Octopodial Chrome

Today was my very last day on the CoBank account. Tomorrow marks five years to the day since I started there, fresh out of college. I’ve spent my entire career there, and now it’s gone.

In retrospect, I shouldn’ve have taken the position there, but should have found a job in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area of Texas. I came to Denver because I had a mentor here and figured that I’d meet new people and make new friends, but in less than a year he was gone, and the expected friendships failed to blossom. So I was left mentorless and friendless. Hindsight is 20/20.

On Saturday my youngest brother was awarded the rank of Eagle Scout, bringing the total in our family to four. We’re all very proud of him. He’s now an assistant Scoutmaster and is currently down at Philmont Scout Ranch, down in Cimmaron, New Mexico.

My folks threw a party, of course, which was a lot of fun. Setting up ahead of time I realised once again how cool it is to have brothers (and how much I pity those without them). There’s something wonderful about being related to such fine young men.

For the ultimate in roughing it, La Petite Maison du Weekend. Those crazy French-Canadians!

Well, today I was up in Boulder for what may be the last time. The account on which I’ve spent my entire professional life is going away, and I had to pull down their DR space. It was very sad to see those boxes—some of which have been there longer than me—powered down, disconnected and made ready for the movers. Sigh.

I’m really going to miss going up there.

NOTICE: Due To Its Mass, This Product Warps Space and Time in Its Vicinity.

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Well, Saturday was by far the absolute worst birthday I’ve ever had, with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Not a single one. I should have just stayed in bed. What a thoroughly rotten, miserable, unpleasant day.

Today marks twenty-seven years since my birth. I will never be twenty-six again; I will never again be in my early late twenties.

When one’s a kid, a birthday is a wonderful thing, for it brings both presents and increased privileges. At ten we could leave our street on our own; at thirteen one could see a PG-13 film; at sixteen drive (and back in those days, a teenage driver’s license was real, not like it is now); at seventeen get into a R-rated film; at eighteen be a legal adult (and hence purchase firearms); at twenty-one drink; at twenty-five rent a car. But once the twenty-fifth birthday has past, there’s nothing good about birthdays. When one’s an adult, there are no presents worth getting (because if one wanted something, one would have bought it). When one’s older, each birthday is a chance to mark all the ways in which one has aged in the past year.

My joints creak; my knees pop when I cycle; my hair is turning grey; I had a hernia operation last year and will carry an accurséd appliance within me for the rest of my life. I’m not even thirty and I’m falling apart and having to replace my failing parts!

When one’s a kid, each year brings the promise of improvement: a deeper voice; hair on one’s chin; another inch of height; a stronger grip. I have to face the reality that I’m past my prime (it was probably somewhere about 24–25); it’s all a long downhill slide from here, as my skin loses its suppleness, my muscles are sapped of their strength, my bones turn brittle, my sight fails, my hearing wanes, my digestion weakens and eventually my organs—and thus I myself—give up the ghost.

Birthdays—don’t talk to me about birthdays.

I went to see the latest (and last?) Star Wars film yesterday with my kid brother. Going in, I had exceedingly low expectations: the last two prequels have gone beyond bad, exploring hitherto unplumbed depths of poor film-making.

It was really quite good: finally, an actual Star Wars movie. No, it’s not the greatest film ever made—but it’s quite good. Well worth seeing.

Today marks five years since that black day on which I strode across the stage in front of the Administration Building at Austin College, received my diploma and left all my friends and happiness behind to become a wage slave. It hasn’t all been bleak, of course, but it hasn’t been exactly great, or even particularly decent.

Life as an adult is sad & lonely, the days consisting of working to buy food and eating to be able to work. School was much more enjoyable. Of course, what’s really sad is that compared to almost everyone who’s ever lived, my life is pretty good.

One of the local radio stations has been doing what it calls a rewind this last week: they’re playing everything they’ve ever played in chronological order. It’s really quite cool, and has drilled home one over-riding point: modern music is rubbish.

The last half of the 1990s featured an amazing variety of popular (at the time termed alternative) music, and a good deal of musical ability therein. Even the pieces which I don’t care for are good—just not my thing. In contrast, modern music is for the most part a worthless sameness of poor writing, poor singing and poor playing. Then we had the Wallflowers’ One Headlight; we had Rammstein’s Du Hast; we had the heyday of Cake; we had Prodigy; we had Fiona Apple; we had the Cowboy Junkies, the Sneaker Pimps, Blur and so on. What do we have now? Ten thousand variants of that most worthless of musical forms, rap.

Something else which occurred to me is how utterly absurd—and yet at the same time utterly cool—the swing music phenomenon was. I mean, we’re talking about a bastardised jazz/big band/what-have-you thing. But it worked, and it worked well. Tell me you can’t hear Zoot Suit Riot without wanting to get up and dance. Tell me that the Squirrel Nut Zippers didn’t put out some great tunes.

Sure, I realise that some of my fondness for the music is due to the fact that from 1996–2000 I was in college. No doubt I’ve rose-coloured glasses to a certain extent. But even taking that into account, the music of the late ’90s was far, far, far than the pap played now.

Muffy Mead-Ferro doesn’t take her kids to toddler ærobics; she doesn’t ferry them about hither & yon; instead, she lets them amuse themselves outdoors. A smart-sounding woman.

I wouldn’t say that my own mother was a slacker (especially not within earshot!), and I know that both of my parents spent a truly incredible amount of time and resources on us, but I think that compared to some of the hyper-twit parents one finds nowadays that they lean more towards this woman’s end of the scale. Certainly, they let us play on our own outside, and assigned us chores, and weren’t afraid to hire a babysitter and get out of the house when they needed it. For that matter, I doubt that Mrs. Mead-Ferro spends little time with her kids, rather than a sane amount of time.

Her book might be interesting, although since I’m a guy it’s probably better to avoid it: methinks that no woman on earth would appreciate me having read it.

In the vicinity of Heroes or Evil Overlords, or plan to be in the future? Well, be sure to check out The Innocent Bystander's Survival Guide.

A survey of the scientific literature reveals that men & women think differently. Different parts of our brains are more developed; we produce different concentrations of hormones in response to various stimuli; we even remember the same situations differently. In other news, scientists have noted that the sky is often azure and that apples generally fall to the ground…

Henry Higgins wondered why can’t a woman be more like a man; now we know the answer: they’re not built the same.

That’s the license plate of the car which nearly sideswiped me this afternoon at lunchtime. I called the cops to register a complaint, and they have undertaken to educate the driver about the requirements of the law.

Should I be smashed up in a hit-and-run, one could do worse than to check that car for bits of blood and hair.

Christ is risen! Truly He is Risen!

Christus ist auferstanden! Er ist wahrhaftig auferstanden!

Cristo Resucitado! En Verdad Resucitado!

Crist aras! Soðlice he aras!

Crist is arisen! Arisen he sothe!

Christos Anesti! Alithos Anesti!

Χριστος Ανεστι! Αλιθος Ανεστι!

Christus Surrexit! Vere Surrexit!

Christos Voskrese! Voistinu Voskrese!

I drove home from church singing the Paschal Anthem (Christ is risen from the dead/trampling down death by death/and upon those in the tombs/bestowing life), my heart overjoyed to celebrate the Feasts of Feasts, the Resurrection of Our Lord. I finished my post-Lenten dinner (rib-eye rubbed with Montana steak seasoning and garlic olive oil; corn on the cob with butter, salt & pepper; hot potato with butter, salt, pepper & green onions; and an excellent Belgian-style ale from New York), and my stomach is overjoyed to be filled with meat once again. I consider the magnitude of what Christ won for us, and my mind is overjoyed to know that death is conquered once and for all.

I’m trying not to think about the fact that I need to read the Epistle at the 0800 service this morning…