Friction and Harmony

Especially a U.S. Marine. Notice how she just walks it off at the end – no running for the eye-wash.

“Holy shit,” indeed!

Take a close look. Microsoft has validated my installation of Windows XP and is telling me that I’m eligible for a honey of a deal on an upgrade to Microsoft Vista. Sweet! (Ha – NOT!)

Big deal? Sure. Now look where Windows XP is running…

IN A VIRTUAL MACHINE UNDER LINUX!!

Heh.

Now I can have my native MS Office applications and documents without having to run a dual-boot system! (…although my system still has dual-boot capability installed with GRUB.)

Now that *is* sweet!

Oh, and yes, it runs quite beautifully with Beryl installed. And Windows XP has no clue that it’s running in a sandbox…

I wouldn’t be a certified certifiable IT geek if I weren’t having some hardware or software crisis on a given day. If things get slow, I can always find a problem to gnaw on. If I get bored, I’ve even been known to invent them.

Then, along comes Microsoft Vista.

I’ve resisted running it, even though I have to in order to be familiar enough to support it. I should have been running it eight or so months before it was first released when I got my first RC1 “Release Candidate” disc from MicroSquish. I admit, I did load it. In fact, I ordered a new hard drive just for my pre-release copy of Vista. It wouldn’t run on my then, practically brand new, 64-bit Intel processor PC with a gig of RAM and an nVidia 6800GTS video card! It checked out perfectly in the “pre-flight” compatibility tests. It was official. I had the right CPU, the right amount of memory (bare minimum, IMHO), and the right GPU (graphics processor).

GREAT! We’re set!

Nope. Wouldn’t run. Period. Slick Aero interface? Never saw it. BSOD was all it would give me after telling me it wasn’t compatible with this or that – and that was AFTER I managed to hunt-down drivers for my motherboard JUST SO THE INSTALLER WOULD RECOGNIZE THE HARD DRIVE.

I figured, “no problem – it’s an early release-candidate. I’m sure they’ll fix that.” *cough* I stowed the disk and waited for the next “release candidate” to arrive. Somehow, I had to download that one on my own or pay for shipping. MS wasn’t going to foot the bill this time for shipping. (Could that have been considered foreshadowing?)

Fast-forward to the present.

This past week I rebuilt my water-cooled machine. It had developed problems that weren’t entirely unforeseen… In stripping my old video card to water-cool it, I believe it may have become damaged, and the motherboard that I was using had a voltage regulator module that was reliant on heat-pipe cooling, but with so little air moving through my machine due to the very silent and mostly passive water cooling, I think the VRM was developing heat-issues of its own.

The boys are happy; they get the old innards – sans water-cooling, of course. This means they finally get to upgrade from the old Pentium-III “zombie-PC” that they’ve been using since forever. They never dreamed they’d be getting my “high-performance” hand-me-downs. Usually, the technology upgrades follow the pecking-order cascade, but Mrs. Who doesn’t want me touching her machine, since it’s working. *cough*

Anyway, I’m impressed with the new Intel Core-2 Duo processor. It runs so much cooler than the old Prescott chip, I may not even need to water-cool it… until I get bored with running at stock speeds, that is… I had originally turned to water-cooling because it was 1.) something I always wanted to do. 2.) The original Intel stock CPU fan/heatsink was so inefficient it was practically useless on that hot Prescott chip. 3.) Over-clocking! Because the chip had such a tendency to run hot, however, I seldom OC’d it – but remained happy that with my passive water rig, my processor temp stayed at only a few degrees above ambient at idle and rose only six to ten degrees above that under full load.

So, with a new C2D chip and updated NVidia graphics and 2 gigs of RAM (hey, I’m on a budget – talk to Mrs. Who!), I decided to finally break-out my “release” version of Vista to give it a try. Better news, this time: I did manage to get it installed and running… (Of course I did have to hunt drivers again to get the Vista installer to RECOGNIZE MY DAMN HARD DRIVES!! *spit* Guess they didn’t fix that part before releasing it.) And it runs okay, for the most part.

Only one very minor problem that makes me want to drag my machine from Mojo’s trailer hitch down a rutted, red-clay Alabama road after a hard rain… Vista won’t recognize my optical mouse unless I UNPLUG IT and re-plug it EVERY DAMN TIME I REBOOT THE MACHINE! It’s just a damn generic (actually IBM) optical mouse that I’ve had for years. Nothing fancy – nothing “legacy” about it that Vista shouldn’t be able to handle. Microsoft’s “USB Human-Interface Device” driver simply won’t activate the mouse until it’s “recognized” by the PnP subsystem. Every. Damn. TIME.

Microsoft’s solution? Use the manufacturer’s driver. One problem with that: the manufacturer’s driver – uh… doesn’t exist. It’s just a generic effing damn optical mouse for chrissake!! What’s so hard about that? How can Microsoft afford the arrogance to say the manufacturer should have to provide a driver for their damn P.O.S. operating system? Their credit is wearing pretty thin… The Vista release fell way below expectations. And I have no doubt that Microsoft is collectively shitting themselves to see their “pretty” Vista Aero interface being compared this way:

Mind you, I also installed Linux on the same machine in a fraction of the time it took to install Vista, and with not one hardware recognition problem. (It’s a dual-boot system using GRUB that defaults to SuSE Enterprise Linux Desktop, or SLED.) I’m also using the XGL interface, though I’m not using Beryl… yet. So I do have a similar 3D-box-desktop and quick-display features for window selection. Oh, and the best part – it’s only $50 per year or FREE if you don’t want the support subscription. Ubuntu is an awesome product, too – I recommend it highly.

Oh, and as for Microsoft Vista? I found this tech-support video covering installation support very, very helpful:

Heh.

Encouraged by some of the comments and notes I have received, I wanted to add something more to my earlier tribute.:

Pop was a dynamic and distinguished southern gentleman – and he certainly had a heart of gold. My fondest (and most touching) memory of the short time we had was of visiting him at the VA hospital in Biloxi, MS while he was undergoing some extreme chemotherapy. He would fight to stay conscious, though the drugs were potent. Mom and I told him to go ahead and drift off for a short nap; we were going to go find something to drink. He looked like a startled kid, and asked, “you wouldn’t leave me without saying goodbye, would you? If you have to go, please wake me up first!” He made us promise.

Mom and I walked outside – it was a pleasant autumn day, and the grounds of the hospital were well-groomed and beautiful – bordered in waterfront, with a dock that stretched out onto the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. We found a Coke machine and sat on a bench overlooking the dock, talking about Pop, and life and death in general. When we went back upstairs some 25-30 minutes later, the nurse greeted us with an expression of great relief, then led us quickly around a corner, where we found Pop desperately hunting us. He had been scooting through the halls in a hijacked wheelchair, and looked to be on the brink of panic. When he couldn’t find us in the rec-room or on the main hallway, he was certain we had left him without our goodbyes and I-love-yous…

As if we could have.

I’ve never liked hospitals or nursing homes. Pop, however, said he wanted to spend his final days at the VA Hospital, so his dying “wouldn’t be such a daggum downer on everyone around.” He positively hated being an imposition on anybody. Fortunately, his family wouldn’t hear of it. His step-daughter remodeled her house to accommodate him and his 24-hour care hospice nurses. Thankfully, they dropped any thoughts of jealousy or perceived emotional threat and opened their house to Mom and me as well… mostly for Pop, but it was clear – they were there for me too.

I hated watching him die. It was merely a matter of weeks, from August to the eve of November 14, 2004 that I was able get to know my Pop. On that dark November night, the family was gathering, as it was clear that the end was rapidly approaching. He was barely able to speak at all, but at the mere sight of Mom and me, he mustered all the strength he could, forced a smile, and rasped, “See, I’m getting better and better!”

Pop’s comment wasn’t a denial of his predicament. He was actually looking forward to “crossing over.” He was eager and ready for this new adventure. His only regrets were the lives and saddened faces that cancer was forcing him to leave behind. Ours was perhaps the most tragic and bitter loss, but in the minuscule amount of time we had, we treasured every moment. As we imparted our goodbyes, he looked troubled and terribly sad – for me. I hugged him and whispered in his ear, “It’s okay, Pop. It’s okay for you to go now. We did it! We’re okay, you and I – and I love you…”

With tears in his eyes, he was visibly more relaxed and at-peace than when I first walked into the room. Through his labored breathing, his smile was genuine and peaceful. “I love you too, son. Thank you for… thank you.”

“I know, Pop. You too. I’m going to miss you, ya know… Goodbye for now, Pop. I will be seeing you later.” We hugged one last time and I kissed him on the forehead.

A few short hours later, he was gone. I’m told his passing was quiet and more peaceful than they had anticipated. After Mom and I left, he was relaxed and quiet, drifting in and out of sleep. Around two a.m., the hospice nurse detected his breathing had signaled he was ready. She woke his family to gather in the room, and he just… went quietly.

I think of him frequently. Every time I see a new Mustang in the classic green with racing stripes, I picture him, about my age now, maybe even a little younger, with the second love of his life – his ’67 Shelby GT500 Mustang. It’s the car he was driving when he saved Mom, and the car in which he “blew a Corvette right off the road,” (the ‘vette blew it’s engine trying to catch him) running wide-open on the causeway near Cape Canaveral. I’m looking forward to making a similar run with him one day.

Maybe he’ll even let me drive.

So you can enjoy it with me… Don’t worry, it’s not a TV Sitcom theme this time.

Well, it wasn’t originally supposed to be the swing version, but once I found Paul Anka singing Nirvana, it was simply so twisted I couldn’t resist!

I’ve written a more than a few times about my Dad. While it turned out that he and I came to understand, respect and even love each-other, this Father’s Day post isn’t about him.

Many of you know by now that I was adopted. If you’ve been reading the HoZ from its early days just over a year ago, you know I’m also very close to my birthmother, whom I call MamaBear both on the blogs and in real-life. I found her in late 1994, and life reunited us permanently shortly thereafter.

I learned at that time that my birthfather was the immediate cause for my adoption – he and my Mom had been dating for around a year, with plans to marry… when suddenly the young woman who couldn’t possibly get pregnant – did. My birthfather was a young divorced man with four children already. He had been to Vietnam. He wasn’t interested in expanding his family. Mom was from a strict Catholic upbringing, and dare not confess to her strict father that she had come up pregnant in the family and social atmosphere that existed circa 1965. Though she wanted desperately to keep me, she relented to the pressures and influences of her circumstances and the people around her – including my father. He left her, then agreed to see her through her pregnancy with me when she moved temporarily to the West Coast until I was born. When she went into labor on her own birthday, he drove her to the hospital and said, “goodbye,” driving himself back to New Orleans, where they both had been living. He left her without even so much as bus fare to get home. She was in labor with me for three days – neither of us wanted to let go, but it was inevitable.

This part of my story was crushing and painful. I was enraged at the man who would hurt my mother.

Then I learned that he did love her, in his own misguided way. And he was the only one that she could turn to about her terrible secret – me. He was the only other person who knew about her only child – the child she wasn’t supposed to have. “On a dare,” they married some three years after I was born, and were married for some nine years after that, until his other four children were raised. Somewhere during all these years, I also learned of the time that he had saved my mother’s life by wielding a Ruger Blackhawk .357 Magnum revolver. I couldn’t help but feel thankful and a little proud of him for his actions.

Nevertheless, after meeting him the first time in the bar at a Holiday Inn in Mobile, Alabama, I wanted little more to do with the man. Over the course of nearly a decade, I saw him perhaps twice more before I learned that he had terminal cancer and wanted to see me. Of the previous times I saw him, one was at his daughter’s (my half-sister’s) wedding. Though he was also invited, I was chosen to give my sister away. I was bitterly-cold to him that day, even though he tried to talk to me. Because of my own misgivings, I had bought-into my sisters’ anger and unrequited issues with the man that had nothing at all to do with me. Her anger was all the fuel I needed to sell myself the reasoning I had for not wanting a relationship with him. However…

I reluctantly agreed to meet with him again, thinking to myself, “sure, it’s only because he has cancer that he wants to see me.” In my own arrogance, I didn’t see that I was only pitying myself – and taking out my anger on him. Not that any anger spent on him was totally undeserved… But I never even gave him the chance to apologize to me, when all along, perhaps I needed to do some soul-searching for an apology for my own behavior.

He was just a man, though he had grown frighteningly frail since I saw him last. Tall, distinguished looking, with thick gray hair and a moustache, he resembled the actor, Hal Holbrook in his present and earlier days. We sat in uncomfortable silence as he winced in pain, trying to make small-talk. The visits were dreadfully uncomfortable, and usually quite brief – much shorter than the time it took to drive the eighty or so miles to his home in Mississippi. Was it even worth it? As a Christian, I had to feel sorry for the man and his suffering, but geez, we just had nothing at all in common…

Then it happened. A chink in my armor had failed as I saw it in his eyes – an expression he wore on his face that was so intimately familiar, it was one of my own. In the following moments it struck me how similar and familiar this man was to me – his habits, his gestures – his brand of wit and delicate mix of sometimes dry, sometimes campy, goofy humor…

A dam was beginning to break. I could feel the crumbling in the dark recesses of my pride. Startled, scared, and with the sudden sick realization of what I had done, what I was about to lose, and all that I had already, in all my foolish pride thrown away, I bolted for the door.

It was after that uncomfortable, tragic visit that I penned this letter:

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

L.P.,

I wanted to write this down for two reasons; I write far better than I can speak, and I want you to be able to remember my words as your concentration falters while you let go of this world for the next. Perhaps even for myself, I want to remember after you’re gone.

On our last visit, we talked a little about your readiness to go. You talked with a tear in your eye of the regrets you have in your life. I tried to tell you, as best I could; please don’t let me be one of those regrets.

I won’t deny that my life has been hard – but who is to say that it would have been any harder or easier if things had been different. I wouldn’t change my life as I know it. Growing up adopted was a thrilling and terrifying experience. I was always on a discovery of who I am. Every time I think I know, every time I believe I have discovered the last piece of the puzzle, a new facet emerges. Even now, in the short time I have been able to spend with you, I have gotten to know another me – I am your son.

Our visit on Monday afternoon was one I was wholly unprepared for, yet I knew I needed to spend time with you. Since that visit, I have been torn so deeply that I don’t know how to express what I’m feeling inside. I have such regret also, that I was so stubborn and unyielding during the eight years that have passed in which I could have gotten to know you better. For even through our previous meetings and the short visits we spent together, you were simply “L.,” or “L.P.” I held you at a distance because of my own fears and pains, for the losses and guilt of the many scars I bear for being left behind, for leaving my parents, and especially for my (adoptive) Mom’s pain on my leaving for what some term my “real” mother. Even for not being there for my own children when they needed me most – right after my divorce. I didn’t know you, and therefore you were an easy target to blame for my own inadequacies and fears. Please forgive me my bitterness and reluctance.

I came Monday because I knew you are dying. Because I knew that if I didn’t, I may later regret at least not making an effort, after you’re gone. I came because I knew you wanted me to, and because Mom told me I really needed to get to know you while I still have the chance. Then, as I watched you grimacing through the pain and bouncing back with a forced smile that I knew was wholly for my benefit, to make me comfortable…I wanted to cry. For suddenly, it finally struck me. At the core of a walled-off part of me, it crept in, and the realization pinned my heart to the floor: This dying man sitting across from me is not an outsider, not a neighbor or even a “family friend”.

You’re my father.

We sit in awkward silence, not knowing what to say to one another, both blaming ourselves for mistakes we’ve made and regretting that we have almost no time left. I want to thank you again for giving me your Ruger Blackhawk – it’s a beautiful gun, and I will indeed treasure it. But I would give it up gladly now for more time.

You said that the gun was all you had to give me. You were wrong. The greatest gift of all was my life. Simply put, without you, I wouldn’t be here today. I do firmly believe that my life is a part of God’s plan. The fact that Mom wasn’t supposed to be able to have children and along I came is enough for me. But then there’s more. I have felt the Hand of God move in my life all throughout my years. I have withstood unusual turmoil and had great burdens placed upon me – all with God’s trust that I can handle them.

Through you, God gave me to Mom. When His plan took me temporarily away, she turned to you as the only person who knew of her loss, and you protected her, loved her, and comforted her when she needed it most. For that, I am also thankful. And when it was time for me to find her again, it was by the name [Bitterroot] that I found myself, so that I could find her.

I have to believe that our circumstances, our stubbornness, and even our failures have played into God’s will, for so much as I would still like to know you and spend time with you… Knowing that you love me is enough. It would be enough even if we had had the opportunity to go on long drives together, go shooting, eat catfish, or to just sit and talk about life with a whole lot of it left to live.

Sometimes, I see in the way you look at me a picture of myself, as I sense you see yourself in me. Between the pains that rack your body, you display a wit and spirit I want to carry with me. Mom has told me often that I do this or that like you, or even look like you when I gesture or talk. Even when I was angry and stubbornly held you out, hearing about some likeness to you secretly thrilled me, because for so many years I didn’t look like anybody that was family. I definitely belong to you, but how do we fit?

Know that I already have a “Dad.” His title is well earned – for both him and for myself. We both struggled, fought, suffered and finally together we rejoiced. It took more than thirty years for us to be able to say “I love you.” I can neither take that title away from him, nor even loan it out.

But after nearly 39 years separation and enough turmoil overcome to warrant our own rejoicing, I would be honored for you to be my “Pop”. I love you, and I’m so sorry to see you go so soon after finally discovering each other. My prayers are with you now, as they will be many, many years from now when thinking of and calling on you will be as much for my own comfort.

Pop, I love you, and I’m going to miss you – but I know we’ll see each other again one day. It is true that we’ve missed out on a lifetime together, but I hope that as we say goodbye, knowing that I do love you will be enough.

For now I pray, Peace of the Lord be always with you.

Your son, Bitterroot
Born, C.P.M.,
December 1, 1965

The dam – the tremendous wall that had separated us and held our emotions in reserve had been ruptured permanently and completely. We were desperate to know each other, to spend more time, but time was a luxury we had let slip through our fingers. I realize I wasn’t entirely to blame, nor was he – our shares were pretty equal, overall. He had a new family to hold together, and my presence brought one painful reality to bear – he was still deeply, passionately in love with my mother, and he always had been. The fact that he made stupid choices throughout his life only complicated things – and drove my mother away from him. Pop’s widow is a dear, sweet Christian lady who did what my mother never could – she got him to Church. He became so involved and so well loved that he seemed a local celebrity in his congregation. His baptist minister – an awesome and holy man – was counted among his many “best friends,” and visited him nearly every day.

From the day I started visiting, Pop promised he would treat me to “the best catfish dinner you’ll ever have.” There was a restaurant near his neck of the woods that he claimed had the best catfish to be found anywhere – and the hushpuppies were to die for…

Pop’s health deteriorated too rapidly for us to make that catfish dinner a reality, but I’m still gonna hold him to it. No doubt he’s staked out the perfect place by now… I look forward to that dinner every time the thought of him crosses my mind. (Maybe that’s why it seems like I’m always hungry!)

Happy Father’s Day, Pop. I look forward to it all, one day…

===========================================================

UPDATE: For those visiting via link, I’ve also posted an epilogue to this tribute. Thanks for stopping by!

Rachel at Pereiraville has some questions about the Catholic faith after her recent experience of a Memorial Mass – and tagged Mrs. Who and me to possibly explain some things as “devout Catholics.” I’m flattered – and not so sure I’m deserving of the label “devout Catholic” – but I’ll try my best.

Mrs. Who addressed part of her questions in the Pereiraville comments. However, as usual, my comment grew to mammoth-size, so I felt it would be better to move it to my own blog entry. (Though I’m not at all sure about placing a post discussing the Catholic Faith on a blog titled “Friction and Harmony” – let alone amongst all my cussing and ranting. Did I mention the “devout” thing might be undeserved? Stand back, folks… For my irreverent post title alone, I’m probably a walking lightning rod!)

Anywho, on to business… But first, one caveat: Just remember – I’m not an authority on the Catholic faith – but sometimes that’s a good thing. MY word is not Gospel! I’m not sitting at my keyboard with the Catechism at my elbow – and I’ll readily admit that my understandings may be inaccurate! If you know and see an inaccuracy, please feel free to correct me.*

*(However, if you just want to flame me because you hate the Catholic Church and what it teaches – sorry, I can’t help you. You and I will likely never agree nor be converted, so please reserve your vitriol and generalizations about Catholic clergy for your own MySpace page.)

For those who would rather bypass the faith-discussion, or who have never been to a Catholic Mass (Mrs. Who tells me I got “too technical” – that “people won’t be able to visualize what’s happening” – *sigh*), I’ve dropped the rest below the fold…

More »

Thanks to Mrs. Who’s great idea – I’m up this morning wishing I weren’t.

Have I mentioned I hate fruity mixed-drinks?  I don’t even like fruity liqueurs.  I just don’t get this effin’ racked on rye or scotch.  Give me some barrel-proof Wild Turkey on the rocks, I’ll be fine the next morning.  Really.

What really irks me about this is the fact that I’m now officially a lightweight.  Not that I’ve been propping-up a bar stool at any recent times past, but I’m feeling this bad after just one damn drink!

No, I haven’t actually been hovering over the Porcelain Shrine…  But I think that if I could hurl, I’d probably feel much better.  But I don’t throw-up.  Ever.  And if I do, someone had better call the CDC and set-up a bubble over the whole town, ’cause it’ll probably be something bad – like Andromeda Strain bad.  In my 41+ years, I’ve only thrown-up maybe a half-dozen times.

The only time I’ve felt worse than this, I spent the early evening drinking Long Island Iced Teas, and finished in the wee-hours of morning in a round-table “competetion” of Ouzo-shots.  Okay, so that particular time, I did hurl…  (It probably saved my life.)  But before I did, I vaguely remember my friend shaking me awake at the edge of the dance floor, where I had collapsed onto a chair propped against the wall…  I bolted back up to my feet, shouting “I’m fine! Really!” and danced a few more steps before I collapsed back into the chair.  The next vague memory of that evening was playing tug-o-war with someone’s pit bull out-front of the bar in the winter-air, trying to sober-up.  Oh, and the tug-o-war toy was MY OWN DAMN ARM!  Yeah, it looked pretty scary the next day – all dried blood and dog saliva.  Nope, didn’t feel a thing.  The final memory was laying on my stomach with my head hanging out the sliding door of my friend’s van (he D.J.’ed at the club we frequented), hurling onto the shoulder of the highway while my friend threatened, “you puke on any of my equipment, I’m gonna leave you on the side of the road to die, fucker!”

Man, those were the days…

What will Your Epitaph Say?

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Where are the moonbats with their sandwich-board signs when the American Red Cross comes up with this:

Red Cross Offering Gas For Blood

Lucky Winner Will Get $3,500 In Gasoline

PHILADELPHIA — American Red Cross officials are offering the chance to win free gasoline as an incentive to get more Pennsylvania and New Jersey residents to donate blood.

This summer, each donor will automatically be entered in a drawing to win $3,500 worth of gasoline. Entries for the first drawing, July 23, are already being accepted. An identical raffle will start July 23 and run through Sept. 16. Every day, the Red Cross also will award a $25 gas card to a randomly selected donor.

Meh.