Computers Must Die

This is not an epithet. It’s a fact. Just as all living things die, so do some non-living things. I found this out yesterday as the hard drive of my laptop took its last dying gasps and collapsed in a mushy pool of ones and zeros. Now here is the problem: I run two Internet businesses and I am a freelance writer. I need my laptop! But even worse, it expired rather suddenly (as is their wont), and I, yes stupidly, had not backed up my data. Shame on me. The only saving grace in this whole debacle is I have a Guy. Everyone who uses a computer needs to have a Guy. This is the person who can accurately diagnose, and lo!, even repair, these finicky little boxes of silicon and electrons. If you don’t have a Guy, you’ll screw something up, or pay way too much for repairs. It’s very much like having an automobile – you need a Guy for that too, or you end up paying $938 for a new Fetzer valve so that your cylinder manifold can ovulate.

Anyway, my Guy, who is a neighbor, pronounced the drive dead on arrival, and told me I needed a new one. He was somehow able to salvage some of the information stored on it, but not all. I’ve lost some writing, and a bunch of saved emails (invoices and such), but he saved about two-weeks’ worth of keyword research for some websites I’m working on. He is also attempting to retrieve even more data using the obvious technique (I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me) of freezing the hard drive in his kitchen freezer. I’m not lying. That’s what he is doing. He also searched his online supply resources and found a new, warranteed, drive for about half of what either of us expected. It should arrive in a few days, and he said he would help me put the whole mess back together so that it doesn't look like C-3PO on Cloud City. (I'm such a geek) This is good because I would probably have rammed my rom or done something incestuous to my motherboard.

All in all, it could have been worse. I’ll have some work to do to get back to where I was, but, as the governor of California has said, “I’ll be back.”

The moral of the story? 1.) Back up your data, 2.) Get yourself a Guy, or you might end up with a gross of Fetzer valves and no ovulating cylinder manifolds and, 3.) Just in case, always leave some room near the Turkey Pot Pie for your hard drive.

FYI: he found the cheap drive on newegg.com in case anyone is looking for hard drives, motherboards, or Fetzer valves (try swanson.com for the turkey pot pie)

Grin and Bear It

Well, we did it. Despite the horrified looks, and the pleading, Why? Why must we do this thing? from my wife, we went camping. Now to be honest, and to keep those of you who rock climb, spelunk, sleep in the open air of the Smokey Mountains, and subsist on berries and green lake spoo from rolling your eyes, it was not REAL CAMPING. We did not have to shoot or hook our food, nor did we build adobe lean-tos as shelter against the elements. We did not tie our food in a tree to keep raccoons and bears away either. In fact, we encouraged the bears to come around. Why would we do such a thing, you ask?

Because we camped at Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park, and recieved visits from Yogi and Boo Boo. In case you are not familiar with this family fun farm, let me elucidate. Jellystone Park is a franchised quasi-camping resort where you can tent, pull in your camper, or, as we did, rent a cabin, in a Yogi Bear-themed park. Our rustic, secluded cabin (15 feet from the neighboring cabins), one of Yogi Bear’s Lakefront Cabins, came equipped with a bunk room with two bunk beds, a loft with a full-sized bed, and couch/futon that was also full-sized. It also had a kitchen/eating area/living area with dishes, utensils, cookware, a small refrigerator, a two-burner stove, a microwave, a toaster, a coffee maker, and a TV with DVD player. Most importantly to my wife, it had a bathroom and shower. We were roughing it.

I’m not putting any of this down, in fact, just the opposite. Having never camped, this was the perfect introduction. We got to swim in the lake (or the pool), go on a hayride with Boo Boo, play on several playgrounds, and most importantly, avoid the woods. Those who have read my previous blogs know of the inherent danger this trip could have posed to The Boy. Amazingly, he sustained no injuries on this trip. But if he had, there was the “Ranger Station” within a very short walk with medical supplies, ice cream, Pez, Yogi Bear pencils, coffee, Yogi Bear keyrings, Yogi Bear earrings, coffee, Yogi Bear note pads, Yogi Bear snow globes, and coffee.

There were many more family activities and events, too numerous to mention here, but bottom line: We had fun. SAFE fun.

For more info check: http://www.campjellystone.com.

American Express makes me cry

I don’t actually have an American Express card – they asked me to leave home without it – so it’s not the card itself that makes my cry, it’s the commercial. Have you seen the commercial where the dad has to whip out his American Express card to pay for his daughter’s wedding? He watches her walk down the aisle, and dance at the reception, and flashes back to when she was a little girl holding his hand, doing daddy/daughter stuff together. It’s very sappy, and strives not to tug, but yank the heartstrings of those American Express daddies out there.

I have three daughters, which could mean three weddings, and I don’t have a card. I called American Express and explained the situation, but they didn’t really have any sympathy for me. Maybe Master Card should make a commercial about weddings. I have a Master Card. You know, it could go something like:

First daughter’s wedding: $15,000.
Second daughter’s wedding: another friggin’ $15,000.
Third daughter’s wedding (dad topples to the ground, grabbing at his chest): Lifeless.

But I digress. The point I was initially trying to make was that stupid American Express commercial makes me cry. I fall for that sappy stuff. I’m a wuss, a wimp. I tried to tell my wife about the commercial – just tell her, it wasn’t actually on at the time – and I started moistening up again. What is wrong with me? I think I need therapy. Or some man-ing up.

And now, combine this blog entry with the last, and this is turning into Wuss Central.

My next entry will be much more butch. I promise. In the mean time, I’ll just swab up this wet keyboard. Thanks American Express. Bastards.

Apology.com

Last week I discovered a new use (to me, anyway) for the Internet. You see, as a male member of the species, I have a tendency to do stupid things. Yes ladies, we are aware of our foibles, we just feel more comfortable tucking them safely in the sock drawer next to those “gag” gifts from Spencer Gifts we received from friends back in our early twenties. We forget that they are there until we stumble across them, and then quickly try to hide them away again before the kids see them. Sometimes we’re not quick enough.

In this case, I said some things to my wife that were, what I like to call, just a “bit south of nice.” My wife likes to call it being a jerk. It’s all perspective. I do not plan to air any specific dirty laundry here, so never mind the details of the dispute. Suffice it to say, an apology was owed, and she would accept no verbal act of contrition. In fact, she said something to the effect of, “You’re a writer - write something. I dare you.”

Well the gauntlet was thrown down. I knew I would have to come up with something better than a little note, and I knew that she wasn’t actually expecting me to do it. She was just taking a pot shot at my writing career. So if nothing else, I had the element of surprise.

As I had been doing some web content writing, as well as cutting my teeth on web design, the inspiration struck to create a web page dedicated to her. I used a Geocities personal home page template, and turned it into a commercial touting the great things about my wife, with a Top 20 list and fake “links” to other sites about her. Then I just emailed her the link (no, I will not include it here – it’s private!).

Right about now you men reading this are thinking all kinds of bad thoughts about me, calling me a wimp, and probably making that whip-cracking noise. You’re also thinking, Did it work? On the other hand, the ladies reading this are thinking -- Who am I kidding? I have no idea what the you’re thinking. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Maybe you’re thinking I’m quite a guy, or maybe you’re thinking I’m a flake. Or maybe you’re wondering what your husband has in his sock drawer from Spencer Gifts, and does it inflate or need batteries?

Just so you know, guys, it had the desired effect. She was moved by the gesture as well as the content, and we were able to roll over this most recent bump in the marital road. Sometimes a sincere and properly designed apology can be just the balm to help heal a wound. And best of all, I am now free to screw up again – and we all know I will.

My brain hurts…

Writing is something that I’ve always enjoyed, and something which has never been overly difficult for me. That’s not to say I haven’t struggled to bring a story to a conclusion that made sense, and was also entertaining, or that I haven’t tried to figure out why a character behaved a certain way, but it’s more of an artistic challenge than a painful struggle. It’s kind of an enjoyable pain, like choking down that last chocolate chip cookie even though you’re full, because there is no sense in leaving just one.

But as I embark on a “professional” writing career, I find I have to write things that aren’t compelling in order to get published, get clips, get “out there,” and yes, make a buck. I am working on a series of articles for a web content provider about things to do in my hometown. Interesting? Maybe. Compelling? Definitely not. Couple this with having to write on breaks from my “real” job, or after all the kids have gone to bed, and I’m not at my peak. I tried writing with my three year old daughter on my lap a couple of days ago. Well, I think I can salvage the keyboard once the Coke dries, and I take it apart and clean it…

But I’ve got to work my chops, put in the time, pay my dues. At least I’m not trying to write while working off my passage on a whaling ship. Harpooning animals makes me queasy. And I’m using a computer rather than a manual typewriter in a bumpy railroad boxcar with a scruffy guy named Willy who chews tobacco and drinks wood alcohol.

It could be worse.

So even though my brain hurts, and I’ve Googled myself into a site that showcases local weasel wrestling tournaments, I guess I shouldn’t complain. At least I’m pursuing my dream.

Did they just harpoon that weasel?

Hey bloggers, writers, and everybody -

I haven't added to this blog in a while, as I have been in research mode. As I've mentioned, I am a writer, and I've recently been investigating freelance writing opportunities.

What I’ve learned about freelance writing…

I could regurgitate what I’ve learned so far here, but I would be doing an injustice to those expert writers, bloggers, web designers, and others in the know from whom I have been garnering information. One of the best places I’ve found for freelance writing newbies is writersrow.com. There’s a link in the sidebar entitled “for writers.” Check it out.

“She’s a wizard, Harry!”

On another note, I can hardly believe what I am reading about J.K. Rowling and her latest Harry Potter book (I think the title is “Harry Potter and the Ha Ha I’m the Richest Woman in England”). There is hope for all writers out there to knock that big one out of the park (or nab the golden snitch if you prefer Quidditch) Keep plugging away! By the way, there was an interesting story on writenews.com’s writers’ blog about the editor who passed on Rowling and her first Harry Potter book. Oops!

On a family note…

We are going to attempt a pseudo-camping experience in August. As you know from a previous post, when my family travels, it’s always an adventure. I’m calling it pseudo-camping because we are renting a cabin that has a refrigerator, stove, microwave, and a bathroom. I could convince my wife of nothing less. She fears – with good cause - that the boy will end up in a river, lake, forest fire, landslide, or belly of a bear. So we’ll take it slow. I’d love to have comments or ideas on places to camp, if anyone would care to leave one.


Keep on writing (or whatever else you do), and stay connected. Blog on...

Well, with summer now one day old, the thoughts of many parents turn to ideas for family travel.

Vacationing with your children can be a very rewarding experience for both parents and children. Much can be learned and shared, and great bonds can be forged. I vividly recall childhood trips with my parents and brothers, and with the tempering of time, the memories are fond. I’m sure that on a journey from New York to Oregon in a station wagon loaded with three boys and two adults there may have been a few skirmishes and lost tempers. I bet that even the Pioneers, trekking across America in search of land and opportunity, had one sibling in the back of the old Conestoga chiding another with I’m not touching ye. But it has been said that tragedy plus time equals comedy. And I add: comedy plus time equals pleasant reminiscences.

In honor of all those who would embark on such expeditions this summer, I wish you well, and give you this excerpt from an article I wrote about a trip my family took last April. May your travels be safe, fun and above all, memorable.


“Let’s drive down to visit my dad for Easter,” was my wife’s idea. Sounds good – in theory. The trip to visit my wife’s father is a 900-mile drive from Buffalo, NY to Charleston, SC with four children nine years old and under. Of course, I agreed. Nine years of unrelenting parenting have worn down that part of the brain that contains the “Are you nuts!” programs.
So we loaded the canvas, non-water proof van-top carrier with all of the necessaries: clothing for a week of warmer weather, special blankets and quilts that we can’t sleep without, umbrella stroller and a healthy supply of diapers. There is a mathematical proof that shows Diapers Needed as a multiple of Distance Traveled– i.e., the farther you go, the more often the baby goes. We also loaded the interior of the van with the important family travel items: Barbie and Bratz dolls and accessories, coloring books and crayons, stuffed animals, mini Magna-Doodles, blankies and binkies, story books, Disney travel songs CD, notepads and pencils, laptop (with DVD drive) and a box of DVD’s, including Dora the Explorer and Blues Clues. With the entertainment taken care of (for at least 35 minutes), we added essential nutritional items: a cooler packed with juice boxes, water and energy drinks (for the driver), sandwich fixings, Goldfish crackers, Teddy Grahams, Gogurt, apples, grapes and trail mix.
With the van loaded with 21st century hardtack and fatback, everyone was strapped into their appropriate child safety harnesses. Each child has a designated seat, which is the one and only specific area of the van in which he or she does not want to sit. After some discussion and juxtaposing, everyone settled and we were ready for the first leg of the journey, which meant everyone had to unbuckle and go to the bathroom.


Our first unplanned extended stop occurred about four hours into the trip, in the shadow of the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, OH. This is where, at a travel plaza for a potty stop and leg stretch, my son of 20 months – let’s call him Taz – decided to test the tensile strength of asphalt with his forehead. I picked him up, and carried him back to the van, trying hold the wound without benefit of a compress. I signaled to my wife to grab something to stave off the blood flow. She put a tissue on his head, and took him from me so that I could go into the travel plaza and try to obtain some type of bandage. When I returned with a box of Band-Aids and the suggestion we stick one on his head and hit the road, the look on her face cautioned me to come up with another option. She then indicated that I was an idiot as she showed me how, at the right angle, we could actually glimpse my son’s skull bone through the hole in his forehead. Back on the highway, with my wife holding the boy still in the back seat, we followed the blue “H” signs and the almost, but not quite entirely, useless directions from the cashier at the travel plaza to Aultman Hospital’s emergency room. If you have to have stitches in Canton, OH, I recommend Aultman Hospital. They have a nice waiting area for kids, with books and the Cartoon Network and a candy machine, in case you need to practice pronouncing “no.” Two hours and 14 stitches later, we were back on the road.

Hello fellow bloggers,

This is my first foray into the world of blogging as the initiator of a blog. I hope that it will be able to grow and evolve into something great. Let me start this blog with a bit about me. I am a married father of four with a nascent freelance writing career. I also run a web-based business and work as a vocational counselor for my local county hospital. It is my hope that people with interests in writing, reading, entrepreneurship, and family will post with thoughts, ideas, and advice for others who have these interests. The Internet is a big "place," but it is also a great place for like-minded people to connect and assist each other. I welcome any and all to post and help get this thing rolling.

I wanted to post nothing more than an introduction and invitation today. I will continue to write things that I feel could be helpful, entertaining, or cathartic in future postings. Hope you will join in.