"Never put off till tomorrow what may be done day after tomorrow just as well." -Mark Twain

The first tie I can remember wearing was an all black tie. I got it because I needed to wear a black tie under my red robe for my senior picture. The photographer tied it for me around my neck because I didn’t know how. I don’t remember ever seeing that tie again. Come to think of it, perhaps I borrowed it.

The first tie I remember buying was this God awful cranberry colored tie that matched these God awful cranberry-colored pants I owned. I wore this tie and these pants with both white and black button down shirts and it looked equally dumb with either. I applied for several jobs wearing this tie/pant combo. I didn’t get any of them.

At Mazzio’s, Grandy’s and Pizza Hut my uniform consisted of a company-provided Polo. When I moved to Pizza Inn, my uniform became a button down shirt and a tie. I bought three button down shirts prior to the day I started: one pink, one blue, and one white. The cranberry tie didn’t match any of those shirts so I stopped by the closest thrift store and bought an IGA tie. I don’t mean a tie that was sold by IGA; I mean a tie that was issued to IGA employees. The tie was covered in pictures of food featuring the IGA logo. Over the next few months I picked up lots of other ties in varying shades of tacky.

I have two tie hangers hanging in my closet that came from the “As Seen on TV” aisle. Each one holds 20 ties. Both are full, meaning I own 40 ties — many so tacky I wouldn’t wear them outside the house. I decided to spend a few minutes this afternoon cleaning off the tie racks.

Here are some of the ties that did not survive the cut.

IGA Tie: Unless I get invited to a food convention, I just can’t imagine wearing this anywhere.
Circuit Board Tie: I have two other computer-themed ties, both better looking than this one.
Einstein Tie: If you have to wear a tie with Einstein on it to let people know you’re smart, you’re trying too hard.
Buckwheat Tie: Seemed appropriate at the time of purchase…
Irish/St. Patrick’s Day Tie: I have two of these for some reason.

Looney Tunes Tie: No.
Purple Bubbles: No.
Blue/purple swirls: No.
Looney Tunes Tie #2: No.
Mickey Mouse Tie: No. I mean, I went to Disney World and Disney Land and didn’t take or wear this tie. When else would I wear it?

Christmas Tie: Ho Ho No.
Christmas Tie 2: See above.
Flintstones Tie: Yabba Dabba Don’t.
Betty Boop: Boop-boop-be-don’t.
Bullwinkle Tie: Hey Rocky, watch me toss this tie into the cut pile.

That leaves me with this:

The serious ties (aka: the ones that cost more than $20) are on the left, with the fun ones on the right. The rack on the right contains half a dozen Star Wars ties, a Three Stooges tie, a poker cards tie, and several others. I’ve never worn most of these ties but should the occasion arise, I’m ready.


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I believe it was Andy who first discovered that a small plastic container of jelly could be launched into one of the hanging plants above our booth by placing one on the edge of a spoon handle and pounding the other end with one’s fist. The first few shots were wild, with little plastic tubs of strawberry, grape, peach and apricot jelly landing on top of the buffet bar and in other vacant booths. Jeff was the first to master the trajectory, consistently landing jelly after jelly in the potted plant across the aisle from us.

We were eighteen, nineteen, and had only just discovered that the world didn’t shut down at 10 P.M. It did in Yukon of course (I think it’s actually a law…) but in neighboring Oklahoma City we had discovered twenty-four hour restaurants, like the Kettle just off I-40 and Meridian. All three of us worked the late shift at fast food restaurants. Wearing dirty restaurant uniforms and smelling of pizza the three of us would arrive at the Kettle sometime after midnight but before the 2 A.M. bar rush drunkards. It was there we talked about the past, the present and the future while drinking never-ending glasses of Dr. Pepper and devouring plate after plate of rubbery scrambled eggs.

Oh, and launching little packets of jelly up into the hanging potted plants.

Jeff and I had already dipped our toes into the waters of community college. Neither of us were sure if college would pay off or if we would even finish. None of us knew what we wanted to do when we grew up, and yet we were beginning to be mistaken for them (grown-ups, that is). By then we were old enough to live on our own. All of us knew the commands to load Commodore 64 games from diskette. None of us knew how to do our own laundry. Everyone was telling us we could do anything and yet we weren’t doing much of anything. The only thing all of us knew for sure was that Andy and Jeff would never, ever get rid of their Camaros and I would never part with my Firebird.

When we talked about the future we talked about stupid things, like going on trips together or all moving into a lake cabin together. A time or two we wondered what it would be like if one day all of our kids got together to play. I can tell you from experience, it’s pretty great.

We never talked about what it would be like to sit together on a leather sectional that cost more than my old Firebird did and reminisce about old times while all of our kids played together. That’s what we did a couple of months ago for New Year’s.

We never talked about what it would be like to attend Andy’s dad’s 70th birthday party. I did that the weekend before last.

We never talked about what it would be like to attend Jeff’s grandmother’s funeral. That’s what I did yesterday.

Of all the things I imagined the three of us doing together someday when we were grown-ups, I never once considered the possibility that someday the three of us would actually grow up.


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“Nobody just dies in the winter,” Mrs. Joyce Thionnet, my eighth grade English teacher once told me. “When an author talks about winter it’s a metaphor for death. The trees are dead. Snow is still and silent. Death is cold.”

“But what if the person in the story just happened to die in the winter? Like, coincidentally?” I asked.

“There are no coincidences in fiction,” she said. “In fiction, winter equals death. Period.”

“I put a shovel in the back of the truck in case you guys hit snow on the way to Chicago,” Susan said Thursday night. Forcasters were predicting a little snow in Joplin on Friday and a lot of snow in St. Louis. We didn’t bring any kitty litter to throw under the tires for traction, but in St. Louis there’s always White Castles.

Early Friday morning mom drove to dad’s house and the two of them drove to my house. By 6 A.M. I had mom and dad, their luggage, Morgan, and the shovel packed into the truck and ready to head north. 800 miles to Chicago on Friday, grandma’s funeral on Saturday, 800 miles home on Sunday.

When we pulled out of my driveway the temperature was 42 degrees. Within a couple of hours it was 36 degrees and suddenly it was 26 degrees. When we stopped for lunch it had dropped to 17. Eventually the digital thermometer just began displaying “ICE” randomly instead of the temperature. We never saw the sun on Friday, but we didn’t see any ice on the roads or snow falling either. Someone said the high in Chicago on Friday was 3 degrees. I believe it.

I’ve been to Tews Funeral Home in Homewood, Illinois twice now. I was there on my 40th birthday for my Uncle Joe’s funeral and I was there this past weekend for Grandma O’Hara’s. I’m 41 now. I remember the layout of Tews and I don’t care for the feeling. I know I’ll probably end up going there a few more times. I don’t want to think about that right now.

Susan and Mason are not in Chicago. Mason’s YMCA basketball team got invited to the state finals. Nobody wants him to miss the game and everybody wishes they could be there. By the time we arrive at the funeral home on Saturday Mason’s team has already won their first two games of the day. Susan promises to stop texting me scores. I ask her to please keep sending them.

The feeling is different today than at Joe’s funeral. My Uncle Joe died suddenly, unexpectedly. My grandma was 85 and had been suffering from Alzheimer’s for a few years now. Only seeing her once or twice a year, the change between visits was dramatic. It was entertaining to watch her search for her cane while she was holding it. It was scary to watch her try to answer a potato while her phone was ringing. It was heartbreaking to visit her after she didn’t know who I was anymore.

At least half a dozen people at the funeral home mistook me for my dad. “Sorry about your mother,” they would tell me. I corrected the first couple and then simply started saying “thanks” and shaking people’s hands.

I wore my black suit with a dark blue shirt and a purple tie — grandma’s favorite color. Morgan wore a pretty dress and one of grandma’s necklaces that matched.

At my Grandma McKracken’s funeral, a decade ago now, I remember looking around the room and thinking to myself that this was the last time I would ever see most of these people. I was right. The room was filled with peripheral relatives that I likely would never run into anywhere else.

I had the same feeling this past Saturday. I shook many hands and when I said “hello” I knew in many cases I was saying “goodbye.”

The service after the wake was short. A friend of the family did a short reading. We sang a song. My Aunt Linda said a few words. Then we walked by the casket and said goodbye to Grandma O’Hara. Lots of people said she didn’t look like herself. I tried not to stare.

I didn’t cry until Morgan started it.

At the end of the service, my phone buzzed and I peeked at the screen. Mason’s team had won two more games and was heading to the finals.

Dinner after the service was at the Warsaw Inn. It’s a Polish buffet, one of grandma’s favorites. When we arrived at 5 P.M customers were leaving the restaurant, complaining that they had been waiting over an hour for a table and couldn’t get in. Fortunately, we had a reservation.

“O’Hara, party of 75.”

I ate Polish sausage, sauerkraut, potato pancakes, blintzes, pierogies (cheese and meat), pastries, and a salad. While not my first time here, this is the only Polish buffet I’ve ever been to. It’s the first time I’ve been here without grandma. It is most likely the last time I will ever be here. I have an extra pierogi before leaving.

I hug the waitress goodbye. She has no idea why.

After that, the evening’s a blur. Normally I’d have partaken in a bit of Crown Royal but I was exhausted from the drive up the day before and couldn’t do the drive home with a hangover. I spent a couple of hours upstairs talking with my Uncle Buddy. He and my Aunt Linda (who live upstairs from my grandma) plan on moving downstairs soon and renting their place out. Other people were downstairs, going through old photos and keepsakes.

Grandma’s dog Squirt wandered the house, looking for grandma I presume.

I got a text from Susan. Mason’s team won the tournament and were named the 2014-2015 YMCA 12 and Under Champions.

We left Chicago Sunday morning and put another 800 miles on the Avalanche. The temperature got up to 24 degrees and stayed there for most of the day. I drank three or four cups of coffee and three or four Monster energy drinks on the way home. There was snow on the ground beginning in Chicago and the entire way home. In Joplin, Missouri, we hit our first snow flurry — none of it stuck, but it enough to keep us pushing forward. As people throughout the midwest were wishing for snow to fall we had our fingers crossed the weather would hold out for just a few more hours.

It was cold the entire ride home.

It’s a little colder this morning.

Touche, Mrs. Thionnet.


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My grandma’s house in Chicago has an enclosed front porch. There’s a swing out there, a few chairs, sometimes a table or two. I’ve sat on that porch, I’ve eaten on that porch, and I’ve slept on that porch.

In 1987 by buddy Jeff rode along with my family on our annual Chicago vacation. That’s us outside the Museum of Science and Industry. I’m on the left, Jeff’s on the right. My cousins Brandy and Paula are down front and my sister Linda’s on the right. That’s my Uncle Joe behind the pole. I don’t remember who took the picture. During that trip, Jeff and I slept on grandma’s front porch. We spent the first night sleeping on grandma’s plastic lawn chairs, which didn’t prove to be particularly comfortable. The next night, we attempted to drag a metal bed frame up from the basement to sleep on. In the process, we put a big rip in the linoleum on grandma’s kitchen floor. We covered the rip with a kitchen rug and, after everyone else went to sleep, snuck out out of the house and walked to the nearest convenient store to buy some glue. The convenient store clerk, convinced we were going to sniff the glue, would not sell us any. Instead, we bought some rubber gasket sealer. We got lost on the walk back to grandma’s house and got stopped by one of Homewood’s finest, who gave us a personal escort back to grandma’s house. We were able to sneak back in without being noticed. The gasket sealer, as expected, worked horribly for repairing the linoleum. We left the rug in place covering up the tear and never told anyone. It’s probably still there.

Then there was the time in the early 90s that I tried to impress a girl by telling her I was “planning a trip to Chicago by myself.” Her response was, “can I go too?” With my bluff called, I had to admit that I didn’t really know how to get to Chicago, nor did I have a car that would make the trip.

“We can take my car,” Susan said. “And we’ll get a map.” And, just like that, the two of us set out on our first road trip together. We weren’t sleeping in the same bed at that point in time and so the two of us ended up out on grandma’s porch. At least I did. I think Susan got a bed inside the house. The picture above is of Susan next to a model from Independence Day on display at the Museum of Science and Industry.

Then there was the infamous drive I made from Boston to Chicago in the late 90s. After a week’s worth of nightmares about my flight home ending in a fiery crash while stuck in Boston for work, on the day of my flight home I was informed that my plane had been delayed due to mechanical issues and that was enough for me to cancel the flight and rent a car. I picked up my rental and set out from Boston to Chicago. Susan, Jeff, and his wife Heather set out from Oklahoma to meet me there. We all rendezvoused in Chicago and crashed on, you guessed it, grandma’s porch. The four of us drove back from Chicago to Oklahoma the following day. The plane I was supposed to fly home on exploded.

Not really. But it could have.

Now, grandma’s porch is not the only place to sleep when we visit Chicago. My Aunt Linda and Uncle Buddy have a spare bedroom and couch that are always available. My Aunt Debi and Uncle Joe’s house has futons, couches, recliners, and a spare bedroom as well. Unlike a hotel, these are not places one needs reservations for. I’m sure I could show up in Chicago any day of the year unannounced and have a place to stay. If I had friends of family in tow, they would have a place to stay too. That’s just how my family is. I’ve taken a few friends with my on trips to Chicago. All of them have left well-fed and hungover.

But all of those places are first come, first serve, and all of them are more comfortable than grandma’s porch, which is guaranteed to be hot in the summer and cold in the winter. During the summer, you’ll get to sleep to the soothing tones of Homewood’s police and fire departments, guaranteed to wake you up at least once during the night.

That being said, grandma’s house was always open to anyone needing a place to crash for the night — and if all the beds were taken, there was always room available out on the porch.


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By 1979 our family was already on our third video game console. We owned a standalone Pong system in 1977, sold it for a Magnavox Odyssey 2 in 1978, and upgraded to an Atari 2600 in 1979.

Grandma O’Hara visited Oklahoma the spring of 1979 as well. At least I think that was the year. I specifically remember sitting down in our living room floor with her and watching The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe during (I think) that same visit. According to Wikipedia, that animated film first aired on April 1st, 1979. Of course it’s possible that we caught a re-run (and we did own a VCR…), but that date kind of feels right.

I can’t imagine most 50-year-olds who grew up during the Great Depression being all that interested in playing video games, but somehow my grandma’s five-and-a-half year old grandson (me) talked her into playing Atari with him. I don’t remember all the games we played together, but I specifically remember we played Bowling.

In Atari’s version of Bowling, players move their bowler up or down inside the lane and then press the joystick’s red fire button to send the ball rolling down the lane. At the other end of the lane are ten pins, represented by dots (tiny squares, really). There are multiple game variations built in to the game cartridge. One variation doesn’t allow the ball’s trajectory to be altered once it leaves the bowler’s hands. Another allows it to be altered after the bowler releases the ball but only once, as if the ball were thrown with a spin. The easiest variation allows the ball to be controlled all the way down the lane with the joystick. I once read a doctor’s description of performing a lobotomy. After inserting an icepick into his patient’s brain, he wiggled it all around for a few seconds in hopes of doing the most damage. This is the exact same technique (sans icepick) I used in Atari’s Bowling — wait for the ball to enter the pins and then thrash the joystick around in hopes of hitting as many pins as possible. While the intended outcome of the two actions are exact opposites (in a lobotomy you’re actually hoping for a 7-10 split…) the concepts are similar.

The difficulty switches on the Atari itself can make the game easier or harder for individual players. I don’t remember exactly how we had the game configured but since I knew what an Atari was and grandma didn’t, I can assure you the game was set up to make things as easy for me and as difficult for her as possible. One memory that leads credence to this theory was that during the game, my grandma swore. A lot. Of course she didn’t swear in English; instead, she uttered a few words in either Russian or Polish (the Irish comes from my grandpa’s side) and then told me not to repeat them.

After one game of bowling, grandma quit. And by that I mean, she quit playing video games. She blamed her loss to me on poor vision in one eye, claiming that because of it she had no depth perception. Although I too am essentially legally blind in one eye now, I’m still pretty sure I can play Atari’s Bowling with no problem. Grandma later got a computer and played Solitaire and Poker on it (both online and off), but I don’t recall her ever playing Bowling or the Atari or any other video game system again.


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Grandma O’Hara, my last living grandparent, passed away over the weekend. She was 85 years old.

I could tell you a million different things and facts and stories about my grandma and will probably share a few of them with you this week, but for some reason the only one that comes to mind right now is the time my grandma sent me a shrunken head for Christmas.

I suppose a lot of older people take part time jobs after they retire and my grandma was no exception. Some grandmas work at food banks and retirement homes and hospitals. Grandma O’Hara got a job at Chuck’s House of Magic, on the corner of 183rd and Dixie Highway in Homewood, IL. My grandma also lived on the corner of 183rd and Dixie Highway, literally across the street from Chuck’s. She simply walked across the street to work every day.

This picture was taken from my grandma’s front yard. You can see Chuck’s House of Magic in the background, directly behind her.

Chuck’s House of Magic was owned by Chuck and Joyce Gruberman. They did a lot of balloon and flower deliveries, but my favorite two things about the place were the Halloween props and costumes and of course, the magic.

The Halloween props, costumes and masks were second to none. I took the following picture in 2004 the weekend before Easter.

Yes. That’s how Chuck’s House of Magic decorated the store for Easter.

Along the back wall behind all the Halloween stuff was the magic stuff. There were tricks, big and small. On most days you could catch Chuck back behind the counter, performing tricks for anyone walking by. It’s one thing to be impressed by a magic trick; it’s another to know how a trick is done and be impressed by the skill of the magician. I’ve seen the cups and balls trick performed a thousand times, but I’ll always remember the time I saw it performed at Chuck’s.

A few times while we were up visiting we would walk over and visit my grandma at Chuck’s. Grandma would always introduce us to everyone and remind us of her discount, should we want to buy any fake doggie doo or bloody hockey masks. (I did actually take her up on that offer once. Chuck had a stack of Star Wars helmets one time, four or five of which made the trip back home to Oklahoma with me.)

I don’t remember asking for it, but one year for Christmas I got a package from my grandma in the mail. Inside there were gifts for everybody and, for me, a plastic shrunken head. I think dad had one too and perhaps I had let my admiration for his be known. Mine came with a small string affixed to the top which made it perfect for hanging from one’s rear view mirror, where it hung for a while.

Of course I still have it. It sits on my shelves of knick-knacks and random odds and ends. People seldom believe me that behind everything on those shelves there’s a story. Should anyone walk past those shelves, point to that shrunken head and ask “what’s the story behind that thing,” this is the story they would get.

On Halloween night, 2004, a small electrical spark ignited Chuck’s House of Magic. The small fire quickly turned into a five-alarm blaze according to the Chicago Tribune. Everything inside the store melted, and between the flames and the weight of the water, the roof collapsed. This is what remained of Chuck’s House of Magic:

I’ve owned that stupid shrunken head for a long time now. In one way it seems a bit ridiculous to be reminded of one’s grandma by looking at a plastic shrunken head. Then again, the fact that she mailed it to me tells me that she understood who I was… which actually kind of makes it the perfect thing to remember her by.


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The introduction to Marc Allie’s eBook I Was Geeky When Geeky Wasn’t Cool references a few things I can relate to. He mentions Juice Newton’s “Queen of Hearts” (I had the 45), a blue, rubber UFO from a McDonald’s Happy Meal (I’ve collected the whole set), playing Dungeons and Dragons (I still have all my old manuals) and riding around in the back of his mother’s station wagon without a seat belt (I think we all did that).

The first of Allie’s stories talks about the terror he experienced the time he thought his mother had left him behind at Sears. I can relate to that too. I’m sure all of us have a memory of “that time” that we got separated from our family, whether it was at the mall or a grocery store or out in public. That primal feeling panic that takes over in those situations leaves a lasting impression. It happened to me when I was four years old inside a TG&Y store, almost forty years ago. I can still tell you what my mom was wearing when I finally found her.

I Was Geeky When Geeky Wasn’t Cool contains ten stories that weave nostalgia together with Allie’s memories and experiences. Sometimes being terrified as a kid makes the strongest impressions on us, leaving unforgettable memories. When Allie accidentally shoves his foot into a wedding cake his mother has baked with no time to make another one, we can all relate to the chain of feelings that come next: terror, followed by embarrassment, followed by that pit in your stomach that arrives just before the punishment does.

Even if Allie’s interests aren’t universal, the themes in the stories are. In one story, one of his friends form the exclusive “DD Club,” a club where all members are required to listen to Duran Duran and play Dungeons and Dragons. In another story, Allie recounts his typical Saturday morning cartoon schedule. Whether you watched the same shows as the author (Superfriends, Alvin and the Chipmunks, and Dungeons and Dragons, among others) is irrelevant; the core of the story, of going through the TV Guide and agonizing over which cartoon to watch, is an experience many of us remember. (Unless you were one of those kids that played league sports on Saturday morning, in which case this book almost certainly is not for you.)

While some of Allie’s stories recall the good times (like wearing Batman Underoos), in one of my favorite stories Allie recalls the first day of seventh grade. Throughout the story Allie awkwardly drags his saxophone case down the school bus aisle, from class to class, and eventually the lunchroom. That feeling of “I know this is stupid but I don’t know what else to do” resonated with me. It’s the spirit of a kid doing his best to solve a problem without a game plan. I remember doing it. I’ve seen my kids do it, too.

As someone who “grew up geeky” myself, I enjoyed Allie’s book. It has the typical rough edges that we rend to see with self-published works, but there’s an awful lot of heart there for only $2.99. Today, geeks are mainstream (if you’re reading this on a computer, be sure to thank one), but in the 70s and 80s we didn’t have it quite so easy. I Was Geeky When Geeky Wasn’t Cool took me back to that time, for better and for worse.

Link: MarcAllie.com
Link: I Was Geeky When Geeky Wasn’t Cool (Amazon Kindle, $2.99)


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I’ve been working for the FAA now in one capacity or another (both as a contractor and a federal employee) for almost 20 years. I recently shared the story of my first day of work at the FAA with a co-worker and decided to capture and re-share the story here as well.


(SOURCE. Note: No one is allowed to take pictures on federal property without prior written consent. The pictures used in this article came from Google Images. I did not take them.)

This story begins as many of my stories from the 80s and 90s begin, with a phone call from my buddy Jeff. It was the spring of 1995 and Jeff had been working on an FAA helpdesk for about a year. When news leaked that the company that staffed the helpdesk was set to lose the contract later that year, people began to bail and the company needed to fill those positions as soon as possible. I considered myself an expert when it came to personal computers but didn’t know anything about networks at the time, so Jeff got me a set of Novell 3.1 manuals and showed me how to set up config.sys and autoexec.bat files to get machines to connect to an IPX network in DOS.

During this time I was working at Best Buy making $6.50/hour, and the helpdesk job was offering $12/hour. My plan was to take the helpdesk job for six months and then return to Best Buy when the job ended. I dropped my resume off with the company and waited for a call. They did not call. Years later I was told by another co-worker that I had submitted a resume so horrible and tacky that it was literally legendary. (Note to self: even if the guy at Kinko’s assures you that purple paper with lighting printed on it is guaranteed to get a potential employer’s attention, stick with white.) Eventually Jeff poked the right person and an interview was scheduled.

I arrived at the interview looking slightly less tacky than my resume. The interview consisted of three parts: a general interview, a set of technical questions, and a typing test.

The interview began normally. I answered some questions about my work history and about my general computer experience. Then it was on to the technical portion. The manager slid across a piece of paper with an autoexec.bat and config.sys printed out on it. He asked me to identify what the file did. I immediately started pointing things out. “Well, this is allocating extended memory,” I said. “This loads the mouse driver.” “Here’s your network drivers. Oh, an IPX network, interesting…” I said. After three or four comments he took the papers back, tossed them in the trash, and asked me when I could start.

“Immediately.”

Now throughout the interview, the manager had been scratching himself the entire time as if he had just taken a bath in poison ivy. His face, neck and arms were red from all the scratching, but he also scratched his chest and armpits throughout the interview as well. Abruptly, the man stood up and said, “I’m sorry but I’m going to have to excuse myself. My wife bought a new brand of detergent and I think I’m having an allergic reaction. Get with the secretary for your typing test.” He then quickly exited his office, leaving me alone to go find the secretary.

The secretary had a computer waiting for me with Microsoft Word already running. Next to the computer was a magazine. “What you’re going to do is just pick a paragraph from here,” she said, pointing at the magazine, “and type it a few times over here,” she said, pointing at the monitor. “Just type it over and over, as many times as you can.” She then noted the time and left. I typed the paragraph once, made sure nobody was looking, ran spell check, copied it, and pasted it about 40 times. Two minutes later the secretary came back in the room and told me the test was over. She then clicked on “word count” in the menu bar. I realized I had pasted the paragraph too many times when she did the math and told me I had typed roughly 400 words a minute. She either didn’t know what I had done, didn’t care, or figured if a guy knew how to run spell check and copy and paste, he knew enough to do the job.

My interview took place on Monday, April 17th, 1995, and I was told to report to work one week later at the Mike Monroney Aeronautical Center (MMAC) FAA campus on Monday, 24th, 1995. He said he and his partner would meet me outside one of the buildings. I said I’d be there.

Two days after my interview on April 19th, 1995, Timothy McVeigh set off a truck bomb and blew up the Alfred P Murrah Federal Building, killing 168 people including 19 children and 99 federal employees.

All federal facilities understandably, including the MMAC, went on high alert.

On Monday 24th, 1995, I showed up for work at a federal building in a federal campus with no idea whether or not I was in the right place. At exactly that same time, someone phoned in a bomb threat. Hundreds of people spilled out of the building I was heading to and into the parking lot. As I approaching the building in my car, I was stopped by security.

“Who are you?”
“I’m Rob.”
“Where’s your badge?”
“I don’t have one.”
“What do you mean you don’t have a badge?”
“Today’s my first day.”
“Where are you supposed to be?”
“I’m not sure. Here, I think. I’m meeting two guys.”
“What are their names?”
“Bill and… some other guy?”
“Bill who?”
“I have no idea.”

Right about the time the guard was about to shoot me, the all clear was given and people returned to work. The parking lot cleared and eventually the only people left in the parking lot were Bill, his partner, myself, and the security guard. Eventually I was shown to my office, and my new desk.

For the record, my first official business as a helpdesk analyst to was to go with a different Bill and move a refrigerator. “Other duties as assigned,” and all that. I’ll save that story for a different day.


(SOURCE)


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My parents owned and operated a small computer store in the mid-80s, Yukon Software. I didn’t get to bring a lot of software home from the store, but one program I ended up with was Trivia Fever.

I’ve posted this picture before. That’s me in the mid-80s, wearing a Miami Vice knock-off jacket with a Footloose-esque spike hairdo. That’s my original Commodore 64 I’m posing with, the one I still have and use today. Right behind my Commodore computer is a blue box that reads Trivia Fever.

Trivial Pursuit debuted in 1979 and, according to Wikipedia, peaked in 1984. By then there were tons of knock-off trivia games and all of them worked essentially the same way. Players moved around a board and answered trivia questions from different categories gaining pieces to represent those categories. Trivia Fever was just one of many Trivial Pursuit clones of the day.

The only uniqueness to Trivial Fever, if it had any, was that it was a computer game that could be played with or without a computer. Not only did the rather large box contain a floppy disk, but it also came with a book full of trivia questions, score cards, a rule book and a spinner. Essentially you got two games for the price of one with your purchase.

I have no idea what happened to my original copy of Trivia Fever.

Many years ago — at least ten, maybe more — I found a copy of Trivia Fever in a thrift store. This copy is for Apple II computers, as you can see on the round foil sticker. It seems to be that the game retailed for $30, so that $5 rebate was substantial. When I bought this copy the box was taped shut and I’ve never opened it. I have no interest in playing Trivia Fever. I just wanted the box to put next to my Commodore computer. I just wish it were the Commodore version.

A couple of weeks ago, I found a second copy.

A Commodore version! And the best I can tell, this copy was never played.

The disk, book, scorecards, and everything else appear to be untouched. It all has that new game feel and smell. The spine of the book isn’t creased or cracked. None of the scorecards have been used or peeled off and the floppy disk doesn’t appear to have ever been removed from its sleeve. It’s as if whoever ended up with this copy of Trivia Fever did not have a case of trivia fever.

My favorite item from inside the box is that pink slip of paper, labelled “Important Customer Note”.

In a time of lawn darts it seems overkill to warn people about the dangers of passing a small piece of cardboard between friends. I do like the addition of the phrase “as with any other materials,” so players know that along with the small cardboard spinner, the book, disk, and box itself should also not be thrown at your friends. Unless you’re losing… then all bets are off.

Ask me why I need to own two copies of this game and I’ll ask you why you think I need to own one. When I suggested the kids might like to try this version I was reminded that the kids have Trivial Pursuit on their iPads.

I’ll bet that version doesn’t come with a small piece of paper reminding gamers not to throw their iPads at one another.


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When we bought our current home back in 2011 we also bought a new washer and dryer. I don’t remember why we bought a new washer and dryer. I don’t even remember being dissatisfied with our old ones. I guess Susan just wanted new appliances for the new house.

We bought our new washer and dryer from Hahn’s. I consider Hahn’s to be the Aldi’s of appliance stores. I don’t mean that negatively. Hahn’s sells things inexpensively because they don’t spend money on superfluous things in their showroom, like carpet. Also if I recall our Hahn’s was having a grand opening sale at the time.

When it comes to purchasing a particular make, model or style of washer, dryer, dishwasher, refrigerator, oven, stove, or any other appliance, I believe the person who will be using it most often should make the choice. Susan had her heart set on owning a front loading washer and dryer, so that’s what we bought.

I don’t remember much about the salesman at Hahn’s who sold us the washer and dryer, and that’s probably a good thing. I really only remember three things about the purchase. I remember that the display units were sitting on small plastic drawers, which we were told at the time of sale were not included in the purchase of the washer and dryer. The cost of the plastic pedestals was $400. When I threatened to leave, they found us a pair with scratches on the side for half that price. My vote was vetoed (milk crates) and we bought the stands. The second thing I remember is that the paperwork and sale took far longer than I thought it should have. The biggest television on display was showing Avatar on Blu-Ray, and the kids and I spent at least half an hour watching it. The last thing I remember is that it rained on us the whole way home with the washer and dryer in the back of my truck. We stopped and ate dinner at Whataburger and I stared out the window the whole time to make sure nobody stole the washer and dryer from the bed of my truck as we ate. Nobody did.

Including the cost of the pedestals, we paid nearly $1,500 for the washer and dryer.

Last year, the washer began “pausing” itself. The washer has a pause button. I’m not sure who starts a load of laundry and then decides to pause it, but the option’s there. Anyway, our washer now pauses itself. You press “play” to start washing a load (I don’t know why the washer has VCR-like controls on it) and three minutes later, the washer pauses itself. This seems like an entire problem that could have been avoided by not even putting a pause button on the washer, but there it is and that’s what it does.

The solution is to simply press play again, at which point the washer resumes and you eventually end up with a load of clean laundry. This was semi-annoying when it did it once per load. Now it does it three or four times per load. Every load. That means when you put the clothes in the washer and hit play, the timer reads “60 minutes.” If you come back in 60 minutes the timer will be flashing “57 minutes” and be paused, at which point you must press play again and come back in 57 minutes. Then it’ll say 40 minutes, and be paused. And so on and so forth. Like I said, it now stops three or four times per load. Everyone in the house has been trained to check the front of the washer when passing by the laundry room and press the button if it is flashing.

A few weeks ago, Susan called a repairman to come out and look at the washer. Based on some internet troubleshooting, we thought there was a problem with the water filter. We were wrong.

Turns out, the washer’s motherboard is “going out” according to the repairman. It’s not dead yet, but eventually it will die. The problem will continue to get worse until eventually the washer simply won’t unpause again and our clothes will be stuck in the washer while it’s full of water. The repairman showed us how to manually open the front of the washer should this happen.

“You’ll probably want a bucket to catch the water,” he offered.

The cost to replace the motherboard is $900, plus $70 for this last service call and $70 for the next one. I’m not sure if the $900 includes labor, but the washer new cost $600 so it’s a moot point. The manufacturer’s warranty was only good for a year. The extended warranty, which we did not purchase, would have covered the washer for three years. We have owned the washer for three years, three months.

We’re going to keep unpausing the washer for as long as that trick works. When it dies, we’ll replace it — probably with a top loader, and hopefully with one that doesn’t contain a motherboard.


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