Relief

I ate breakfast at the kitchen counter this morning. Sometimes I take my bowl of cereal out to the back porch on cool mornings like this, but today I stayed inside. It's easier to read the newspaper at the counter. The light is better and I can spread the sections out in front of me, leaving my hands free to hold a bowl and spoon.

I almost went with toast instead of cereal. I could have chosen between whole wheat or oat grain, and I know there are at least two kinds of delicious jam in the refrigerator. It was tempting. I went with cereal largely because I didn't feel like waiting for the bread to toast. I chose something that claimed to be heart-healthy but I don't know if I believe it - it tasted too good. We have quite a few cereal choices in the house, a mix of grown-up, healthy, responsible offerings and kid-friendly, sweet, marshmallowy ones. I try to stick with the grown-up ones, but sometimes it's hard to resist the Lucky Charms.

I didn't think too much about my breakfast choices as I absently flipped through the newspaper. I mostly just read headlines, dropping occasionally into the first paragraph of some articles. In the World News section, there was a brief article about the famine in the horn of Africa. I read it and moved on to the next article, all the while scraping the last bits of food from my bowl.

Before long, I was into the Sports section and then the Comics. As I prepared to work on the sudoku puzzle, I got up to refill my coffee cup. As long as I was up, I considered having another bowl of cereal. The box was still out, so it would have been easy to refill. Instead, I decided that I'd had enough. I closed the box and returned it to the pantry, wedging it back into place on the bulging shelf. As I returned to my stool, I took one last look at the toaster. No, I would have toast tomorrow.

My wife had used the car the night before and, when I started it, the radio came on tuned to NPR. I caught the tail end of another famine story before switching over to the local sports station (the local pro-football team announced their first round of roster cuts - ten players no one has ever heard of). The station was broadcasting from the State Fair and the program was a mix of sports analysis and a discussion of the merits of mini-doughnuts and cheese curds.

As I sat down at my desk, I thought about my morning and about famine. I know famine is a terrible thing and I have felt moved to donate to relief efforts. But, I also know that famine is likely much worse than I can ever comprehend. I just don't have that frame of reference. I can imagine being hungry but I don't know that I know what it is like to be starving. And I can't even bring myself to imagine what it would be like to watch my children starve, or even be hungry for that matter.

I don't often ask anything of my readers but I urge you to consider donating to famine relief. Do a Google search on Horn of Africa famine, to learn more.

My Skeptical Buddy

My youngest son, N, and I have developed a habit of watching Ancient Aliens on the History channel. We watch with a skeptic's eye. N, in particular, likes to argue with the "experts" on the television. He's only nine, but he's always been sensitive to statements that include words like "has to be" or "must". The experts are often quick to make the 'alien jump' (e.g. "the flat topped structure must have been a landing pad for spacecraft"). N is just as quick to point out the flaws in their logic - could have been and must have been are very different things. Even when the speaker takes a somewhat more cautious approach by sprinkling in "likelys" and "probablys", N still takes issue, pointing out numerous other explanations, often more plausible.

I enjoy our time watching the show. I like the fact that my son is not willing to accept just anything that's thrown at him, that he is able to discern when a statement has a shaky basis. Once, while we were watching the show, I asked him if he believed that aliens visited our planet. His response was typical, "I don't know if they did or didn't. And neither do these guys."

My Troll

There is an evil little couch potato living in my head. He hides in an undefined area between my conscious and subconscious. I feel him lurking there, licking his orange, Cheetos-stained fingers.

I dislike this troll and his endless commentary. He's obsessed with TV schedules, always certain something "good" is on. He's equally curious about the refrigerator and the pantry. To him, a snack and a show are a heavenly combination that should be enjoyed whenever possible. I try to ignore him but it doesn't stop his constant chattering.

If I decide to go for a run around the neighborhood, he suddenly becomes a meteorologist, citing temperatures and heat indexes. He hates it when I exercise and he does his best to discourage me at every turn. As I start out, he's singing in my ear, trying to get me to quit. My joints and muscles are often providing backup to his discouraging song. I turn up the volume on my iPod, an attempt to drown him out.

After the run, he's still there. Having lost the exercise battle, he tries to use it to his advantage. After such a workout, surely I deserve a little rest, a little TV time, maybe a small snack? But I know with him there is no 'little', no 'small'.

The troll and I have a complicated past. There was a time when I was more receptive to his suggestions of indolence. I think he hangs around because he hopes to rekindle that torpid magic. I've tried to tell him that I've moved on, that I'm a different person, but the troll is not convinced.

The Streak

Cold sweat. Shallow rapid breathing. The sense of panic as the surrounding air seems to press against me. I reach out, groping for the wall. Once I find it, I lean heavily into it, hoping to steady myself against the spinning room. This is it, I think to myself. vertigo has beaten me - today, the streak ends. I wait. Gradually, the spinning slows. I focus on my breathing, trying to take slow, deep breaths. Maybe this isn't the end of the streak after all. I ease myself away from the wall and take a few cautious steps.

Back in 1987 I bought a bottle of wine. I don't remember why I bought it or how I picked it out. I suspect it was recommended by a colleague. I wasn't much of a wine drinker back then and my palate was decidedly unsophisticated. It was a white wine, on the sweet side. The bottle sat on the counter in my apartment for quite some time, pining for the opportunity to be served at a suitable occasion. What became painfully evident was that such occasions were rare occurrences in my life back then.

Finally, one Friday evening in November I decided I'd waited long enough. The suitable occasion would be that it was Friday and that the work week had been a long one. Plus, the only food I had in the apartment was a box of crackers and part of a brick of cheese - obvious companions for my lonely bottle. I made up a plate of crackers, each with a thick slice of cheese. I uncorked the bottle and poured a little wine into one of the two wine glasses I owned. I sipped. It was fruity and delicious, especially when consumed with the crackers and cheese. I curled up in my Pier One Papasan chair, plate of crackers balanced on my lap. I sipped wine, ate crackers and watched cable TV. This was dinner that night. By the time I went to bed, the crackers were all gone. The cheese was all gone. The wine was all gone. I awoke the next morning feeling nauseous. The feeling worsened when I got out of bed. I stumbled to the bathroom. I vomited. Then, I felt better. And the streak began.

Even though vomiting had made me feel better, I was still bummed out that it had happened. As far as I could recall, I had been vomit-free throughout the 80's up to that point. Four years of college had not been able to coerce me to toss my cookies yet, here I was, beaten by a cheap bottle of wine and some stale crackers. On the bright side, the incident did give me a clear stake in the ground, a starting point for a new stint of being puke-free.

And so it continues. My sons have never seen their father lose his lunch. My wife of almost twenty years has never witnessed me blow chunks. Over the years, stomach flues have occasionally ravaged our household, taking down all members. All have puked but one. One soldier stands tall, even while cleaning the messes made by the others.

This is not to say that I have not fallen ill. There have been times when I have felt absolutely awful, when I probably would have felt better if I had vomited. But, I've fought it off. I really, really don't like the sensation. Plus, I have my streak to consider.

Spam

I don't trust software. I've spent over 25 years in the software industry. I've worked on many - big user applications, simple utilities, hardware drivers, embedded firmware. I am very familiar with software. And that is why I don't trust it.

I don't trust it because I know how difficult it is to write error-free code. On a system with moderate to high complexity it is nearly impossible. Despite the developer's best intentions and testing efforts, there are always nooks and crannies, dark corners where bugs can hide. On the best programs, these are obscure situations that are unlikely to occur. The problem gets even harder if the program must interact with humans. People do such unpredictable things.

This all leads me to a piece of software that I trust the least - the spam filter on my email. I would hate to try to write such a piece of code. It's really the worst-case scenario. Not only does it interact with humans, but it must combat humans and other programs that are purposefully trying to outsmart it. I admire my filter but I have a hard time believing it always makes the right choice. The fact that I rarely see spam in my inbox does not reassure me. Instead, it makes me worry that the filter is too restrictive and may be throwing legitimate emails away. Because of this paranoia, I occasionally sift through my spam folder.

A few months ago, I was looking through my spam folder when a single message caught my eye. At first, it looked similar to the rest of the junk in the folder. It purported to be in regards to a lawsuit/settlement over a PC problem. There were other messages in the folder about lawsuits and settlements but this one just looked different. I cautiously opened the email to get a closer look.

A few years ago, I bought a rather expensive laptop. After a couple of years of intermittent problems and manufacturer recalls, it finally died. The warranty had expired on it and I was disgusted with the computer and its maker. After reading online about other people having similar issues with similar computers I realized that the problems with my laptop were severe. I was aware that there was a movement afoot to get some sort of restitution, but I didn't hold out much hope that I would ever see anything. I put my expensive laptop in the closet and forgot about it.

One of the things that caught my eye with the email message was that it listed my laptop model number along with the details of the problem, which I had earlier researched. I did some further checking and convinced myself that the message was real. The email led me to a web site and to court records. Weeks later, I was packaging up the dusty laptop in a pre-paid shipping container and sending it in for a replacement.

My replacement laptop arrived yesterday. It seems nice - maybe not top of the line, but probably better than my original laptop given that 5 years have passed.

I'll likely use it when I occasionally check my spam folder in the future.