Oh, the simplicity...

Why Monkeyboy wears his shirt out...

Get your head in the ClOuDE

Rands says I'm a project. "At some point, you, the nerd’s companion, were the project. You were showered with the fire hose of attention because you were the bright and shiny new development in your nerd’s life. There is also a chance that you’re lucky and you are currently your nerd’s project. Congrats."

(I was showered with the fire hose of attention?? That must be how my clothes ended in a wet heap on the floor...)

Yeah, whatever, here's the problem - I live in dictionopolis; Monkeyboy lives in digitopolis. As we've discussed in past blogs, there is a HUGE difference in the way the inhabitants of these two countries interact, primarily because we are generally taught to deal with numbers silently and words are for our out loud voices.

We count in our heads. We might use fingers and toes, pencil and paper, but we do it without speaking. Individuals who grow up being particularly good with numbers end up as software development engineers or actuaries and they live in a land of complete and utter silence, and this makes them enormously happy but a little difficult to communicate with.

On the other hand, when (as children) we are presented with letters, we are taught to sound them out. Letters are meant to be rolled around in your mouth until they come together in a verbal expression of communication that feels good.

Here's an example that illustrates the difference - when was the last time you checked out a book on tape that said, "Three hundred and eighty nine thousand six hundred and twenty two divided by seventeen is twenty two thousand nine hundred and eighteen point nine four one one seven six four seven zero five eight eight two three five two nine four one one seven six four seven zero five nine?"[1]

Now, that's not to say coders can't speak. They do and interestingly so. I typically hear, "Hm. That's not possible. Or is it? If I resync the factoring agent in the out of service tenant...holy shit, would that work? Would that really work? Holy fuckin' shit, I think that would work!" Sometimes this is said in the middle of the night when we are supposed to be (and one of us actually is) sleeping.

Rands is brilliant, though; despite the fact that he, himself, is a geek of extraordinary proportions, he has figured out a way to bridge the gap between dictionopolis and digitopolis and is kind enough to share his wisdom with those of us who cannot figure out when we are being spoken to or are just an emotional chalkboard for our code monkey to scribble on, like Walter from Fringe. (Rands, by the way, was also a shrink wrap guy, so perhaps this balanced him out in the end.)

So now, whenever monkeyboy goes aberrant, I refer back to Rands and apply his advice for getting along with a geek. Sometimes I do it a little later than might have been wise, and life goes to hell in a handbasket. Sometimes I do it with such huge success that monkeyboy doesn't even know we've just navigated a very narrow river full of shoals and piranha, a river whose treacherous banks are lined with natives possessing curare-tipped blowdarts which they are able to use with unerring accuracy making it essential that one travel these waters with great skill and mobility or end up a shrunken head and a nice salted roast at a cannibal carnival.

Rands tells me to watch for the vacant look on my geek's face and comments that don't fit the current conversation, comments like, "Cool!" when I've just announced the bathroom is flooding. At that time, I am supposed to look my digitite in the face and say, "Really? Did you hear what I said?" If he answers sheepishly, "Yes..." I am supposed to ask him to repeat back to me what he heard. Thus he is discovered and I have to repeat myself all over again.

Ok, that just sucks. I have a better idea. I will get a good book. I'll get a friend. I'll get a computer or a cell phone or some way of communicating with people who do not have blank looks on their faces and eyes that you can see are running lines of code like some Matrix screensaver.

HEY MONKEYBOY! I AM NOT A PROJECT!! I'm a value-added service. If you don't want to use the services, then don't be surprised when I question their value and thus discontinue offering them.

According to Rands, what my code monkey just heard was "Rands says I'm a project, blah, blah, blah..."

Sigh! Ok, I'll pick up a good book tonight, maybe some yarn and knitting needles (code monkeys need stocking caps, too, right?). As long as you occassionally reach over and stroke my knee so that I know we are both working on the same project, I don't mind the silence. After all, it's golden. But you're gonna have to wear the cap.

[1]If you picked up your calculator to check the veracity of this statement or if this was the only thing of interest to you in this blog, you are a geek. Or an actuary. Definitely a digitite.

Love is a four-letter word, sometimes five, quite often three, it should be two, and it is never ever one.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud."

When I was a child, we went to Illinois to see my Aunt Leona and Uncle Oz and their three kids, my cousins whose names I do not know.

They lived on top of a hill smack in the middle of a cornfield, and at the bottom of the hill, just before the field of corn, there was an old plow. And my brother put me on a bike at the top of the hill, pointed me directly at the plow at the bottom of the hill, and told me, "Whatever you do, don't use the brakes cuz they don't work. Okay?" And I said ok. (I may have been spanked a bit too much as a child, there was clearly something wrong with my IQ even back then.)

So, he points me at the plow and tells me not to use the brakes, then gives me a nice brotherly loveshove to start the journey off right.

HA! Stupid boy! He thought I would run into the plow!! But I didn't run into the plow because before I got to it, I covered my eyes.

(It's been my long-standing belief that this makes everything go away. I've used this technique to great success with monsters in my room, Goodbar in my office, and plows.)

And it totally worked! The handlebars turned sideways, the bike came to a sudden halt, and I went sailing over the handlebars and landed flat on my back nowhere near the plow. I managed to not break a single bone but, for some strange reason, I could not breathe.

I've since managed on one or two occassions to knock the wind out of my brother in return. What can I say, we're a strong, Christian family, steeped in the lore of love.

Here's the thing - it isn't in me to call bullshit on God, but really? Love is patient and kind?? I would be more inclined to say, "love hurts...

Love scars. Love wounds and marks any heart not tough or strong enough to take a lot of pain. Love is like a cloud, it holds a lot of rain." In other words, if you are gonna be in love, you better be Brawny-strength.

So maybe Adam and Eve had patient, kind, non-envious love before she ate the apple. But since then, I'm pretty darned sure that man and woman have been locked in a wrestling match of love that leaves us, at times, as painfully breathless as the conclusion of my ride pell mell down the hill.

And I'm willing to bet we'd be a whole lot more patient in love if we understood the true nature of the beast. According to Leonard Cohen, "Love is not a victory march...it's not a cry you can hear at night, it's not somebody who's seen the light...it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah." So, we are defeated, blind, deaf and bitterly cold. How fun.

In godspeak, though, "Hallelujah" marks a spirit full of exuberance and joy, uplifting and...happy! Hey God! What gives, huh?

The truth is, in love, Hallelujah is a minor fall and a major lift and sometimes just the opposite. It's crescendo and diminuendo. It's a powerful wave that swells in seconds to tsunami strength and loses its violent energy just as quickly in a gentle ruffle of seafoam around our ankles. It sweeps us off our feet, nearly drowns us, then sprinkles our faces with a gentle, salty mist, how sweet is that, eh? And when it's being totally ironic, it leaves a pretty little seashell perched atop our navel.

Love is equal parts pain and pleasure, and sometimes not-so-equal parts.

Love hurts.

But in the end, it's also something we want, something we need, something that makes our lives infinitely, complicatedly better. When one rides out the storm, if we ride out the storm, the pain and pleasure mix together to create a powerful emotion where arms are involuntarily raised in both praise and supplication, where we fall to bended knee praying to be put out of our misery, then singing at the top of our lungs because we are still alive and thankfully so.

Love...is a phantom note played by two human instruments that blend their own accord so perfectly that a third accord is created, a note that sings more clearly than the other two and touches the hearts of those around, colouring their world in a new shade of hope.

Love never fails.

From the luckiest mom in the world...

to Jody



Safety.