks. I will politely request a different assistant. If Karma again mistakes me for someone else, and she is the only one there, and I can’t cancel my appointment due to leprosy or something, I will let her re-do my wires. Of course, I’ll have my hand on about a pound of her flesh (she could spare it), and if she stabs me again, I’ll be leaving with it…

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