My own private wall....

Yesterday was race day, the San Francisco Marathon. Well, for me it was the half marathon this time. My full marathon is the Nike Marathon this year, on October 22nd.

I'm not sure exactly when I became addicted to running but I suppose it was inevitable. Knowing I'm of this personality type, I try to stay addicted to healthy pursuits. On marathoning, I guess I'd have to blame Abbott. A number of years ago, I met Mike and Martin for dinner at our favorite hang, Jing Jing in Palo Alto. Mike busts out with "Hey, we're running the Honolulu marathon, you should come with us!". Of course, I'm down for a trip anywhere with the boys. I went home that night and promptly signed up. The next day, my compatriots were surprised at my instant conviction, an indication to me that neither of them had actually entered. I made a serious attempt at training, suffering from chronic injury along the way. I ran the Nike Half Marathon as training, but suffered shin splints so intense that I was sidelined for a month. There was no way I'd be in shape for the marathon and as it turns out, good thing. When race day arrived, I was in Hawaii, but I was deathly ill with some kind of killer cold virus. By that time though, I could not be stopped. I would complete a marathon. As I have mentioned before, I'm a big guy, not naturally suited to be a distance runner (but that didn't stop me competitive cycling either). So, I focused on losing weight. I managed to lose 45 lbs and finish the San Francisco Marathon in 2005 in about 4:40. After I finished, I stated to my wife that I had checked it off of the list as a life accomplishment and I was not becoming a "marathoner". Yeah, right....

This year, I'm running multiple races. I guess since being able to run 10 miles or more, I've really come to enjoy the solitary, hypoxic time in the woods. It's a great time to focus, to think, to create. The downside is that when sidelined by injury or illness, I can become terribly depressed. I lost 4 weeks of training this year when I was felled by the flu, followed by pneumonia, followed by a cold. The comeback was tough, my lung capacity reduced to the volume of a walnut. I pressed through and even stayed committed to training while I was in Belarus. Even though I hadn't trained to the level I would have liked, I remembered what my buddy Saar said last year, it's all about the base. Finally, race day had arrived.

Part of what I love about racing is the atmosphere. In my experience, each type of racing has it's own feel. This is probably down to my relative level of competitive ability in the subject sport. Cycling, especially track cycling, is as arrogant and juiced up as they come. I loved my years cycling and the people I trained with, but race day could just be silly egos were so out of control. Auto and motorcycle racing are much more relaxed. You get the occasional clown attempting to handle way too much car, but not very often. Then there's running. A massive throng of insane people who willingly flood the streets at 5 a.m. for the privilege of torturing their joints, muscles, and general viscera for 2 - 5 hours or so. In some ways, it's chaos or at least some chaos theory. I find that if you attach yourself to the edge of the crowd, not unlike antibody to antigen, you'll find your way past the bag check and eventually to your start wave, no other directions required. This year, based on past experience, I started in a wave slightly faster than I intended to run. My first marathon, I started in a wave a bit slower than I intended to run. This was not a good strategy. Not only did I find myself dodging slower runners constantly, but when you get into the 4:30 and greater finish times, there tends to be a significant amount of chit chat between participants which I find completely annoying. I'm no Prefontaine, but I remain competitive and I'm out here to turn my PR. Following the same logic, I always commit to bring my Shuffle but change my mind at the last moment fearing that as the miles pass, any extra gear will become a distraction, eventually causing me to hear voices that result in ejection of the offending device over the nearest ledge. Next time, no matter what, the iPod will be in tow. Worse than the yammering pseudo-athlete is the danger that one of the most annoying songs in the world will become inexplicably stuck in my head, like this time. Believe it or not, I'm walking on air, theme song to The Greatest American Hero. I cannot remember the last time I heard the song, but there it was, by mile 3 I was screwed. Ouch.

I tried to focus on my pacing strategy but my Garmin, for the first time ever, never was able to locate satellites. So, I had to pursue the backup plan (find a hottie who's slightly faster and keep up). I was cruising along for the first 4 miles or so during which I had to make a small detour to hit the whizinator. I never have to pee after I start a race. I make a point of taking care of everything before the start, but my cab was late this morning and I didn't have enough time. I noticed many of the competitors ducking into driveways along the piers that line the Embarcadero to relieve themselves. I just couldn't bring myself to do the same. Not because I'm embarrassed to do so, but organizing a race of this size in the city of San Francisco requires the full cooperation of it's citizens, local government, an army of volunteers, and local business. What impression of the running community will be left with those who arrive to work only to find that the entrance has been engulfed by lake peepeekaka? I think it shows a complete lack of respect for the good people who tolerate our temporary take over of the streets. I waited until the Maria where there was a public bathroom available.

After the short detour, I made it up the climb to the Golden Gate Bridge in good shape, mile six down as I passed under the first tower. Feeling loose, I started turning faster splits, 8 minutes to mile 7. Mile 8 and 9 were similarly smooth and quick. Then, it all came apart. One step down onto my left foot about 200 yards from the end of my bridge and just before mile 10 and it felt like something snapped in my left calf. The pain was instantaneous and what my wife would call, exquisite. Crushed, I hobbled the rest of the way off of the bridge. I had to try and stretch out whatever had just happened. I had experienced the same injury in the past and it kept me down for 2 weeks, but the thought of spending the next hour walking the remaining 3 miles was just too much. I shuffled down the hill to the 10 mile water table and walked through the zone, things started to loosen up. Encouraged, I started running again. I thought I might actually make it back in short order until just before mile 11 when something else, deeper, felt like it snapped. Oh boy. At this point, I wasn't able to fight through the pain, each step generating a shock from my Achilles to the back of my knee. There was medical at mile 11. I had the tech wrap my left calf with Ace tape as tightly as possible. That was enough support to allow me to drag my butt home.

To all of you crazy folks who line the roads cheering at such an early hour on a Sunday morning, you rock. I have to say that the crowd gathered after mile 11 had a huge effect on my resolve to finish. You guys are insane, but God love you. I was forced to walk again for a short distance before heading into the neighborhoods that border Golden Gate Park. Mile 12 seemed to drag on forever with mile 13 coming not too long after entering the park, up the last climb. About 200 yards from the finish, I spotted Calvin standing with my Mom. I yelled to him and he started to run after me along the sidewalk. Next time, I'm definitely inviting him onto the road with me. The kid can already run a couple of miles so I've just been delaying the arrival of that inevitable day when he can outrun his old man. I managed to finish in 2:07 despite the walking and delays, so I'm very happy with my performance. Certainly without the injury I would have achieved a sub 2 hour 1/2 marathon.

I'll be convalescing for a couple of weeks with ice and yoga. Then it's back on the road to October 22nd. I can't wait. And next year? Pikes Peak w/ the Abbott.

Rack 'em.

VIPs - 1 Kids - 0...

I've always been a Madonna fan. It's not that any one aspect of the woman or her music is overwhelming, but the sum total is impressive. The adoption of the contrived British accent after moving to London is a bit much I'll admit, but it was a scene from her movie, Truth or Dare, that secured her standing with me. In on scene, after a show, she expresses her anger over the front rows being filled with industry people despite her request to the contrary. Now, I'm not naive, maybe it was all for the cameras. After all, there aren't many moments so tailor made to let the concert going masses know how much you care about them.

In any case, last Saturday, my Father and I took my son, now 4, to his first race. Not just any race, an NHRA drag race. As many races as I've attended personally, I've never been to see top fuel dragsters and funny cars, ever. So, we were all understandably excited. It was only 85 degrees in Sonoma that day and the traffic wasn't too bad. We figured that Calvin wouldn't last too long so we timed our arrival to see some Pro Stock and the Top Fuel qualifying. For those of you not intimately familiar, Top Fuel drag cars are more or less time bombs piloted by people with very quick reaction times and no sense of fear. Powered by a super charged, nitromethane burning V8 these marvels of mechanical engineering crank out an F-16-like 1500 horsepower and leap to over 300 mph in under 5 seconds. Amazing.

As you can imagine, the violence of such an action is Loud (that's a capital L). In my usual modus operandi, we had seats right at the start line, eye level with the cars as they came to the line. Despite the custom-made ear plugs, my son nearly jumped out of his skin when the first Funny Car left the line. Way too close. But, I remembered, not unlike Pac Bell Park, Infineon has a Family Section. I hoisted Cal onto my shoulders and after a stop to pick up some serious ear protection (a la ear muffs like those guys parking jets wear) we headed off on the long hike to the end of the strip. When we arrived, I was informed that the entire section had been purchased by PowerAde for VIPs and that we would not be allowed to sit there on that day. This move, in my view, was ridiculous in more ways than one. The good folks at Infineon should never have offered up the Family Section for sale. It kind of defeats the concept if at every event the section designated for small kids is up for exclusive sale to the highest bidder. Secondly, I do not look favorably upon a company who would wantonly commit such an act in the name of marketing and satisfying the wants of a special few. They, after all, do not likely pay the bills. People like me who are insane enough to run marathons pay the PowerAde bills.

We stood outside of the newly renamed PowerAde Corral to watch a few more rounds before heading home. Drag racing is much more interesting than I thought it would be, although next time I think we'll go to MotoGP at Laguna Seca. I won't be spending anymore of my hard earned racing coin at Infineon. Losers.

So you think you can dance....

Yeah, I admit it, I watch it (and Project Runway). If Natalie is voted off, I might stop though. :-) Seriously, compared with American Idol the average talent level is amazingly high. I think that it probably has something to do with not being able to fake your way into a dance competition. You either kick but or you don't. Idol has been heading downhill since season one, not surprisingly, as there just isn't a steady supply of Kelly Clarksons being born every year. Like her or not, there's no denying her mad skills. Subsequent winners were entertaining and all of them have a modicum of talent, but even the best of the rest (Clay) has faded into the background. Se la.

I couldn't sleep again last night. Maybe I've become addicted to tranquilizers (how completely weak would that be?). More likely, after being away for a week, my brain sufficiently scrambled by the rapid change in time zones, the pile of projects left undone seems almost insurmountable. As the hours pass, my mountain of trivia expands across the vastness that is my imagination, and as the strength to maintain perspective fades, so do the prospects of sleep. What if global warming continues unchecked? The oceans will rise, my home becoming a reef, my financial future drowned by an unforgiving sea. What about a tsunami? They aren't just for Java ya know. Ugh. How long will this idiot Bernanke keep raising interest rates? Will the conflict in the Middle East continue to widen with the inevitable consequences for humanity and the economy? Personally, I'd agree to anything that Condi Rice asked if it meant that she would stop talking. Who knew anyone could have a speaking style more painful than Dubya? At the risk of sounding anti intellectual, do I really need to hear "status quo ante" one more time? Sheesh. Normally I can listen to NPR and eventually I'll fall asleep. However, world events as of late effect me so deeply that my purpose is defeated. I try my iPod, some Jerry Seinfeld, nope, David Sedaris, nothin'. I give up and switch to earplugs, it's 4:30 a.m. I awake in a dizzy haze at 7:15.

Crap, Natalie is in the bottom two. The other two girls were so good, this could be curtains for my heroine.

Normally, I am able to manage my stress partly by maintaining a healthy perspective on just how lucky I am, but I also try to view my life and the world we live in for what they are; insignificant parts of a universe that is infinitely and simultaneously large and small. I'm a big fan of string theory and quantum mechanics. Some might find this point of view overly depressing or fatalistic. Perhaps. My view is that an honest appreciation for the size and complexity of our universe is healthy and liberating. There are vast numbers of myopic people who spend their entire lives caught up in the battle for real estate that ultimately will belong to no one. A depressing thought juxtaposed to the increasing number of wounded and dead shipped home daily, governments willing to visit unspeakable cruelty on it's citizenry (and those of other nations) in order to enrich the those in power or pursue ideology. I choose to count my lucky stars for being granted this chance to experience any of it in the first place. My goal is to take in as much of it as possible; pain, pleasure, the wonder of it all, life.

We're an arrogant bunch, human beings. Who else would model the God that is supposedly responsible for the creation of a universe 100 million miles wide in his own image? What other species would be so foolish as to think they could actually destroy a planet? Earth Day? Give me a break. Human Race Day is more like it. With all of the evil we are able to visit upon ourselves in this place, the sum total amounts to a pin prick for the rock we call home. Destroy every last living thing, and a few million years from now, life will re-emerge, as it has in the past.

Ultimately, the important thing is that Natalie is safe. Allison was voted off instead (unfairly I might add. As much as I root for Natalie, Allison probably should have won the entire competition). Balancing the 11 dimensions, the futility and joy of being, and Natalie's fate can be challenging, which is why I don't often attempt to explain it. I admit, it makes me sound like a loon on some levels, but those who know me have already reached that conclusion, reducing the risk of such posts to some extent.

Out.

Paying for it....

So how long can a human being exist without sleep? At what point do involuntary functions become otherwise, microcellular processes collapsing inward to form a useless pile of electrochemical wreckage. Once again, I've been awake for 30 hours and counting, my brain continues to hate me.

At hour 35, I bailed home and went to bed. 13 hours later, I went for a run. I'm a new person today. Luckily I never reached the theoretical threshold I describe above. So, I'd say that concludes the portion of my blog devoted to my trip to Minsk. I'm going to keep writing on random topics which you may or may not find interesting. For better or worse, I've become addicted to blogging and I cannot be stopped.

Peace.

Still can't sleep....

As great as it was to visit Belarus, it's great to be back. I've been playing some of the same scenes back on American soil. I was up until about 5:30 this morning, attempting to get back on PST. I'm going to fire down my last Ambien tonight (with a little white wine :-).

No dramatic changes in my absence other than my 8 month old has decided that it's time for him to become bipedal and spends every waking moment in pursuit of that configuration. I think that he has decided to skip whole crawling thing, believing that too much emphasis is placed on its role in normal development.

The same jackass is still racing up and down our street on a piece of crap motorcycle without headers. I'm determined to capture him on videotape in the hopes that overwhelming evidence will force even my local PD into action. The same Jack "Ass" O'Connell is still running our state's education straight into the ground. Keep passing kids through the system, prepared or not, until they run into the razorwire of standardized testing at the end of the road. Genius. One of the saddest and most pathetic things I've seen in my life is a classroom full of second graders learning how to properly fill in a Scantron. This the most effective use of classroom time they can think of? These are the skills my children will need to become critical thinkers? Sadly, it's most likely the trend that will cause me, a product of public education, to remove my kids from the system.

Hey, at least I found my cell phone buried in my checked bag when it finally arrived at SFO yesterday. Best of all, 3 our of 4 bottles of Belarussian vodka survived, the lone casualty acting as a sterilizing solvent for the rest of my bag. So at least the memory of Minsk is only as far as a sniff of my Samsonite.

It gets worse....

Hell has a name in my universe this evening, and it's Dulles. Satan happens to live here, his name is United. The actual flight from Frankfurt to D.C., once airborne was fine. I managed to do a lot of writing and most importantly stay awake. I'm doing my best to get back on to PST ASAP. Deplaning in Dulles began the odyssey I'm currently in the middle of.

After making my way through customs without incident, I proceeded to baggage claim. You must collect your bags in customs and recheck them through to your final destination in the U.S. Waiting, waiting, waiting, I start to feel the burn, the invisible hand of my arch nemesis, flying karma, hot on my shoulder. The last bags are removed from the conveyor, and none of them is mine. Shocking. I see the lone service agent located within customs expecting the worst. What's this though? A glimmer of hope. A scan of my baggage claim check indicates that my bag has indeed made it to the airport. Whoo hoo! Right? Wrong, Loser! Yeah, it's in the airport, it's just that no one seems to know exactly where. After 30 minutes of searching, my bag remains somewhere amongst the hundreds of lost and unclaimed luggage. My biggest fear now is that my collection of very unique Belarussian vodka will be removed for me. The agent tells me to get on my flight and file a lost bag claim in San Francisco at which point my bag will be forwarded to me. Whatever, I'm much too tired to argue. It is roughly 8 o'clock when I exit customs sans bags. It is 87 degrees and probably an equal amount of humidity. Dulles isn't exactly being generous with the A/C, the airport is a sauna. On my way through the baggage recheck area (bags claimed in customs MUST be rechecked to the final destination), I have to explain to the crack security staffer that my checked bag has been lost. She notices a claim check attached to one of my carry ons and insists that I check it. No amount of explaining that it is simply an old tag I forgot to remove does anything to change this point of view. A simple examination of the tag indicates that the destination is Minsk, not Dulles, and the date is from July 15th. I'm forced to repeat this scenario with a supervisor who decides to get snippy with me about removing the tags when I'm done. Thank you so much for the serial abuse, welcome to America.

I exit customs and check the tote board to find my next flight, scheduled to leave at 9:30 p.m. I find the flight number and gate and begin the long walk through what now seems like a rain forest. The terminal is packed and steamy the humidity created by a combination of the weather and the collective perspiration of the multinational multitudes. I fight my way around the "mall walkers" (people walking half in a daze who seem to be able to take up an entire walkway) and reach my gate. For an as-yet-unknown reason, my gate is empty. Suffering from occasional dyslexia, I recheck the tote board thinking that perhaps I've transposed a number or flipped a 9 for a 6. No, flight 225, gate C19, departs at 12:05 a.m. Jesus H Christ on a popsicle stick, am I reading that right? 3 hours late?! I turn around to see the line at the lone customer service desk stretching far over the horizon. I deflate, I'd like to die now please. This would be a really handy time to have not lost my cell phone. What a moron I am. I wonder if my insurance covers stupidity, hmmm. I find a pay phone with a credit card reader. After dialing, I figure out that the readers are for decoration only and do not function. I attempt 1800 Collect to Jody, no answer. I hang out for a little while with a Russian woman from my flight also stranded and try Jody again. No answer, but I've scrounged enough change together to be able to leave a voicemail and after doing so I begin the death march back to the growing customer service line. Shortly after joining the queue, I meet a British transplant who now resides in Maine. He has been at the airport since 11 a.m. and has been booked on and bumped from 3 flights. Currently the best they can do is promise to get him home by Saturday. He hangs around for a bit but realizing we have moved probably 10 feet in 20 minutes, he gives up and heads out on a search for alternatives. The gentleman in front of me strikes up a conversation. His name is Georgio, he's from Newark and his flight home has been cancelled. Georgio is a pastor returning from a 2 day workshop in Niagara Falls. He's a really sweet guy with what would seem to be 3 fantastic kids, all of whom have flown the nest for very successful careers as an architect, a shipping container expert, and a pediatrician. Wow. Behind us, there is a tiny Indian man who speaks little english. For what he lacks in vocabulary he makes up for with his ass. This guys is cracking off farts that would bring down a rhino. The kind that sneak up on you and burn your nose hairs. The people around us all recoil involuntarily as they are hit with the nerve gas not bothering to hide the reaction in the hope that the silent attacks will stop. My little man is undeterred, as he continues to sit cross legged on the ground fumigating the premises at will. It's just the perfect accent to our already stifling environment.

After 2 hours in line, I'm 2 deep in the queue to reach an agent when I notice that my gate, which is directly across from the customer service desk. Georgio offers to hold my place in line so that I might attempt to check in at the gate. Turns out I can, I give G the thumbs up from across the terminal and present my ID to the gate agent. She informs me that I'm already checked into the flight as she hands me my pre-printed boarding pass. So, aside from the wonderful conversation with the Pastor, I've just wasted 2 hours in line shrouded in the haze of what can only be described as an Indian bioterror weapon. I cross back over to the queue one last time where Georgio has finally reached the front to bid him farewell and good luck in his efforts to get home. Once in my gate area I find a place to steal some power to charge my laptop and do some stretching.

We board the plane on time, the cabin is sparsely populated, I have an entire row to myself, finally some respite from the series of unfortunate events. We're all on board but the door remains open. We are soon informed by el capitan that we're all set to go except for one small detail; gas. We have no gas. The airport is down to it's overnight skeleton crew and we are unable to locate the necessary crew for refueling. Our delayed flight was scheduled to leave at 12:05 a.m. We get the wheels up at 1:10 a.m. The fun just never stops. Finally we are airborne as I write this. I'm waiting for the beverage cart so that I can fire down and Ambien and wake up in San Francisco, albeit at 3:15 a.m.

I will say that the one thing I really do enjoy about flying is listening to the chatter between air traffic control (ATC) and the pilots. The combination of efficient jargon and common purpose create this environment that for whatever reason is completely fascinating to me. I understand most of it, but I must remember to ask Jody what a squawk is. The difference in ATC's is pretty dramatic, each with his or her own style. The ground controller in Germany was pretty hilarious and clearly not a fan of Air India, at least on this day. The best guy I've ever heard was an approach guy at Love Field in Houston. Approach, I think, is probably the most stressful of all roles in ATC. Approach is the role depicted in the film Pushing Tin starring Billy Bob Thornton and John Cuzak. Approach is responsible for orchestrating the orderly sequence of all aircraft destined to land at a particular airport. Houston is very busy and has unpredictable wind patterns. I swear that this guy can talk without breathing for minutes on end. You can spot the rookies a mile away as they aren't able to keep up with his cadence. You can hear the irritation in his voice when asked to repeat an instruction because this disrupts his rhythm, his groove, threatening to bring chaos into the world he has so carefully ordered. Entropy is his enemy and he won't be defeated by the inattention of some bush pilot. Should I ever have the time, I'd like to become licensed as an ATC. Not to work as one, just to be able to be one.

As I end another in what has become a string of rather lengthy posts, I think it's time to face facts. Sure the delays were caused by sever weather around the midwest, but I'd say the sum total of all other evidence indicates that United is out to get me. It's probably time to commit to another carrier, or maybe we should figure out how to get Jody's license current again so that she can chauffeur me around the country, kids in tow. :-)

Did I mention that on the flight over, the Lufthansa steward rammed me with the drink cart sending my full cup of coffee onto my right pant leg?

I didn't think so.

Out.

Karma....

There are a couple areas of my life with which I consistently experience a lack of fortune. The most prevalent are electronic devices (quite an inconvenient situation for me) and flying. On the first score, recent examples include my experience with my various Treo phones and even more consistently, products from Apple Computer. One day about 3 years ago I purchased a new PC for my wife. Jody is a prodigious digital photographer and she was in need of an ever increasing amount of processor power, RAM, and disc space to process and store her work. I had an existing XP network and figured I would add the new machine to our 100 MB LAN to which I would attach a separate file server. The long and short of it was that the new machine, also formated with XP, absolutely refused to recognize my network. I actually know a thing or 2 about networking and nothing supposedly designed for a consumer should ever be this hard. That day, in a fashion typical for me, I ditched everything and purchased a truckload of Apple gear: a dual processor G5, a 17" PowerBook (for Jodes), a 20GB iPod, a 23" Apple display, Airport, etc etc). It wasn't long before my G5 started to crash on a regular basis. I learned from my buddy Gordie, who is an engineer at Apple, that this was a kernel panic, kind of Apple's version of the blue screen of death so familiar to Windows users. It was then that I had my first interaction with what is probably the worst support organization in existence, Apple Care. Apple absolves itself of providing any support by relegating it to an outside organization, related only in name. This is a brand new $5000 workstation and these clowns want me bring it to an Authorized Apple Repair Center. Huh? I can buy a bottom-of-the-line PC from Dell and a personalized support web interface comes with it gratis and now I have to haul this marvel of industrial engineering resplendent in its pure aluminum exterior to some remote outpost manned by the same snotty jackasses from the phone? I don't think so. Let me speak with someone who gives a shit. I get this pompous assclown who insists on speaking to me in the first person plural. "Did we run the hardware diagnostics?" " and when we did that did we boot from the CD?" "and did we...." Uh, hold on there Sporty, WE didn't do anything, here's what I did. By the end of the conversation, I more or less forced this guy to send someone to my house. They replaced the RAM and one of the 2 processors at random. The mobile tech reported that he couldn't find anything wrong with the hardware (he ran the same exact diagnostics that I did) but replaced one of the processors because he happened to have one with him. The result was as you would imagine, no change. I went through another round of verbal jousting with Apple Care on the phone eventually getting them to agree to replace the machine. Upon receiving the new machine, I decided that I would burn this one in myself. I unpacked it and turned it one adding only the latest software updates from Apple. Without even so much as logging in, the machine starts to suffer from kernel panic. This machine is even worse. Apple Care refuses to replace the machine or come to the house. The only way I can deal with it is to deliver it to a Service Center and wait for them to figure it out. If whatever remedy is taken does not work, I'll have to transport it back to the Service Center, and so on. Totally unacceptable. During one of my many rants, a sympathetic (and very patient) Gordie mentions that Steve Jobs has a public email address that he actually reads. I figure what have I go to lose and compose a 2 page letter describing my experience with Apple thus far to Mr. Steve. I was completely shocked with I received a phone call about a week later from his assistant. He was very apologetic and informed me that they would be sending me a new, upgraded machine directly to my home free of charge. My new machine had an extra gigabyte of RAM and an upgraded video card. Since then, I've had problems occasionally, but nothing like the first 2 chassis. That's only the story of my G5 though. After adding RAM to Jody's PowerBook the machine would freeze up with the Apple "black screen of death". I went through 4 separate sets of chips with the same result. I always purchase the extended warranty so we sent it in for repair. After explaining at length that we had replaced the physical RAM many times without remedy, Apple Care promptly replaced the RAM and sent the machine back. Jody pushed it right back across the counter and refused to take it back. She suggested that they might try reading the notes this time. The next time it came back with a new logic board and it's been fine (although it runs at very high temperatures) ever since. I purchased a 15" Macbook Pro when I started at Blue Lithium. Within 2 weeks it started crashing (black screen of death again). The best part is that it crashed on the morning of my first presentation to the Board of Directors at BL. The Apple Store is directly across the street from my office in San Jose, so I walked over with my machine and waited for the store to open. Even after explaining my desperate situation, I was told that no help was available. I had to signup for an appointment, the first available was at 2:40, well after my presentation was scheduled to begin. I can understand maybe not having time to actually work on the machine without notice, but the bastards wouldn't even let me leave the machine there, forcing me to make another trip. Not having time to debate the issue (I had to go and recreate my presentation on my Dell laptop) I reluctantly walked to a machine to secure an appointment. One of the morons thought it would be a good idea to chat me up on the way over, "Having some problems with your new Macbook are you?", to which I replied "Dude, get the fuck away from me." I returned later that afternoon for my appointment. True to form, the tech didn't even turn the machine on, he registered the machine to be sent out for repair. Yeah, we couldn't have done that the first time. When I finally received the machine from repair the motherboard and the RAM had been replaced. Not very impressive for the latest, greatest from the fruit guys. My good friend Paul Butler has a theory that I must have a very high personal electromagnetic field (EMF) that wrecks havoc with the circuitry of any device I touch. Absent evidence to the contrary, I'm starting to buy it.

More germane to the moment is my luck when it comes to commercial aviation. I have a long history of horrifying experiences traveling the worlds airways. I flew to Holland in the last row of an L-1011 in the center seat. On the return trip from Switzerland, I was seated in the last row of the non smoking section behind a guy who reclined his seat with such force that he nearly fractured my kneecaps. On one occasion it took me 3 days to get home from Denver, becoming trapped in the Reno airport and finally forced to ride a bus home. Even the bus ride was painful as I received the last available seat, next to the only other huge person on board. So, I shouldn't have been surprised when I arrived at the Minsk airport today only to have the Lufthansa computer system die as I waited to check in. My luggage has been tagged and check through 2 transfers BY HAND. I am not optimistic. While waiting in the terminal to board, there were some guys next to me speaking english. I asked one of them why they were in Minsk, because you don't run into many Americans in Belarus. They were a group of 15 or so active military personnel dressed in civies. They are part of an inspection and verification detail that travels to countries that we are in cooperation with to inspect their military facilities for compliance with various arms treaties. Those countries in turn send similar detachments to the U.S. for the same purpose. "Trust but verify" I'm told is their motto. I'm impressed that Belarus would be part of such a program and just happy to hear that we have them at all. The trip to Frankfurt, site of my first transfer, was uneventful. I sat next to an older German gentleman and actually managed to have some light conversation using my remedial capability in the teutonic language. In the other seat, an attractive young woman from Minsk (Rochelle ... Rochelle.. :-) on her way to Tunisia for a vacation with friends. This was her first time on an airplane and first time outside of the former Soviet Union. She was very sweet and very excited as you might imagine. At Frankfurt, we have to ride a bus from the plane a considerable distance to the terminal. I'm disappointed to see one of my newfound friends from our military not give up his seat to an elderly woman having difficulty standing directly in front of him. I have to make what seems like an endless trek across the terminals to get to my next flight. I'm fading a little, last night's drink and dance exacting it's revenge. Along the way I pass through the requisite smoking sections found in most European airports and I'm getting a headache and starting to feel ill. After checking into Economy Plus (thank goodness a United flight) I have time to do some stretching before boarding. It's always of critical interest who you'll be seated next to for such a long flight. My karma normally dictates that I be placed next to the smelly guy, the other huge guy, or any number of general psychotics and misfits. As I approach my seat, I notice the woman who could be a supermodel seated in the window seat of the row that might be mine. As I get closer, I notice that 2 rows in front of her, there's another very attractive German woman seated in the window seat of a similarly promising aisle. Not surprisingly when I finally reach my seat, it is in the row that splits the rows occupied by hotties. Jody will approve. I'm seated next to a non descript, standard German businessman. At least he's not supersized or smelly, I'll take what I can get. While we wait to taxi, the passengers kept trickling in as we boarded the plane and we missed our slot for push back. I know this specifically because I always listen to the cockpit chatter on channel 9 when flying United. The ground control operator has been telling our pilot to hurry it up. There is a back up and delay already and if we miss our prescribed start up time, we'll be delayed at the gate a minimum of 20 minutes. Of course we miss our slot and are accordingly delayed. We are mid flight as I write this and I'm low on battery power and brain cells. I'll post the conclusion of my trip separately.

Until then...

The big send off....

My trip to Minsk has been awesome, but on the occasion of my last evening in Lukashenkoland, Viktor wanted to do something special. He really is a great guy and tireless in his desire to entertain his American guests. Viktor had explained to us previously that Minsk is "dead" most days, excluding Thursday through Saturday. Perfect. I arrived on a Sunday and am leaving on Thursday afternoon. Without trying, I managed to miss anything resembling a night life. Well, not so fast there professor, we're not dealing with someone who is easily defeated here. The V man managed to dig up a party in a hotel the locals refer to as "The Puck". This is due to it's shape which resembles the object of a hockey player's affection. I'm told the party cranks up around 11 (yes in the p.m.). Armed with this knowledge, I decide to skip dinner for a nap. They will collect me at 10:45 sharp. I never really managed to fall asleep but it was good to lie down and at least rest my eyes.

10:30 arrived all too quickly. I was pretty fuzzy but was determined to spend my last night here in style. I changed and proceeded down the front of the hotel to await the arrival of my fellow revelers in our pimped out Lexus G430 pumping out the Usher tunes, windows down, with Eug at the wheel. While standing out front, I actually managed to give directions to a tourist. The nice thing about most European countries is that almost everyone has at least a serviceable proficiency in another language. A guy clad in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt (props for the style) had just stepped out of a cab and was staring at the front of the hotel perplexed. He asked me a question in Russian and I gave him the involuntary, pathetic, helpless shrug that one does when the extent of his vocabulary is "thank you". He asked me if I spoke Italian, in Italian of course. I don't actually speak Italian, but I do speak Spanish and I've been to Italy enough times to have a very good chance at understanding the gist of the question. I answered in the affirmative, praying for a softball. He was looking for the restaurant in the hotel. Cool. I got that. I directed him using a couple of words in Italian and the hand gestures that always accompany anything spoken in this language. Gratsi! Bono note! Prego, Ciao!

My man Eugene rolled up with Sarah at about 10:55. Sarah ran upstairs to change into her floor length, bright blue, sequined ball gown. Sarah is ideally suited for this trip. She has been a dancer, and more importantly a ballerina for 30 some odd years (apologies if I've short changed you Sarah) and she has spent a considerable amount of time in the former Soviet Union. So much so that her Russian is better than serviceable (they guys in Minsk were SO impressed). Dressed to the nines, we head out for what is likely to be a wild night. We arrive at the venue ahead of Viktor but we pay his admission and enter anyway. The security is pretty serious. There is a walk-through metal detector, bag search, and pat down. Not unlike checking out at Fry's Electronics, a mere 10 feet away, another security agent checks to see that you've paid to enter. We ascend the staircase to the second floor where the party is in full tilt. Apparently, women are admitted free before 11, so they pack in at about 10:45. We quickly run into a lovely young woman we met our first night in town, Val, increasing our entourage to 4. In this club, you don't just grab a table. There is a maitre' d who manages the distribution of guests and who will get what table. Eugene does us one better and obtains a VIP room. Pretentious as it sounds, it was actually an excellent move. The rooms aren't anything special, they are surrounded by one way glass so you don't miss any of the action, they have air conditioning (a real luxury) and most importantly, they do have some insulation so that conversation is possible without shouting at each other. Viktor arrives shortly after we occupy the room. We order a bottle of Belarus' finest, a decanter of Martini & Rossi (popular with the ladies here), and an assortment of mixers, ice, and water. The drinks arrive and we quickly have 2 (or 3) toasts, each of which equates to a shot of vodka. Suitably lubricated, we hit the dance floor. It's house music now, which isn't my favorite thing to dance to, but hey, I'm not complaining. The ratio of women to men is about (and I'm not exaggerating) 30:1. There is one guy I can see on the packed dance floor and like the majority of boys, has no moves and no rhythm. But, he's out there so he is THE man with girls grinding him from all sides. Hilarious. Now, I'm by no means an expert hip hop artist, but amongst large, white, 40 yr old bald guys, I can kick some butt. My college years were spent with a group of people who loved to dance, and did it very well. That experience combined with a few years of ballroom and the fact that I actually do have rhythm allow me to at least hold my own. So, our first foray was fun and actually everyone in our little group is a great dancer, especially Val. We more or less just dance as a group in a circle with Viktor breaking off to pursue some woman (whether or not she was actually aware of it) for a moment. Sufficiently sweaty we retreat to our climate controlled gansta pad. More toasts, more shots of Vodka, it's maybe 2:30? The music turns to hip hop and we return to the dance floor. There's the Minsk version of Danny Terrio backed by 4 hotties giving dance lessons to the crowd. We mostly choose to ignore him and just our groove on. Our little group of boy can clearly out dance anyone else of the same gender brave enough to dive in. It was an absolute blast. Sarah got me to dance some Latin, which is much easier for me after 5 shots of Crystal (in Belarus, that's a very nice Vodka, not the champagne by the same name). Sarah dances for hours everyday, and Viktor is just insane, so they remain on the dance floor while the rest of us take a break.

Val looks to be twenty something. Currently she works for Russian Chocolate (very popular stuff here) and attends University. Apparently she dropped out of the University on the first go around. She attended a college for women that she found fairly uninteresting. She wants to complete a degree in business, she wants to be an actress, she wants to come to America. Val's english is very good but she doesn't have many opportunities to talk with Americans. We might have spent an hour or so talking about her family, Belarus, school, and what the future might hold for her. Her parents have put her under some amount of pressure to "figure out what you're going to do with your life". She is the middle child bookended by 2 brothers, 5 years on either side. Her older brother is a surgeon and her younger brother is attending (or going to attend) law school, so it can't be easy for her. She is, however, very happy and a pleasure to be around.

Sarah bursts back into our little refuge covered in sweat. She and Captain Vik have been dancing for a solid hour. A few minutes later the man himself appears and collapses in a heap next to Val. 30 seconds later, he's pouring the next round of shots. It's 4 a.m., the faint halo of the sun that lets you know you're in danger of becoming a pumpkin appearing over the hillside. This is Belarus and when shots are poured, you drink them, so we do. Was that 6? 7? My only saving grace was that the entire evening I had a litre of mineral water in front of me. I think I finished 2 or 3 bottles of water on my own over the course of the night. Back to the dance floor. The crowd has thinned, but only slightly. I'm starting to run out of gas. I haven't been out this late or had this much to drink in probably 10 years. 5:15, time to go. Viktor and Val stay, the rest of us beat it back to the car, the dawn having clearly arrived. We get back to our hotel at 5;30. I promptly change the time for delivery of my breakfast to 9:30. In my room, I bite an Ambien in half and brush my teeth, crawl into bed, and slip into a coma. The alarm wakes me almost immediately, 4 hours having passed in what seems like seconds. I drag myself into the shower and dress within 10 minutes time. Breakfast arrives and I manage to pack while eating in about 15 minutes (during which time I managed to orphan my Treo, see separate post). Eugene arrives to collect me. He's right as rain, no drinking for Eugene last night, he was a very responsible designated driver (and it's always good to have a sober native should the need for negotiation with the local officials arise).

We deliver Sarah to the office. Eugene is taking me to see a couple of sites: the Belarus equivalent of the White House, complete with giant statue of Lenin, his University, etc) and do some quick shopping for gifts before transferring me into the custody of his Father and Sergey for delivery to the airport. The weather is beautiful again, a little warmer today. We walk on the grounds of the seat of power, the Federal Government and visit a brand new, underground mall. See the pix. After some quick shopping, it's off to the airport. I'm not looking forward to the next 18 hours but the memories I'll take with me make it all worth the trouble.

More later.

Ciao.

It's always something...

If the computer system at check in isn't crashing, you're leaving your brand new Treo 700p in your hotel room.

I'm viewing the second point mostly as an opportunity. The only thing I'll be missing if it isn't returned is the incremental pictures I've taken of my kids that are not backed up. Other than that, I'm almost happy to be rid of that poor excuse for a "productivity" device. In the end, it's my own fault. I had a Treo 600 for a number of years that I was relatively happy with. I have a predilection for destroying them; in 2 years I've had 3 600s. The first one most likely ended up somewhere on 280 after a short ride on the roof of my car. The second was crushed under the wheels of a golf cart while playing around with Mr. Raniere (but at least we were in Hawaii). Miraculously, that was not the death of the phone. The case cracked and the display slightly tweaked, it worked fine. It was subsequently stolen out of my desk during one of the nightly junky break ins at the old Adteractive office. I still have the 3rd and it works fine. I decided to switch phones for 2 reasons. First, I really wanted the ability to receive sync updates via wireless. Second, the TMobile network, at least in the Bay Area, sucks. Since Good Tech no longer sells a reasonably priced sync option, I decided I would buy a Treo 700w. This meant switching to the lowest tech network of all, Verizon. But, life is about tradeoffs. I was willing to give up some sound quality, security, and international compatibility for better coverage and the 700w. After having my 700w for about a week, I started to experience one of the all-too-common, super annoying, nebulous Microsoft OS errors. "There has been a fatal error in: device.exe". Looking through the details of the stack trace, it would appear there was some kind of memory leak (my best guess anyway). Each crash required me to restart the phone. Yee ha. So, Verizon replaced it. The day after I received it, same error. Just to be sure that I wasn't doing anything to cause the error, we didn't even setup the sync or add any software, but to no avail. So, I called my friendly, and quite lovely, Verizon rep, Anna Yam. She obtained approval from her manager for me to trade the phone for a 700p even though I was not beyond the equipment exchange time frame. The scene at the Verizon store on Pine in San Francisco was pretty hilarious (ironically speaking) and annoying at the same time. The current Verizon ad campaign touts the size of the support behind it's network. Well, just hope you never need anything from customer service at a bricks-and-mortar location. There were 4 people queued in the velvet rope obstacle course at the end of which were 4 customer service terminals, of which ONE was occupied by a human being. Whatever the issue, resolution required that the lone representative disappear behind the back wall for seemingly long periods of time. I really wanted to take a picture of the completely empty service counter with the poor bastards lined up in front of it. But I was about the give back the phone I would have used to capture the moment, and I didn't have an SD card with me. Finally I was the big winner, my turn at the counter. The exchange was relatively painless, Anna was located to add some veracity to my story about being granted special dispensation by the evaluation period Gods.

I figured with the 700p, I'd have a phone that is more or less a pimped out 600. Palm has much more experience building small footprint operating systems and even more important, the Palm user interface (both in terms of software and hardware) is far superior to the same from MS. I think it takes 3 additional steps on the Windows phone just to make a call when compared to the Palm OS. I had a couple of issues right away. Verizon provides a sync service that acts as a relay between the mail server and the phone. Even though I logged in and cleared out the account via the Web interface, when I setup my new phone, all of the data from the old phone was pushed down to the new one and since pretty much everyone's sync software is total crap, it created duplicate entries for everything. Swell. The next thing I noticed is that the phone started to lock up for long periods of time, occasionally for periods as long as 5 minutes. This happened most often when using SMS (which Jody and I use quite a lot). I would send a message and the phone would immediately become unresponsive. It would always recover on it's own, but talk about annoying. My next set of problems was with Verizon. Despite her stunning good looks and master of the details, Anna more or less botched the setup of my new account. My phone was listed as the secondary account to my wife's phone. Our address was entered as 360 rather than 630. These 2 things together combined to make a mess out of my first billing cycle. I had created an online account so as to avoid any unnecessary interaction with people or paper bills but could not figure out how to add Jody's phone. I called, Verizon said they would straighten it out and in the meantime, I paid my bill online deciding I would just have to wait for the paper bill to pay Jody's. That paper invoice was delivered to the nice folks at 360 Reina del Mar (assuming there is such an address) rather than my own. So, I started getting angry calls from Verizon Wireless Financial Services. Finally I managed to tell the story to every department and more or less, we're sorted now.

The thing that pisses me off is that the impetus for a move back to 1990's technology was to be able to get the 700w, which of course sucked. I wanted to switch networks, but certainly would have chosen Cingular/ATT over Verizon had it not been for the phone. Perhaps we should consider updating the phrase "Nothing grows out slower than a bad haircut" substituting cell phone plan for hair cut. 22 months and counting.... I'm going to go tomorrow and get myself a regular ol' phone. Maybe a RAZR or one of those cool switchblade-style phone like they use in the Matrix. No keyboard, no email, or any other crap I don't absolutely need. For those of you who know me, this is not what you would call typical behavior but I've hit the fill line. I'm opting for the quality primary feature over 20 mediocre productivity killers.

I'm out for now.

Peace.

Au revoir....mes amis....

I managed to end my stay here in Minsk in appropriate style. Viktor managed to locate the only party in the city last night. We arrived at 11 and the sun was plainly in the sky as we made our way to the parking lot. I'll write the complete experience later. Now, I must leave to the airport.

I was a reluctant participant in this trip, I'll admit. I wasn't exactly sure what to expect, but there wasn't much attraction there. Having been here for 5 days, I can safely say that I've come around 180 degrees. I love this town. We have been lucky enough to get into business with people whose talent is matched by their hospitality. Viktor has been a most gracious host, giving up a week of his evenings to escort us around town. Val, a good friend of both Eugene and Viktor is a fabulous babe and we hope she comes to America soon. We will miss Eugene while he remains in Minsk and eagerly await his return to the States (so behave yourself in your visa interview Sporty). The team in the Minsk office has been overly patient with me, answering my extensive and most probably annoying questions about their code and process. I'll send them something nice. :-)

Gotta jet (literally). More later.

Signing off from the Eastern block. See you on the other side.

Enemy at the Gates....

Okay, I just want to preface this post with a couple of brief remarks. I do not claim to be a history professor or even an expert. Some of what I have written below may be slightly inaccurate, over simplified, or incomplete. As I'm very interested in the subject, I'm always happy to receive more accurate information, but please be kind. :-) Lastly, there isn't anything in this post that's humorous, the content is fairly dry, straightforward, and serious. I'm a student of history because the popular version we receive at home is usually but a fraction of the story. We regularly miss out on very significant events, normally because of the people they effect. Without direct and simple ties to the U.S., these events don't stand a chance. Again, I'm speaking generally, of course there are those of you who are either enthusiasts, went to better schools, or majored in the subject. You may not find this column interesting. The experience was quite powerful for me, and I've done nothing to temper my emotions or my increased admiration for the Russian people, and Belarussians in particular. I like to give the good guys their due, so deal with it. Onward.....

A popular movie starring Jude Law and Ed Harris and unfortunately for many Americans probably represents the full extent of their knowledge of Russia's experience in World War II. Okay, maybe that's a little too harsh, but if Jay Leno's man-on-the-street interviews are any indication....Ask almost any American how Russia was able to defeat Germany and inevitably the answer is: winter. Bad move, especially if you happen to be in Minsk at the time.

I had the good fortune to be able to visit the Minsk WWII museum with Viktor today. Viktor is obviously a student of history and he was good enough to translate most of the exhibits contained in the 3 floors and explain the detail and significance of key periods.

Russia was attacked during the period of the non-aggression treaty with Germany. Apparently, as part of his political brinksmanship, Stalin had a strict policy against mobilization, as he believed that this would provoke the Germans into an offensive. He pursued this policy up until the last moment such that when Germany did launch its very large and brilliantly planned attack, Russia was caught flat-footed and she paid dearly. Hundreds of thousands were killed and cities overrun quickly. The Russian defense was quite disorganized and the initial strategy was simply to overwhelm the invading force with numbers. Poorly trained and equipped, wave after wave of Russian soldiers hopelessly attacked.

In our history studies, we are generally exposed to the extensive French resistance (which as certainly important and impressive), but how many of us learn about the Russian underground (or guerilla) organization? The conditions under which these people operated were unbelievably harsh. The size of the movement and cross section of citizenry who participated was impressively large. Perhaps most important, the relative effect they had on the outcome of the war would seem to be far more profound. The Russian resistance was the unintended creation of the Nazi's themselves. The policy of scorched earth whereby the German army purposefully destroyed entire civilian populations caused the Russian people to organize and take up arms. Initially disorganized, large groups of civilians moved into the extensive woods for cover. They fashioned small, low profile cabin-like structures to live in. Using any materials they could scrounge together, they built weapons with which to fight. The most impactful sustained campaign was the concentrated destruction of rail lines. After the Germans were able to storm through Minsk and several other cities, they established supply lines as the army moved quickly toward Moscow. The guerilla brigades fashioned homemade explosives powerful enough to remove just enough track to derail a train. They did so with undaunting persistence, so much so that several divisions from the German front lines had to be detached to the rear to deal with the menace. As time progressed, the Russian leadership recognized the power of the citizen army and began to support them with supplies via air drop and organization by the introduction of trained military officers. The weaponry increased in sophistication, most amazingly by fabrication. They had hand tools, manual lathes, and some presses to work with, but the hardware they produced is amazing: tire puncture spikes a la James Bond, knives, anti-tank guns, and field artillery.


Most impressive, however, is the range of people who willingly participated in an activity that would most likely cost them their lives. The Nazi's applied tactics first used by Germany in WW I. When a German soldier was killed by the resistance, the occupying force would round up 10 civilians and publicly execute them, most often by hanging. Prior to execution, the condemned were marched through town with signage hung from their necks that translated into something close to "I am being executed for shooting at Germans" (that's about the translation I got from Viktor in any case). The hanging scenes are gruesome, the bodies left on display for upwards of two weeks as a warning to those who would dare to resist their invaders. Despite this, an amazing cross section of able bodied people decided to fight, probably recognizing their demise as inevitable without action. Women, children, and men of all ages participated in large numbers. The most impactful imagery for me was a photo of a famous woman who was apparently one of the most effective individuals of all (see picture above). Some photos just immediately evoke emotion, I'm not exactly sure why, there were plenty of other photos depicting intense scenes, this one just captivated and crushed me simultaneously.

Minsk, along with many other cities in the former Soviet Union, were completely leveled, twice. Once when the Germans invaded, and again when the Russian army chased them out of the country. You can tell which cities were completely destroyed by the width of their streets as they took the opportunity to widen them during reconstruction. Minsk has modern, wide roadways whereas Moscow still has a preponderance of the narrow streets designed for horse drawn carriages. Minsk is still being rebuilt. The opera house was, before the war, the highest building in the city. The Russians removed the tower prior to the arrival of the German invading force knowing that it would serve as an ideal gun emplacement. I'm hoping that the reconstruction includes the reintroduction of that tower.

In any case, I should stop rambling now. Just remember that it wasn't winter, it was the undying spirit of a courageous people that was able to overcome a more organized, better prepared, and ruthless enemy.

Ahhhh, sleep at last.......

After a small birthday celebration in the office for one of our developers, we headed out for dinner. By this time, I was going on 36 hours with only 3 hours of sleep. Kinda wobbly. We collected Sarah, the head of our EDU product team in the process. She was hanging out in St. Petersburg at the G8 summit for a few days prior. We went back to The Bronx, where they have a nice Italian restaurant downstairs. The meal was fantastic and contained all of my favorites: bruschetta, caprese salad, and pesto pasta. Additionally, Belarus is known for it's wide variety of very high quality mushrooms. We sampled a few more last evening and they lived up to their billing. I prepared myself for a long night of sleep with one vodka tonic and a game of pool. Managed to hit the sack by midnight and don't remember a thing before my alarm went off at 7 a.m. today.

The weather today is brilliant. Not a cloud in the sky and temperatures in the high 60's accompanied by a gentle breeze. Perfect for the Jay man. I headed out into the park for 6 mile jaunt. More familiar and comfortable with surroundings now, I ventured further down the river. The park is huge and the comparison to New York's central park is a fair one. The advantage Minsk has over NYC is that the park doesn't smell like 10 years of dried urine at any point.


This is my last full day in Belarus and I can say honestly that I'll miss being here and that I would be more than happy to come back at any time. I'm going this afternoon to see the WWII museum with Viktor, he's an avid student of military history, I'm so looking forward to it. I still can't shake the image of the memorial we saw yesterday. 5000 Jews from a local ghetto exterminated in one day. I think what makes it so hauntingly awful is the statue placed at the memorial (pictured above). It immortalizes a row of men, women, and children being forced down into a pit already half full with the corpses of their murdered countrymen. The evil of such an act is incomprehensible, the emotion of putting oneself into the place of the victims is so completely horrifying that I find my brain going into an unconscious self-defense, not allowing my imagination to conjure the scene for more than a moment before being overcome by a chilling numbness.

Well, back to work now. I will post more pictures later. Until then, be well.

Blocks of Fat.....

This is definitely the local cuisine that would push Abbott over the edge. At lunch today one of the hot items on the assorted appetizer tray is "salo" (AKA molded lipid blocks). See illustration. Adventurous as I have been thus far, I am not persuaded to indulge despite the encouragement and reassurance I receive from Sergey. Some things are just best left alone.

Despite the run in with the long chain carbons, lunch is yummy and for the most part, healthy, albeit served at the "French" pace (with the unfortunate absence of the many courses). The weather has turned to overcast and rain briefly today. No chance for site seeing yet, I finally collided with the wall at 33 hours and had to nap. I've had 3 wonderful hours of sleep now, just enough to get me through a birthday celebration at the office and dinner. No going out tonight. I have a date with my pillow.

Belarus is an interesting country and I'd have to say that on the whole I like it here. I could do without the state sponsored filtering of CNN, but otherwise, she has her benefits. Belarus as a whole has a population roughly the size of London (~10 M) in an area roughly the size of the U.K. You can feel it, the open space, room to breathe. The main drag in Minsk is populated at night, but you won't find yourself having to dodge oncoming pedestrians. There are a couple of areas where traffic gets snarled briefly, but user-defined driving rules generally have things cleared up in no time. The countryside is vast and as I said before, this country is green with abundant forests and rolling hills. Belarus, it turns out, has never managed to recover it's pre-war population levels. Belarus endured a particularly vicious battle with Germany from 1941 - 1945. Based on the average size of a division in the respective countries, it was Germany's 900,000 vs. the Belarussian 354,000. Despite being so outnumbered, no Belarussian frontier post surrendered to the enemy nor left their position without senior commands. Although ultimately overcome, the fierce resistance of the Belarussian army ruined Hitler's plans for a Blitzkrieg through Russia. After becoming the occupying force, Germany pursued a policy of mass extermination. Across the street from us is the site of one such mass extermination of Jews, an emotionally powerful place to stand to be sure. The history is extensive and I won't cover any more of it here, but it provides a backdrop and context for understanding the pride and connection the average Belarussian feels to his country. These are great people.

Minsk is a very clean city. When I started my run at 7 a.m., the park was full of workers (easily identifiable in their uniforms, easily mistakable for a Michelin sponsored pit crew) cleaning the sidewalks, picking up trash. Also, I'd have to say that Minsk has the highest concentration of beautiful women per square foot of anywhere I've been. Not necessarily the most useful thing for a married guy, but definitely a point in the plus column. Dave and I both agree that the commercial potential of Minsk is huge, only the administration stands in the way. But hey, Belarus is not unique in this regard. :-)

Gotta work now.

Out.

Lost in Translation.....

Going on 29 hours without sleep. Dave and I went out with the Viktor and Eugene for dinner last night. We found something healthy, sushi. For a landlocked country they sure eat a lot of fish here. I played it pretty conservative, a California roll and a spicy tuna roll. The sushi wasn't half bad, just very expensive. They use real crab in the California roll, hence the $15 price tag. Don't be fooled though folks, we're behind the Iron Curtain, but this country isn't exactly cheap. Dinner, and meals in general, run at the French pace here. Before you know it, it's 11:30.

Eugene is beat, so he bailed after dropping the rest of us at a club. It's Monday night and as predicted by Viktor, most of Minsk is deadski. We stay of a few drinks and then pile into a tiny taxi for the short ride back to our hotel. It's 1:45 a.m. when we arrive and my long night begins.

I'm highly susceptible to something called alcohol induced insomnia. Moderate amounts of alcohol consumed in the evening have a tendency to keep me up for hours. Tonight, I showed no fear however because I have the miracle drug Ambien! Right?! Wrong! Genius that I am I left my newfound friend, my iPod, and my computer in the office before dinner. Nooooooooooooooo. I decide to read a book on software design patterns, that should knock me out. Around 2 a.m., I begin to nod off, put the book down, but 10 minutes later, I'm wide awake. I remain in this state currently. I did not manage to sleep, even for a few minutes. I tried everything: covered my head with a pillow, more reading, watching television, nothing.

Speaking of watching television, it's an interesting experience. Belarussian soap operas, MTV, the all-sex-all-the-time channel, and a couple with cartoons all have audio, as you'd expect. CNN? No sound for you! No close caption either. There's quite a lot going on in the world at the moment and much of the subtlety is lost when attempting to read lips from Headline News. Additionally, the connection at the hotel for computers is via modem. 28.8 Kbps. Not sure if that's v42 bis or not. My Macbook doesn't even have a modem. Dave connected his Dell and managed to achieve a blinding 16.6 Kbps. Wow, even the mention of baud rate takes me all the way back to when I was working for TOPS (a now defunct division of Sun Microsystems). I had to manage a program that aggregated the configuration files for a list of about 100 modems for our installer program. Yee ha.

So, I've managed to struggle through a morning of code review and software architecture with our team here in Minsk. They're great guys and have managed to put up with me without getting too terribly annoyed. That's a challenge sometimes, just ask my wife. It's off to lunch now and then hopefully a nap.

I promise to post some pictures later this afternoon. We snapped some great ones yesterday, including a statue dedicated to the founder of the KGB. Sweet.

Peace.

Mmmmmmmm...... potatoes.....

A serious diet of fiber and fruit will be in order upon my return. I managed to have a healthy, Euro-style breakfast (breads, cheese, and fruit). However, every other meal has consisted of some kind of pork product supported by a scaffolding of potato pancakes. I'd like to reserve my angioplasty now please. We had lunch at a microbrewery today. The beer was actually very good. Problem is that beer at lunch + jetlag == nap time.

We had an opportunity to see a little more of the town today. The living complexes are huge and most are in need of a serious paint job. We drove through Victory Square, a memorial to WWII veterans and various other landmark sites.

Tonight should be interesting if I can stay awake.

Business up front, party in the back.....

After a brief lay over in the exceedingly depressing Frankfurt airport, I have arrived in Belarus. Without wanting to be any kind of cultural elitist, let me just say for anyone who was worried, the mullet is alive and well in Eastern Europe. :-) Team BL is a stylish bunch and as you would expect, mullet free.

The good news is that the images on Google earth are very outdated. Belarus is very green, even lush in some parts. Flying in I observe miles of open space and farmland. There are very few cars on the road and I'm not able to make out anything resembling a population center. The heat wave has broken and it's a breezy 19 degrees C. We land at an airport that was developed to support a travel boom that never happened. The dissolution of the Soviet Union just happened to coincide with the completion of construction. The airport is quite large but now is populated mostly by rusting Russian cargo planes. The terminal is huge, but there is only one other plane docked, a Belavia 727 that looks to be about 40 years old. I'm seated in the last row of the plane and the woman on the aisle has some physical limitations that cause here to walk VERY slowly and hence I'm the last person off the plane. We make our way down a non-descript series of hallways, tailed closely by a customs officer decked out in classic Soviet-style military garb. They still wear the hats that resemble the one worn by the gate guard Tim in the animated movie Robots.

My understanding from my trusty VP of Engineering, Eugene, is that there is a visa waiting for me at the consulate. When we reach the entry point, there are a series of tables and one window manned by a single gentleman right out of a Monty Python sketch. There is a giant, red sign over his window: VISA. No one speaks English, I'm not sure if I have to fill out the application again or what. So, I buy the mandatory health insurance for $2 because I'm positive that I need that. Eventually I wander out to passport control to see if anyone can tell me where the consulate is. I'm lucky enough to find a young woman who is bilingual. Turns out the little window staffed by grumpy old man IS the consulate. The pace of processing is painfully slow. I fill out the visa application with the help of a woman dedicated to the task. Several of my new friends from passport control wander back to check on me, which is fine (they are a collection of very attractive young women dressed in well fitted military style uniforms).

Finally I reach the window and apparently I'm not moving fast enough because the little man is shouting at me. Apparently I was supposed to bring a photo of myself and this guy is shouting at me "photo!!" "photo!!". Uh, yeah, I know what a photo is, what can I do for you? Eventually they make a copy of my passport photo and go with it. That only cost me an additional $40. $180 for a visa to Belarus when I can enter France for free. Se la vie.

Eugene and his father are here to pick me up. My luggage made it in one piece (they made me check it in San Francisco). We made the 20 minute drive to Minsk on mostly deserted roads. The highways are nice and well maintained. Eugene is pointing out the relevant sites. Belarus is the 5th largest producer and seller of arms in the world, it is the largest manufacturer of refrigeration equipment and televisions for the former Soviet union. There is a tremendous amount of construction going on in Minsk at present. Mostly housing but there are also some impressive public works projects, like the new national library that is shaped like a diamond. It is absolutely ginormous. The world war II museum is directly next to my hotel. I'm going to check it out today.

I'm staying in the finest hotel in Minsk. It is a hotel, a restaurant and bar, and has it's own casino. After checking in, I sacked out for 4 hours or so before meeting Eugene, his brother Viktor, our support engineer Sergey, his wife, and Dave for dinner. Dinner was great. I allowed Viktor to order for me. I want to experience the local culture as much as possible as I'm not sure when (or if) I'll ever be back. I had a traditional dish made from sausage and potato pancakes. A little on the greasy side but otherwise very good. During the meal, we were treated to a show by a troupe of gypsies. I'll post photos of everything later, I keep forgetting my camera. Afterwards, we went to a club called The Bronx where we played some pool for a while and sampled some of the local vodka.

Ambien took care of my first night of sleep. 2 until 7 straight through. Popped out of bed and went running around the park. 4.5 miles, perfect weather, not many people, lovely. So far, my impression of Belarus is very favorable. The people who are taking care of us and the people we've met are wonderful. More later....

Chasing the Sun.....

Well, my karma as it relates to flying continues to haunt me. My flight out of San Francisco was delayed by 45 minutes. All of which I enjoyed while sitting in the plane, on the tarmac, with no air conditioning. I had to make 2 connections, the first in Portland, OR, where I only had a 1 hour lay over. Oh boy.

On the upside, I, uncharacteristically, got to sit next to interesting people. On this leg, I'm seated next to Phyllis, a very attractive and smartly dressed woman. Turns out Phyllis is the Director of Stores for Jessica McClintock (famous dress designer). Phyllis is a native of Newport Beach transplanted after marriage to Portland. She was awesome, aside from being very interesting to talk with, she helped me to know exactly how to get where I needed to go in the Portland airport, as I only had 25 minutes to get to my next flight by the time we landed.

So, we land, I bid Phyllis adieu after exchanging cards, and high tail it to my gate. My plan was to get some actual food in the airport for the flight, but after checking in, I only have time to grab a handful of PowerBars from the closest book shop. Now I'm on Lufthansa, a great airline to be sure, but they do not participate in Economy Plus, so I'm stuck in a normal coach seat, and I steal myself for what will most certainly be a very uncomfortable 8 or 9 hours. I'm again lucky enough to be sitting next to someone interesting. Embarrassing enough, I don't think we ever formally exchanged names. She is an executive with Intel. She is on her way to Moscow to execute a lay off (oh joy). Interesting juxtaposition to the G8 eh? The flight was uneventful. In the world of aviation-based cuisine, Lufthansa isn't bad. I managed to get about 30 minutes of sleep. I saw the sun set and rise again almost immediately, very strange and beautiful indeed.

We arrive in Frankfurt at 8 a.m. At the moment, I'm wishing that Germany is my final destination. My wife and I have shared some of the best moments of our lives in this country. I'm missing my family already and looking forward to the time when we are all able to make a trip here together.

Ah, finally, my first post. I'm home alone with my kids watching Formula One practice for the French Grand Prix. There is some jackass racing up and down my street with open headers on what sounds a hobby race car. I love racing and the sound of race cars, just not on my street.

I live in Pacifica, California. Best classified as a town, it's about 10 minutes south of San Francisco on Hwy 1. We live about half a mile from the ocean. It's a beautiful place when it's not foggy. We get just enough of those days to keep us here. Actually, what keeps us here are our incredible, irreplaceable friends. We are part of a network of what has grown to 10 families, all with children roughly the same age. You just don't find people or neighborhoods like this anymore (at least not in California). If you find yourself saying that you also live in one such neighborhood, count yourself lucky. I honestly can't imagine living without any one of them now.

Pacifica certainly has it's downside. Aside from the fog, this place is run by the remedial. We don't have much of a tax base due to poor city planning. The commerce we have exists as an interesting dichotomy. The fixed businesses, such as restaurants and stores are nice enough. We have a wicked huge (and newly remodeled) Safeway. There are a couple of good places to eat. Our favorites are Nona's and the Corral (mmmmm..... steak....). The organic food store is great and the pizza at Viva Italiano pretty much rules. However, on the flip side, the service industry here absolutely sucks. You name it: hauling, gutter cleaning, a tree service, a contractor. You literally have to BEG these folks to take your money. Often times I have hired people from San Francisco just because they were more responsive, friendly, and seemed to care about their customer. It's not like it's boom times down here either (except for maybe contracting). But hey, this is also the town in which you can keep any number of decaying vehicles on your front lawn, but aren't allowed to keep a perfectly good working vehicle parked on the street for more than 3 days. This is also the town in which the police department has absolutely no time or resources to enforce the speed limit on my street (that's a different post, the litany of reasons is worthy of Karl Rove) but when I called in a single vehicle NON injury accident, 8 cars arrived within 5 minutes. The geniuses on the school board have decided that we should have open enrollment, giving no preference to children who reside in the neighborhood (can you say "moronic"?) and thusly we must endure the traffic jam created by parents driving north to drop their kids off in my neighborhood, while parents battle through that traffic to drive south to drop their children off in the neighborhood of the aforementioned parents. Mind boggling really.

I shouldn't complain, at least not too much. I have a family too wonderful for words, kids who are much to cute to be my own, and a wife who's love and devotion to me is beyond compare. Pacifica, with all of its warts, will certainly seem like nirvana compared to what awaits at the end of my trip tomorrow. It is the eve of my departure to one of the last totalitarian states on the planet. Belarus. The poster child of the former Soviet Union, a favorite of Vladimir Putin and anyone longing for the old days of state run media and bread lines. I notice that when I navigate to Minsk using Google Earth, the entire landscape is brown. Rusty, dry, hot, depressing brown. It's about 100 degrees Fahrenheit in Minsk right about now. It aint a dry heat either. Our office there lacks air conditioning, a dispute with the landlord over who would pay for such a luxury. I'm only going to be gone for 5 days, but I'm not a great traveler (like my lovely wife). I'm a big guy, a little overweight, but not fat. I'm big boned dammit (a little Cartman reference for the masses). I dread the tiny seats, the poor bastard next to me perpetually angled off like a misplaced Tower of Pisa as my shoulder span invades his personal space. Oi. This time, I have handfuls of Ambien. I plan to medicate myself into suspended animation and hope to arrive to chilled martinis made with the finest Belarus has to offer. My 4 star hotel is situated on the edge of the Belarussian version of Central Park. That's handy as I have a half marathon coming up on July 30th that I need to keep training for.

I think that's probably enough (or too much as it were) for a first post. As I sign off, I'm just hoping to make it back. What with the G8 in St. Petersburg, the Middle East in rapid decline, and W up to his usual tricks, I can't help but feel like I'm living in Rome circa 476 if ya know what I mean. OK, so I'll most likely make it back. One good thing about a police state; it's well policed. If all of these clowns just did more running, they wouldn't be so pissed off. They wouldn't have the energy.

Peace.