I knew when I moved that I was moving many things for which I had no need or even a desire to keep, but moved them anyway.  For some of those things, there were good reasons.  I moved many boxes of files that contained both (now) useless memos, forms, managerial materials, and the like from Elgin State Hospital, and mixed among them, occasional papers that contained bits of patient information that I am responsible for keeping confidential and private.  This all requires looking over most pages to make sure a bit of Protected Health Information (PHI) is not somewhere on it.  I found that, mixed among the blue memos from higher administration (which I had a personal policy of ignoring until I got a third one on the same topic,) are sign-in sheets for therapy groups, minutes of staff meetings which contain a patient's name or diagnosis, and even daily unit population reports containing PHI, length of stay, number of beds over capacity and the like. 

Paper has become much less of a problem over the past year or two, as I have been saving "paperwork" as .pdf files and backing them up to an external drive or to CD/DVD disk.  But I still have a cedar chest, a mobile hanging file frame, several boxes and a few file cabinet drawers full of material to be sorted and recycled, some of it after confetti shredding.

At first, when I was packing, similar things went into the same box, and would be easily located in the same place.  This was logical and they were moved first.  The unanticipated result was that when the "Oh my God I'm never going to get all this stuff moved" realization set in, very dissimilar and unrelated objects were simply stuffed into boxes and taped closed.  If you give that a moment's thought, where would you expect the organized things to be, relative to the disorganized containers?  Right, on the first try!  Under them!  This has been discouraging in that I have had to sort unrelated things and take them, one or two at a time, to where the will remain.  On the reverse side of that coin, however, is the prize of knowing that when I finally reach the bottom layer of a pile of boxes, I will find one where the contents were packed logically and will go to the same place.

Other circumstances were simply not anticipated.  I moved a TV/VHS tape player combo which was old, but in good working order.  Then I bought a HD LCD TV.  As I do not have a separate VHS player, I "must" keep the TV and the two dozen or so of my favorite VHS recordings that I culled from hundreds before the move, until I can transfer them to DVDs compatible with the new TV.  Loosely related to this is the fact that I now have five remotes and require a 12 year old child to combine the functions of all into one.

Again, I logically realize that I do not need the massive amount of information I collected, or the psychophysiological recording equipment I built, for either my thesis or my dissertation.  Keeping a single copy of the finished product (which will never be read by anyone, myself included) should be enough.  When I discarded some of the statistics and original data tapes, I recalled one of my "top ten worst ever nightmares" in which the "they" in dreams found out that I had never taken an eighth grade history test and made me go back and do everything, from that test forward, over again.  Just try to throw away something into which you put so much effort (useless or not) under those circumstances.  One's brain hurts quite badly just before the panic attack.

Then, there are things that are taken for which one grossly overestimates the need.  There were two unopened 52 piece boxes of Oneida stainless tableware.  I was fairly certain I would not have need of 16 place settings and serving implements, so I gave one to Number One Son and took one myself.  So far, I have used two sizes of spoons, one fork and one knife.  All the rest are neatly arranged in the drawer organizer, still in their little, individual plastic wrappers.  It is entirely possible that they will remain in that state for the next five to 10 years.

"Books" were a great problem for me.  I love books.  Only a few types were easy to discard or recycle.  Old encyclopedias, out of date telephone books, moldy tomes and periodicals that didn't survive the "severe dampness" of the basement, children's books, and much of the trash science fiction that I had read when I was 13 (they had actual wormholes in them.)  A first edition set of the works of Charles Dickens and a set of works of the great authors of the world went to Firstborn, along with an antique,  handmade, glass front bookcase to house them.  Many textbooks were so out of date that there was no point in keeping them.  Other texts and reference books were so very out of date that they could not possibly be parted with, such as Cooper's Surgical Dictionary, printed in 1832.  Finally comes the greatest problem of unread books, classics too worthwhile to dispose of, probably close to 100 binders full of topical articles to be culled, recent or special issue journals, yearbooks, and even a comic book here and there.  I dread to think how many may still be in the rented storage space.  If I had a garage, I'd have a garage sale.

Coming Attractions:

In the near future, we are going to hold an "Identify The Thing" contest.  I will post a series of pictures of objects that remain in the apartment.  I may or may not know exactly what any pictured thing is, so this may be of benefit to both reader and author alike.

There will be two or more posts on US30 Dragstrip and Doc's adventures there, the evolution of his 1930 Model A Ford coupe, from street rod to C/Gasser with photos and sound.

Of course there will be more of the occasional brain farts I refer to as haiku, more reminiscences and stories, and as the political scene and laws change there will certainly be rants, and also likely reports on the Internet and software.  If my cognitive abilities take an unexpected vacation, there will quite likely be more posts like "Should I Write About Boxes?"

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

"I've known Pack Rats that are literally possessed by their possessions!" - Maria Gracia

I had a dream.  Just as I was waking up, or possibly I was waking because of it, it was very clear.  I recalled thinking that it was humorous at the time, but fairly quickly forgot about it.  When I read another blogger's post about dreaming of Mac and Cheese waking her, I was reminded of my own dream and thought it could be used as a marvelous example of problem solving in an altered state of consciousness (besides using just about the same amount of warped humor as I would have used in waking life to get what I wanted.)

As I recall the end of my dream, "They" had already placed me in "The Home" and I was not at all pleased about the situation.  My lifestyle had been severely limited and I couldn't get any of my usual food preferences.  Of course, the institutional cooking was institutionally presented and institutional tasting.  I didn't so much stage a hunger strike as demand something I knew that they must have and I knew that I liked; Ensure, chocolate, eight ounces (cold, and shaken, not stirred!)  The daemonic staff of the facility not only refused my simple request, but threatened me with nasogastric (NG) tube feeding if I did not eat their offal meals.

In the dream, I then thought, "Damn. How much more will it cost you to do that than give me a can of Ensure when I want it?"  I'm relatively certain that the procedure and sterile tube would have cost roughly the equivalent of 10 cases of food supplement.  (*stage whisper to staff* And you haven't seen how passive-aggressive I can become when I don't get my own way!)  Not that I'm anything like that in waking life, of course.  In the dream, I proceeded to write a letter of complaint to the manager of "The Home," explaining in a cost/benefit manner why he should capitulate immediately to my wishes, how I would do everything in my power to resist and/or later sabotage the tube, and who was receiving copies of the memo.  The recipients were to include an attorney specializing in elder-law, the certifying/licensing bodies for nursing homes, the local newspapers, and most threatening of all, my friends on Spaces who would blog such victimization around the world!

Darned if I didn't wake up before I found out how this tactic worked, but I definitely considered it a good dream.  The problem solving in it is so frighteningly similar to the actions I might actually have taken in such a situation that I have still more respect for Old Sigmund's masterwork, Dreams and Their Relation to the Unconscious.  In the clear light of waking reason, it seems more likely that I would have asked Firstborn or Number One Son to bring me a six-pack ... and then sent the letters!

What did I do upon becoming fully awake, you may ask?  I went to the refrigerator and got a can of generic food supplement, of course.

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

"If you can dream it, then you can achieve it. ... " - Zig Ziglar

Some things make me quite cranky and obsessive, indeed.  One of those things happened on Monday.  Somehow, I lost Firefox.  The browser would load and display itself but would not connect to the Internet.  Sometimes, like its owner, this computer becomes a little unstable and ...  just does unexpected things.  I would say I had no idea what caused this malfunction, but I really had about 20.

The first idea on my list was that Comcast might have done something "funny."  Its toolbar will only install on IE7, so that's where I started.  I switched to IE7 and was again in contact with the world, albeit at what seemed like a snail's pace.  OK.  I knew the computer could access the web sometimes.  My next thought was that I had installed and removed several minor programs, any of which could conceivably have caused a problem.  I also had done both a disk defrag and a registry defrag with software which came from a very reputable company, but I had no idea where the little 1's and 0's might have been placed.  I did a sys restore to no effect other than moving a few icons on the desktop.  I deleted several apps to DOD standards (seven overwrites of the data), but the problem remained.  I ran every security program I have (at least 10) from rootkit searches to anti-virus scans to ad removers and spyware scans.  I found nothing that I didn't already know was present.  Even the low risk items were then quarantined or deleted, however.  Still no Firefox.

At that point I decided to be tricky and try something different.  I disconnected the cable service and plugged into dial-up.  Everything else worked, but still no Firefox.  Drat!  There went my theories about the cable provider changing something.  Somewhere during all this poking of keys and rebooting, I fell asleep.  That was just as well, because I probably would have just continued to poke at things until I killed the computer.  When I awoke, somewhat refreshed but crabby from a dream I had (which will be my next post,) I went back to work on the problem.  I was at the point of downloading Opera or Safari to see if they would work, but I didn't want to do anything traumatic to the HP.

Trying to find Firefox help while using IE7 didn't work so well, and using what help Firefox could provide without being connected to the net was relative useless.  It explained clearly what the acronym "URL" stood for and explained what the proxy - client relationship is.  That is when I began semi-randomly poking keys and header tools.  It is also when I solved the problem.  I truly hate to admit how simple the solution was, once I stumbled upon it.  It seemed reasonable to use the Firefox "tools" that were available.  When I got down the list of options to "options," a screen opened with many, well ... options.  I made my way through them until I hit upon "advanced options, network, connection."  I proceeded to take the ultimate risk and poked "advanced network connection settings."  Nothing blew up and I was given four choices.  Although I felt that I was tempting fate to switch from the current setting to "Auto-detect proxy settings for this network," I did it.  Firefox came online immediately. 

I still have no idea what caused the problem to begin with, but I was absolutely thrilled to have solved the problem all by myself.  This elation lasted just long enough for me to figure out that anyone who actually knew what they were doing would likely have tried this as a first or second choice in resolving the situation.  I believe it was then that I uncovered another of those inconvenient, but basic truths of life.  It is extremely difficult to feel elated and incompetent at the same time.

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

Firefox 3, beta 4 is available for free download, but I'm not quite recovered enough from this trauma to install it yet.  Another portable version of Firefox 3, beta 4 is available as a free download with the feature of being able to install it on your USB thumb drive and test it without affecting the operation of your current version of Firefox 2, whatever version.  That isn't my usual quote, but is likely to prove much more valuable to those who are interested.  I might actually attempt that, as it has been downloaded and the installation icon is just sitting there on the desktop mocking me.

People on other blogs have mentioned the Easter Bunny, and it brought up a memory that has lain dormant for many years, just waiting to be a relevant association to a current thought.  The event took place in the Nolan's back yard, a magical place in my childhood and no less so when Firstborn was just old enough to be interested in an Easter Egg hunt.  The yard itself was a perfect setting for such an adventure, with a row of flowers along one side, an apple orchard, a walnut tree, and a weeping willow behind it, and a fence row of flowering shrubs on the other side.  A detached garage added interest to the possible placement of eggs for the great hunt. 

The eggs were hidden early in the morning in easy to find spots, and a few in not so evident places.  When the sun had dried the lawn sufficiently and we had built Firstborn's enthusiasm to an optimum level (awake,) we ventured forth in search of magic eggs.  There was one totally unplanned part of the festivities, however, that did not occur until several eggs had been found and placed in the official egg repository. 

As she reached for one of the "difficult" eggs, hidden in the flowers, she startled a wild rabbit.  Her first shriek was of surprise and possibly terror.  The second was of complete delight.  "The Easter Bunny!  The real Easter Bunny!" as said bunny made its rapid escape along the flower row and around the lilac bush.  I wish I had planned that, or even could have planned that.  It was more of a surprise to the adult who didn't believe in the Easter Bunny than it was to the child who was willing to.  I think that there is a profound lesson in there, somewhere.  I began to be able to admit the possibility of the "facts" that I knew, either not being true or not being the complete truth.  That was my Easter gift.

May the spirit of renewal, new growth, and fresh ideas be a gift to us all today.

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

I have almost always adopted "used" pets.  From friends and family, from shelters, incorrigible and geriatric Samoyeds from the breeder, abandoned little people in fur coats who walked in the door and stayed; they're the best.  I believe that they recognize that they have had a promise made to them, and that it is for life.  They respond in kind.

When we first got a used parakeet from a sister-in-law and brother-in-law because it refused to talk, I was not entirely enthusiastic about the idea.  These events usually take me a while to get used to, and to forget that they weren't originally my idea.  This particular tail occurred in the early '80s when Firstborn and Number One Son were still quite young and impressionable.  Initially, I referred to the bird as "God Damn Bird," but I couldn't say it above a whisper.  I was a W. C. Fields comedy fan and recalled that he got around some of the censorship laws by implication or by using homonyms and heavily emphasizing certain syllables.  Therefore, our little feathered family member was officially named "GOD-frey DAN-iel," which was often shortened to a simpler "G. D. Bird," or just G.D.

As (almost?) every parent knows, silence from toddlers for more than about three minutes, when they are not in direct line-of-sight, is a cause for concern.  Our parental response was most frequently a call to them, asking "Whad-a-ya doin'?"  As this was the most often repeated phrase in the home, it became our "speechless" budgie's favorite and most asked question.

G. D. was a healthy, friendly, outgoing, normal young male and quickly began to yearn for species-specific female companionship.  I had learned from my own childhood success with Easter Chick ranching that this would not be a good idea.  We therefore purchased a plastic model of a parakeet which was attached inside G.D.'s cage.  Bird Buddy was mounted on one of the cage's perches.  Repeatedly.  So often, in fact, that we wondered which would be worse for the kids, hearing a bit of swearing or watching repeated acts of sodomy being performed by a bird on a piece of plastic.  We should probably have named him Onan, "for he spilled his seed upon the ground."  Who knew?

Being the psychologist of the house, I was expected to "do something about it."  I was not sure at all what that "something" might be.  I suppose it could have been as simple as removing the fake bird, but that seemed too easy and to be "unfair."  I decided to try to replace the undesired sexual behavior with an alternative, socially acceptable one.  When I initiated the plan, the first step was to to be stopping the undesired behavior.  It never got much past that beginning because of Godfrey's response.  When I caught him in the act, I grasped his tail feathers and began to gently pull him away from Bird Buddy.  (I swear I am not making this up!)  When G.D. noticed that his activity of choice was being interrupted, he turned his head, looked me in the eye, and asked, "Whad-a-ya-doin!?"  I was too stunned and laughing too hard to proceed.

We had been clipping his wing feathers so that he couldn't fully fly, but just make a sort of wildly flapping downward glide to a lower object or to the floor.  We decided to let his wings grow to their full length so he that could exercise more, and feel less need for Bird Buddy.  He did this happily and was quite good at maneuvering in flight without running into anything in the house.  He became accurate in landing on heads, shoulders, and extended fingers.  He was happy while he lived with us.  When we went on a short vacation, however, we asked a well meaning neighbor watch the house, water the plants and feed the critters for us.  She took G.D. and his cage outside so he could get some fresh air and sunshine, not realizing that we were no longer clipping his wings.  A cage door that did not latch completely was all it took for G.D. to gain his freedom and a chance to find the love of his life.  When we returned from vacation, I was distraught and looked along tree rows, in parks, in bushes, called and whistled to him, all to no avail.  I did, however see several other escaped or wild parakeets in the process and determined that they can survive the weather in this area.  I finally convinced myself that he was meant to live free and find a mate.  Over 30 years later, I still miss him, though.

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

"A Robin Redbreast in a cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage." - William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

I was born due to my mother's sacrifice of her own chance for life.   A little over a month after her death, I was taken in by the Nolan family, all four of whom were unmarried siblings, and two of whom were my Godparents.  This occurred on St. Patrick's Day.  The youngest was 50 at that time.

Blue memories green

St. Pat’s Day of ‘46

Families were switched

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

Do not bother to watch the pre-race show unless you wish to know about the most recent penalties and the latest ways to cheat improve performance.  This also avoids the redundant repetition of repetitive and multiply performed generic driver "interviews," which are actually commercials for the sponsors and repeated praise for the respective pit crews and team owners.

Do not tune the TV to the channel on which the race is being broadcast until 15 minutes following the beginning of the broadcast of the race.  All you will "miss" is the usual obligatory generic Christian blessing, the Star Spangled Banner generally sung badly in a country twang, and a flyover by whatever warlike aircraft may be stationed nearby.  In the most recent race I partially watched, it was four A-10 "Warthogs."

Watch the start (Boogity, Boogity, Boogity!) and about the first 20 laps to see how the field sorts itself out and the lap times of your favorite cars.  They're testing at this point to find out both how the race setup of their car is working under current track conditions and to determine who they will really be racing in the last 20 laps.

At this point, you might seriously consider taking a nap.  By doing this, you can avoid many commercials, blathering commentators, "The Big One," (a crash involving several cars which will be replayed at least a half-dozen times following the race,) the irritating little "Gopher Cam," superimposed advertising and streamed "information," cartoon graphics that appear over in-car camera shots, screen-in-screen shots, and the general advertisification of the whole NASCAR extravaganza.  Believe it.  There is always something distracting going at the top and bottom of the screen, the lower left corner, and frequently in the center.  You might be interested in the pit stop coverage, often more interesting than the race itself, as occasionally some unfortunate team member gets his foot run over or is hit by an overzealous driver (the competition's or his own.)  You clearly recognize that this is not racing coverage when you begin to prefer the commercials.

Try to determine when the last 20 laps will occur.  It is then time to tune back in.  This will be the real race, and is much the same as the last two minutes of a close basketball or football game.  There is almost certain to be a caution and subsequent "race to the finish."  Over 50% of the time, the excitement is heightened by a yellow flag condition occurring during the last few laps, resulting in a "green-white-checker," two lap sprint to the finish.  The fan-demanded burnout by the winner is sometimes fun to watch.  Recently the winning car was filled with so much tire smoke that the driver had no idea where he was going.  It can also be entertaining to determine the "sponsor to words spoken ratio" uttered by the winning (and other) drivers during the post-race interviews.  Then again, I used to time the blink rates of speakers at major hospital management meetings.

Am I mocking NASCAR?  Yes and no.  With the advent of the "Car of the Future," the imposition of so damn many rules and penalties with inconsistent application, and oversell by artificially enthusiastic announcers, commercials, advertisers, and the like, yes.  I am mocking it.  The drivers, crew, design teams, mechanical engineers, and owners, - No.  They are professionals subjected to requirements beyond their direct control.  But they choose to stay for the money. 

When I heard the first "NASCAR Sprint Cup" ad, I actually became enthused.  I was ill informed enough to believe that this might mean Sprint Car coverage, rather that the latest in a series of major sponsors (Winston Cup, Nextel Cup, etc.)  NASCAR has come to closely resemble the International Race Of Champions (IROC,) which I dislike at least as much as restrictor plate racing, since its inception many years ago.  IROC's premise was to prepare eight (or more) cars as exactly alike as possible and then put the top drivers from various types of racing in them and turn them loose on differing race courses.  The first I remember used identically prepared Porsches, differing only in color.  A writer of the day (Brock Yates maybe? in a magazine of the day, Car and Driver?  Road and Track?) commented that the race resembled nothing so much as "a gaggle of mistreated jelly beans."  That is today's NASCAR, as far as I am concerned.

Obviously I am biased.  Even NHRA drag racing has become too commercialized and concentrates only on the top of the top classes.  I would much rather watch a Saturday night dirt track race or the "little guy" classes of drag racing than almost any of the big money races of current interest to most fans.  This is undoubtedly a longing for my own roots when I raced with no sponsor, no "team" except my friends, and a governing body that cared somewhat about driver and fan safety, but had a competition category for nearly anything that came to the strip.  Those were the much simpler "Run what ya' brung" days.  *sigh*

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

"Nostalgia is like an anesthetic; you experience no pain, only a beautiful haze. When you grow older, what matters is not the way it was, but the way you remember it." - Roger and Natalie Whittaker

I don't believe I have ever blogged except obliquely about my long involvement with radio controlled model sailplanes.  They were a passionate hobby for me until I had to stop flying because of the cost in time and money that conflicted with my commitment to give Annie the best care I could.  I also lost contact with one of my two primary support groups of friends when I quit flying.  I could not possibly have asked for a friendlier, more accepting group of people with whom to have become associated.  Excluding the dentist from Detroit's flight crew, that is ... but that really is another story rant.

Model sailplanes are launched in several ways, but most have in common the central principle of something or someone pulling them into the sky like a kite.  Once the model reaches the maximum altitude allowed by any of the methods or by the contest rules, it is released and flying on its own.  The pilot on the ground then controls it via radio signals which are converted to mechanical movements of the model's control surfaces by tiny servo motors.  Any model flier would tell you that this is a grossly simplified explanation,  but I am assuming that you do not want a lecture on the Bernoulli effect's relationship to the creation of "lift" in a wing or the techniques used to build a wing from foam, fiberglass, kevlar and carbon fiber in a vacuum bag.  I'm guessing that you want to know about the "bonk."

One of the simplest contest types in which we engaged involved keeping the model in the air for a specified amount of time (two minutes, four, six, 10, or whatever,) with points deducted for each second over or under that time.  Timing stops when the model touches the ground or any ground based object (even a tall weed.)  Landing points are also awarded for stopping the model's nose at an exact spot on the ground, with points being deducted for every three inches from that spot.  In theory, at least, this is an extremely simple form of contest to run and to score.

We generally flew at sod farms, at open public parks, and occasionally at a polo field for this sort of contest, as they were all well mowed and relatively flat.  Each had its own form of peril, however.  The contest I am describing today was on a sod farm.  "Farm" is a key word, here.  Although sod farms don't generally have tall buildings (except for the one with the window I broke when a novice,) they do tend to have neighboring farms with vicious dogs and silos.  When all the surrounding land is flat, the small complex of farm buildings, house, trees, and silo tend to be a spot at which upward thermal currents will "kick off."  No small amount of courage or stupidity is required to fly over them, in the hope of catching lift at low altitude, when one is flying a small model at long distance and has poor depth perception.  Yeah.  I hit the silo.

Actually, I more or less landed on its domed tin roof, resulting in a resounding "BONK!" sort of noise.  Flight timing stopped, as silos are definitely considered ground based objects, and a great susurrus of hilarity surrounded the red-faced Doc.  End of story?  Nooo!  What occurred next was almost as much a surprise to me as it was to the laughing contestants.  My sailplane started to slide down the dome of the silo, and as it fell off the edge, reached flight speed.  In doing so, I was again flying and in control.  For one of the few times in my life that I have thought quickly enough to surprise people, I remembered landing points!  Apparently nobody else did, so it came quite unexpectedly when I yelled "Heads up!" and made a fast, diving glide to the landing point.  I don't honestly recall whether I flew around or under the fabric top of the scoring tent, but I stuck the landing within two feet of the perfect spot.  After a good deal of rule checking, discussion, and the consumption of cooler beverages, it was determined that the two aspects of scoring were indeed separate, and I was entitled to the landing points in addition to the flight points I had earned.  This misadventure rated a specially drawn cartoon in the following month's issue of Soaring Flight, and a reputation I have never quite lived down.  It was truly the most humiliating, yet the finest saved contest flight I have ever made.

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

"A failure is a man who has blundered but is not capable of c(r)ashing in on the experience." - Elbert Hubbard

Nae, a very good Spaces friend, is donating her magnificent hair to be used making wigs for cancer sufferers who have lost theirs during treatment.  There are now only four days left to contribute money to St. Baldrick's, the organization she describes below.  I have donated hair to Locks of Love twice, but never found the additional benefit of raising money for a most worthy charity by doing so.  Nae has.  Please consider giving whatever you can to help her raise funds for this most worthy cause.

Quote

It's Time - I Need ALL of You to Help!!!

I did it! I have to admit I was really afraid to do it -- 'cause I like my hair. But I thought long and hard about giving my word to the guys at the Firehall last year, and God convicted me -- so I signed up!

Now -- I need your help to raise $5,000 for children's cancer research. St. Baldrick's Foundation is a great organization. Most of their foundation is "manned" by volunteers, so only about 2% is used for administrative purposes -- the rest goes to the fellowships, research, etc. This group is seriously committed to ending children's cancer.

SO -- on March 14th -- I will be buzzed (not quite bald -- I'll have some slight stubble) in the name of giving to others. My long, brown locks will be donated to Locks of Love after the event (it is considered a DOUBLE donation) -- and I hope that they will be happy with the healthy 15" I have managed to grow for some person who needs my hair more than I do.

You can help me raise money by going to www.stbaldricks.org,

clicking on "Participants,"

then choosing 2008 participants,

entering my name: Renae Mathson (yeah, the REAL me),

and "Shavee."

When you see my picture (with LOADS of hair), look down below for the link, ""Donate Now"  Sitka, Alaska (i"Donate Now" under my picture.

If that doesn't work, try this link: http://www.stbaldricks.org/participants/shavee_info.html?ParticipantKey=2008|30691

And, if all else fails, you can call 1.888.899.BALD

That's it -- choose whatever you believe you can afford -- and help me help children who suffer so much more than having a chilly head!!!!

And -- if you can -- please link this site -- or email it to friends -- or help me (somehow, someway) to get the word out so I can find more people to help make a donation. After all, if we all do a little something, then we can change the world!!!

Thanks everyone!!!!

God bless you and keep you, Nae

On March 6, 2008, the Electronic Frontier Foundation (EFF) published a news release which in part stated:

"Babak Pasdar, a computer security consultant, has gone public about his discovery of a mysterious "Quantico Circuit" while working for an unnamed major wireless carrier. Pasdar believes that this circuit gives the U.S. government direct, unfettered access to customers voice calls and data packets. These claims echo the disclosures from retired AT&T technician Mark Klein, who has described a "secret room" in an AT&T facility. ...

The White House is putting heavy pressure on lawmakers to grant the telecoms immunity from lawsuits over the spying as part of Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA) legislation pending in Congress. ...

When you put Mr. Pasdar's information together with that of AT&T whistleblower Mark Klein, there is troubling evidence of telecom misconduct in massive domestic surveillance of ordinary Americans," said Cindy Cohn, Legal Director of the Electronic Frontier Foundation (EFF). "Congress needs to have hearings and get some answers about whether American telecommunications companies are helping the government to illegally spy on millions of us. Retroactive immunity for telecom companies now ought to be off the table in the ongoing FISA debate." (Bold italics by this author.)

This is only part of the news release, but the original has links to more and deeper sources of information.  The practices described here, a part of the so called "Patriot Act" and its illegal use by our government to conduct warrantless searches, electronic or otherwise, of US Citizens, contains little that is new.  The specific name "Quantico Circuit" is new to me, but I have been aware of, and active with, this and and similar organizations, to restore and preserve the freedoms we all desire, for quite some time.  I am not making any requests that you write congress persons or agency heads unless you feel that you wish to.  I am, however, definitely trying to make better known and emphasize information that tends to spin right past us as it becomes lost among reports of assorted celebrities' diseases and the indiscretions of American Idols.  EFF's information on NSA spying, privacy issues, cell phone tracking, real-ID, Radio Frequency ID (RFID), search engine issues, travel screening, CALEA, and anonymity are all presented at the EFF site, along with actions that may be taken, personally or as part of group.  EFF is an excellent organization, but it is only one of many.  A listing of action groups, generally related to this topic, will be posted as a folder in the Sky Drive module.  Read it or not.  Take action or not.  It will be there because this is an area about which I feel very strongly.

Steven Colbert of Comedy Central on The Word of the Day.

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

"Posterity -- you will never know how much it has cost my generation to preserve your freedom. I hope you will make good use of it." - John Quincy Adams

Following the previous post with the inclusion of a Google search, I noted with some disappointment that my ranking in Google searches for "The Village of Elburn, IL" has fallen dramatically since my last mention if it.  Elburn was once a simple, bucolic, irritating little village located approximately 50 miles west of Chicago, on route 47, which now is rapidly becoming the outermost fairy ring of growth in the greater suburban area.  I thought of moving there, rather than to my current residence, prior to selling the house on Deer Run Drive, but Elburn is undergoing a growth spurt, and housing prices have risen ridiculously over the past ten or so years.  When considering living there I was falsely but fondly recalling my long gone grad school memories of stopping near Elburn at the intersection of routes 38 and 47 to allow a loose herd of dairy cows to examine me, and of a pheasant that suicided on the windshield of the '69 Camaro while commuting to classes.  That was long ago and Elburn has since become modernized to the point that I think of it as Elburn, the village of incompetent dentistry and speed traps enforcement zones.  So much for the Village of Elburn.  I don't go there anymore.

Living alone as a semi-recluse gives rise to some, shall we say, idiosyncratic thoughts and speculations.  For instance, I have wondered if I could attach the little key-ring sized discount cards that stores give out, to The Boys' collars, duct tape a credit card to Bittle, and send them in to the local pet stores to do their own shopping.  The merit I see in this arrangement would be that they could no longer legitimately refuse to eat what, up until my last major shopping expedition, had been their favorite foods, and further could not then glare at me with their fussy, "How could you have done this to us" looks.

Another notion that occurred to me is akin to building a boat in the basement.  I don't believe that there is any specific rule in this apartment complex against building a car in the living room.  This is likely due to the fact that nobody has ever tried it.  I am wondering if I could pass off a fiberglass bodied '39 Willys C/Gasser as an art project in progress.  I know the floor would hold up under the weight of the project, from previous piles of "stuff" that it withstood.  The living room is just large enough, and the picture window is both wide and tall enough to eventually have it removed.  Yes, I measured it.  It wouldn't have to have an engine, at first.  I could just sit in it and make "Vroom! Vroom!" noises for the time being and then drop a crate motor in it later.  ...  Mmm.  I didn't think so either, but it is a pleasant fantasy.

I will likely start a serial rant on future posts about the remote possibility that Google is not being entirely faithful to their own motto, "Don't do evil."  Meanwhile, a link to a break.com production of Google Maps is Evil.

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

"It is not easy to describe the present position of legal opinion on advertising and free speech. Only a poet can capture the essence of chaos." - R. H. Coase

I first saw this on February 22 and assumed it was a Googlebomb that would quickly be "repaired."  I tried the same Google search again this morning, 12 days later, and the number one result remains the same.  I'll keep a .pdf file in case it mysteriously goes away.

Who is a failure?

http://www.google.com/search?q=who+is+a+failure%3F&sourceid=navclient-ff&ie=UTF-8&rls=GGGL,GGGL:2006-37,GGGL:en&aq=t

Peace, Doc

"Success builds character, failure reveals it." - Dave Checkett

Iceberg hard and cold
Abandoned, apart from all
Melds in friendship’s warmth

Thank you all for your comments, both public and private.  They reassure me greatly that the decision to continue blogging in general, and on Spaces Live in particular, is the right one.

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

"A friend is someone who can see the truth and pain in you even when you are fooling everyone else." - Unknown

March forth, or my fourth March?  Why am I still here?  My first Spaces post was on March 19th 2005.  It stated, in its entirety:

"Hello out there,

I'll figure out something worth saying to the world in the next year or so.

Peace,

Doc"

Since that initial post, I have released a lot of words, emotions, pictures, bits of my life, panic tips, links, rants, possibly useful information, poetry, opinions, and a great deal of myself into cyber-space for anyone to view.  I have made at least two errors that ended up hurting people, and I hope that I have atoned for those, in some measure, both by public apology and by helping as many others as I could. 

I first began blogging three years ago as a sort of "basket weaving" therapy for my grief and depression less than two months after the death of my wife.  It helped by giving me something to do that would at least force me to think about something positive rather than obsess upon the really morbid thoughts that were predominant at that time.  I am fairly certain that I was not totally sane then, with the combination of depression and grief.  Although I was not at all new to the Internet, I was a total novice to the social aspect of it.  The web was for email, downloading programs, and as an advertising medium for my private practice.  I had never been in a chatroom, on a bulletin board, or gamed with others.  Having "a real dot com" was a hoot.  It was my own techno-toy on which to promote my practice and on which to give free suggestions and links to psychological resources.

Why in the world did I not comprehend that social life on the net is much like life in a large city, (only worse) with the same anonymity, isolation, and quasi-immunity from the direct consequences of most of one's statements and actions?  I do not think I was merely stupid or naive.  I was so needy that I did not recognize in myself, that which I would have been sure to recognize in another.

I used Spaces to mourn and grieve, seeking solace from whoever might give it.  I hadn't thought out clearly that others might have exactly the same needs and feelings or that words on the web are forever.  It was at that time, of course, that MSN/MSNBC chose to feature me for the first time.  I'm sure that I was their "demented shrink, dog and pony show" for the week, but getting over 200,000 hits in one week was heady stuff and I continued to blog.  When I realized how many people might potentially be reading what I wrote, however, I exercised a bit more self-censorship.  I certainly didn't want everyone reading my private journal, after all. 

The same general themes continue today, though.  The basic "Doc" comes through pretty clearly.  I have learned to suppress some of my more outrageous notions and my less than prize winning Haiku, though I have also learned about writing even the strongest convictions for publication.  I have made a number of good friends on, or because of, Spaces Live.  I have been fortunate enough to understand the lessons that were there, and to become a part of a like-minded community of bloggers who interact lovingly and really do care about each other.

I have not posted anything for nearly a week, both because I was at a temporary loss for anything I felt like writing, and because I had been giving some serious thought to leaving Spaces Live.  My other blogs could be tended to more frequently, hopefully bringing a little more Google AdSense cash.  I could possibly develop the online business, which I have been working at sporadically, into something that would produce both another small supplementary income, and be a service, or at least a bit of fun, for readers.

Following due contemplation, I have decided that I both want and need to continue to continue the role of sole proprietor of Doc's Place.  I have several projects going on simultaneously, but if I lose the fun part of writing on the web, much more is lost than a few hundred dollars a year.  Future posts may contain bits and pieces of other projects as the subject matter, but hopefully it will be interesting, useful, or oddly refreshing.  Alternatively, it may be cranky and strange.  Whatever.  Most importantly, I know that I will remain among friends.  Thank you all.

Peace, Doc

Copyright © 2008, Thomas A. Blood, Ph.D.

"A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked” - Bernard Meltzer