Computers Don't Have the Power, or (Don't) Charge!

As I believe I have mentioned already,, I recently bought a computer. It is a refurbished Android netbook. It was $89. How could I not buy it?

I was unsure how long it would be until it arrived. My sister and my mom had both ordered from the website before, and their best predictions of when it would arrive ranged from six weeks to eight days respectively. I was prepared to wait a while.

Fortunately I didn't have to wait very long, as my mom was correct. I saw on the UPS tracking that it was on the truck and got very impatient waiting until about 6:30pm. I was talking to Lee (an avid Android fan) when it arrived, fittingly enough.

I web outside to meet the UPS driver. He probably thought I was being impatient, but I was just excited. Lee and I opened it up to look at it, and I went to my apartment to charge it. That's where things got interesting.

I got downstairs and plugged it in, or so I would have, had the plug fit. Perhaps I'm trying the wrong port? Nope. Check the manual to make sure...right port. Wrong AC adapter.

I send an email, but I notice that they at replies to email usually take three to four days, as thy are very busy. I have no other way of getting in touch, so email will have to do. Email sent.

Oh wait, what's this? Twitter? Let's try this twitter for customer service thing I've been hearing about. I tweet.

The next morning at 7am I'm awakened by an at tweet that was forwarded to my phone. They tell me to email. I get up a bit later (way too late) and check my email. They've sent me three emails. One is an automated reply, again telling me to wait three to four days on a reply. The next is a personal email promising a new charger. The third is a UPS tracking number for my new charger.

The moral of the story, of course, is that the potentially squeaky wheel gets the preemptive grease.

::edit::I just tracked it - Auburn, WA. I should get it tomorrow or Saturday. Sweet.::

As I believe I have mentioned already,, I recently bought a computer. It is a refurbished Android netbook. It was $89. How could I not buy it?

I was unsure how long it would be until it arrived. My sister and my mom had both ordered from the website before, and their best predictions of when it would arrive ranged from six weeks to eight days respectively. I was prepared to wait a while.

Fortunately I didn't have to wait very long, as my mom was correct. I saw on the UPS tracking that it was on the truck and got very impatient waiting until about 6:30pm. I was talking to Lee (an avid Android fan) when it arrived, fittingly enough.

I web outside to meet the UPS driver. He probably thought I was being impatient, but I was just excited. Lee and I opened it up to look at it, and I went to my apartment to charge it. That's where things got interesting.

I got downstairs and plugged it in, or so I would have, had the plug fit. Perhaps I'm trying the wrong port? Nope. Check the manual to make sure...right port. Wrong AC adapter.

I send an email, but I notice that they at replies to email usually take three to four days, as thy are very busy. I have no other way of getting in touch, so email will have to do. Email sent.

Oh wait, what's this? Twitter? Let's try this twitter for customer service thing I've been hearing about. I tweet.

The next morning at 7am I'm awakened by an at tweet that was forwarded to my phone. They tell me to email. I get up a bit later (way too late) and check my email. They've sent me three emails. One is an automated reply, again telling me to wait three to four days on a reply. The next is a personal email promising a new charger. The third is a UPS tracking number for my new charger.

The moral of the story, of course, is that the potentially squeaky wheel gets the preemptive grease.

::edit::I just tracked it - Auburn, WA. I should get it tomorrow or Saturday. Sweet.::

Computers Don't Have the Power, or (Don't) Charge!

A Summer Berry Long Ago

Picture it - summer 1987: I'm five-years-old; I've just finished kindergarten; Andy Warhol is recently dead; Kurt Vonnegut releases Bluebeard (my favorite Vonnegut book); and I'm allergic to strawberries. What a summer it was.

Yes, I was allergic to strawberries. This was the first year of this allergy. Doctors could quite explain it. "Sometimes you just develop an allergy," they told us. Develop it is exactly what I did, to the tune of hives.

It wasn't that bad: red splotches and itching. My mom would still buy strawberries, which were of course off limits to me. Like any good five-year-old, I thought I knew best, so I would eat them only when no one was looking. Somehow she always knew. No matter how much I would stand there denying the action and scratching my hives, she always knew.

No strawberries made the summer of 1987 one of the longest and most difficult summers of my life.

Fast forward - summer 1988. Again, strawberries in the refrigerator. My mom walks into the kitchen to find me eating them. This time I know not to deny: I've been caught red (literally, thanks to strawberry juice) handed. But then something very strange happened, or didn't happen: there were no hives.

Indeed, in the summer of 1988 I could eat strawberries. To this day, I've not had another problem with strawberries. This is good, because they're berry delicious.

Picture it - summer 1987: I'm five-years-old; I've just finished kindergarten; Andy Warhol is recently dead; Kurt Vonnegut releases Bluebeard (my favorite Vonnegut book); and I'm allergic to strawberries. What a summer it was.

Yes, I was allergic to strawberries. This was the first year of this allergy. Doctors could quite explain it. "Sometimes you just develop an allergy," they told us. Develop it is exactly what I did, to the tune of hives.

It wasn't that bad: red splotches and itching. My mom would still buy strawberries, which were of course off limits to me. Like any good five-year-old, I thought I knew best, so I would eat them only when no one was looking. Somehow she always knew. No matter how much I would stand there denying the action and scratching my hives, she always knew.

No strawberries made the summer of 1987 one of the longest and most difficult summers of my life.

Fast forward - summer 1988. Again, strawberries in the refrigerator. My mom walks into the kitchen to find me eating them. This time I know not to deny: I've been caught red (literally, thanks to strawberry juice) handed. But then something very strange happened, or didn't happen: there were no hives.

Indeed, in the summer of 1988 I could eat strawberries. To this day, I've not had another problem with strawberries. This is good, because they're berry delicious.

A Summer Berry Long Ago

Note to self

Strawberries.
Sorry about this, readers.

Sent from my iPod

Strawberries.
Sorry about this, readers.

Sent from my iPod

Note to self

Oblique Strategery: How Would You Have Done It?

I often struggle to make decisions. Too many options become overwhelming, and I don't like it when doors close. However, I discovered something about five years ago that made decision making much easier: Oblique Strategies.

Originally released in 1975, Oblique Strategies is a deck of cards created by Brian Eno and Peter Schmidt. Each card has a sentence or a few words, or perhaps even only one word. The statement is cryptic, but is intended to serve as a platform. By leaving us to interpret the statements, we are force to think for ourselves.

The fifth edition cards, the most recent retail for about $65, though I found a PDF of the original edition online today. I printed it and glued it to cardstock, which I will cut out tomorrow.

Right before writing this, I had my roommate pick a random number, which chose a card. Then I set a timer for six minutes, which was the time I gave myself to write a poem about that card. The card said, "How Would You Have Done It?," which is resultantly the title of the poem. It is not autobiographical, though some would disagree. Either way, enjoy.

It was never really
an option,
and no one asked
my opinion,

which is obviously why

it went wrong.

I of course foresaw the problems
and circumvented them
entirely.

And let the record show
that I voted
for the other party,

and if anyone asks,
I can tell you how to do it.

But for now,
I'll sit back and complain
about why everything is wrong,

and no one has ever
asked me.

I often struggle to make decisions. Too many options become overwhelming, and I don't like it when doors close. However, I discovered something about five years ago that made decision making much easier: Oblique Strategies.

Originally released in 1975, Oblique Strategies is a deck of cards created by Brian Eno and Peter Schmidt. Each card has a sentence or a few words, or perhaps even only one word. The statement is cryptic, but is intended to serve as a platform. By leaving us to interpret the statements, we are force to think for ourselves.

The fifth edition cards, the most recent retail for about $65, though I found a PDF of the original edition online today. I printed it and glued it to cardstock, which I will cut out tomorrow.

Right before writing this, I had my roommate pick a random number, which chose a card. Then I set a timer for six minutes, which was the time I gave myself to write a poem about that card. The card said, "How Would You Have Done It?," which is resultantly the title of the poem. It is not autobiographical, though some would disagree. Either way, enjoy.

It was never really
an option,
and no one asked
my opinion,

which is obviously why

it went wrong.

I of course foresaw the problems
and circumvented them
entirely.

And let the record show
that I voted
for the other party,

and if anyone asks,
I can tell you how to do it.

But for now,
I'll sit back and complain
about why everything is wrong,

and no one has ever
asked me.

Oblique Strategery: How Would You Have Done It?

It's Not What You Say: It's How You Say It

(Comment problems, again. I know they're trying to fix these issues, but I'm seriously contemplating changing to something a bit more stable, perhaps with an official app. Time will tell.)

This afternoon I finished a book I checked out of the library. It's called Kafka. It is, as the name would imply, about the life and works of philosopher Franz Kafka*. This is an interesting topic, at least to me, but the real beauty is in the format of the book - a juxtaposition of comics and prose. The interplay between these two formats is truly remarkable.

Prose is exactly what I would expect from a book on this topic: words, which are arranged in sentences, which are arranged in paragraphs. This is present as well as being informative. This book would not function without prose. It is the skeleton on which the meat of the book hangs.

Comics are often put down. Remember the controversy when Time Magazine placed The Watchmen on its All Time 100 Novels list? While I personally was not a big fan of The Watchmen, I absolutely believe that comics and graphic novels have a place in our literary canon. Further, I have a great deal of respect for the artist who create both the storylines and the drawings (especially men like R. Crumb, one of the men behind Kafka). In this particular case, comics hang on the prosy skeleton, providing fleshy life to what would otherwise be dead.

Perhaps this a metaphor you will better understand**: picture prose as peanut butter (it's hearty and often contains chunks of information) and comics as jelly (sweet, though not usually having a lot of sustenance). While each is good independently, they do their best work as a team - two formats working together to bring a fuller illumination to a concept.

Now, I'm not saying it should always be this way. My mind instantly jumps to Moby Dick. As you may recall, there were several shifts from prose to poetry to drama to cetology***, which also often involved a change in the narrator. This, at least in my opinion (and that of those in my former book club), was without rhyme or reason in many cases, which rendered the book exceedingly difficult. Moby Dick of course needed no help with being difficult.

This being said, I now recognize that there is indeed a place for multiple formats side by side. Poetry, prose, comics - put together everything that you have. Who knows - your white whale of a tale might sink your ship, but you might be having whale steaks for breakfast. Slice it think like bible pages.

*Not to be confused with Kefka, the main villain from Final Fantasy VI, who was much more like Franz's father. Unrelated, Final Fantasy VI was absolutely one of the best video games ever created and the best game in the Final Fantasy series. This point is not open to debate, and everyone who disagrees with me is simply wrong.

**Unsure how this will come across in reading: if it is overly pretentious or just terribly awkward wording, apologies.

***Please please please no. I understand that you know more about whales than I do. Please don't spend three chapters telling me about the main categories.

(Comment problems, again. I know they're trying to fix these issues, but I'm seriously contemplating changing to something a bit more stable, perhaps with an official app. Time will tell.)

This afternoon I finished a book I checked out of the library. It's called Kafka. It is, as the name would imply, about the life and works of philosopher Franz Kafka*. This is an interesting topic, at least to me, but the real beauty is in the format of the book - a juxtaposition of comics and prose. The interplay between these two formats is truly remarkable.

Prose is exactly what I would expect from a book on this topic: words, which are arranged in sentences, which are arranged in paragraphs. This is present as well as being informative. This book would not function without prose. It is the skeleton on which the meat of the book hangs.

Comics are often put down. Remember the controversy when Time Magazine placed The Watchmen on its All Time 100 Novels list? While I personally was not a big fan of The Watchmen, I absolutely believe that comics and graphic novels have a place in our literary canon. Further, I have a great deal of respect for the artist who create both the storylines and the drawings (especially men like R. Crumb, one of the men behind Kafka). In this particular case, comics hang on the prosy skeleton, providing fleshy life to what would otherwise be dead.

Perhaps this a metaphor you will better understand**: picture prose as peanut butter (it's hearty and often contains chunks of information) and comics as jelly (sweet, though not usually having a lot of sustenance). While each is good independently, they do their best work as a team - two formats working together to bring a fuller illumination to a concept.

Now, I'm not saying it should always be this way. My mind instantly jumps to Moby Dick. As you may recall, there were several shifts from prose to poetry to drama to cetology***, which also often involved a change in the narrator. This, at least in my opinion (and that of those in my former book club), was without rhyme or reason in many cases, which rendered the book exceedingly difficult. Moby Dick of course needed no help with being difficult.

This being said, I now recognize that there is indeed a place for multiple formats side by side. Poetry, prose, comics - put together everything that you have. Who knows - your white whale of a tale might sink your ship, but you might be having whale steaks for breakfast. Slice it think like bible pages.

*Not to be confused with Kefka, the main villain from Final Fantasy VI, who was much more like Franz's father. Unrelated, Final Fantasy VI was absolutely one of the best video games ever created and the best game in the Final Fantasy series. This point is not open to debate, and everyone who disagrees with me is simply wrong.

**Unsure how this will come across in reading: if it is overly pretentious or just terribly awkward wording, apologies.

***Please please please no. I understand that you know more about whales than I do. Please don't spend three chapters telling me about the main categories.

It's Not What You Say: It's How You Say It

Where There's a Will, There's a Whey Allergy

My chemistry teacher in high school had a humorous coffee mug. It read "WORLD'S LARGEST SOURCE OF NATURAL GAS." This title rightly belongs to me, accompanied by my medal in stomach cramps. Recently I've been looking at my diet, and I think it's an issue with whey.

As you probably know, I work at Starbucks. Every day I drink about 16 oz of milk, usually steamed. Furthermore, I often supplement a small lunch (spend less money) with a smoothies with three scoops of protein powder. In case you were wondering, whey protein. All in all, I get a lot of whey.

I have for some time been thinking I'm mildly lactose intolerant. However, steaming milk breaks down much of the lactose (which is why steamed milk is sweeter, but this is not a post about coffee nerdery). As such, I don't actually get that much lactose. Whey remains. Further, whey causes the traditional respiratory symptoms that we associate with allergies. You know - those symptoms I have all the time.

If it is this, it's not severe - I've been tolerating all of these symptoms for quite some time, and can do so for the rest of my life (though I'd prefer not to). However, I could also just cut back on whey, lessening the effects and making it all less of an annoyance.

So here we go: I'm going to try to remove whey for a few days. We'll see if my nose is still running and...other things. It would be nice to not always have to excuse myself to, umm, relieve pressure. Perhaps this will take care of my gas problem. Now what can we do about the $3.95/gallon gas problem?

My chemistry teacher in high school had a humorous coffee mug. It read "WORLD'S LARGEST SOURCE OF NATURAL GAS." This title rightly belongs to me, accompanied by my medal in stomach cramps. Recently I've been looking at my diet, and I think it's an issue with whey.

As you probably know, I work at Starbucks. Every day I drink about 16 oz of milk, usually steamed. Furthermore, I often supplement a small lunch (spend less money) with a smoothies with three scoops of protein powder. In case you were wondering, whey protein. All in all, I get a lot of whey.

I have for some time been thinking I'm mildly lactose intolerant. However, steaming milk breaks down much of the lactose (which is why steamed milk is sweeter, but this is not a post about coffee nerdery). As such, I don't actually get that much lactose. Whey remains. Further, whey causes the traditional respiratory symptoms that we associate with allergies. You know - those symptoms I have all the time.

If it is this, it's not severe - I've been tolerating all of these symptoms for quite some time, and can do so for the rest of my life (though I'd prefer not to). However, I could also just cut back on whey, lessening the effects and making it all less of an annoyance.

So here we go: I'm going to try to remove whey for a few days. We'll see if my nose is still running and...other things. It would be nice to not always have to excuse myself to, umm, relieve pressure. Perhaps this will take care of my gas problem. Now what can we do about the $3.95/gallon gas problem?

Where There's a Will, There's a Whey Allergy

Victor Steinbruck Park (is not a pun)

Filthy pigeons
cooing in the grass:

you carry bread
as well as disease.

I'm sitting in Victor Steinbruck Park*, which is one if the most interesting locations in Seattle. Let me tell you a bit about it, good and bad.

You notice as soon as you get here that the view is incredible: Puget Sound, West Seattle, Sodo, Bremerton. If you walk toward the edge of the park for a closer look, you'll notice it drops off. Beneath? Roads.

A homeless guy will beg for money for hours, at which point he will take all the money to buy a loaf of bread. He will then feed the entire loaf to the pigeons, remaining hungry himself. Pigeons are disgusting.

Speaking of homeless people, you will be asked for money several times while you sit here. There are always at least two buskers, one of whom will be wandering around playing his guitar. Someone will try to sell you drugs. The money exchange going next to me is probably a drug deal.

While we are on the subject of drugs, the smell of marijuana fills the air. This isn't different from any other part of downtown Seattle.

Many people are relaxing by lying in the grass. We can only hope each person cleaned up well after their dog. It's a risk many people are willing to take, especially to enjoy the sun on a day like today.

Victor Steinbruck Park has it's downsides, but it's a wonderful place, and I'm glad it's part of my life.


*More accurately, I was this afternoon when I started writing this. Now I'm sitting at home.

Filthy pigeons
cooing in the grass:

you carry bread
as well as disease.

I'm sitting in Victor Steinbruck Park*, which is one if the most interesting locations in Seattle. Let me tell you a bit about it, good and bad.

You notice as soon as you get here that the view is incredible: Puget Sound, West Seattle, Sodo, Bremerton. If you walk toward the edge of the park for a closer look, you'll notice it drops off. Beneath? Roads.

A homeless guy will beg for money for hours, at which point he will take all the money to buy a loaf of bread. He will then feed the entire loaf to the pigeons, remaining hungry himself. Pigeons are disgusting.

Speaking of homeless people, you will be asked for money several times while you sit here. There are always at least two buskers, one of whom will be wandering around playing his guitar. Someone will try to sell you drugs. The money exchange going next to me is probably a drug deal.

While we are on the subject of drugs, the smell of marijuana fills the air. This isn't different from any other part of downtown Seattle.

Many people are relaxing by lying in the grass. We can only hope each person cleaned up well after their dog. It's a risk many people are willing to take, especially to enjoy the sun on a day like today.

Victor Steinbruck Park has it's downsides, but it's a wonderful place, and I'm glad it's part of my life.


*More accurately, I was this afternoon when I started writing this. Now I'm sitting at home.

Victor Steinbruck Park (is not a pun)

Legacy

A few weeks ago* at community group a good question was asked of the parents in the room: what advice do you have for aspiring parents? Josh answered quickly and with the hammer-like definitiveness that I expect and appreciate from him: "You are not doing enough now to prepare."

Some thought this was a bit much in the way of an answer in the context, but I appreciate it. I don't want fluff; I want honesty. This is akin to Josh kicking me, as opposed to putting a "kick me" sign on my back and absolving himself of all responsibility for the inevitable act**: he pointed to a definite shortcoming, as opposed to overlooking it and setting up for failure. 

I know a few things that I am doing any given tomorrow. There are also a few probables, not to mention all too many should-but-won'ts. 
I have at least a vague idea of what tomorrow looks like. A week down the road the picture gets more blurry. This time next year I have a few goals, but they're basically dots against a grey field. Ten, twenty, forty years? In the immortal words of Green Day,
<block>It makes me wonder when I get to be that age will I be walking around begging you for your spare change? Or when I get that old will I still be around? The world will carry on. I'll end up six feet underground.</block>

Don't get me wrong - I'm a firm believer in carpe diem. At the same time, carpe diem is all too often misapplied: we must seize the opportunities of each day, using them to build into the future, not living as if there is no tomorrow. 

The idea here is <b>legacy</b>. What kind of legacy am I leaving? I am a single guy with no children, but every decision that I make now affects my future wife and children. Furthermore, it affects those around me, which in turn affects those around them, ad infinitum. Legacy is something to consider now, not septa- or octogenarianally. What I do now builds the legacy I leave then. While the whole picture is ultimately in Christ's hands, I must still be diligent. 

This is something I've been thinking about for quite a while now, even before Josh's statement. I even changed my name on Facebook a few weeks ago, adding "Sr.": now, every time that I log into Facebook I'm reminded of this. After all, the legacy that I build today is the legacy that I leave when I die. 


*To be specific, it was 24 May. 
**This is not to say that Josh was being mean. For the sake of this metaphor, I needed to be kicked. 

A few weeks ago* at community group a good question was asked of the parents in the room: what advice do you have for aspiring parents? Josh answered quickly and with the hammer-like definitiveness that I expect and appreciate from him: "You are not doing enough now to prepare."

Some thought this was a bit much in the way of an answer in the context, but I appreciate it. I don't want fluff; I want honesty. This is akin to Josh kicking me, as opposed to putting a "kick me" sign on my back and absolving himself of all responsibility for the inevitable act**: he pointed to a definite shortcoming, as opposed to overlooking it and setting up for failure. 

I know a few things that I am doing any given tomorrow. There are also a few probables, not to mention all too many should-but-won'ts. 
I have at least a vague idea of what tomorrow looks like. A week down the road the picture gets more blurry. This time next year I have a few goals, but they're basically dots against a grey field. Ten, twenty, forty years? In the immortal words of Green Day,
<block>It makes me wonder when I get to be that age will I be walking around begging you for your spare change? Or when I get that old will I still be around? The world will carry on. I'll end up six feet underground.</block>

Don't get me wrong - I'm a firm believer in carpe diem. At the same time, carpe diem is all too often misapplied: we must seize the opportunities of each day, using them to build into the future, not living as if there is no tomorrow. 

The idea here is <b>legacy</b>. What kind of legacy am I leaving? I am a single guy with no children, but every decision that I make now affects my future wife and children. Furthermore, it affects those around me, which in turn affects those around them, ad infinitum. Legacy is something to consider now, not septa- or octogenarianally. What I do now builds the legacy I leave then. While the whole picture is ultimately in Christ's hands, I must still be diligent. 

This is something I've been thinking about for quite a while now, even before Josh's statement. I even changed my name on Facebook a few weeks ago, adding "Sr.": now, every time that I log into Facebook I'm reminded of this. After all, the legacy that I build today is the legacy that I leave when I die. 


*To be specific, it was 24 May. 
**This is not to say that Josh was being mean. For the sake of this metaphor, I needed to be kicked. 

Legacy

Ship

[An oldie but a goodie, I'm posting it in preparation for the soon coming follow up.]

A captain must choose his ship wisely. There are many ships docked here, but not all are seaworthy. Some, though appearing seaworthy, will surely sink before you get out one nautical mile, while others will make it much farther before the holes and rotted wood become a problem. Often the captain sets off on his lifeboat, but every classic tale has taught us that a good captain goes down with his ship.

I’ve attempted to sail a few ships, but the open water has proven difficult. It takes a steady hand, a steady eye, and a steady mind - areas I continue to work toward but continue to need to grow. Ships scrape on docks, and I have difficulty steering. I see others much younger than myself navigating like Ishmael himself, and I try harder (not in this case for the good of the ship, but for myself). Repeated failures, near capsizes, the necessity to return to the dock - all part of the journey.

There was one ship I never tried to sail. I observed her from afar, then much closer. I learned a lot about that ship: the controls and the sails, the hull and the mast. Never did I once try to sail. I was fearful and full of excuses. As such, I wasn’t even worthy to sail. Behind the wheel is no place for a coward. It takes wise decisions and quick thinking, bold maneuvering and deep understanding (both of oneself and one’s ship). That was quite a magnificent ship indeed, though I’m not sure we were such a good fit as it was: I’ve never envisioned myself as a yachter.

Captaining a ship is not a matter of feigning fullness of knowledge, but of having confidence and carrying out decisions to the end. There will be consequences, and those must be dealt with. There must be a plan, which must be taken one day at a time. This is the way that a captain sails a ship.

This captain will go down with the ship.

[An oldie but a goodie, I'm posting it in preparation for the soon coming follow up.]

A captain must choose his ship wisely. There are many ships docked here, but not all are seaworthy. Some, though appearing seaworthy, will surely sink before you get out one nautical mile, while others will make it much farther before the holes and rotted wood become a problem. Often the captain sets off on his lifeboat, but every classic tale has taught us that a good captain goes down with his ship.

I’ve attempted to sail a few ships, but the open water has proven difficult. It takes a steady hand, a steady eye, and a steady mind - areas I continue to work toward but continue to need to grow. Ships scrape on docks, and I have difficulty steering. I see others much younger than myself navigating like Ishmael himself, and I try harder (not in this case for the good of the ship, but for myself). Repeated failures, near capsizes, the necessity to return to the dock - all part of the journey.

There was one ship I never tried to sail. I observed her from afar, then much closer. I learned a lot about that ship: the controls and the sails, the hull and the mast. Never did I once try to sail. I was fearful and full of excuses. As such, I wasn’t even worthy to sail. Behind the wheel is no place for a coward. It takes wise decisions and quick thinking, bold maneuvering and deep understanding (both of oneself and one’s ship). That was quite a magnificent ship indeed, though I’m not sure we were such a good fit as it was: I’ve never envisioned myself as a yachter.

Captaining a ship is not a matter of feigning fullness of knowledge, but of having confidence and carrying out decisions to the end. There will be consequences, and those must be dealt with. There must be a plan, which must be taken one day at a time. This is the way that a captain sails a ship.

This captain will go down with the ship.

Ship

My Bad

I promise that I haven't forgotten about you. I've just had several non-movable things this week and not had much time to write. This week might be limited to one update, which will be an old piece to which I'm working on a follow up. Sorry about that.

I promise that I haven't forgotten about you. I've just had several non-movable things this week and not had much time to write. This week might be limited to one update, which will be an old piece to which I'm working on a follow up. Sorry about that.

My Bad