At approximately 8 pm tonight, my newest grandson, Dennis (named after both of his grandads) arrived in the usual way, after a long haul. He weighed in at 8lbs.
A few minutes ago, I spoke to my daughter on the phone and heard the lusty cries of his nibs. Everyone is doing fine.
We are happy. Thanks to all for your support and good wishes.
9/30/2004
Thurs AM
As of 8am
My daughter called from the hospital this morning around 7:30. They have been there since mid-day yesterday. She was reported as starting labor around 6:30pm. She is still in labor, but things are going slowly.
She is on epidural and not in great pain - they (the ever-attentive hubby is with her) got some sleep during the wee hours and She sounded in good spirits. (remember, she knows what to expect having been in attendance for the birth of her nephew, Vinny after a long labor).
If the drugs do not get the baby moving this morning they will do a C-section. So The birthday will definitely be 9/30
That is all I know at this time. Maternal Grandparents are jumpy as cats
I will post more details as they are learned.
My daughter called from the hospital this morning around 7:30. They have been there since mid-day yesterday. She was reported as starting labor around 6:30pm. She is still in labor, but things are going slowly.
She is on epidural and not in great pain - they (the ever-attentive hubby is with her) got some sleep during the wee hours and She sounded in good spirits. (remember, she knows what to expect having been in attendance for the birth of her nephew, Vinny after a long labor).
If the drugs do not get the baby moving this morning they will do a C-section. So The birthday will definitely be 9/30
That is all I know at this time. Maternal Grandparents are jumpy as cats
I will post more details as they are learned.
9/29/2004
Baby Update - Wednesday AM
Well, maybe today...
My daughter went in yesterday and they gave her some drugs to induce the birth process. After 8 hours of nothing going on, they sent her home.
This baby is already showing the traits of unhurried stubbornness that many of the members on my side of the family demonstrate on a daily basis.
Who can blame the child for not wanting to enter a world where one has to choose between economic achievement and Art?
The writer, Roland Merullo has observed that "...Family is the source of most of our joys and most of our pain..." Wisdom indeed.
My daughter went in yesterday and they gave her some drugs to induce the birth process. After 8 hours of nothing going on, they sent her home.
This baby is already showing the traits of unhurried stubbornness that many of the members on my side of the family demonstrate on a daily basis.
Who can blame the child for not wanting to enter a world where one has to choose between economic achievement and Art?
The writer, Roland Merullo has observed that "...Family is the source of most of our joys and most of our pain..." Wisdom indeed.
9/28/2004
Finally
Finally, the builder came by yesterday. I was beginning to think we had fallen off his radar screen. He had drawings and a contract to sign. He will be ready to start the porch sometime between now and April 2005. "Most likely before winter sets in."
I do not feel like I have a lot of bargaining clout on the timing or cost, since he has plenty of work lined-up. I am a squeeze-in project for him. If we demur, he will be busy on other jobs. The porch job will cost over $30k. Too expensive, I think, but it will easily add $50k to the selling price of the house. Besides I've already had a unsatisfactory experience with bargain priced contractors.
We still need to look at some door samples and lighting options, but it looks like the project has finally begun.
====
My daughter informs me that she will be going to the hospital at 3pm today, for a scheduled sonnagram. She says she is planning a "Lie-in" and will refuse to leave the building until after the baby is born.
Stay tuned.
I do not feel like I have a lot of bargaining clout on the timing or cost, since he has plenty of work lined-up. I am a squeeze-in project for him. If we demur, he will be busy on other jobs. The porch job will cost over $30k. Too expensive, I think, but it will easily add $50k to the selling price of the house. Besides I've already had a unsatisfactory experience with bargain priced contractors.
We still need to look at some door samples and lighting options, but it looks like the project has finally begun.
====
My daughter informs me that she will be going to the hospital at 3pm today, for a scheduled sonnagram. She says she is planning a "Lie-in" and will refuse to leave the building until after the baby is born.
Stay tuned.
9/27/2004
Over due
I get a lot of mail asking for news about the baby. My daughter is 8 days overdue, according to OB-GYN scientific calculations. She was here yesterday for a pleasant luncheon of grilled meat and seasonal greens. She is big, she is ready, and the doc figures she will deliver by Tuesday (tomorrow) one way or another. A sonogram on Friday confirmed all signs are good.
My sisters remind me that it is not uncommon for women with our DNA to have late pregnancies and large babies. Several of my nephews were weeks overdue and yours truly was 3 weeks tardy when I finally saw the light of day.
(Some former managers have noted the chronic lack of urgency that characterized my personal and professional behavior may be congenital.)
So, we wait with the certain knowledge that something will happen sooner or later.
====
And those of you who were heartened by the performance of the Red Sox this weekend (beating the crap out of the hated Yankees - twice), I say, Don't get your hopes up. But, you will ignore me and let your hearts pump gleefully with the mirage of winning a championship at last. I'm telling ya: It's over.
My sisters remind me that it is not uncommon for women with our DNA to have late pregnancies and large babies. Several of my nephews were weeks overdue and yours truly was 3 weeks tardy when I finally saw the light of day.
(Some former managers have noted the chronic lack of urgency that characterized my personal and professional behavior may be congenital.)
So, we wait with the certain knowledge that something will happen sooner or later.
====
And those of you who were heartened by the performance of the Red Sox this weekend (beating the crap out of the hated Yankees - twice), I say, Don't get your hopes up. But, you will ignore me and let your hearts pump gleefully with the mirage of winning a championship at last. I'm telling ya: It's over.
9/25/2004
Falling Short
Calendar makers should change the name of the ninth month from "September" to "The Month Than The Boston Red Sox Break Your Heart, You Sucker!"
That giant choking sound you hear in the distance is coming from Fenway Park. It's annual the Red Sox end-of-season slog up Heartbreak Hill. After a hope-kindling series of on-the -road wins in August the team returns triumphantly to Fenway for the final homestand, full of grins and spin. The media loves a winning team. They revive the legend of The Curse of The Bambino; they pour gasoline on the flammable rivalry between New York and Boston. Even the weather forcasters get into the act, telling us the temperature at game time, and whether to bring rain gear to the game. It's a shameless and unforgivable exploitation of the need in some fans to be rooting for a winning team. Worst of all, they offer the false hope that in the end, the Red Sox might win the World Series.
Youngsters and newcomers to New England may be forgiven for their naive hopes that this is finally The Year. But, for those of us who have grown-up and lived in the Boston area all of our lives, this is the way it always ends: Not with a bang, but a whimper.
Maybe these guys just don't like playing in cold weather, and they would rather spend those chilly playoff days in October laying on a sunny beach somewhere where the weather is warm. They are all millionaires, thanks to the poor shmucks who lay-out the hard-earned bucks to pay for an afternoon or an evening at the game with the kids. So they can afford nice accommodations. Maybe that's what they are thinking about when they are at bat with men on base and they hit a high fastball one hop to the shortstop into a guaranteed double play. Or, when they get thrown-out at second base for not hustling up the first base line when they smack one off the wall in left field.
I used to go to church when I was a younger man full of hope and faith. Then, it occurred to me that what happens is what God wants to happen. This epiphany sent me reeling out of the pew and out of the Fenway bleachers forever. Clearly, if God exists, then He loves Yankee fans more than Red Sox fans.
So, you can keep dreaming, hoping or praying - or whatever you die-hard fans do during the inevitable torture of the season finale. Me? I'm thinking about football. Seventeen in a row. Superbowl Champs. A team that cannot lose tomorrow (mainly because they are not playing).
That giant choking sound you hear in the distance is coming from Fenway Park. It's annual the Red Sox end-of-season slog up Heartbreak Hill. After a hope-kindling series of on-the -road wins in August the team returns triumphantly to Fenway for the final homestand, full of grins and spin. The media loves a winning team. They revive the legend of The Curse of The Bambino; they pour gasoline on the flammable rivalry between New York and Boston. Even the weather forcasters get into the act, telling us the temperature at game time, and whether to bring rain gear to the game. It's a shameless and unforgivable exploitation of the need in some fans to be rooting for a winning team. Worst of all, they offer the false hope that in the end, the Red Sox might win the World Series.
Youngsters and newcomers to New England may be forgiven for their naive hopes that this is finally The Year. But, for those of us who have grown-up and lived in the Boston area all of our lives, this is the way it always ends: Not with a bang, but a whimper.
Maybe these guys just don't like playing in cold weather, and they would rather spend those chilly playoff days in October laying on a sunny beach somewhere where the weather is warm. They are all millionaires, thanks to the poor shmucks who lay-out the hard-earned bucks to pay for an afternoon or an evening at the game with the kids. So they can afford nice accommodations. Maybe that's what they are thinking about when they are at bat with men on base and they hit a high fastball one hop to the shortstop into a guaranteed double play. Or, when they get thrown-out at second base for not hustling up the first base line when they smack one off the wall in left field.
I used to go to church when I was a younger man full of hope and faith. Then, it occurred to me that what happens is what God wants to happen. This epiphany sent me reeling out of the pew and out of the Fenway bleachers forever. Clearly, if God exists, then He loves Yankee fans more than Red Sox fans.
So, you can keep dreaming, hoping or praying - or whatever you die-hard fans do during the inevitable torture of the season finale. Me? I'm thinking about football. Seventeen in a row. Superbowl Champs. A team that cannot lose tomorrow (mainly because they are not playing).
9/23/2004
Yankees Suck
One of my first jobs was at Fenway Park. My buddy Dave Randall and I got jobs working for the company that cleaned the stands after the game. We were 14 at the time. The perk of this job was that you could get into the park free after the 8th inning, watch the end of the game, and then make $1.00 per hour sweeping up.
The first (and as it turned out - only) day on the job turned out to be a night game. I cannot recall much about the evening other than the fact that we did not get out of there until the wee hours. Trolley cars did not run with great frequency during those wee hours, and thus we did not get home until the morning sun was rising. This unfortunate commuting problem prompted our mothers to forbid us from returning to the job.
I did learn one skill of lasting value that night: how to sweep. You take it for granted, but there is a science to sweeping with a broom. (Let the tips of the bristles do the work, don't bend them, and you can sweep up even sticky ice cream wrappers.) Many times in my life, I have been called upon to sweep things up. Much of my military service and training was devoted to the art of waxing and buffing hallways and KP duty. But I digress.
I was reminded of my occupational roots under the green monster recently. In the paper and on TV there has been some earnest discussion about the rise in vulgarity associated with the passionate rivalry between the Red Sox and the despised Yankees. Apparently, loyal fans have taken to chanting "Yankees Suck," during games - even when the Sox are playing other teams. Other (less complimentary) slogans have been seen printed on tee shirts in and around the park. Perhaps the heightened passions are fed by the frustrations many citizens have with their shitty jobs, the current tenor of political discourse, or just as likely, the outrageous costs for a seat, a beer, and a slice of bad pizza at any professional sporting event.
Vulgarity is really nothing new among sports fans. It isn't just an characteristic of the rabble at Fenway either. Another job I had as a teenager was selling programs at Harvard Stadium during Ivy League games. I remember being shocked by the Harvard (probably freshmen) chanting "Dartmouth Sucks," to the dismay of the stodgy Crimson alums.
Also, just a few years ago I recall being at a Sox game when a gal several rows behind us started lifting her shirt to proudly expose her new boob job. She was determined to get on camera. In the end, to a chorus of boos, a uniformed usher came to escort her out of the park, but not before there were several rounds of adjacent sections yelling, "Show us your tits!" - to which she gladly complied.
Most of the other guys in the stands seemed to enjoy the spectacle, except one young father who had brought his two pre-adolescent sons to actually watch the baseball game. Like, me, those kids probably do not recall who the Sox were playing or how the game turned out, but we all came away from the park with an unforgettable memory.
Hmmn. I wonder how much they are paying these days for an experienced broomsman.
The first (and as it turned out - only) day on the job turned out to be a night game. I cannot recall much about the evening other than the fact that we did not get out of there until the wee hours. Trolley cars did not run with great frequency during those wee hours, and thus we did not get home until the morning sun was rising. This unfortunate commuting problem prompted our mothers to forbid us from returning to the job.
I did learn one skill of lasting value that night: how to sweep. You take it for granted, but there is a science to sweeping with a broom. (Let the tips of the bristles do the work, don't bend them, and you can sweep up even sticky ice cream wrappers.) Many times in my life, I have been called upon to sweep things up. Much of my military service and training was devoted to the art of waxing and buffing hallways and KP duty. But I digress.
I was reminded of my occupational roots under the green monster recently. In the paper and on TV there has been some earnest discussion about the rise in vulgarity associated with the passionate rivalry between the Red Sox and the despised Yankees. Apparently, loyal fans have taken to chanting "Yankees Suck," during games - even when the Sox are playing other teams. Other (less complimentary) slogans have been seen printed on tee shirts in and around the park. Perhaps the heightened passions are fed by the frustrations many citizens have with their shitty jobs, the current tenor of political discourse, or just as likely, the outrageous costs for a seat, a beer, and a slice of bad pizza at any professional sporting event.
Vulgarity is really nothing new among sports fans. It isn't just an characteristic of the rabble at Fenway either. Another job I had as a teenager was selling programs at Harvard Stadium during Ivy League games. I remember being shocked by the Harvard (probably freshmen) chanting "Dartmouth Sucks," to the dismay of the stodgy Crimson alums.
Also, just a few years ago I recall being at a Sox game when a gal several rows behind us started lifting her shirt to proudly expose her new boob job. She was determined to get on camera. In the end, to a chorus of boos, a uniformed usher came to escort her out of the park, but not before there were several rounds of adjacent sections yelling, "Show us your tits!" - to which she gladly complied.
Most of the other guys in the stands seemed to enjoy the spectacle, except one young father who had brought his two pre-adolescent sons to actually watch the baseball game. Like, me, those kids probably do not recall who the Sox were playing or how the game turned out, but we all came away from the park with an unforgettable memory.
Hmmn. I wonder how much they are paying these days for an experienced broomsman.
9/21/2004
Baby Update
Thanks for your inquiries. As of this posting we are still waiting, patiently. Judy notes that if the new grandchild does not come by midnight, he will go through life under a different astrological sign. I have no opinions as to whether Libras are more faboured than Virgoes (and I am not interested in your opinion on the subject.)
I was born 3 weeks late myself, according to all accounts. As a result, I weighed nearly eleven pounds at birth. Had I arrived on schedule, I probably would have turned out very different: thin, driven to succeed, more interested in the opinion of others and boring.
=============
Where is that builder?
I was born 3 weeks late myself, according to all accounts. As a result, I weighed nearly eleven pounds at birth. Had I arrived on schedule, I probably would have turned out very different: thin, driven to succeed, more interested in the opinion of others and boring.
=============
Where is that builder?
9/14/2004
My War
Sunday morning at 6:30am. Judy went out to get the paper and found herself face to face with a pair of live deer. It was a doe and her nursing fawn. They were standing brazenly on the neighbor's lawn. She looked the deer in the eye and saw no fear. With our daughter who is imminently ready to give birth to our third grandson, Judy saw this as a favorable sign.
I think it is a sign that there is too much wildlife in the neighborhood.
All summer long I have been at war with the local varmints. We have daily visits from rabbits, raccoons, skunks. A vast variety of birds visit the area. Crows, cardinals, blue jays and doves make a constant racket, and occasionally I can hear the distinctive calls from redheaded woodpeckers and a pair of red tailed hawks (making lazy circles in the air) hunting for prey.
The ubiquitous and constant residents of my private property are the squirrels and chipmunks - whose population seems to have exploded this year. The birds and skunks do not cause any real harm. I chased some raccoons out of the garage one night. They had gained entry through an open door and were noisily foraging in the garbage cans. They have not been a problem since then.
My garden has been assaulted by varmint intruders unmercifully. Early in the season I found that the tops of half of my tomato plants had been nibbled at by a tall animal that left cloven hoofprints in the humus. (Whether you believe it was a visit from the Prince of Darkness or just a hungry whitetail deer, who would have expected that any of the suspects like to eat tomato plants??) The rabbits like to eat the freshly emerged marigold flowers. (Too bad they don't do me a favor by deadheading the blossoms that have gone by.)
The worst insurgent attacks are perpetrated by the squirrels and chipmunks. I have cultivated tomato plants for many years. In recent years I have experienced some minor interest in these plants by rodents. Up until this year, the chief problem was squirrels going after the ripe tomatoes on the vine. I was able to protect my harvest by picking the tomatoes just as the blush was coming upon them, and letting them ripen indoors.
This year, the squirrels have proliferated in geometric fashion (they breed like rabbits, if you ask me.) Apparently there is a lot of competion for food. A few squirrels have found my garden full of cukes and tomatoes to be easy picking. They take the low hanging fruits, but they do not stop there. I have actually witnessed squirrels climbing up my tomato stakes to get at higher fruit. And they do not wait. They pick them at Ping pong ball size and run across the yard with their prize. ) In the beginning I assumed that they take them back to the nest and wait for them to ripen. But lately I have seen half-eaten greenies on the ground.
In my rage, I have fought back. I bought rat traps and baited them with tomato pieces. So far the tally is four chipmunks and one squirrel. This has not even put a dent in the population that inhabits this area. I have stopped putting-out the traps because I worry about hurting the few (welcome) outside cats that also live in the neighborhood. The squirrels are too quick and escape the traps, anyway. (One night a young skunk blundered into a trap and stank-up the neighborhood).
I am losing this war. I am outnumbered and outgunned. The only way to keep the gardens safe is to be outside. They stay away when they see me. But, when I go in for my afternoon nap, the rodents swarm back to feast on my produce. They don't seem to like cucumbers, they just take a few small bites out of each one.
Fortunately, the ban on assault rifles has expired. Maybe a fully loaded AK-47 with a banana clip will prove to be the answer to my prayers....
I think it is a sign that there is too much wildlife in the neighborhood.
All summer long I have been at war with the local varmints. We have daily visits from rabbits, raccoons, skunks. A vast variety of birds visit the area. Crows, cardinals, blue jays and doves make a constant racket, and occasionally I can hear the distinctive calls from redheaded woodpeckers and a pair of red tailed hawks (making lazy circles in the air) hunting for prey.
The ubiquitous and constant residents of my private property are the squirrels and chipmunks - whose population seems to have exploded this year. The birds and skunks do not cause any real harm. I chased some raccoons out of the garage one night. They had gained entry through an open door and were noisily foraging in the garbage cans. They have not been a problem since then.
My garden has been assaulted by varmint intruders unmercifully. Early in the season I found that the tops of half of my tomato plants had been nibbled at by a tall animal that left cloven hoofprints in the humus. (Whether you believe it was a visit from the Prince of Darkness or just a hungry whitetail deer, who would have expected that any of the suspects like to eat tomato plants??) The rabbits like to eat the freshly emerged marigold flowers. (Too bad they don't do me a favor by deadheading the blossoms that have gone by.)
The worst insurgent attacks are perpetrated by the squirrels and chipmunks. I have cultivated tomato plants for many years. In recent years I have experienced some minor interest in these plants by rodents. Up until this year, the chief problem was squirrels going after the ripe tomatoes on the vine. I was able to protect my harvest by picking the tomatoes just as the blush was coming upon them, and letting them ripen indoors.
This year, the squirrels have proliferated in geometric fashion (they breed like rabbits, if you ask me.) Apparently there is a lot of competion for food. A few squirrels have found my garden full of cukes and tomatoes to be easy picking. They take the low hanging fruits, but they do not stop there. I have actually witnessed squirrels climbing up my tomato stakes to get at higher fruit. And they do not wait. They pick them at Ping pong ball size and run across the yard with their prize. ) In the beginning I assumed that they take them back to the nest and wait for them to ripen. But lately I have seen half-eaten greenies on the ground.
In my rage, I have fought back. I bought rat traps and baited them with tomato pieces. So far the tally is four chipmunks and one squirrel. This has not even put a dent in the population that inhabits this area. I have stopped putting-out the traps because I worry about hurting the few (welcome) outside cats that also live in the neighborhood. The squirrels are too quick and escape the traps, anyway. (One night a young skunk blundered into a trap and stank-up the neighborhood).
I am losing this war. I am outnumbered and outgunned. The only way to keep the gardens safe is to be outside. They stay away when they see me. But, when I go in for my afternoon nap, the rodents swarm back to feast on my produce. They don't seem to like cucumbers, they just take a few small bites out of each one.
Fortunately, the ban on assault rifles has expired. Maybe a fully loaded AK-47 with a banana clip will prove to be the answer to my prayers....
9/10/2004
Wrap Up
I am watching the end of summer with a mixed feeling of anticipation and befuddlement. I wonder: Where have the days gone? How come I do not have more items crossed off my TO DO list? Why am I still fat?
The anticipation is about a new grandson who is expected within the next few weeks, and the onset of my favorite season - when Monday nights are again occupied by Football Games on TV, when you can feel the crisp clean air of Autumn, when I can go back to the beach.
I love the ocean, but I hardly ever go to the beach in the summer. Neither of us enjoy basking in the sun. As a chronic sunburn victim, I am too sensitive to expose myself to the ravages of sunbathing, and my wife is too vain to allow her alabaster complexion to turn to dessicated leather. We call ourselves EPA's (Exceptionally Pale Americans). Our idea of a good day at the beach is an overcast windy fall day, where we can have the beach to ourselves, stroll the shore and gain the soothing benefits of whitecapped rollers pounding on the sand, washing away all the stress and angst of life....
The Bush administration has not produced a job boom in my neighborhood yet. So, I have officially joined the ranks of the early-retired. Although the SS money is a pittance, at least I can again afford to buy good scotch on my own, (instead of charging it to my wife's credit card).
Still, I keep looking for that perfect job. (ie, Good salary, short commute, non-asshole workplace, interesting work.) I hope something happens soon because i must confess that I am becoming less interested in the problems of business with each passing day.
Normally, I would use the recent Labor Day observance as another excuse to howl against greedy, clueless, ego-centric Management. This year, I am barely able to raise my sleepy head and growl about the slow economy.
At this rate, I will soon end-up a pensioner poet: unpublished, in need of a haircut, and wandering the streets and alleys looking for a good metaphor. Or, a decent pub.
The anticipation is about a new grandson who is expected within the next few weeks, and the onset of my favorite season - when Monday nights are again occupied by Football Games on TV, when you can feel the crisp clean air of Autumn, when I can go back to the beach.
I love the ocean, but I hardly ever go to the beach in the summer. Neither of us enjoy basking in the sun. As a chronic sunburn victim, I am too sensitive to expose myself to the ravages of sunbathing, and my wife is too vain to allow her alabaster complexion to turn to dessicated leather. We call ourselves EPA's (Exceptionally Pale Americans). Our idea of a good day at the beach is an overcast windy fall day, where we can have the beach to ourselves, stroll the shore and gain the soothing benefits of whitecapped rollers pounding on the sand, washing away all the stress and angst of life....
The Bush administration has not produced a job boom in my neighborhood yet. So, I have officially joined the ranks of the early-retired. Although the SS money is a pittance, at least I can again afford to buy good scotch on my own, (instead of charging it to my wife's credit card).
Still, I keep looking for that perfect job. (ie, Good salary, short commute, non-asshole workplace, interesting work.) I hope something happens soon because i must confess that I am becoming less interested in the problems of business with each passing day.
Normally, I would use the recent Labor Day observance as another excuse to howl against greedy, clueless, ego-centric Management. This year, I am barely able to raise my sleepy head and growl about the slow economy.
At this rate, I will soon end-up a pensioner poet: unpublished, in need of a haircut, and wandering the streets and alleys looking for a good metaphor. Or, a decent pub.
9/04/2004
Porch Envy
As mentioned in previous blog entries, there is a major renovation that has been going on at the next door neighbor's house since Spring. Over the course of the project, I have had occasion to go over to inspect the work and to marvel at the miracle of construction.
As one who is measure-mentally challenged ( I measure twice and cut thrice ), I have huge respect for anyone who can competently mitre a joint or operate heavy machinery without maiming themselves or others.
During my career as a systems guy, I often used the construction metaphor to explain the complexity of information systems projects.
I always justified the time spent on requirements gathering as similar to the importance of laying a stable foundation for a building. Many business applications are like a structure that has been modified incrementally over the years, to become a hodge podge of modules that are both unsightly and dysfunctional. Sometimes you just have to gut the damn thing and start all over with a new design.
A project to develop a business systems solution is much like a construction project. Certain tasks must be done in exquisitely planned sequence at predefined points in time. A team of workers, each with his own specialty needs to be deployed, communicated with, evaluated and rewarded (or more likely, corrected).
But a business systems development project is a piece-of-cake compared to construction. The bulk of risk for an application development project is managing team member's activities. The main resources are human. There is not a fundamental dependence on the arrival of certain materials at key junctures. This dependence upon external deliveries and the immutable pressures of climate, gravity and entropy make the construction project a risky and complex endeavor. And the worksite is a true Hellhole of noise, dust and micro-managed tasks.
More amazing is the realization that these projects are accomplished by individuals who are largely uneducated, uninformed and practically deaf. I assure you I am not being a snob in making these observations. As I say, I am right next door and have had an ample amount of time to spend puttering around my own garden or attempting to read in a quiet back yard. The banging starts around 8am and goes on most of the day (except for break times) through 4pm when the workers drive off like a swarm of locusts - probably to the nearest bar. Because of the constant pounding and sawing and other noise, most of the workers have apparently become deafened. When they talk to each other they always shout. Even when they are on break.
Thus it is not hard to overhear the substance and tone of their discussions, which I assure you seldom rises to the level of art history, philosophy or even politics. Generally the topics cover some or all of the following:
- Pit bulls make nice pets
- Did you hear about the lady who won $4 million on a scratch ticket?
- Nomar was a jerk
- My Jimmy is better than your F150.
- Whose turn is it to go get donuts?
You get the idea.
Miraculously, this crew is able to make something functional and beautiful through their combination of skills and the ability to follow orders precisely.
As the summer has progressed, I have been gradually possessed by a feeling of envy for my neighbor's porch. A feeling of emptiness has welled-up in my soul as I sit in my 9X9' metal-framed, vinyl roofed screen house. My neighbor was probably languishing on fine furniture in his huge screened-in porch, sipping fine scotch, puffing on expensive cigars and listening to cool jazz on his installed sound system, while I was cramped into my little screen house, sitting in my resin lawn chairs, drinking cheap domestic beer, listening to talk radio on my portable walkman. I felt something was missing.
One day last week, I asked the Builder if he was looking for any new projects. He said he already had plenty of work, but was always looking for new projects. I told him of my dream to have a screened porch instead of my little screen house.
He liked the idea of a project that did not require the use of a back-hoe and thirty tons of concrete. We got to talking. He made some measurements, sketched out a drawing, and before you knew it, we had agreed to a project.
So, my home is about to become a construction site. A Hellhole. I need to get a job, for obvious reasons.
As one who is measure-mentally challenged ( I measure twice and cut thrice ), I have huge respect for anyone who can competently mitre a joint or operate heavy machinery without maiming themselves or others.
During my career as a systems guy, I often used the construction metaphor to explain the complexity of information systems projects.
I always justified the time spent on requirements gathering as similar to the importance of laying a stable foundation for a building. Many business applications are like a structure that has been modified incrementally over the years, to become a hodge podge of modules that are both unsightly and dysfunctional. Sometimes you just have to gut the damn thing and start all over with a new design.
A project to develop a business systems solution is much like a construction project. Certain tasks must be done in exquisitely planned sequence at predefined points in time. A team of workers, each with his own specialty needs to be deployed, communicated with, evaluated and rewarded (or more likely, corrected).
But a business systems development project is a piece-of-cake compared to construction. The bulk of risk for an application development project is managing team member's activities. The main resources are human. There is not a fundamental dependence on the arrival of certain materials at key junctures. This dependence upon external deliveries and the immutable pressures of climate, gravity and entropy make the construction project a risky and complex endeavor. And the worksite is a true Hellhole of noise, dust and micro-managed tasks.
More amazing is the realization that these projects are accomplished by individuals who are largely uneducated, uninformed and practically deaf. I assure you I am not being a snob in making these observations. As I say, I am right next door and have had an ample amount of time to spend puttering around my own garden or attempting to read in a quiet back yard. The banging starts around 8am and goes on most of the day (except for break times) through 4pm when the workers drive off like a swarm of locusts - probably to the nearest bar. Because of the constant pounding and sawing and other noise, most of the workers have apparently become deafened. When they talk to each other they always shout. Even when they are on break.
Thus it is not hard to overhear the substance and tone of their discussions, which I assure you seldom rises to the level of art history, philosophy or even politics. Generally the topics cover some or all of the following:
- Pit bulls make nice pets
- Did you hear about the lady who won $4 million on a scratch ticket?
- Nomar was a jerk
- My Jimmy is better than your F150.
- Whose turn is it to go get donuts?
You get the idea.
Miraculously, this crew is able to make something functional and beautiful through their combination of skills and the ability to follow orders precisely.
As the summer has progressed, I have been gradually possessed by a feeling of envy for my neighbor's porch. A feeling of emptiness has welled-up in my soul as I sit in my 9X9' metal-framed, vinyl roofed screen house. My neighbor was probably languishing on fine furniture in his huge screened-in porch, sipping fine scotch, puffing on expensive cigars and listening to cool jazz on his installed sound system, while I was cramped into my little screen house, sitting in my resin lawn chairs, drinking cheap domestic beer, listening to talk radio on my portable walkman. I felt something was missing.
One day last week, I asked the Builder if he was looking for any new projects. He said he already had plenty of work, but was always looking for new projects. I told him of my dream to have a screened porch instead of my little screen house.
He liked the idea of a project that did not require the use of a back-hoe and thirty tons of concrete. We got to talking. He made some measurements, sketched out a drawing, and before you knew it, we had agreed to a project.
So, my home is about to become a construction site. A Hellhole. I need to get a job, for obvious reasons.
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