The Three Technophiles

(Sorry Dumas)

A few of you have called me out on the fact that the subtitle for my blog is dishonest. I've been living at home for over two years, yet have the audacity to claim I'm a licensed and independent ex-homeschooled blogosphere terrorist.

This is about to change.

In less than a week, I will--once again--be as dangerous as a church greeter with a joy buzzer.

In this edition of Leaving the Nest (part 2), I'll be moving to a house in Beaverton with two equally dangerous convicts. Nathan "Noreastern" Becker and Brian "Bad Weather" Plett. We will have the entire house to ourselves.

I'm not going to cackle, because that would be cliched. But I will take this opportunity to hum The Emperor's Theme while equipping my G.I. Joe action figure with a jerryrigged phreaking device.

Seriously, this feels like a big relationship commitment. While house shopping, we had a few must-haves on our short list:

1. Closet space for server racks
   
   
2. Pre-installed cable jacks
   
   
3. Good southern exposure for solar arrays
   
   
4. Scads of grounded three-prong outlets
   
   
5. No landscaping

Will this make (some of us) more independent?

Yes.

Will this make (any of us) more social?

:crickets:

Will this be a heck of a lot of fun, or will we part ways as unlikely enemies?

I have no clue. And... honestly... I probably won't appreciate what I've gotten myself into until the first time I trip on a mislaid CAT-5e cable.

Bring on the troubles, trials, and brownouts caused by SETI@home. I'm psyched.

And... lest you think the three of us will be unified in our technophilic solidarity, the OS wars have already begun...

Until next time,
- Daniel

ECD

You think ECD stands for English Country Dancing.

So you've been told.

But really, when you're sashaying down the line to the bouncy strains of a vocalist with helium breath, deep down, you know it can't possibly stand for that.

Instead, I want to posit an alternative expansion. ECD actually stands for Ebullient Compulsive Disorder.

Ebullient brings to mind a vigorous boiling and bubbling. Kind of like the blisters on my feet after five rounds of Post Jig and three rounds of the Virginia Reel.

Compulsive brings to mind... er... :clears throat while checking the ECD Oregon page on Facebook... again:

...moving along....

Disorder is what I'll get if I do one more dip when I'm supposed to be diving. Permanent disability from the head trauma, that is...

...or if I get a particularly sadistic partner who decides to let go in the middle of a vicious two-handed turn. Same result.

Which reminds me. There's a good deal of trust in dancing.

Oh yeah, I'm doing a segue. Try and stop me. :maniacal laughter:

Dancing is like a trust fall with considerably larger force vectors in the XY plane. (translation: catch me or I become one with the pillar)

Dancing is like threading needles with hypersonic missiles.

Dancing is like finding the resonant frequency of wine glasses one story below the dance floor.

:cough:

But, you know, I guess Pride and Prejudice-type dancing grace is awesome too.

Aw Shucks.

Until next time,
- Daniel

(Kudos to Andrew E. for the brilliant alternate meaning of 'ECD')

Hindsight

I promise not to gripe.

...or scowl.

...or throw things around the room.

But I just read the most amazing synonymistic description (yes, I realize that's not a word) of hindsight ever on Wikipedia. It's dubbed the "knew-it-all-along effect".

Things are generally clear and cuddly in hindsight. That's why we sugarcoat things like political history ("when I was a boy"), our mental capabilities ("I knew it takes an hour to drive 60 miles at 60 miles-per-hour. You just didn't give me enough hours to crunch the figures."), and our level of maturity ("Licking ice-coated metal? Who knew, right?").

And, as far as I'm concerned, you are welcome to inflate (or deflate... who am I to judge?) your perception of the past as much as you like.

But... please.

(I'm on hands and knees here.)

Don't play Prophetic History with other people's pasts.

Because, honestly, when Joe Shmo retrospectively prophesies your concrete faceplant, there's only one appropriate response.

WELL GENIUS, WHY DIDN'T YOU STOP ME?

(Sorry about the yelling)

And face it. If you're one of those people blessed with clairvoyance, see impending doom, and do nothing to stop it, you're liable for damages.

You've been warned.

I was once accused of possessing mental telepathy. It was at a Bible quiz meet back in highschool. I was on the stage with my teammates... both girls... who I was desperately trying to impress. We had our hands on a buzzer. Press to buzz and answer the question.

I won't lie. I'm slow as molasses. So, in lieu of signaling the normal way, I pushed the button a full two seconds before the announcer started reciting the question.

BUZZ

He paused for five very dramatic seconds, then called my bluff...

"Unless Team 5 has the gift of ESP (we were being quizzed on the fruits of the Spirit), I'm going to repeat the question."

He had me.

In hindsight, maybe I should have stalled by quoting pi until my heavenly pingback returned.

...or not.

Keep smiling,
- Daniel

My Name is Randomness

Randomness is beautiful.

Truly it is.

We don't associate chaos and convolution with happiness, let alone the hallmark of a beautiful mind, but let me tell you, it is.

Randomness has the effect of a brain massage. Soothing, vibrating waves of wooziness, overloading your troubles and sending your cares packing to the next country over.

If you don't know what you're going to do next, you have met the definition of insanity. And... as we all know... the mentally insane are among the happiest members of our society.

...and don't get started with that "correlation does not imply causation" business. It's no use.

:shakes head:

:harder:

:harder:

:clinking sounds:

...I didn't need those marbles anyway... Where were we?

Ah yes. Randomness. It results in so many good things...

1. Blank stares from the person you cornered with the question about ear wax.
   
   
2. Nervous chuckles from the barista when you asked for that cup of coffee with the shot of Red Bull.
   
   
3. Shifting feet on floor 42 of the Bancorp Tower when you ask for directions to the Oregon Zoo.

Ah, good times.

There are two things we can count on in life. Two things to drown our sorrows and make our lives positively hum with the electrifying power of cayenne powder.

The first is randomness.

The second...

...is chocolate.

Indulge responsibly,
- Daniel

What Pain Really Is

Pain is when a close friend dies. Pain is when the woman you love tells you that you're not the man she wants to spend the rest of her life with.

That is pain.

And when there's no way to vent the emotion caused by that pain, nobody to get bitter at, no-one to blame, it drives you mad.

It causes you to ask why.

In all the books, pain is released in some way. It's released by asking God why. It's released by isolating oneself from one's friends. It's released in streams of bitterness towards the one who caused you pain.

But I can't do any of these things.

I have faith in God's will, so there's nothing to question. I'm surrounded by people who love me, so I can't use isolation as a means of escape. I respect and understand her decision, so bitterness isn't something I can harbor.

I'm lost--trapped--sinking under a sea of doubt and soul searching. And yet, there are so many others who have suffered more. Corrie ten Boom, the Apostle Paul, Job. I don't even feel I have the right to feel as I do.

Do I mourn? Move on? Do I pick up the pieces of my life as they were before? Pretend the last three months never happened?

And then I read what I've just written, and realize it's all about me. I'm being selfish. And then I look back over the last three months, and realize it's always been about me.

It's hard when she says "no", and the reason she says "no" is because she's less selfish than you.

That hurts.

Everything I thought I knew about myself, every detail, needs scrutiny. All last night I tossed and turned in visceral pain. I arose at 3 am with a single question.

Who am I?



I don't really know anymore.



- Daniel

"Who am I, Gamling?"