A Christmas memory crammed in an envelope of white

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I love the holidays. I love the snow, the music, the trees, the lights, and the cathartic nature of it all. Like any quality play, the Christmas season starts with a sense of foreboding, the tiny little flurry of activity which makes up Halloween. The trees glow in their hues of red, orange, and brown. Tides of change float in the air. Then comes Thanksgiving, which is nothing more than an exhibition game for the year’s festivities.

But the true Christmas holiday season starts the following morning on Black Friday. Love it or hate it, the exhilaration or sheer dumbfoundedness of that morning sets the stage for the largest economic period of the year for any country’s GDP. On top of pure shopping bliss (yes, that was satire), we come away from Thanksgiving with an ever-populated agenda. Holiday parties for work, scheduling gift exchanges with friends, meeting for a holiday drink… all of these things begin to spring up and before you know it you’ve missed the entire season trying so hard to experience it. A friend once said to me about dating, “You’re like a little boy at a pond trying to catch a frog. You chase them all around trying to swoop one up in your net and get nowhere. But if you just sat on the ground and enjoyed the moment one would jump right into your lap.” He was both right and wrong with that statement, but that’s for a different post.

That same comparison is apt for the holidays too. Every year I try to find one weekend where I do nothing and just relax; just allow myself to feel the season around me in whatever way strikes my fancy – and I’m seldom successful. It could be a Christmas show at the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, a trip to Callaway Gardens to see the lights, or even just a night making homemade hot apple cider and cooking a delectable tray of coronary delights.

Perhaps the reason I love the Christmas season so much is I have a big heart. Many people have told me my capacity for compassion sometimes holds no bounds – almost to a fault. Just before Christmas, when I was younger, maybe 10 or 11 years old, my mom took my brother and I to an indoor soccer game downtown at the Omni. As we were leaving the stadium sitting snug and warm in our car, coats, gloves, and hats strewn amongst us like toys discarded by an impatient 3 year old, I looked out the window and saw a group of people standing around a rust-beaten metal barrel containing a barely burning fire. I don’t remember exactly what I asked my mom, but she replied, “… because those people don’t have any homes”. Later that night, long after we had been put to bed, my mom came to check my brother and I before she went to bed. As she poked her head into the room, she caught a gentle whimper that had escaped my lips. I remember her walking closer and sitting on the edge of the bed and she said to me, “Daniel… what’s wrong honey?” I looked at her, my pillow and cheeks a tear splattered mess, and quite simply said, “I’m crying for those people who don’t have homes.”

As I’m sitting here, warm and cozy under a six inch thick down comforter on a twin bed in my 10×10 cell of a room in 1 degree Fahrenheit Oslo, Norway, I’m reminded of yet another Christmas memory. When high school ended most of my friends went their separate ways. One friend in particular, my only real female friend in high school, had gone into the Navy. There she was stationed in Washington D.C. as part of the honor guard at Arlington. She and I would chat occasionally, every few weeks or so, and during one of those chats she mentioned how disappointed she was that she couldn’t come home for Christmas and this was the first Christmas she wouldn’t be home with her family. As the holidays continued to wind their way into the cathartic culmination of Christmas my friend grew more and more frustrated she was not going to be able to come home; she just did not have money for a plane ticket and her parents didn’t have it either.

You can guess where this is going…

Then one morning, about four or five days before Christmas, I talked to my dad and asked if he had any frequent flyer miles I could maybe use for a ticket. He asked where I wanted to go, and I explained I really didn’t want to go anywhere, but really would like to get Kristin home to be with her family. My dad said he would look into it and that was that.

About a day or so later, my dad said he had enough points for a ticket but that due to the short time we had to get the ticket it would be a $125 fee for the last minute booking. So I said no problem, I think Kristin can make that work and promised I’d get him the $125 when she got here. So I called her and told her my dad had a free ticket that I could use to get her here if she was really serious about coming home. She was so excited I was afraid she’d pee herself. I’m still very glad to this day she didn’t.

So the next day, now only two days before Christmas, I was in the car with my dad en-route to the Fed Ex store to get the frequent flyer ticket in my hands sent to Kristin in a priority overnight envelope. Note – for someone never in the service, much to my regret, understanding the military postal nomenclature is a challenge.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, shortly after 9am, the Fed Ex package arrived and off Kristin went to the airport – her flight was literally that afternoon. A few short hours later I was at the C concourse in Hartsfield Airport laughing softly to myself as a smiling, tall, crazy blonde girl waved her arms erratically as she rushed through the airport terminal to hug me (this was back when you could go right to the gate to meet your party; things are much different now). As she came toward me I can’t describe to you how happy she was in that moment; in a pang of retrospective selfishness I have to say I was proud of myself for orchestrating and leading this ‘miracle’ to success.

After picking her up at the airport I took her over to her parents house and parked a little way down the street; her arrival was supposed to be a surprise. I helped her get the luggage out of the car, wished her a Merry Christmas, and then watched as she walked through the yard and knocked on the front door. When her mom opened it she just stood there in disbelief. Here was her daughter, completely unexpected; it was as if a ‘miracle’ had been granted or teleportation invented. It disheartens me slightly to acknowledge teleportation is not yet a reality. Mother and daughter hugged, and cried, and as I pulled away I saw them holding each other tightly.

That is one of my favorite Christmas memories and I will always carry it with me no matter what happens in my life. That is what the season is supposed to be about. It’s hard to remember sometimes. We get caught up in our own world of parties, shopping, expectations… we lose meaning in the season. One thing you might be asking yourself if you were paying attention… that $125 thing… I told her it was free, I told my dad the money was from her. In reality I paid it, but didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. What I wanted was my friend home with her family without any sense of obligation to myself other than a hug and a thank you.

Along the same lines of a heart warming Christmas story, this past week a friend sent me one of those chain stories that makes you all teary-eyed go “awww…” at the end. In this particular story a man has cancer, so he puts a white envelope on the tree branches with a note listing the ways he has donated to cancer victims instead of buying gifts to other people. After this man dies from cancer his wife and daughters continue on the tradition. You may have seen this story already; it’s been covered numerous times in both print and online media. In fact, my brother and I did this several years ago. We each donated $100 to a charity of our own choosing instead of getting each other presents – I’ll do the same this year for him.

Shortly after that email, I got an email from my mom which had a link to a blog from someone she knew. She said I should read the post about what this guy was doing for his back pain. I read it, was nothing I hadn’t seen before, but I continued to read the rest of it too…and my misting eyes turned into clear, salty droplets of compassion. It could be the steroids have caught up with me emotionally, I’ve been on a high dose of Prednisolone these past few weeks due to the pain in my back, or I could just be a giant vagina and I’m having my man period; we may never know, but as my psychology professor once said “if the question is either / or, the answer is usually both”.

As I read this man’s blog I couldn’t help but be consumed by a predisposition for compassion fueled by the outright optimism demonstrated by the words of this man and his wife. In summary – he and his wife had been battling a multiple myeloma (cancer) for many years; their architecture company was on the dregs of bankruptcy, but managing to scrape by while the man slowly recovered from such a devastating disease. The particular post I read mentioned all the people who had come to his aid to help make ends meet; when you’re spending $11,000 a month for medication life becomes … difficult.

In appreciation of all the things different organizations had done for him, the man and his wife are taking part in a charity event walking a 15K for the Leukimia Foundation. He did not think he’d be able to do the whole thing, but was making valiant effort training for it. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of connection with this man I’d never met; I can tell you all about getting ready for something like he’s doing and being much less than optimal medically. As with any charity event, Bob had pledged to raise a little bit of money so … yep… I went and got my wallet off the dresser and donated on the spot. And I think I got frostbite in the process – that floor was COLD!

Nobody asked me to donate; hell, I talked to my mom later that night on our first “you mean we can talk over the internet on the computer?!!?!?” chat and I didn’t even mention it. The amount I donated is immaterial; I was moved and so I said why not? I also made the donation anonymously; he’s never met me, never will, so why bother with a name? And besides, I didn’t do this to toot my own horn.

As I got done talking to my mom a thought occurred to me; maybe I could make a Christmas memory for this guy? Something that he thinks back on for the rest of his life and just is amazed at what coincidence and fate has wrought.

So with all that said, here’s what I’m asking everyone to do:

1)   Go to the following address, http://pages.teamintraining.org/ga/crttybrf13/marshrats, and then click to donate to the team.

2)   Fill out all the fields they ask for, but then submit anonymously. In the message / description box just put in something that mentions the white envelope and a heart felt message from yourself. I don’t care how much you donate, it could be just $1 dollar, but I want to fill this guy’s inbox with supportive messages … from people he’s never met. To be clear, I’m not asking for donations of money, I’m asking for an anonymous donation to his spirit.

Imagine how good you’ll feel in a year from now, or five years from now, when you can think back about how cool it was to be part of something really neat that came out of nowhere to support someone you will never meet. And the best part, is you’re doing it for yourself too. See, what I figured out as I was writing this, is Christmas is about giving. The memories that you will keep with you forever are the ones where you brightened someone’s Christmas by giving, not by getting. Even when the thing you got was a jillion pieces of Lego, it is always better to give.

So with that said, I really hope you’ll take a couple minutes to donate a dollar or five to Bob. Let him be your cup of coffee today, let him be your white envelope this year. Everyone loves a white Christmas… make Bob’s white – not with snow, but with envelopes.

Merry Christmas… and to all a good night.

Daniel

[ Editor's note: It wasn't until after I wrote this and showed it to my mom last night that she informed me of something profound. This guy, Bob Cain, before he got into architecture, used to be a race car driver and is a huge fan of the Lotus marquee. He never had the chance to own one, but championing this cause for him brings me untold joy as a fellow car and Lotus enthusiast. It's a small world... ]

Hei fra Norge!

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Nine hours on a plane is a long time. About seven hours in my hip started to hurt, no surprise given I had trouble getting through the three hour movie the night before, so I squirmed around in my seat looking like a baby crankily stretching from a nap. Or the way I look when I get up from a nap. After landing in Amsterdam my first thought was how different everything was, yet how much the same it was. It was like ordering lasagna at a new restaurant so its new and unknown, yet its lasagna, and intimately familiar. I don’t know, this is my first time going to Europe so I could just be making shit up. Also, I had a hot meal on the plane – no fucking shit … it was Chicken Cordon Bleu. My hobby kit for one – Fight Club faithful will get the reference. What are the odds?

Amsterdam was brief, a 40 minute sprint from one flight to the next with an unmistakable pain in the ass checkpoint in the middle of the airport. Bear in mind I had been cleared through security in Atlanta, yet in Amsterdam got stopped and searched for having a water bottle in my bag – I mean, you can’t carry a bottle of water from the plane you arrived in on one side of the airport to the plane you’re boarding on the other. What the fuck, over? So that was a PITA. Especially since I had one sip out of it. Fuckers. I also managed to lose my travel adapter when they made me remove all my cables from my bag – oops. That would have some dear consequences later, which we’ll get to… later.

So going from Amsterdam I had an hour and a half flight to Oslo Godermoen Airport. My first impression that I’d left Kansas was when they gave the safety speech on how to get out of the aircraft, if we survived the impact, in Norwegian first and in English second. It’s a small thing but you’re used to hearing English first; trust me.

Upon landing in Oslo I noticed snow everywhere. The sun was just coming up… at 9:30 in the morning and the air had a gray palor to it. It looked cold. As I got off the plane I was greeted by a wall of arctic air. It was a palpable feeling across my body, like a shockwave from a low flying plane exceeding Mach 1. I was back in the terminal pretty fast. And the terminal was a windowed maze where corridors stretch into yet more glass corridors like those optical illusions with the stairs go both up and down and never end.

From there, I followed the herd of cattle (people) to baggage claim and then managed to find the information desk. I asked them how one might get to the Thon Splottskatarkengen hotel if one was an idiot foreigner trapped in the glass rat maze of an airport. Note – if you’ve ever been to the airport in Vancouver I swear they were designed and built by the same deranged mad man. The lady laughed at my colorful euphamisms; I don’t think she realized I was serious. So after a bit of dialog I ended up finding my way to the train terminal. There I was greeted by a less than helpful train agent and an automated ticket machine … with everything in Norwegian. After about 10 minutes I figured out which key was the ‘OK’ one and managed to buy a ticket. Let’s hear it for trial and error coupled with strict use of the scientific method; can I get a woot woot?

I hopped a deserted train for my 30 minute ride to Oz – the ‘Express Train’ is bad ass.  I would pay to ride that thing in a circle at home if it existed. It was like riding a rollercoaster with wheels made of Crisco, so smooth … and after conceptualizing MARTA in my memory I realize how far the US has to go to catch up to urban travel in Europe.

After the train comes the Death March. In the email I was sent with instructions on how to get to the hotel, the walk from the train station to the hotel was described as a “pleasant 10-15 minute stroll through downtown Oslo”. It was 11 degrees Fahrenheit when I landed in Oslo. It was 8 degrees when I got off the train. 8 degrees of arctic air is FUCKING COLD. Ohh, did I mention I was too lazily stubborn to pack my giant bulky, winter coat so I only have the Splunk wind proof / water proof thermal jacket I got for free while speaking at their user conference? And I have some gloves I bought from REI and my winter skull cap I bought at Phillips Arena – Let’s go Thrashers, Let’s go! So back to this coat thing… Splunk, thank you. Your coat kicks ass due to its impenetrable lightness of being therefore keeping me warm in 8 degree artic air. REI… fuck you. Your gloves suck. I’m throwing them out when I get home.

I set my stuff down and broke out my unexpectedly awesome coat, my shitty gloves, and my Thrashers hat after navigating the rat maze of subterranean concrete called a train station. I mean the only reason I found the surface was I followed the hot blonde in front of me like a stalker. If she walked faster, I walked faster. Note – it wasn’t until later that night that I found out Oslo has a serious rape problem. I’m sorry for scaring you little blonde girl with the cute ass, my bad. I’m a foreigner, I don’t know these things.

I’ve finally found the surface … and have no idea where I am. There are buildings all around and a frozen fountain in front of me. Momentary panic sets in – I’m in a foreign city, alone, I’m feeling the blood slowly freeze as it circulates within me, the hot blonde is nowhere to be found, and I already can’t feel my hands. So, I use my powers of sublime observation to focus my thoughts on deducing which way to go. My thoughts occur in this order:

  1. I’m in a former Soviet Bloc country. Every building looks like it is a former Soviet Bloc building. I’m looking around for a statue of Stalin. There are none I can see. (Editor’s note: Norway was not part of the Soviet Bloc. I’m a dumbass.)
  2. Whoever did the graphics for Ghost Recon absolutely got the building textures right. I seriously thought I was on the streets of ‘Embassy’ minus an M4. Every time I go outside I think about Ghost Recon. Weird how we build up these word associations in our mind.
  3. It’s fucking cold. While I’m thinking about video games my core temperature has dropped by 2 degrees.
  4. I pull out my phone and attempt to fire up the GPS. I have no data feed – I’m roaming at $19.99/MB. Yes, per megabyte. Fuck me. I enable roaming data. No signal. In the middle of the city I have no signal. Shut off roaming data.
  5. Go to backup option – the ‘Foreigners for Dummies’ paper map I picked up in the airport from the information desk. Nothing says I’m a lost tourist like a dude with luggage wandering around the streets with a 3 foot by 3 foot map in front of his face.
  6. I find the hotel on the map. It’s northwest. Which way is northwest? There are no street signs. I’m fucked… or am I… It’s about 10 AM. The sun is rising (yes, rising on the horizon at 10AM)… the sun rises in the east. So if I put the sun at my 4 o’clock the hotel should be at my 11 o’clock. So off we go on Frederk’s Gate. There are no roads here, they are called gates.
  7. I pass a group of girls walking down the street. They are all hot. All of them. Hot. Very hot. I notice this yet the fundamental light bulb has not turned on.
  8. I wander, using the sun as my guide, through the labyrinth of desolate Oslo city streets and alas… I find the hotel. I should have been a boy scout. I could totally have gotten my urban navigation badge. With honors bitches.

Now I get to the hotel, get checked in, and get to my room. A guy gets on the elevator with me who was outside smoking when I walked up to the hotel. I make a comment, in American English, about how he could smoke out there with it being so cold. He said, in unflawed Texas English, “Sheeit son, I was in Germany in the Cor’ an’ this ain’t no crap!”. So we chat, he’s from Texas, and an ex-marine. Ok, cool, I feel safe. He’s in IT. He asks if I’m single, I say yes. He looks at me and says this is a single man’s paradise. I ask why. He shrugs, laughs, and walks away. No lightbulb yet.

I get into the room and it is the size of a 10×10 cell. It is fucking TINY. But it’s also enamored with versatile solutions for modern living. Want to experience Norway? Go to Ikea, find one of the 200 sq. ft mock-apartments, then live there for a week. Congratulations, you’ve just stayed in the Thon Hotel Splottsparkentaken. Something cool – you have to put your key card into a slot near the door to turn on the power to the room – this saves energy when you leave. Very cool. Yay, for going green. Next was find the thermostat – there is none. The white plastic knob on the radiator behind the curtains underneath the window controls the only heat to the room. That discovery took 20 minutes. Thank god I grew up in 1980’s Detroit and my grandparents had a house built in the ‘30’s… with radiators in every room. That’s the only reason I knew to look for one. At one point I thought maybe the thermostat was controlled through the TV. I mean, it seemed logical at the time… 10 minutes of the 20 was trying to find the control software through the TV menu. Did not find the control center, but think they have an XSS somewhere in the menu system though. /shrug.

So then I napped. Not much to report there. I’d been up for 23 hours straight. No sleep on the plane – remember the leg thing?

When I got up I journeyed down for dinner. No restaurant or bar in the hotel. So I went to the reception desk and asked for some recommendations from the hot girl manning the front desk. Nope, no lightbulb yet. She recommended Tullin’s Café down the street so off I went.

It was a right at the end of the block, a right at the next street, a right after the bus stop and the next thing I know I’m back at the front door of the hotel. Seriously… what the fuck. It’s cold. Like 1 degree cold. No shit it was 1 degree. So I try this again. And I find it after the bus stop – language barrier. The bus stop is where the bus picks you up in the US… the bus stop in Norway is where all the buses stop. We’d call it a bus terminal, they call it a bus stop. I don’t know what they call a bus stop here. Who knew?

Let me describe Tullin’s. It’s brown leather, green and red paint, and poorly lit. Think Café Intermezzo and you’re 90% of the way there. And it’s warm and small with tables on top of tables. Warm and small in that way that makes you feel all kinds of cozy and want to strike up conversation with the hot girls at the table next to you. Nope, no lightbulb. The fact that I was starting to get feeling back in my hands seemed to indicate I should have a beer. Upon walking in I felt stupid standing at the door alone – do I wait to be seated or just go sit? The sign was written in Norwegian; it could say flap your arms like a chicken, turn in a circle four times, then jump up and down for a waitress to seat you and I wouldn’t know. After a couple minutes of me standing there anxiety was starting to settle in. I felt like every pretty girl in the place was looking at me, and I was a 165 lb buffoon foreigner standing in the door. Nope, no lightbulb yet. So I took the middle ground – I headed for the bar and got a Newcastle. A little something about the beer here – it’s fucking awesome. I can’t tell you how good something simple like a Newcastle is. Holy shit it was good.  So damn smooth and yummy. Mmmm… (editor’s note: I’m drinking one in Tullin’s right now as I write this).

After looking around the room, and inadvertently making eye contact with several really hot girls, I realized something. Every girl in the place was hot. Not like just really pretty, I mean like HOT. In shape, not a fat person in sight, all hot, all pretty in the face, all with little curves in the right place, and they all walk with this feminine sensuality where everything moves in right angles to everything else like they are propelled on some kind of invisible wave of sexual energy. And finally, the lightbulb. Scandinavian women are hot. Like everyone says how hot Swedish blondes are… well Norway has brunettes. And I love me some brunettes. This place is heaven. When I die I want to come here.

So anyway, back to Tullin’s. I wave down a waitress and corral a table. However, side note, I cashed out at the bar. The tab was 60 NOK. I tip 20%, or about 10 NOK. I don’t know how much money that is in dollars, but 20% is 20% right? So the bartender looks at me a little weird, takes the 10 NOK coin, and gives me this look again, then wanders away. It wasn’t until later that I learned you don’t tip here; it’s a cultural thing. Ooops. Foreigner for Dummies strikes again.

Now I’m sitting at my table, devouring a steaming plate of a moderately sized portion of Lasagne (yes, that’s spelled right, it’s Lasagna in Norwegian) and three people come sit down at the table next to me. An older gentleman, with a tinge of a Santa Clause air about him with a jolly smile and the laugh to match, another older gentleman wearing a humorous yet serious-always-processing kind of stature which I find immediately comforting since it reminds me of myself, and an older lady which for some reason I immediately see as someone possessing a carefree demeanor that’s belied by an intelligence that sits just slightly behind this extroverted smile. So the four of us begin talking and I learn they used to live in Atlanta and went to GA Tech. I mention I went there briefly and so we begin discussing Georgia, college, what brings us all to Norway and so on. The waitress comes over and we joke about running into other American people here and she makes the comment I’m welcome to join them at their table. So the older jolly gentleman says sure, come on over. So I head over and pull up a seat. And for the next several hours I sit there with the inventor of Citrix, his wife, and another co-conspirator at Citrix (employee number 3) and talk security, talk about how the moral degradation of society will prohibit the establishment of online privacy, we talk about startups, business ideas, I tell him about Fuzzdot and the work I’ve done with building relationship models for online data, and on and on and on. That was quite simply the best group of people I could ever have run into. And the fact I did it in Norway adds a sense of perfection to the entire experience. Such a fun night.

So with that meal complete, and the desire to get a little more rest in me, I head back to the hotel. A little time spent working and getting ready for the next day, cut short because I have no power adapter compatible with European electric plugs, and then a four hour nap interrupted by fits of tossing, turning, burning in my hip, and so on. Finally I break out the Percocet and pass into a fitful slumber.

That was the first day of my trip. Some lessons learned, some new friends made, and every bit of it was adventure spent fulfilling the discovery of lifelong memories. In closing I’ll leave you with my one overwhelming thought comprised of the two most important discoveries I made here in Norway…

Come to Norway!

Where the weather is cold,

but the women are hot.

Yes, I saved that up in my pre-pubescent brain the entire time I was writing this. Hei fra Norge!

Daniel

Tears of Love

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About this same time last year I wrote a story about a boy and girl in love. It’s the quintessential story we envision our lives to be; filled with love, children, happiness, and that little sliver of what makes us … us. It’s a Wednesday night and I can’t stop thinking about that story. I can’t stop thinking about it to the point that I have tears clinging to my eyelashes like dew on morning grass.

What’s brought me these tears, these tiny misting tears of happiness, is that there is a little blonde head, filled with hair, blocking my view of a cirque du soliel show. And as I sit here, craning my neck left and right, shifting in my seat so I can get a better view of the performance, her little blonde head keeps capturing my eyes and hence my thoughts. The thing is, last year that little blonde head was as smooth and hairless as the day she was born. Many people, myself included, were scared we might lose someone who brings joy to everyone around her. As the show goes on, that little blonde head bobbing and weaving in and out of my sight, I am amazed at how much the news of her cancer affected me just under 2 years ago. The fear, the concern, the ability to do … nothing. It wasn’t a problem I could solve; it was emasculating and on a very self-aware level understood I had been exposed to something that would forever change me and how I view the world.

So on that Wednesday night, July 25th, 2012, I let those feelings wash over me; as Morrie said “feel, and feel deeply”. It was a special night for a single reason … earlier that day she had been told her treatment was a success and she was cancer free. To someone who has lived under the fear of disease for years there is no greater joy you can experience than to hear you are cured.

Most of us can’t understand that feeling; so let’s try a thinking exercise instead:

Now do all those things then look me in the eye and tell me you’re going to be OK… and mean it.

I do not know how she has done it. I really don’t; I would have given up long ago and I can be exasperatingly stubborn at times. Despite all she had been through here she was, sitting in front of me, watching a cirque du soliel show with me. Through all that, she made it. She’s the bravest person I’ve ever met. And the kindest. When I woke up from my surgery, exactly three months ago to that day, you know who was there to greet me? Dana and my mom. I remember when they walked into the recovery room I burst into tears. I’ll lay claim that my mood was affected by the sedatives, the pain medication, and all the other wonderful accoutrement from the surgery but honestly, it was because I was scared. I was so happy to see a face I knew, someone who I knew was there for me, and when I think of Dana I will always think of someone who was there for me.

After the show ended that Wednesday night in the city of glitz and glamour, we all said our goodbyes, and I went off in search of a glass of wine at a piano bar; somewhere to sit down, sip a glass of wine, and ponder how I would convey this story to all the people who supported me when I walked with Dana last year in the 3-Day. That night in Vegas I went to bed happy.

Then one day later… the happiness ended. I got a text message sometime that next morning, I want to say it was about 11 o’clock or so, and when I read it my heart sunk.

I have had a few moments in my life when my brain just stops. Where it gets such a jolt that it feels like it needs a reboot just to get cognitive thought working again. Just last night I was reveling in the thought that my friend was here, safe, the cancer gone, and now this. And after my head cleared from her message I did the only thing I could think of – I got down on my knees at the edge of the bed and I said a prayer. I’m somewhat ashamed to admit it wasn’t much of a prayer; it would be more honest for me to label it as a tirade. The message I sent God: “Why are you making this good, loving, caring person suffer? I’ve got my own struggles right now, and I’m willing to take on more pain myself, if you’d just kind of back off on Dana a bit you know? Let me have whatever pain, anguish, and struggle she has if it would spare her some.  Hasn’t she shown you she can be strong? Hasn’t she overcome enough?”. That might have been too blunt but I figure God is a busy guy and he’d appreciate me being direct and to the point.

Last year I hobbled 60 miles with an 8mm protrusion from a ruptured disc grinding against the sciatic nerve in my back like a hack saw (well, to be honest not quite 60 but I gave a damn good account of myself in my opinion) to support Dana. And as I walked I shared in the experiences of other women and at the end of it realized in my own little corner of the world there is Dana, but in the world at large there are many, many other people affected by breast cancer.

“I remember one lady I talked to – her younger sister became sick, was diagnosed with breast cancer, so the doctor recommended her other sisters get tested. The middle sister, the one I was walking with, tested negative. The older sister… tested positive. Within a year this lady had lost both of her sisters to breast cancer. “

And another.

“I noticed this lady limping along as I was. One of the other walkers, who was in good health, approached her and asked if she was alright. The limping lady responded by saying she was trying to make her way up to the top of the hill because her family, and most importantly her daughters, were waiting for her at the cheering station not far ahead. With an exasperated sigh, she commented on how important it was to show her daughters how to be strong, how to overcome challenges… how to live. And so the lady who was in good health grabbed the limping lady’s arm, draped it across her shoulders, and said to her “Girl, how about we get up this hill together?”

There are millions of other women with similar experiences. Just a couple weeks ago I was in Vancouver for business and a cute brunette waitress at dinner one night had a little pink ribbon tattoo on her ankle. I inquired about it and she told us the story of how she lost her aunt to breast cancer when she was 11. That’s a lifetime of love… lost.

After talking to the waitress, I realized maybe God did answer my prayers after all. Dana is still here. Dana is still struggling. And Dana is still walking. And I will still walk with her.

So that leads me to the point of this post – last year we raised over $4,000 in less than a day. I want to do the same this year, and to do that, I need your help. I had about 20 or so people donate to me last year and I am so grateful to them I wish there was a way to bundle this emotion of gratitude up and pass it back to them in a box with a little pink bow. I’m sure they felt it when they supported Dana and I, but I feel it times twenty – for those who didn’t donate last year, if you need a reference to describe it let me know – I’ll get you in touch with someone who gave me over a thousand dollars in a single donation and called me to tell me they were proud to know a man who would support a friend in need … and they’ll tell you what I’m telling you right now – it’s worth the money.

Now that you’ve read my tale I hope you feel something in your heart, and if you do, what I’m asking is this:

1)      If you donated last year, and wish to donate again this year, I won’t stop you – in fact I’ll be incredibly grateful – but what I really need is for you to send a link to this post out to your family, your friends, and help spread this message. Everyone is on social media now, this should be easy – Twitter this, Facebook this, spread the message. I mean, my Facebook wall is always covered with friends posting heart touching posts about saving animals and stuff; all I’m asking is you post a link to http://danielfrye.com and tell your circle of friends you know this guy who’s passionate about saving boobs, and he needs their help.

Here’s the link to donate and here’s a music video to put you in the right frame of mind while you do it. Turn up the music and when people come by asking what that garish noise is, tell them what a great thing you did to support someone you don’t even know.

2)      If you didn’t donate last year because we had never met, or maybe because you couldn’t quite get over the burden of procrastination, then this is your chance to do something good … and if you’re a woman do it for yourself. Any amount helps. I’m pledging $500 like I did last year, and I’ll pay the entire $2300 out of my own pocket if I have to, so don’t feel obligated, just feel lazy.

Again, here’s the link to donate and here’s a music video to put you in the right frame of mind while you do it. Like I said, turn up the music, turn it all the way up, and when people come by asking what that garish noise is, tell them what a great thing you did to support someone you don’t even know.

So in closing, I have two last things to say:

  1. My message this year is much more emotional to me than last year; I guess maybe that’s because it’s been a long road and I just want her to get better and put all this behind us.
  2. Or maybe it’s because being single now makes me realize how precious a girls boobs are. So to all the male’s reading this … think boobs. And go get your wallet. Then give your wife, girlfriend, or daughter a kiss on the cheek and tell her what you did to save her… because there’s a one in eight chance you’ll be walking one day for her.

Daniel

The Lost Art of Letter Writing

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In this day and age we communicate with those around us almost incessantly. We send a txt, an email, a tweet, a facebook post, all sent through an electronic medium in the most expedient manner possible. It’s about results, simplicity, and ease; a click here a click there and we’ve communicated our needs. Very logical and forthright … but without a trace of individuality.

Many years ago, and I’m reaching back to the Victorian Age here not the 1990′s, the act of communication was an art form – something undertaken with great sense of thought, posterity, and an underlying manner deemed acceptable for the message conveyed. But as the decades have rolled by we as a society have given away this transcendental form to something much less individualistic to something more … coarse. And its in the granularity of our communication in which meaning is found.

I’m sure many of us, if not all of us, have encountered situations where the nuance of electronic communication has prevented the true sense of our words to be conveyed and in the end caused a deal of consternation due to the misinterpretation of our meaning. Satire doesn’t carry well through electronic dialog. What many do not realize is electronic means do not convey the emotion of what we are writing and that encompasses many more things than simply satire. What many do not realize is our penmanship also subconsciously conveys a sense of underlying meaning to our words; very similar to our body language and posture when communicating directly with a person in our presence. Our smile, our frustration, our emotion, is missing from all of our current forms of communication. For the most part this lack of individuality and emotion is fine – placing a pizza order, instructions to subordinates on a task at work, scheduling something as simple as meeting or conference call – none of which require the least trace of emotion or true care. But there is something in our lives, all of our lives, which requires more than a cursory thought or logistical acumen…. love.

Love is something we feel not think. It is born of heart and soul, not mind and body. Yet we continue to convey such feeling and emotion through an impersonal and objectified means. Love has no objective. Love exists only to exist, much like the human species, and as such I question why we continue to abhor the very method of communication which conveys our love for one which is in strict opposition to that very goal.

As a man or woman, for I do not care about your gender nor does love, we are pleased when we feel the love from our chosen other. This can be a person we’ve dated once, many times, or a person who we’ve decided is our partner for life. And I use love in this paragraph not as the crescendo of human emotion, but that in the sense of self worth that we feel when someone says to use ‘I love you’.

However, despite the importance of that conveyance of emotion, we continue to pass it with ill-advised and often misbegotten means. And through that distortion we perpetuate only a half truth and do not only a dis-justice to ourselves, but to those we love.

With the eve of Valentines approaching, it is more critical now than in any time of year for us to be forthright about our true meaning, to convey that emotion and celebrate it, for this is the only day of the year where our message must be received without any squandering of thought or muddling of the other’s importance in our lives.

The most wonderful present you can ever give your significant other is a gift of your heart. It is the only thing you truly have to give that they cannot get anywhere else – and it is that gift, that unique flavor that makes us us, which is meant to be celebrated on this and every Valentines Day.

And to do that… I will help you. Together we are going to build a message filled with meaning, with emotion, and in the clearest possible way tell our significant other the most powerful words any of us will ever hear… ‘I love you’… but by demonstrating our love, not stating it.

To start with we have the salutation. This is where we greet the reader with a personal epitaph that is their identity.

Dear Julie,

Next we get to the introduction of the letter. I have been told over and over again the best way to capture your reader is to tell a story; and not only spoken to me but I’ve seen it exhibited in the feedback I get in my own writing. The feedback on A Love Story has been absolutely tremendous and to date I have never, ever, had anyone say that it was anything less than amazing. And as a writer, I can’t tell you how fulfilling it is to hear those words, particularly because of the care and concern I have for the subject matter.

So to start the body of our letter, we want to set the stage for what we are communicating, in a word our purpose. The most effective writing is to speak plainly and directly to our audience, in this instance, our significant other.

As I drove home tonight, thinking of our conversation over our drinks at the table tonight, I was struck with how far our relationship has gone in such a short time.

So we have established purpose, that we wish to communicate our thoughts as a result of our prior discussion. The fact that this is a new thought further involves our reader as they are now curious as to what we wish to convey.

I know we have had our bumps on occasion, but I cannot help but be amazed at the strength of what we have built. 

Next, we want to establish a sense of reality to our message. It’s not all ice cream and puppy dogs; this is real life, with its own trials and tribulations present at all times. But we also want to balance that message with hope, with confidence, and with a sense of stability which we feel in our relationship.

It was interesting hearing you talk tonight about how we met, about how you pursued me and how you simply gravitated to what you believed was a nice guy. I cannot express to you how wonderful I felt when you said that, it gave me a little smile inside because in my heart I know I am a great catch.

Next we speak of our emotions. Remember we are conveying our feelings to our partner, not telling them how they should feel or setting any expectations on a response from them; we are giving our feelings. And giving is simply that, presenting ourselves to them – to take it or leave it is for them to decide.

I’m not sure I said it at dinner tonight, but I want you to know that my feelings echo yours. Since we’ve gotten to know each other, I feel that every week is like going deeper and deeper on an adventure to the center of our hearts.

Next we tell our reader what it is we’re trying to say – in essence its the punchline of our message. We’ve hooked our reader and now we must set the hook. This is the most key component of our entire message – we must peak plainly, creatively, and without any capacity for misinterpretation – we must not only tell the person we love them but we must make them feel that we love them. Telling someone you love them is easy, hell, we do it everyday. But do you make them feel your love… that’s an entirely different ballgame.

There are so many things I want to say, so many ways I want to articulate the joy you bring me in my life, that I feel my words are meaningless. We have given each other gifts which we may feel are inconsequential to us as we give them, like me getting a few bucks out of the ATM to pay the babysitter on the way to pick you up or you cooking brownies on our 5th date for desert, but its those little things that we do for one another which build the cornerstones of our relationship.

Now that we’ve established purpose and hooked our audience, we can now … gush. I use that word quiet provacatively for that is the true nature of transmitting emotion. We must state, in no uncertain terms, that this letter is us pouring our heart into the purpose of subjectively, and if at all possible objectively, quantifying our feelings for the other person.

I’m excited for our trip in a few days and like this letter, I have a few little surprises here and there that I’ve put together just for you; nothing outlandish, just a little something to remind you how much your love means to me.

And finally we hit the conclusion, again focusing on how we feel and offering ourselves to them emotionally. We blame Hollywood for setting up the ending of a movie to support a sequel, but when it pertains to love, that is exactly what we must do, for love is an eternal spring; sometimes challenging and poisonous, but when it is right, it is clear and all encompassing like a pool of warm water in which we float and relish in our weightlessness.

With all my love and warmth on a cold windy night,

And lastly, the closing salutation. This should be something to set the time, the mood, and if at all possible bring the reader closer to you. Saying ‘Love, [your name]‘ frankly sucks. It’s not at all personal, doesn’t mark the occasion or the mood, and does nothing to set the letter as a marker on the timeline of your relationship. You’ll notice above I mentioned the cold night – it’s 19 degrees here – and I can gaurantee you in the future when she re-reads this letter, to feel that little glow of love travel through her body, she will remember the bone chilling cold of that particular night and how much she would cherish the warmth of our presence if we were with her.

So in its entirety:

Dear Julie,

As I drove home tonight, thinking of our conversation over our drinks at the table tonight, I was struck with how far our relationship has gone in such a short time. I know we have had our bumps on occasion, but I cannot help but be amazed at the strength of what we have built. 

It was interesting hearing you talk tonight about how we met, about how you pursued me and how you simply gravitated to what you believed was a nice guy. I cannot express to you how wonderful I felt when you said that, it gave me a little smile inside because in my heart I know I am a great catch.

I’m not sure I said it at dinner tonight, but I want you to know that my feelings echo yours. Since we’ve gotten to know each other, I feel that every week is like going deeper and deeper on an adventure to the center of our hearts.

There are so many things I want to say, so many ways I want to articulate the joy you bring me in my life, that I feel my words are meaningless. We have given each other gifts which we may feel are inconsequential to us as we give them, like me getting a few bucks out of the ATM to pay the babysitter on the way to pick you up or you cooking brownies on our 5th date for desert, but its those little things that we do for one another which build the cornerstones of our relationship.

I’m excited for our trip in a few days and like this letter, I have a few little surprises here and there that I’ve put together just for you; nothing outlandish, just a little something to remind you how much your love means to me.

With all my love and warmth on a cold windy night,

Daniel

And with that, our letter is complete. Simple, to the point, filled with our emotional message which our recipient is bound to feel. So my challenge to you is this – on Tuesday, February 14th, 2012, get a sheet of paper, a pen, and find 15 minutes to write a simple, heartfelt message to your Valentine. Demonstrate to her the goodness you feel and for once, make Valentines something other than the Hallmark Holiday the jaded and loveless make it out to be and do so without the informality of a txt, an email, a tweet, or a post.

Many years ago, discussing this very topic someone said to me once that they couldn’t write a love letter to their spouse, that they would be too embarrassed to write something so fraught with emotion. To those that share a similar line of thinking I say this: I just wrote a letter to the woman I love, and I love her so much, that I am not afraid to share it with the world, because I want the world to know what a lucky man I am. And if you are equally as lucky, I ask you to only share it with the object of your love, and I assure the warmth of their emotion will shine like a beacon of light across any expanse of fog which may currently envelop your relationship.

Daniel

My tale of woe (or how AT&T has failed me)

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I am writing to you with the hope that someone can assist me with having my service repaired. I’ve attempted numerous times to work through the AT&T support system but so far have not been successful. The timeline below details my communications and challenges so far since my outage began. If anyone would like additional details on any of the points below I’m happy to provide more details wherever possible.

Friday February 3rd

Service loss for internet and TV was noticed at approximately 8:30 AM when I started work for the day from my home office. A call was placed to AT&T’s 800 number for tech support at approximately 9 AM ET and initially the helpdesk rep wanted to send me a new modem rather than initiate a repair ticket. In a previous experience with AT&T Uverse, I’d waited almost 2 weeks with no internet and TV while they sent me a new modem which never showed up. In every incident I’ve had so far at my house with Uverse it has been an outside wiring problem and was not going to wait a few days for them to ship me a modem which would not resolve the issue. After discussion with the rep, a ticket was opened for an outside wiring tech to be onsite between 4-8 PM that evening. One specific note about my home, upon initial install of my Uverse service 2 years ago the exterior NID jack is actually installed in the basement of the house so any access to the NID requires someone to be home.

At approximately 10 PM I called back into the 800 number since nobody had been to the house and I had not heard from any tech saying they were on their way. When I spoke to the help desk they informed me that they weren’t sure why the tech missed the appointment but the next available appointment would be Sunday, February 5th between 8 AM and noon. I said that was not acceptable as they had already missed my initial appointment and felt there was no reason I should be placed at the back of the service queue. The help desk representative agreed and a service ticket for an outside wiring tech was placed for Saturday February 4th between 4-8 pm.

Saturday February 4th

At approximately 4:15 PM I received a phone call stating that an inside tech was on the way to my location. I inquired why they were sending an inside tech when it had been determined an outside tech was needed as no signal was entering the home and their response was some mistake must have been made. The ticket was then changed to an outside tech and I was told I would receive a phone call from them once they were on their way. At 6 PM I called back into the 800 number to check on the status of the service call and was informed the ticket was placed on hold and that no service was scheduled. After explaining the situation to the help desk rep and their supervisor, I was informed that they would send over an outside wiring tech that evening before 8 PM. No phone call was received, no tech had arrived, and at 10 PM no service had been restored.

Sunday February 5th

At approximately 8:15 AM an outside wiring tech named Kendrick showed up to my home unannounced to fix the service. After investigating the issue it appeared that a squirrel had chewed on the house wires attached to the pole at the street. The outside wiring tech was seeing very limited signal in the house initially. After replacing the line from the pole to the NID he stated the line tested fine and was ready to go. However, the modem was not syncing and the outside tech said the modem would need to be replaced. He did not have any modems with him since he was an outside tech and an inside tech would need to come out to replace the modem. Initially he stated I would need to call in to the 800 number to get an inside tech to come out. After speaking with him, he agreed to go ahead and put in the ticket for the inside tech but I would need to call the 800 number and escalate to a supervisor to get them to come out before the 4-8pm window that evening.

After calling the 800 number and escalating to a supervisor an inside tech was scheduled between then and 4 PM – it was roughly noon when the outside tech finished with his work. When the inside tech arrived around 2 PM, whose name was Martin Reyes, the line was tested and he said that an outside tech would need to come out as the line was not capable of supporting the 25mb of service I currently had and that tech’s were not allowed to downgrade service to get things operational. While he was at my house, the inside tech did a test downgrade on the line to a 19mb service and it operated fine so we knew the modem was functional and that it was indeed a line problem. He informed me that they would need to send another outside tech to the location to service the line again; that would be between 4-8 PM that evening. He also said that he was not authorized to downgrade the line permanently but could only do so for testing.

After escalating to a supervisor on the 800 number again, an outside line technician was sent to my house just before 4 PM but when he arrived the service had started working again. I asked the tech if the line was set for 19mb or 25mb and he replied it was set for 25mb. Since the line was working and seemed to be operating correctly, we agreed to leave the line as it was assuming that the inside tech had done a modem reset or some configuration change which kept the service operational.

Monday February 6th

After arriving home Monday Feb 6th I noticed service was once again not functional. I called into the 800 number, escalated to a supervisor, and asked them to drop my connection profile back to 19mb so I could continue to work from home this week and would schedule a service call on Saturday, February 11th when I could ensure I would be available as I’ve already taken a significant time away from work to deal with these issues. They said it was not possible for a customer to request a profile change and that they would need an inside tech at the premises to change the connection profile. This was in direct contrast to what I was told by Martin on Sunday. The supervisor / Tier 2 representative I talked to was Melba (operator ID MP855E) and she was as helpful as she could be under the circumstances.

After escalating to several supervisors and Tier 2 support, I gave up on trying to get service restored and instead scheduled a service tech to come onsite between 8-4 AM on Tuesday, February 7th. I suggested that both the inside and outside techs come onsite at the same time to work through the issue but was informed AT&T techs were not allowed to do that. They said that they could have the techs wait until the other arrived, but that they were not both allowed to service the location at once.

Tuesday February 7th

After waiting until 10:45 with no word from the outside or inside service tech, I once again called into the 800 number and asked to speak to a supervisor. I was finally able to get into touch with Melba after being on hold for almost 20 minutes and was informed the service call had been scheduled for Saturday the 11th and not for this morning, Tuesday the 7th. Melba rescheduled the service call for Tuesday the 7th between noon and 4 PM. At 3:30 PM I received a voicemail from the automated system notifying me they would be unable to meet the 4 PM appointment time and a technician should be out later this evening.

As of 4pm service remains down for both TV and internet access. At this point I’m not sure where to go next – I’ve been a happy Uverse customer for several years and believe the technical aspects of the service, such as internet speed and video quality, are superior than competing products but service on my account has been a roadblock to resolving my issue and without a functioning service the good aspects of my experience are quickly being eroded.

Thank you for any help you can provide,

Daniel

The Death of America

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As most people know, I loaded up a car that has almost no dealership support, leaks water in heavy rain, has seats with virtually no padding, a radio that produces barely perceptible music through blown speakers which can just faintly be heard over the persistent and headache inducing exhaust noise and drove to Vegas and back; 4,740.2 miles round trip. In all similarities it is a go-kart for adults. A few strangers I’ve talked to, business contacts and the like, have asked the obligatory “how was the vacation?” and “where did you go?”. My response is always the same, a curt “I drove to Vegas”. I have grown accustomed to the “Wow, that’s a long drive” comment and even the “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas… except herpes. That shit comes back with you” quote… Yes, I’ve seen the movie, its a little passé now don’t you think? I don’t want to think about herpes. Especially Las Vegas Herpes, that’s like finding some form of bubonic plague in the 17th century (for the non-history buff’s among us, bubonic plague wiped out most of the known world FYI). Imagine that, catching the Bubonic Plague starting with my junk … no thanks.

So if the trip wasn’t about the destination, then what exactly was it about? Well, to understand that you have to understand my mindset about a year ago. Here’s a guy with a dream of one day owning a particular car, not even an expensive car mind you, and a relationship that was like a tree wilting on the eve of winter solstice. After the relationship ended, our guy finds himself suddenly thrust into the presence of another woman. However, this woman doesn’t love him, because he knows no adventure, and turns his heart to ashes (or so he thinks, he never got a real clear answer from her on exactly why). So the main character of our plot, this totally mostly normal guy, on one rainy lonely night, picks up a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and resumes reading from page 64 where he stopped years ago. And as he reads, he yearns within himself to see these great vistas of the West, a feeling that he hasn’t indulged on since his last Alaska trip in 2003. The plains of Oklahoma, the desert mountains of Nevada and Arizona, the flat never-ending plains of Texas. These things that he’s flown over so many times call to him.

And so one day, shortly thereafter, our protagonist stumbles across a forum thread discussing a road trip to the annual Lotus Owners Gathering, aka LOG. But the trip is more than that, its a Great Westward Journey, one that our protagonist grips within his heart with a sense of amazement, glee, and a shade of trepidation. And after the preliminary planning, packing, saving, and preparation sets out upon what is to him an adventure in his soul.

At first I thought, myself being the protagonist in this story of course, that I would write a day-by-day journey of my adventures West and that it of itself would in some way convey the excitment of the journey and carry with it the wonderment of discovering forgotten places which few have seen. But that has already been done, in a more concise manner than I could ever have done, and I encourage you to take a few minutes and read through it for it is indeed a heady wine filled with the sights of America.

But after 2 months, recounting those things would do nothing but provide more details to what I have already told many about. Instead, I’m filled with something different. For I have seen the dead and decaying carcass of America and I know what encompasses our future as a nation, and perhaps as a footnote in the history of civilazation.

When you fly across the country your focus is on the person next to you and your single serving chicken cordon-bleu hobby kit as Palahniuk would term it, not that they serve food on airlines anymore. You’re whisked from place to place with the recycled oxygen enriched air around you, your face planted into your laptop or iPad, reading email, catching up on work, or straining your eyes to watch a movie on a shitty 12″ screen 8 rows in front of you. In essence… you’re transported from place to place by an annoying process of luggage screenings, lines, and processed food that only barely resembles what it was advertised as.

But driving… now there is an experience. Most people think of driving as something that’s done to get from point A to point B. A method of conveyance for which they are grateful, yet never exuberant. But what this overwhelming sea of humantiy misses … is that is America. I may be biased; I grew up in the Motor City. Now a smoldering pile of rubble, and it tears the chords of anguish in my heart to see a city which was America reduced to an impoverished nation. Imported from Detroit indeed; Chrysler’s benevolence in that statement confounds me, yet brings me a swell of pride to say “I am from Detroit.”

As our troop of M&M’s journeyed through these forgotten midwest towns, I was struck with the scenes around me. Here are people, gathered around us, asking questions about the cars, where we are from, where we’re going… I doubt aliens landing in town square would have received as much attention. And the thing is, all these people were genuinely interesting in the stories we could tell. But the best part, was that I was genuinely interested in the stories that they told me, and in absence of their stories I read the land around me.

And it breaks my heart to say it, but Middle America is dead. I will never forget passing through McLean, Texas. Just off I-40 we made a quick loop through McLean in search of gas for the Lotus’ have a very limited range, roughly 240 miles. As we pulled through I was startled by the town. Imagine a pristine 1950′s town, movie theater, gas station, small town America in a box… empty. I don’t mean run down or abandoned or littered with graffiti… I mean… empty. We zipped through, for we were on an itinerary (just ask Randy), and as we drove through part of me wanted to stop and just take a picture. Just one. Like a rose being dropped onto a lowered casket, a final goodbye.

And to be clear, I’m not just talking about McLean. I’m talking about Galena too, where the Four Women on the Route still remains, despite the local economy being … dead. So what killed these great towns in Middle America? Quite simply … we did. Not today, or yesterday, but when we determined getting from A to B was more important than the journey of getting from point A to B, we killed a piece of ourselves. We are America – we revel in the ability to create, build, our uniqueness, and our ingenuity. But in our desperate rush to grasp that next idea, to take the next leap, to go faster, we’ve abandoned that which makes us American.

And the question I ask is why? Maybe if we weren’t so goddamn worried about our next 3% raise, or wearing a pair of Gucci-fucking-loafers, we’d pick up our heads, look around, and go “holy shit(!) there is a world around me to which I know nothing!”. And maybe, just maybe, we’d get in our cars and instead of spending $1500 on some plane tickets we’d  take our kids, and say “HERE, THIS IS AMERICA!”. But we don’t. We’ve got soccer practice, after school care to pay for, deadlines from our boss… and absolutely no balls to draw a line in the sand and take ownership for how we choose to live our lives. No ownership of what it means to taste, and feel, and see America. To “look upon our mighty works and despair”, for despair we would, our works grow to dust behind us. And that is the great fallacy of America, and the American Dream, we keep breathing the air in front of us only to leave dust in our wake… like a parasite.

So you wonder, what’s the point. My message is this: Put it on your list of life’s journeys to go find America, to truly find it, to pull into a forgotten town, talk to the residents, eat their food, drink their beer, give them a smile and a wave, and make friends with someone you will never see again. It will open your eyes in a way I cannot describe and the exuberance of it will embrace you in a way you will never forget. And when you pass a convoy of Lotus’ heading in the opposite direction give us a wave and wish us well on the road to tasting the forgotten past of the greatest land on earth.

Yet Another “Good Password” Article

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There are a myriad of articles on the web about picking good passwords; just go to Google and type in ‘how to choose a good password’ and you’ll get 127 million hits (seriously). Yet despite that, it amazes me that people still make poor choices when it comes to password strength or choose to use the same password at multiple websites. Is it that they don’t care about security, don’t understand how to be secure, or is their lack of security born of an ignorance that bad things can happen to them?

For those who aren’t familiar with the Gawker Media hack back in December of 2010 I’ll give you a quick recap; big media company gets hacked into, hackers steal the usernames and passwords for Gawker’s users, those users had used those same usernames / passwords other places, the users could get their other accounts broken into. That’s a pretty broad summary, but for our purposes it’s an apt description. My point is simple – hackers are all over the place and the things they do might not target you specifically but they can affect you. Some hackers are good, some evil, and most subsist somewhere in the middle of the ether as a grey-hat wearing mob. I’m not saying Gawker isn’t blameless, but to be fair, the users who used the same password all over the internet aren’t blameless either. So using the Gawker gaffe as an example…

Rule #1: Use a different password for every website, service, computer, network, etc

Common objection: that sounds really … difficult. I made a quick list off the top of my head and came back with 28 different websites I have passwords to which I use on a somewhat frequent basis. This includes work passwords, banking, personal email, regular websites I visit which require a username / password, and other local passwords, such as my encrypted hard drives. Remembering 28 passwords would be a challenge for most people (or almost all) and there are times where I forget passwords quite frequently. So how do I track all this stuff? Simple, I use a password manager which keeps all my passwords organized and encrypted. Note I underlined, bolded, and italicized encrypted. We’re not talking a spreadsheet, text file, or word doc here folks. Alternatively, there are other options which are supported on mobile platforms as well. And those are just two I know of – Google has a lot of other options.

Rule #2: There is no excuse for not having a way to manage your passwords

Since we know we need to keep our passwords different for each website and we have a way to store them encrypted, the next logical problem is a password like ‘quDj3aK!a9_1gf2’ is impossible to remember. Yep, I agree, it’s completely impossible to remember and as a password it completely sucks – I would never use a password like that. Instead, I find something that is easy to remember yet would (most likely) never be found in an English dictionary (we also call these passphrases).

[Editorial side note: security professionals have been talking about passwords versus passphrases and how much more secure they are for over a decade… yet we continue to use the word ‘password’ on website login forms and in our own security documents. Maybe we’re not so good at this “leading by example” thing anyway].

So as for an example to what a good password looks like, my banking password for a long time was ‘I need $$ to buy bling’. Seriously, just like that (yeah, it’s been changed now so don’t bother trying to brute force it). As a password it’s about perfect – it doesn’t exist in the English dictionary as a whole word, has some special characters randomly in it, and best of all is easily remembered. What’s even better is you can come up with these little phrases all day long. Amazon: ‘I like to buy b00ks’. iTunes: ‘No Beatles here!’. And so on and so on, it’s really quite easy.

Rule #3: Good passwords are easy, if they’re not, you’re making it too hard.

Password changing has always been a good topic of debate between users and security professionals. We set policies to force people to change their passwords every 30 / 60 / 90 days and most of the time the users complain. The reason for this is simple – once I figure out what your password is, and you never change it, I have access to your account forever. Using the Gawker hack as an example, the list of passwords the attackers have in their possession never gets stale – they will continue to work because people have website accounts somewhere on some forgotten service and they will never, ever, remember to go change them because they never use the service anymore. And that particular service might have your credit card information stored in it. Good example is Ticketmaster, your local pizza chain, or iTunes – they all save your credit card info to make it easier to purchase items.

Rule #4: Change your password. It doesn’t have to be every X days, but realistically, at least do it every few months.

One trend that I find incredibly convenient is the use of your email address as your login name for different websites. As most of us know, the login name needs to be unique and as we all know, email addresses are as unique as your finger print (no two are the same, really). But here’s the problem – let’s say your email address is bobsmith@gmail.com and someone steals the iTunes user database from Apple. It takes an attacker about a fraction of a second to go login to Gmail with your iTunes username (bobsmith@gmail.com) on the Gmail website and see if your iTunes password and Gmail password are the same. If it is, guess what… they’re in your email. And since you’re lazy and don’t change your password regularly they are in your email forever. And since you didn’t change your password whenever someone else gets that same stolen iTunes data then you’ve got two people in your email now (or more).

Rule #5: Don’t ever use your email password anywhere else.

As is constant in life, the next “big thing” is always right around the corner and for passwords that is the use of ‘two factor authentication’ (2FA) whereby you use something you know (like a password) in combination with something you have (like a USB token). More and more services are starting to deploy 2FA in their offerings – give it a few years and we’ll see much more wide spread adoption, but for now it’s only relegated to the very techno-savy or techno-brave. In the meantime, mind your five rules above and you’ll probably be fairly safe for the time being.

Daniel

F*ck Cancer

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One of the simple joys of having your own website, and your own blog, is you can pretty much publish whatever you want; four letter words included. While I debated for a bit if the title of this post would offend anyone’s sensibilities, in the end I decided to keep this original title as it accurately reflects my state of mind after completing the Atlanta 3-Day this past weekend. Most of my regular readership (and then some judging by the number of hits I got on the site after I posted A Love Story) has read about how I came to be involved in the Susan G. Komen 3-Day Walk here in Atlanta so I’ll skip that portion of my account, but as we’ll see that’s pivotal to understanding what the 3-Day is all about. If you haven’t read it, go back and do so before proceeding further.

So a little back story… on Wednesday night, October 19th, two days before the 3-Day was scheduled to start I arrived home from what I will always consider one of the most epic journeys of my life. I’ll work on documenting that adventure later, as my emotional fortitude is preoccupied with this feeling of … well, of compassion, that is essential to get into words before its feeling fades. When I arrived home, being the astute social media tycoon I am (I use that term entirely satirically and with a predisposition of gross negligence), I checked Facebook. One of the first posts that crossed my eye was a post from Dana, my only fellow 3-Day walker, that she had a friend who was $415 short of making her donation minimum and that she would not be able to walk. In my post entitled Of Loss I made mention of a higher power that sometimes guides my life; once again it reared its majestic head. When I wrote A Love Story, I pledged and committed to donating $500 to the Susan G. Komen Foundation as part of my generosity and goodwill towards breasts, of which my love is well known. I had already donated $100, which was essentially seed money to spark donations from others into my account; nothing motivates like peer pressure. So with that in mind, I was still ‘on the books’ for another $400. While I was on The Great Journey West, through some act of this higher power, the 350Z I had been trying to get rid of sold and I was suddenly ‘rich’. When I committed to the $500 I figured I’d be donating it to myself, little did I know I would raise all the money I needed within 4 hours of posting A Love Story, so it seemed too convenient that Christen needed just $415 to walk with us. Alas, ‘Est Sularus Oth Mithas‘, and I donated $415 to Christen’s account the day before the 3-Day started (I spotted God the $15, I figure he’s good for it). So with that donation in place, our merry band of breast massaging marauders increased to three.

Another consideration to point out, which is essential for the story – for about 3 months prior to starting the walk I had been going to physical therapy once or twice a week to try and fix something in my hamstring. Nobody really knows exactly what it is; I’ve been to two doctors, two different physical therapists, a chiropractor, a massage therapist, and a psychic, yet no improvement (I’m joking about the psychic). So what does it feel like… well, it feels like you have a permanent charlie horse in your hamstring and after about 200 feet you begin to lose feeling in your foot, then your knee, then your calf, then your thigh, then your hip, until eventually it feels like your entire leg is asleep because you sat in the same position for too long. If you stop and stretch, you get that warm tingly feeling back in your leg and everything is good to go for about 200 more feet. Then you stop, stretch, then walk 200 more feet. Then you stop, stretch, then walk 200 more feet. Rinse and repeat. In any given mile you should plan on stopping about 15-20 times to stretch your hamstring so your 15 minute mile quickly becomes a 35 or 40 minute mile. You can see how this would affect the pace needed to complete an 18 mile day.

On Friday morning, Day 1, I awoke at 5am, showered, packed a camelbak with water, spare socks, foot powder, a big tube of BenGay, an Ace bandage, a bottle of Advil, a bottle of my prescribed anti-inflammatory med’s, my wallet, and cell phone and set off for the opening ceremonies at Stone Mountain.

Upon arriving it was like entering a Disney Land where Snow White and Little Miss Muffet had vomited pink on everything. I mean everything. As a man, its kind of disconcerting, but in the same way wearing camouflage fatigues becomes the norm for an infantryman, so did the pink decorations become the norm for me. In fact, by Sunday I was sporting a pink breast cancer ribbon tattoo under my left eye like a single tear shed by a stoic warrior, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

So once we were checked in, we listened to the opening ceremonies and after much fanfare and a few tears, we set out upon mile 1 and the journey was upon us. The day started well…

Mile 1: Day going well. Leg in good shape.
Mile 2: Day going well. Leg in good shape.
Mile 3: Day going well. Leg… slightly sore.
Mile 4: Day going to hell. Leg… more than slightly sore.
Mile 5: Fuck my leg hurts.
Mile 6: Holy fuck… I can’t feel my left foot.
Mile 7: We have just lost cabin pressure…
Mile 8: Disaster.

When we set out, I was determined to walk every mile of every day come hell or high water. I defied (and lied to) my physician because I didn’t want him to tell me I couldn’t walk. It was more important to me to be with Dana than it was to suffer physical pain, even if that meant the possibility of really doing some permanent damage. Big tough man and all that combined with a stubbornness borne through years of practice; yeah, you get it. So around mile 8, visibly limping, I passed one of the crossing guards / safety monitors. He inquired as to my limp, I explained I was fine, just a tinge sore, no worries. About 40 yards down the street I stopped to stretch, and as Dana and Christen can vouch for, I stopped to stretch quite frequently… it was the only way to get the pain to stop so I could continue on for another 40 yards. So along comes what’s called a ‘Sag Wagon’, basically a 10 person van that picks up the wounded and takes them to the next scheduled pit stop and drops them off at medical. The lady of the van, a really kind lady, asked if I was ok, I said sure, I’m fine, no worries, just stretching, and then she proceeded to pull over and jump out of her van and approach me. After some general dialog, to which I don’t remember the exact details, I said to her “I don’t want to get in the van. Are you going to make me get in?”. And she said to me “I can’t make you get in the van. I understand how you feel, but you’ve got three days of walking. Whatever or whoever you’re walking for would want you to get a ride with us up to the next pit stop and go to medical to get your leg looked at.” And inside, despite my best attempts to deny it, I knew she was right. So I acquiesced to her request and got a ride for 2 miles up to the next pit stop. At the time, I was emotionally crushed. I felt like I had failed, that despite my best efforts and most determined mind set… I failed. I was near tears… this was so important to me that I would have climbed the deepest seas and swam the tallest mountains to make it reality. I felt like I had let everyone down who donated to me.

As I reached camp, I shot a quick text to my girlfriend and mom and let them know I failed. And their responses shocked me – they both said I was an idiot. They both said: This wasn’t about me taking a nature hike through Atlanta, this was about the people who donated to me supporting a belief in a cause that was greater than themselves. It took me several minutes to wrap my brain around it, and I hope that I’ve articulated that clearly enough. Me walking these miles and me gathering donations was never about me… it was about them. I had already achieved success by gathering the donations; the 3-Day walk was almost a reward for that undertaking. So after being dropped off, resting my leg for a bit, pounding down a double dose of anti-inflammatory med’s and some Advil, I filled my camelbak and rejoined the walk. As a side note, you’re not supposed to mix prescription anti-inflammatory med’s and Advil, it causes your stomach to bleed. Don’t ask how I know this.

So with that mindset in place I rejoined Dana and Christen, had lunch, and finished out the day. We had essentially hiked from Stone Mountain, through Decatur, to the Georgia World Congress Center in one day. Of the 18 miles on the route card, I think I completed about 13 of them. On a bum leg, I’ll take that as an adequate attempt.

Day 2 began much like Day 1. Up early, pack my kit, and get to the start point at the Georgia World Congress Center and wait in line with 4,499 other people. On Day 2 we hiked through downtown, through midtown, up through Buckhead, down Peachtree street to Lindbergh station… and then called it a day. All three of us, Dana, Christen, and I, were about at our limit after doing 12 of the 18 miles. My leg hurt something fierce, Christen had blisters the size of jelly beans on her toes, and Dana was completely done in. At the cheering station at Lindbergh, we said our goodbyes and planned to get a few extra hours of rest to gear up for Day 3.

But during Day 2, there were a couple of things that happened to me which really shaped this feeling of compassion which two days later I just can’t seem to shake. The first thing, was the sense of community exhibited not by the walkers but by the people on the side or the road, driving by in cars, and the people running the event. For those that have never done a 3-Day, the echoes of “thanks for walking” and “looking good” become so passe that its hard to describe this little smile you get deep inside when so many people are cheering you on your way. It’s a feeling of righteousness, one that many people will never feel in their journey of life; and that is the real tragedy of this disease – that it robs people of their life. While cliche, the slogan “Everyone deserves a life” is so apt that I over look the cliche and accept it as a simple truth. My advice is this – if you ever get the opportunity to support the walk, go setup a table with about 10 boxes of Kleenex and some candy, you’ll be a hero. Speaking of hero’s, I have to mention the 3-Day Coffee Kids – you guys were awesome!

The second thing I have to mention is the spirit of the people doing the walk. T-Shirts with pictures of women who have died adorn many of the T-shirts, or T-Shirts “In Memory Of” along with a list of names of people who have died … it’s a powerful wine. I remember one lady I talked to – her younger sister became sick, was diagnosed with breast cancer, so the doctor recommend her other sisters get tested. The middle sister, the one I was walking with, tested negative. The older sister… tested positive. Within a year this lady had lost both of her sisters to breast cancer. To hear it 3rd hand from me does it no justice; to see the tears in her eyes, to see the pictures of these women on her shirt… it hurts and its real and I am thankful for being alive. The walk is a celebration in life if above all over things.

Another interesting thing that happened to me on that Saturday – while walking up Peachtree Street towards Lindbergh, I noticed this lady limping along as I was. One of the other walkers, who was in good health, approached her and asked if she was alright. The limping lady responded with saying she was trying to make her way up to the top of the hill because her family, and most importantly her daughters, were waiting for her at the cheering station not far ahead. With an exasperated sigh, she commented on how important it was to show her daughters how to be strong, how to over come challenges… how to live. And so the lady who was in good health grabbed the limping lady’s arm, draped it across her shoulders, and said to her “Girl, how about we get up this hill together?”. The smile and gratitude in the limping ladies face was like a ray of sunshine on a desolate plain of grey. That in a single instance, is what the 3-Day is all about. It’s about coming together as one to help women in pain overcome something so threatening to them.

Ohh yeah, and my button… Thanks Dana! So ended Day 2.

Day 3 was the longest day so far, about 15 miles of walking. At one point I had to hop on a bus and head to lunch since I couldn’t keep up with the minimum pace, but towards the end with a fresh set of anti-inflammatory drugs coursing through me and a good tape job from the folks at medical on my leg I was motoring. The highlight of Day 3 was the end to me, to walk into Turner Field with a smile on my face, hundreds of people lining the road cheering us on, to feel the exultation of making it so far… was awesome. To see the survivors cheering during the closing ceremony… I felt proud to be part of something so great, and that feeling I had, I hope, is the same feeling that I hope everyone who donated to me felt when they clicked the submit button. I fervently hope that one day, sometime in their lives, those who donated to me will walk in their own 3-Day. And when you need donations, I’m here and I’m good for it. Nor can I say thank you enough to the people who donated to enable me to walk those 60 miles… but I’ll try…

Thank You.

I can’t describe to you how it feels to be involved with the 3-Day and have it mean anything. I really wish I could, I wish I could let you feel the little smile creep out as thousands of people, one after another for miles and miles, tell you “thank you for walking”, or a little kid hands you a piece of candy for you to munch on as you walk, or to listen to a mother’s story of how she battled cancer after giving birth to her firstborn daughter while you walk beside her. These are things I can never share with you and have them mean the same thing as they did to me. I hope that I was able to give those that donated to me or another Walker a feeling of satisfaction, a feeling that they were doing something bigger than themselves, something that made a difference. After doing the walk, and not only hearing these stories but experiencing them first hand, I know that I’ll be in the same place next year doing the same thing alongside 4,990 women, 10 guys, and Dana. And at the end I’ll tell you the same thing … fuck cancer.

Daniel

Of Loss

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Today has been a crappy day. Not end-of-the-world crappy, I’ve had much, much worse, but one of those days that just seems to grate at a man’s soul like a splinter that won’t shake itself loose from the palm of your hand. Or that shaving cut right on the edge of your lip that stings every time you smile or laugh. And ironically, its on a day like this that I find myself tackling a topic that bears a similar feeling of methodical anguish… that of loss. Two things prompted this subject, and as the cosmos is neigh to incline, both entirely random within quick succession – a suggestion from someone I’m growing fond of and the ending of a video game. Different aspects, but both along similar lines.

In our lives, we will lose many things. We will lose pets, loved ones… we will outgrow our favorite T-shirt, we will outgrow relationships with those we truly cherish… our favorite car will become rusted and dented, the factories that once fueled a thriving city will grow silent and crumble. For we as a people are Ozymandias, king of kings, look upon our works, ye mighty, and despair.

So what makes up ‘loss’ as we perceive it? In general terms, its the removal of attachment; life’s way of ripping off our band-aid unexpectedly. Sometimes we expect it – we watch the health of our family pet deteriorate over the course of months and then feel something … gone. Other times its just taken from us – suddenly, without warning, without any trepidation on the part of anything or anyone.

Last year when I was in Las Vegas, the city of glitz and glamour, in my room at the Mirage getting ready to head out to breakfast, my mom and step dad called to tell me that their dog, well, our dog, Zorlene, named after the dog of our guide on our first Alaska trip, had passed away. At first nothing registered… I felt like I had just been told the weather report. Then it hit. That feeling of the band-aid being forcibly removed from me. I cried. Deeply, passionately, and in such force that I felt like less of a man inside. We’re sold on the fact that men can’t cry, they can’t show emotion, they can’t be anything less than the stoic warrior, jaw jutted out into the reaches of the world ready for the next challenge, the next battle, the next war. ‘Be brave!’ they call to us, be resolute, stand fast upon your perch!

But the truth of the matter is that we are not always resolute; we will not always stand fast in the face of agony. While I understood conceptually that Zorlene was gone, that I was 1500 miles away, and that I would never, ever, get to lay on the couch with her one more time, the anguish of that feeling drove me to tears. But what really hurt me, more than the loss itself, was that I had a feeling I didn’t act on. See, the weekend before I left for Vegas I had gone down to my parents house to spend a night in the country and see them before I headed out on my first great DefCon journey. And as I was leaving that Sunday morning, I was struck with an inclination that as I walked out the door I would never see Zorlene again. I honestly can’t tell you why, or how, or what even brought that feeling on. It was just … there. Inexplicable, unexplainable, but omnipresent. And for a second, I stood on the threshold of the door, looked back at Zorlene with a grin on her face, tongue dropping out of her mouth, and I could see love in her eyes. For the briefest of moments I felt her looking at me; no, not at me, but into me. Right then I thought to myself “I need to walk back in there and give her a big hug and just tell her I love her and what a great dog she is”. But I shook it off, what kind of man would feel such nonsense, and dismissed it. And for that… I wept.

I won’t, or can’t, say that was God sending a message to me or that fate wanted me to have that moment. I believe in certain things, perhaps one day I’ll tackle my spirituality in a post, but today I choose to abstain until such time as I feel its within my understanding to comment. But that defining moment I will never forget, nor will I forget the tears that flowed as a result.

Anyone reading this will be familiar with loss. Even as a young child we grow aware of it; our blankee that we clung to as a toddler gets left behind in Gettysburg, our favorite GI Joe vehicle gets broken, the plastic rear wheels on our first Big Wheels trike begin to crack from miles upon miles of 180 degree spins in the driveway under the watchful eyes of our parents; “look mom, look dad, look at what I can do!”. Loss is a constant in our lives – you’d think you’d get better at it when you’re 32 years old.

But the truth of the matter is we will never get better at it. I could quote you the Kubler-Ross grief model and its 5 stages, I can tell you what to expect, hell, anyone can. We’ve all experienced it. Friends, family, counselors, et all, can help guide you through the process. But within ourselves healing comes down to one simple thing – the acceptance that without loss we cannot continue to provide love to that which happens next.

As everyone fundamentally knows the world changes. We along with it. The man I am today is not the man I was yesterday, or the year before that. In essence, each loss we feel impacts us and churns us to find new connections, to spread love to new places, like a bee pollinating flowers in the spring; its quite an apt metaphor. But to make room for those things, we have to let go of what was before.

In my life now I know of several people who are working their way through divorce, an illness with someone they love, or on the flip side, people who have already worked their way through those things. And as they emerge on the other side of pain, of remorse, of anguish, and the blurry light filtered through their tears begins to clear they find other things in their life to which they apply their love. It may be a day, a month, a year later. Everyone has their coping strategies to get through loss; booze, drugs, cigarettes, self destructive behavior, throwing yourself into your job, cleaning your house… they are all distractions to forget the loss, but not really heal it. Time heals all wounds, a popular quote I’ve heard, and said, many times this year and sometimes find myself iterating in my own mind as I ponder events in my distant past.

But perhaps there is another way; maybe, just maybe, the answer to loss is to love those around us more dearly? To scoop up your children in your arms and tell them you love them. To go play ball with your dog for that extra hour. To plan a trip to see your family in another city. To take a close friend to dinner one night just because and ask nothing in return.

In my life I have known many people afraid to love. And I’m not talking just in a romantic man-loves-a-woman sense; I mean to love the things around them – to have a favorite T-shirt, to have a favorite car, to have a pet. Many people, more than you would think, fear the emotions of loss so much that it leads them to never fully engage with an open heart the things or people in their lives. I could comment on how fruitless a life that must be, but I’m not really sure I need to. I think you can feel it for yourself if you merely close your eyes, and soul, to the world around you. It’s an ugly, disgusting feeling entirely devoid of that which makes days like today melancholy; for without great days, and great highs, you cannot begin to understand lows. Many people mistake the goal of life as finding the serene waters of contentment, and as a shortcut, that if they truly do not love, they truly cannot hurt. But isn’t the lack of love still losing? Instead of avoiding loss, you willingly suscept to its embrace… but without the interleaving joy?

When I was young, maybe 9 or 10, I had this favorite T-shirt, a wonderful 80′s number in turquoise blue-green. But I loved that shirt fiercely, it just fit perfectly and I really loved the soccer ball logo on it. But because I loved it so much, I was scared to wear it. So after a year or so, and only having worn it a couple times, I finally worked up the courage to wear it out regularly… only I found that it didn’t fit. And as a 10 year old, I learned that you must embrace the things in your life you enjoy, care about, or maybe even love. Don’t leave them on the shelf as I did… when you finally work up the courage to experience it, it may be gone. Ironically, that same philosophy has brought me no end of frustration in dating but as with spirituality, that’s a topic I’ll abstain from for the time being.

So, in way of conclusion, I pose this to carry with you as you experience joy and loss:

It is not about remaining happy, it is about pollinating flowers, about the evolutionary creation of new bonds, new love, and new life, and to do such things we must make room in the finite space of our lives for those new things to occur, and those who sacrifice love to avoid loss do nothing more than burn a picture to prevent themselves from obtaining the ashes.

Daniel

Something profound (for lack of anything else)

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I’ve been sitting here for a bit, listening to some music with this feeling I need to write… something. No idea what, I just want to write. Something profound, meaningful, I don’t know… something. So as I was sitting here I saw a picture of a bunny rabbit (yes, I got sidetracked on the writing thing and hit the lolcats site) and was reminded of the Fibonacci sequence. And when I think of Fibonacci, I think of my first programming class in Pascal.

So with that intro… I present Programming in Pascal 101.

In high school, I took a class in Pascal, the only computer class offered other than Introduction to Keyboarding. Blah. If you can’t figure out how to use a keyboard in sixteen weeks, you frankly have no right existing on this earth. End of story. When school started up in the fall of my senior year, those of us who looked, noticed a class labeled “Programming” on the last line, of the last page, of our school computer class list. All of the geeks quickly signed up (I was obviously one such individual). This class became the focal point in my high school day. To sit down at a computer and create something that I had complete and total control to do was awe inspiring at the age of 17. The only limit of my ability to create was my own imagination.

I remember the very first program we had to write. It was a simple “Hello World” program that asked for our name, age, and weight then printed all the information back to the screen. Except I had this idea. I don’t know where it even came from, I just all of a sudden knew. If I added a boundary for the name, then did an “If…then” statement I could customize the output screen. Revolutionary. I was proud of myself and after making the necessary changes to my program I copied the source code over to the floppy disk and scooted my chair over to my friend Brent’s desk.

“Take a peak at this”, I said to him.
“Why?”
“Just do it. It’s cool.”
“Ok, fine.”

So he put this disk in, brought up the source code, compiled it, and then hit the Run command. It popped up the name, age, and weight prompts. He put in all his information like normal and after he hit the return key to get the print out, he got the message “I’m sorry you’re a dork” plus the normal name, age, and weight that he had entered. I just smiled; that cocky half grin I sport occasionally.

“Ok, that was stupid.”
“Yeah, but it was funny.”
“No, it was stupid.”
“Ok, fine, just do it again. And don’t enter in Brent.”
“I’m gonna enter in Stupid, just for you”.
“Fine”.

My smile steadily grew as he worked his way through the prompts. When the print out came back, he saw a new message, “Stupid is the best person in the world”. His puzzled look as he worked his way back through the prompts again was priceless. Again he put in Stupid for the name, and again he was told “Stupid is the best person in the world”. As we started getting more creative improving the logic, we attracted the attention of our side of the room. They crowded around his screen watching him put in the prompts and trying different names, ages, and weights – all with different logic. Everyone was in awe. Finally, after several requests to do so, we showed them what we had done and the syntax for an “If…then” statement in Pascal. Immediately, everyone jumped back to their desks, in an effort to expand on what we had done. It was the biggest sense of pride I had ever felt in high school. Mrs. Brown, our teacher, talked to me sometime later that week, asking how I knew about the “If…then” statements since we hadn’t covered those yet. I told her I didn’t read ahead in the book and wasn’t sure where I had picked it up from. I just knew there was this thing called an “If…then” statement that could do some cool things. I guess she understood, as she left it at that. Thinking back, I’m pretty sure I picked it up from my IBM Basic 3.0 programming manual, circa 1982, that ironically is behind me on my office bookshelf as I’m writing this, I still have it after all these years (by the way, mom, in the event I get hit by a bus or something there is a micro-SD card in there with my will and stuff on it).

As the school semester began to draw to a close several weeks later, Mrs. Brown pulled me aside from everyone else. I had been done with all the required programs for a week and spent all my class time using the compiler to build some program that did whatever I could think of or helping her grade the other students programs. I, of course, was feeling pretty cocky. I was done for the most part, in fact, I was pretty much just hanging out for the rest of the semester. I had already done all the assigned programs as well as the final program which was designed to be a crucible of sorts. At the end of the quarter, rather than do a final, we had a massive programming assignment, one that would take several weeks to finish and was designed to be as complex as possible. Regardless, we all had pretty much gotten an A in the course. It wasn’t like the class was hard or anything. We did the programs as needed and turned them in. If someone was having problems understanding a concept, it was drilled into them by the rest of us, and with most of the (ok, all of the) high school level computer intellect in one room there wasn’t much we couldn’t cooperatively solve. All for one, and one for all. Pretty simple concept.

“Daniel, I have a different program for you.”
“Uh. Ok, I guess.”
“Good, it’s on this disk. Just open the files on there and read through it. If you have any questions, come find me and I’ll help you out.”
“Ok.”

So I walked back to my desk, put in the disk, and opened up the file she had typed all the instructions in. I was enthralled. I had to write a program to print the Fibonacci numbers. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, etc, up to anything greater then 100.

A little background on Fibonacci. He developed this theory of numbers to count the reproduction cycle of a family of rabbits. You start with one rabbit, then he reproduces to get another rabbit so now you have two rabbits. I was always unclear on this. It seems to me it’s hard to reproduce with only one rabbit, but I’m not a rabbit so I wouldn’t know (Editorial note: So I looked up Fibonacci when I was gathering links for this article and it was a pair of rabbits, not just a rabbit. It makes sense now… I’m still not a rabbit).

Well, the two rabbits reproduce to get three rabbits. You probably see the pattern now. The first slot gets added to the second slot to get the third number. The second slot gets added to the third slot to get the fourth number. Three plus four gets you the fifth slot. And on down the line, until you hit one hundred. Well, I got the pattern, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how the hell to get the computer to take the damn numbers and then reuse them in the next calculation. I tried every kind of loop out there. If, for, “do … while”, “repeat…until”. Nothing worked. I was stumped. I went and asked Mrs. Brown about it. She told me, yes I was on the right track, but no, she wasn’t going to help me. The “see me for help” speech was only applicable for the correct pattern in the numbers. The coding part was up to me. So for weeks I tried to figure out the right loop. I built the menu system and the screen formats and all the other input / output procedures. But I could never ever get the numbers to add right. I could do the first numbers or the last numbers but could not get the whole thing to run.

Finally school ended for the semester and the class was over. My program still didn’t work. I still got my ‘A’ in the class and I mentioned to Mrs. Brown that I was disappointed in not being able to figure it out.

She said to me, “Daniel, you weren’t supposed to figure it out.”

My glazed blank expression stared back at her.

“You’ll understand someday and it will all make sense. But if you really want to figure out the program, try using a nested loop. And you did well, you didn’t give up.”

Two years later, when I was taking CS1502 “Application Programming in Pascal” during my freshman year at Georgia Tech, I got assigned the same problem. Word for word. She must have got her problem from the same text book they used at Tech for second semester CS majors. Needless to say, that was the easiest program I ever did there. But more importantly I learned two very valuable lessons from the Fibonacci numbers.

One: Don’t think you know it all because when it comes down to it, you don’t.
Two: Don’t ever give up.

So that’s my message for the day. It isn’t as profound as some of my other posts, but sometimes we just need to hear the basics one more time.

Daniel