Ornoth

Homeless on the Range

2026-03-30T03:44:23Z

Another kyūdō update, because (outside of cycling, which has its own blog) archery seems to be the most eventful facet of life, at least until I pound out a long-overdue summary of the past three-plus years of meditation practice…

There’s three highlights that I’d like to share (or at least record for my own future recollections, which you can listen in on, if you want).

While our archery group usually practices at extremely short distance (2 meters) at our indoor dojo, two weeks ago we held our first regular practice of the year at the long-distance outdoor range run by the Austin Archery Club (AAC).

With Austin Kyūdō at the AAC Range

Unfortunately, it was also our last practice there, because the city has unilaterally terminated the archery club’s lease to that land and evicted them. In the short term, that’s a big kick in the teeth for us at Austin Kyūdō. I’m hopeful it’ll be a temporary setback, since both organizations are actively trying to find alternative spaces to use, but we don’t know whether, how, or when that might work out.

The timing of the closure was odd for me, because I was just about to pay for my own personal membership to AAC. I happen to live very close to the range, and a membership would’ve allowed me to go practice distance shooting pretty much all day any day. So the shutdown saves me the $100 membership fee, plus the cash I was going to spend getting my own kyūdō-specific target to use. But of course I would’ve been happy to spend that money, if only they had been able to stay open.

On Saturday 3/14 a handful of us gathered at the range for that final long-distance practice. It was the first time I’ve shot at the standard 28-meter distance since last September’s trip to a kyūdō seminar in South Carolina, and my first chance to test myself after correcting my technique following two long years of struggling with bad form.

To my complete delight, I shot surprisingly well. I lofted five sets of two arrows, and in four of those sets, my second shot hit the target (a 36 cm circle). I don’t think I’d ever scored more than one hit (in total) in any session, so four hits and a 40% success rate was deeply encouraging, especially considering the state of my poor, abused arrow fletchings. After being so bad for so long, finally having things click felt incredibly good.

That was reinforced by a side conversation I had with our club’s manager, who told me she thought I was the equivalent of a 2nd-Dan kyudoka. I’m current unranked – and vociferously disinterested in kyudo’s hierarchy of ranks and formal testing – but it’s still useful to know how others assess my proficiency. And knowing that I would likely pass the written test and skill demonstrations for 1st- and 2nd-Dan is another very encouraging vote of confidence.

Although to be honest, the tests for those first two ranks are pretty cursory. The written questions are rudimentary and you’re not expected to hit the target at all until the exam for 3rd-Dan. And it’s good to know that given a little more practice, I could probably put in a creditable showing in the 3rd-Dan test… if I cared about such things at all.

So I’m happy to have had another very encouraging session, even if long-distance practice is now out of the question for the time being.

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The Power of Love

2026-02-24T20:11:50Z

My expectations for solar power were set by the dim liquid crystal watches and calculators of the 1970s, which wouldn’t work at all unless they were in direct sunlight.

For decades, advocates have talked about solar panels getting cheaper and more efficient, but I always dismissed it as marketing-speak, until a recent purchase changed my mind.

Some background… Life in Austin has come with an occasional brief loss of electrical power during stormy weather. And since our house is at the very end of a small electrical line that runs up a wooded creek, downed limbs and squirrels chewing through cables have produced a daylong outage once every year or two. And although it was before we arrived, the locals still remember the trauma of Snowmageddon, when the regional power grid was down for several days.

With that as backdrop, last Thanksgiving I pulled the trigger on something I’d long considered: a small, portable battery and solar panel.

Lemme diverge by saying that this is not a sponsored post. Orny don’t do that shit, period. I’m not a money-grubbing millennial influencer; I’m a Boomer with a modicum of integrity and self-respect. That said…

The storage unit is about the size of a car battery, and the solar panel (when folded in half) is about the size and weight of a box fan (but thinner). Specifically, I got a Jackery 300W battery and a 100W panel. It’s got two standard 110V outlets, two USB-A and one USB-C ports, and a 12V DC (car cigarette lighter) plug. While it listed for $499, I was pleased to get it for $299 on a Black Friday sale. Although there are many manufacturers, I chose Jackery because of a DC Rainmaker recommendation and my own personal satisfaction with one of their lipstick-case sized mini power banks.

I got this much-larger-but-still-modest unit because I wanted something simple and portable that could get us through a minor outage. It isn’t gonna run major appliances, but it will easily handle phones and lights. It’ll charge laptops and run our fiber optic internet & wifi modem, though it won’t last long with heavy usage. Jackery makes units with vastly more capacity, but I got this to fulfill our basic needs, and as a proof of concept rather than a complete power backup system.

In practice, it’s been a low-key eye-opener. Setting the panel up in the backyard for a couple hours yields enough power to run the dozens of devices I use that are smaller than a laptop for a couple weeks.

While I hadn’t expected it, I found myself using it daily. Why would I pay the electric company to charge my electronics, when I could do it at zero cost, with power I harvested from my own backyard? Suddenly, I saw how quickly a solar power generator would pay for itself, since “free” is a much better deal than “cheap”. So when I need to power anything, my first thought now is to use the power bank, rather than plugging into a wall socket. That was an unexpected mind-shift.

The other benefit that I (perhaps stupidly) hadn’t foreseen will play out during an extended power outage. Say my battery happens to have 60% charge when the electricity goes out. Sure, that’ll be enough power to last a little while, but it’ll run out of juice during an extended outage. But wait… Remember that it’s charged by sunlight, so – even without power – we can just charge it right back up to full, so long as there’s at least partial sun. It’s not just a storage device; with the accompanying solar panel, it’s an inexhaustible power generator, which can produce additional power now matter how long the electrical grid might be down. And unlike most home backup generators, it doesn’t require gasoline to run, doesn’t emit toxic exhaust fumes, and is completely silent.

So yeah, this very small and modest proof of concept has unexpectedly turned me into a solar convert. Whether at an individual level or scaled up to regional power-generation, solar power is inexhaustible and can be harvested at essentially zero cost, save for an initial investment in equipment that is quickly recouped. Whether you’re a multi-state power producer or just one cheap schmuck living alone, the economics of solar power are now surprisingly compelling, as advocated in this (lengthy!) Technology Connections video. Which is pretty shocking to someone who remembers those feeble solar watches and calculators from 50 years ago.

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大成功

2026-01-04T21:04:23Z

Time for a brief update on my kyūdō practice.

You may recall that after 2½ years of painful struggle and utter failure in this martial art of Japanese archery, I attended a seminar in South Carolina in hopes that our sensei would be able to correct my constant misfiring, which I wrote about at length here.

That was four months ago. So how has it gone?

Holding the tally board following Austin Kyūdō's 108 Arrows Shoot 2026.

Pretty well. Putting sensei’s feedback into practice has helped immensely. While I’m still far from perfect, I’d say I’m able to shoot nearly as reliably as anyone around me, which is an amazing degree of improvement.

Which brings me around to yesterday’s practice session: our annual ceremony of shooting 108 arrows to begin a new year.

Ironically, the meaning behind the ceremony is Buddhist in nature, as a way to recommit to overcoming the 108 Defilements. In her email to the group, our club leader phrased it as “letting go of tension, frustration, mistakes, grudges, and anything else we carry from the past year.” I think those words perfectly encapsulate my attitude toward my shooting in 2025.

So this was a very intentional opportunity to make a break with the struggles of the past, and begin a new year with a clean slate.

In previous years, my terrible form and lack of confidence made this ceremony uncomfortable for me, and I contributed very little to the group effort. But with newfound confidence in my shooting, this year I was eager to push myself and publicly demonstrate my progress. Plus this would be exactly the kind of shooting-focused practice I need.

One way I prepared was working out with my bow while the group was on hiatus over the holidays. I specifically wanted to develop the strength to hold a full draw for longer, and the endurance to do so repeatedly. To that effect, I did daily workouts, building up to three sets of three draws with my 12 kg bow, holding each one for 24 seconds before release.

On the day of the ceremony a dozen of us showed up, so math suggested each person should aim for about 9 or 10 shots. Whatever! I was the first archer to the firing line, shot the club’s first arrow of the year, and spent the most time at the line.

And at the end of the session, I tallied 36 shots, well more than anyone else, and tying (intentionally not surpassing) the current record for most shots during the annual ceremony.

Not all of them were perfect, of course. About a third of the way in, three of my shots ricocheted off the target, but I realized what I was doing wrong and corrected my form from that point forward. And even if I count those as misfires, that’s still a 92% success rate, which I haven’t enjoyed since early 2023.

So yeah, my shooting has definitely improved, and I’m pretty happy with where I’m at, with an eye toward improving even further in 2026. Or, as the Japanese would say, “Daiseikō!”

Aside from general improvement, one of my next steps is joining the local archery range and getting proficient at distance shooting. The range is open all day, every day, and is a very convenient 10 minute drive from home.

I also have the option of formal testing and advancing in rank, but – having begun in a different school of kyūdō that doesn’t have tests or ranks – those things aren’t of any interest to me. Nor am I particularly interested in flying out to South Carolina (or further) every few months for seminars.

For now, I’m perfectly happy taking my time and refining my form, free of the significant downsides that come with formal testing and ranking systems.

Though I will say that after 2½ years of stress, insecurity, and failure, being the top dog at the dojo – even if it was just for this one day – felt really, really good. If this were a TV drama or sports anime, this would have been the climactic episode of my redemption arc! And it was a deeply satisfying way to begin a new year.

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Give In to Ancient Noise

2025-11-13T21:30:36Z

When I heard that a tour featuring Devo and the B-52s was going to visit Austin, I knew it was a must-see. Both bands’ songs can be hit-or-miss, but their best ones are exceptional. From the moment I saw them play on the Merv Griffin show on October 16, 1980, Devo – for whatever reason – were a formative part of my adolescence. But opportunities to see them have been extremely rare; I had to wait 28 years before I finally managed to catch them headlining a Boston show in 2008… And I’ve waited nearly two more decades for my next opportunity!

B-52s Love Shack

Devo Jocko Homo

Devo Going Under

The timing wasn’t great, tho. The Austin show was on Saturday November 1, the night before the Livestrong Challenge: a 100-mile bike ride I was signed up for. I started the day of the show by laying out all my ride gear, then made my way to a photoshoot at Livestrong headquarters with my Team Kermit friends. Then an early dinner of takeout Thai food, which was accompanied by ominous thunder.

With threatening weather surrounding Austin, I took hope from a rainbow I saw on the drive to the Circuit of the Americas Formula 1 racetrack where the open-air show was being held. I got there really early to score good parking, but was “asked” to stay in the car due to lightning in the area.

I promptly ignored that “request” and walked the kilometer to queue up at the main entry gate, along with the most disappointing selection of humanity I’ve seen in a long time. It was 6pm: about an hour before the gates opened, and two hours before showtime.

By 7pm there were obvious lightning bolts and thunder, and the skies opened up for about 20 minutes, absolutely soaking everyone. Security told people to take cover in their cars or a distant parking garage, but I obstinately hovered nearby and waited.

After having stood around idly for two hours as the storm abated, we finally were let into the venue at 8pm – the original show time – and were told the performers would go on at 9pm. I grabbed some paper napkins from a vendor to dry off my soaking wet seat and waited: chilly, damp, and shivering.

They dispensed with the opening act – Lene Lovitch – and the B-52s came on at 9pm, which would have been their normal time slot. I like the band, and am especially fond of lead man Fred Schneider’s distinctive vocals and quirky lyrics. Their set included the upbeat “Cosmic Thing”, plus several of their less distinctive, melodic songs that I tend to ignore, and I was disappointed that they passed over the edgier “Channel Z”. And it would have been nice to include something from Fred’s solo career, like “Monster” or even “Coconut”. Overall, they put on a passable show. I’m glad I got to see them once.

I’ll mention here that a couple, seated two rows in front of me, decided to stand through the entire set, which meant I had to do so as well, if I wanted to see anything. So between the wait outside the venue and the concert, I stood in place for an agonizing 4½ hours… on the evening before a 100-mile bike ride!

After the stage was rearranged, Devo came on and also played for an hour. I had low expectations, since they’re known for never changing their setlist or show, but they’d updated some of their visuals and delivered the songs with more energy than you’d expect if you thought of them as a one-hit wonder from four and a half decades ago. They played personal favorite “Going Under”, but not the newer “Mind Games”, and they did not perform “Beautiful World” or their cover of “Satisfaction”. Despite my concerns, they delivered a fast-paced, very satisfying show.

After the bad weather and delays, I was delighted that both headliners were able to take the stage and perform their full sets without having to truncate the show. Scratching the opener was the ideal response to the weather situation.

The Germania Amphitheater at the Circuit of the Americas has a reputation as a horrible place to see a show, mostly because of the long walk between parking and the entry gate, how far it is out of town, and how much of a cluster it is to get into and out of. I found it tolerable, and I somehow managed to get out pretty easily after the show.

Getting home and ready for bed around 1am left me just four hours to sleep before my pre-ride wakeup alarm. And even the bonus hour of sleep I’d get from the autumnal time change that night meant that Sunday was gonna be a grim day in the saddle. But that’s a story for another blogpo…

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The Arrow’s Journey

2025-10-08T13:25:20Z

My Austin kyūdō group doesn’t have a teacher; it never has. But we fall under the distant tutelage of a Japanese archery group based in Greenville, South Carolina. The South Carolina Kyūdō Renmei (or SCKR) is run by Blackwell-sensei, one of the most senior kyūdō teachers outside Japan, and his wife Reiko-sensei.

SCKR hold kyūdō seminars a couple times a year, which are attended by local South Carolina practitioners, Austin kyudoka, as well as people from all over North America.

Given my well-documented and very fundamental beginner struggles, I never attended a seminar. I didn’t want to take sensei’s time away from his many advanced students to deal with my remedial problems, and I didn’t want to waste an expensive trip if I wasn’t going to get the attention I need.

However, sensei offered to run a seminar just for us, only open to the comparatively junior members of Austin Kyūdō. It was an irresistible opportunity to get sensei’s help in a way that didn’t feel like I was imposing on other archers. So in September I joined ten other Austinites for a three-day kyūdō intensive.

And “intense” is the right word to describe my experience, from beginning to end. There’s way too much to be able to share it all, but I’ll do my best to briefly share the important parts of where I started, what I went through, some of the things I learned, and where I go from here.

The Honda Prelude

Just two weeks before the seminar, I was ready to call off the trip and quit kyūdō entirely. After two and a half futile years enduring consistent failure in stoic silence, I had finally reached my breaking point.

While everyone around me – even complete first-timers! – demonstrated basic competence and increasing proficiency, I simply couldn’t successfully fire a bow without injuring myself or damaging equipment. My arrows would fly through the air sideways and clang off the practice target, or flop feebly to the ground only a few meters downrange. I broke strings, stripped the feathers from arrows, and bruised my forearm. And the months I’d spent trying dozens of different ways to correct it had all been for naught.

In the interest of moving on, I’ll leave it at that for now. But to get a better idea how frustrated I was, I’d encourage you to read the blogpost I wrote eight months ago, entitled “All the Gear and…”. Just take all the anguish in that post and amp it up to eleven.

Ironically, that week I had a promising insight: that I clenched the fingers of my right hand so tightly that they were interfering with my release. That didn’t solve all my problems, but it seemed like a clue: one piece of the puzzle. But I didn’t even have time to put it into practice before the seminar was upon us.

So that was my mental and emotional state going into the trip: off-the-scale frustration, extreme pessimism, and the only thing I wanted out of the seminar was for sensei to fix me… Although I was skeptical whether he would, or could.

It was – if you’ll excuse the pun – “my last shot” at being a kyūdō practitioner.

The Tyranny of Logistics

Bearing so much emotional distress, I wasn’t very tolerant of the usual discomforts of travel. Other than two trips between Pittsburgh and Austin when we were deciding where to move, I hadn’t flown in six years: since before the COVID-19 pandemic. And it was my first time flying Southwest Airlines, whose asinine unassigned seating policy makes boarding a complete free-for-all.

Things didn’t get a lot better once we arrived, either. I had to share a room with another person, which added some more stress. Not only were we going to prepare communal meals, but because no one had bothered to communicate with one another, sensei and his friends had also prepared meals for us too, which was yet another stressor for everyone.

Even the seminar provided some unexpected wrinkles. Sensei vetoed my use of the familiar bow I’d brought. I’d purchased some used zori sandals for outdoor use getting to the dojo and fetching arrows, but those promptly broke, necessitating a special trip to the store to buy replacements. And although the seminar was supposed to be for his Austin students only, we were sporadically joined by 5-10 local practitioners. Despite being able to use the dojo 365 days a year, they took shooting spaces and sensei’s time away from those of us who had traveled from far away for a precious 2½ days with him. And I have to admit I got frustrated by seeing other kyudoka improving much more rapidly than I did.

But the underlying message here is that the seminar was extremely mentally, physically, and emotionally draining. In addition to my already-charged emotional state, I was dealing with lack of sleep, poor and insufficient eating, muscle fatigue, dehydration, headaches and nausea, social stress, and of course the emotional rollercoaster of judging every shot I took.

It was, in short, an incredibly draining experience.

Nana Dan the Sensei

I’m gonna be honest: I felt a lot of trepidation going into my first experience with Blackwell-sensei. In speaking with my friends who had worked with him in the past, my preconception was of a teacher who was willfully terse, irritable, intolerant, and easily offended. But after telling their daunting stories, my friends would always add the postscript: “… but as long as you’re serious about kyūdō, he’s really great!”

During the seminar, Blackwell-sensei was actually very willing to give me the benefit of his time and instruction, and he patiently listened to my observations and needs. Despite my skepticism and obvious frustration, he was able to see the mistakes underlying my problems, and gave me clear strategies for correcting them. And he did so with patience and graciousness.

While fixing my issues will take lots more practice and reinforcement, my shooting did begin to improve by the end of the seminar, thanks to his valuable and generously-offered instruction.

Not that he isn’t surly and cantankerous and all that. But I think it shows up in his interactions with more experienced students, with whom he has higher expectations and more established relationships.

My Threefold Incompetence

So what exactly did I get out of the seminar? Well, there were lots of little, specific learnings, but those will be documented in my kyūdō notebook, rather than here. And as far as I was concerned, the only thing that really mattered was figuring out the cause of my constant misfires.

Over the course of the weekend, we identified three specific issues with my release. I’ll distill them down as briefly as possible.

First, my grip on the bow was incorrect, which was causing the string to slap my wrist and the bow to invert itself. Fixing it requires both holding the bow more loosely, plus making small changes in how my fingers configure themselves on the grip.

My second issue was what I’d identified just before the seminar: by locking my fingers around the string, they interfered with the string when I released it, causing the arrow to fire off-kilter, with very little power, and stripping some of the fletching. Ideally, I wouldn’t lock those fingers at all during my draw, but for the time being I’m simply trying to consciously loosen those fingers before I release the string.

I developed the habit of locking those fingers because the string was prematurely coming out of the groove it’s supposed to sit in within the glove. Sensei gave me several techniques to counteract this tendency during my draw, including: keeping my right hand flat; being careful to keep my thumb level or pointed up, rather than downward; making sure my right elbow comes down and back as I draw; not drawing the arrow all the way down to the chin; and not holding my full draw for very long.

Of course, there’s an immense difference between a conceptual understanding of what one has to fix versus actually physically performing it reliably each time one steps up to shoot. And because I’ve spent two years developing muscle memory of improper techniques, my attempts to correct my form feel completely unnatural and wrong. So even though I know what I should be doing, it’s going to take time and lots of practice to learn new habits.

The Fourth Problem

As chance would have it, our kyūdō trip coincided with two Zoom calls that I wanted to attend, both organized by Cambridge Insight Meditation Center, where I practiced meditation for 12 years, and which has been an important part of my growth for more than two decades. Saturday’s call was in honor of CIMC’s founding teacher, Larry Rosenberg, who is in his nineties and in poor health; and on Sunday we celebrated the 40th anniversary of CIMC’s founding. These were intensely moving for me, and featured several of my dear old friends. A shaved-headed version of Ornoth even showed up in the background in part of the “community reflections” video they shared!

The main reason why I mention these here is because those celebrations included poignant messages about looking at how one relates to the challenges and suffering that arise in one’s life, and to pay close attention to what one is attached to, especially ego-based ideas about who one is and how one wants other people see them.

The applicability of these ideas to my kyūdō practice couldn’t have been clearer, and really put the past couple years into perspective.

To clarify further, here’s a citation from a recent article in Lion’s Roar magazine that stated things rather well:

Often a problem at home or at work isn’t just troubling because of the surface issue that the problem is about. It’s what the problem makes us feel and think about ourselves that is disturbing. Taking the time to examine those feelings and thoughts using our meditative practices often shows us that we have some internal hook by which the external challenge has grabbed us.

[…]

Try answering this self-exploratory journal question: “What is the difference between the actual problem posed by my situation and my perception of and feelings about my situation?”

A neutral observer would see that there’s really nothing objectively painful about my kyūdō practice, other than maybe an occasional abrasion. The towering mountain of anguish I’ve endured is entirely due to the meaning I’ve attached to my practice, specifically my need to be seen as a competent – if not a skilled – archer, both in my own mind as well as in the estimation of others.

My need to be a skilled kyudoka was the source of a great deal of pain: that is the fourth problem with my archery practice.

I would free myself from an immense quantity of suffering if I were able to let go of that need, or at least hold it more lightly. Like changing my shooting technique, that’s easier said than done, but just having that mind-shift cleared some space for me to relate to myself and my struggles with more ease, more compassion, and hopefully a little more freedom.

Since my early days as a tech consultant, I’ve known that I don’t thrive in my “stretch zone”; I thrive in the “comfort zone”. I want to enjoy life as it comes, in accordance with my own values, without unnecessary effort or discomfort. I don’t understand people who fixate on personal growth, always striving for something more, wanting to leave their mark on the world. To me, that sounds like living in a perpetual hamster wheel: lots and lots of effort, achieving nothing of value. Or as Devo sings: “Toil is Stupid”.

I had an exchange with one of the senior kyudoka from South Carolina which was especially discouraging. He told me that he enjoyed having the younger Austin people visit, because they reminded him that practicing kyūdō could actually be fun. If enjoying kyūdō is an alien concept to such a longtime practitioner, that raises a big question about whether I even want to continue. What’s the point, if there is no enjoyment?

Kyūdō challenges my self-image, my attachment to how I am perceived by others, and the basic values I hold toward life. Hopefully I can work through those challenges and find a better way to relate to them, so that I don’t have to suffer as much as I have for the past two years.

Seeking the Target

So where do I stand?

Sensei actually gave me both hope and a number of specific changes that I can incorporate into my shooting technique. It would be logical to make a sincere effort to adopt his suggestions, to see whether they actually improve my shooting or not. That will take time and practice to prove out, but that’s an investment I’m willing to make.

I’m also willing to work on my relationship with kyūdō. It’s important that I learn how to let go of the frustration that comes with identifying as a competent archer, while at the same time asking myself whether kyūdō’s endless self-improvement treadmill is something I am able and willing to tolerate over the long term.

As such, I am not going to quit kyūdō… yet.

But at the same time, I am only suspending judgement long enough to work with sensei’s suggestions. Those changes might not help, and I might still decide that I can’t cope with kyūdō’s perpetual challenges and frustrations.

So we’ll see. The arrow’s journey continues, for the time being.

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First Losers

2025-10-04T15:15:34Z

The US Open Cup is highly coveted as the longest-running soccer tournament in America. In 2025, 64 professional teams and 32 amateur teams competed, with the final championship match coming down to Austin FC and Nashville SC.

Orny & Inna in the stands for the 2025 US Open Cup final.

US Open Cup opening ceremony and pyrotechnics.

The supporters' groups' massive US Open Cup tifo.

The official 2025 US Open Cup match poster.

Somehow, Austin won the draw to host the final – the first-ever championship match in Austin FC’s 5-year existence – so I convinced Inna that we should be there for the biggest game in club history. It was her first time attending a soccer match.

Despite Austin being the home team, I didn’t really expect us to win. We have 12 wins this season to Gnashville’s 16, and Gnashville have two of the league’s best players in Hany Mukhtar (the 2022 league MVP) and Sam Surridge (one of the league’s top 3 scorers). Of personal interest, one of their backup players is Teal Bunbury, who played for the New England Revolution for 8 years.

In contrast, Austin FC doesn’t have any real star-caliber players, except for our legendary goaltender Brad Stuver. Although young backup CJ Fodrey had produced stunning last-minute game-winning goals in 3 of the 4 games preceding the Open Cup final.

As for the gameday experience, we benefited from having reserved parking at a bank just across the street from the stadium. Our first stop was the team shop, where I didn’t buy anything because they’d already sold out of Open Cup jerseys and scarves, but Inna picked up a baseball cap. Then we made our way to our seats.

The pregame fanfare featured a big Open Cup banner in the center of the pitch, some pyrotechnics, and an immense and impressive tifo put together by the supporters’ groups. Unfortunately, that is about all that Austin’s SGs are good for, because they’re really there just for themselves, doing nothing to involve the rest of the crowd.

As for the actual game… We had far more and better chances than the opposition, but Gnashville did a much better job putting their chances away, while we squandered ours, including having a priceless penalty kick blocked. We also don’t fare well trying to penetrate a set defense, moving the ball forward only to turn around and pass backward at any hint of pressure.

But the most infuriating aspect was the horrific officiating. Even before the game began, I commented to Inna that lead ref Tori Penso has a terrible reputation, and she more than lived up to my expectations, allowing Gnashville to cynically piddle away over 15 minutes of game time without so much as a warning. Then, with the match tied at 1-1, she awarded Gnashville a penalty kick on a dubious foul, which gifted the game to Gnashville. So much for the idea that referees aren’t supposed to decide the outcome of games.

Following the game, we tried to pick up a match poster, but they’d all been given away at the pre-match party, so I had to settle for downloading the electronic version and printing it myself on 11x17” poster stock. Although I didn’t think about it in July when I bought some foamcore to mount my Austin vs. New England match poster, it was handy that the foamcore had come in a multi-pack, so I had some left over to use for the US Open Cup poster.

Although the disappointing result meant we couldn’t celebrate Austin FC’s first championship trophy, we still enjoyed the experience. There was more pageantry and crowd energy than you’d get for a regular-season MLS game, so it made a good first experience for Inna, who was able to forget about her work stress for a few hours of entertainment. And who knows when Austin will get their next chance to host another championship game?

If you’re interested, here’s the 11-minute extended game highlights video:

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New England ‘Til I Die

2025-09-20T03:13:00Z

I must have been terribly bored, because sometime around 2012 I started watching MLS, the top-tier American soccer league, with specific interest in the local team: the New England Revolution.

Sporting my Revs kit, here in the farthest seat from the pitch...

The matchday poster I snagged at the end of the game.

I’ve never been into sportshead culture, but in 2019 I paid for membership in the Midnight Riders, one of the Revolution’s supporters’ groups, specifically to back them for calling for the dismissal of the team’s coach following years of underperformance. I’ve followed the Revs and been a member of the Riders ever since; but I’ve never been to a game, because their stadium is an hour’s drive out of town, and at that point I was living car-free.

In 2022 Inna & I moved to Austin, where the local team — Austin FC – had just joined MLS. Which brought up the obvious dilemma: do I root for Austin or New England?

Although I’ll always support the Revs, I really want to like the local team, but that hasn’t been easy. Austin FC has been a perpetual underperformer, saddled with poor coaching and mystifying personnel choices both on and off the field. Plus, their supporters’ groups are best known for drawing attention to themselves and ignoring what’s happening on the pitch.

Fortunately, Austin plays in the Western Conference and New England in the Eastern, so the two teams rarely face each other. In fact, although Austin joined the league in 2021, they have only played New England once in four and a half years!

As of July 2025, New England was the only MLS team that had never visited Austin’s Q2 Stadium. But on July 12th they would finally face off here in my new hometown. For me, it was a must-see game. It would be the first MLS game I’d ever attended, so equally my first Revs game, and my first Austin FC game.

The next question was whether to go as a general local fan, or if I should wear my New England kit and sit in the away supporters’ section.

On the plus side, getting tickets through the Midnight Riders would be cheaper than general seats, and I’d be sitting amongst other vociferous New England fans for the first time. The downside was that away team seating is as far as you can physically get from the field, and on the side of the stadium that receives direct afternoon sunlight.

In the end, what swayed my decision was it being my only chance to sit in the away supporters’ section, whereas for any other game I could sit wherever I wanted and cheer for Austin with the rest of the crowd.

That’s a lot of build-up, just to get to the point of saying that I went. I’d like to say it was amazing, but the reality was considerably less.

It was indeed cool sitting in the away section with other Revs supporters, joining in on their chants and general merrymaking. My seat was indeed in the very last row at the very top of the nosebleed section in the extreme northeast corner of the stadium.

I made particular note during warmups to focus my binoculars on Andrew Farrell, a New England fan favorite who – after 13 years and a club-record 341 appearances with the Revs — is nearing the end of his career as a player.

As befits two perennially mediocre teams, 90 minutes of soccer resulted in a pretty predictable 0-0 scoreless draw.

Having some local foreknowledge – and knowing neither team was likely to score – I left just before the game ended, so that I could score the free 11x17” game matchday poster before they ran out. It’s nothing special, but in the absence of paper tickets, it’s the best cheap memento of what was, for me, a memorable event.

I’m sure I’ll go to other games at Q2 – rather soon, in fact! – but you always remember your first, right? And it was a good way to honor my dual loyalties to both Austin and New England.

Oh yeah, PS: here's the match highlights video...

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Slushstone Memories

2025-05-05T16:59:08Z

I write a lot of blog articles, but only about half of them ever get posted. Every so often I have to clean out my “drafts” folder, and sometimes I find an oldie but goodie that really should have been shared.

Such is the case with this puppy. Six years ago, when we were still living in Western Pennsylvania, the following map sparked a wee leetle rant:

This is a map of Pittsburgh. The green dots represent areas where the land slopes at greater than a 25 percent grade. You’d look at terrain like that and say, “Basically, that's a cliff.” Looking at the map, you might wonder why there aren’t any mountain goats native to Western Pennsylvania. You wanna know why? It’s ’cos they’re fucking scared of these hills!

If you don’t live in Pittsburgh, your city prolly doesn’t have many – if any – slopes above 25%. At 15%, people wonder if their car can make it up, or whether it’ll be able to stop at the bottom going down. But in Pittsburgh, they build roads on 15% grades. And 25%. And 30%! And 35%!!! Then they plunk whole neighborhoods down right at the edge of that precipice.

It’d be one thing if Pittsburgh’s geology was nice, stable granite like New England, or limestone like Texas. Nope. Pittsburgh’s built on something called “slushstone”. Every time it rains, some hillside somewhere in the city decides it can’t hill anymore, embarks upon a brand new career path as mud, and slides down into the nearest valley, usually taking a major road and a number of houses with it.

Believe it! There’s a neighborhood here called “The Bluff”. You know why it’s called “The Bluff”? Because it’s just one big 300-foot cliff face. What do Pittsburghers do? Cantilever no less than six separate levels of two-lane highways hanging in mid-air off the side of the cliff, stacked one on top of the other! And just for good measure, they built a big hospital and a major university right on top of the cliff. What could possibly go wrong?

Now, if you think Pittsburghers are stupid for building houses and roads on the side of an unstable cliff, consider the alternative: building houses and roads in the valleys directly underneath those slushstone cliffs. When the slushslides come, that might not be such a bright idea, either.

In fact, living in Pittsburgh is kinda stupid, like living near the top of an active volcano... Except that a volcano might not explode for twenty, forty, or a couple hundred years, whereas Pittsburgh has landslides every time it rains. And – I shit you not! – Pittsburgh actually has more rainy days per year than Seattle!

Notice those all-white flat areas on the map, right next to Pittsburgh’s famous three rivers? Those are obv the easiest ways to get around town, and as such they’re filled to bursting with railroad lines and superhighways. Good thing Pittsburgh’s rivers never flood! Oh, wait…

With highways and railroads leaving no room for cyclists on the flats, if you’re gonna bike around here, there’s only one direction you can go: up! They really missed an opportunity when they gave the city “Benigno Numine” as a motto; it really should be “Excelsior”, because no matter where you are or where you hope to go, it’s guaranteed to require an arduous climb… or five.

The whole package is enough to make me wanna hang up my bike and buy a pedal boat. Except even the rivers here are also just liquefied slushstone, liberally mixed with industrial waste and sprinkled with sunken coal barges, rail cars, and aircraft.

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Freedom Fighters

2025-04-19T18:19:07Z

Since ancient times, mankind has been preoccupied by a quest for “freedom”. Even in today’s somewhat enlightened society, safeguarding our “freedom” is an almost daily topic of conversation.

But I wonder how many of us have ever made the effort to formulate in words exactly what that term means to us. And if you don’t know what freedom means, how can you possibly successfully attain it?

Freedom!

For me, freedom has three main components: choice, independence, and ethics.

First is the freedom to choose between alternatives. Where a man has no choice to make, there is no freedom.

And to be truly free, that choice must be largely independent of external influence or coercion. A man who is coerced or misinformed is not able to freely choose.

And finally, “freedom” has no meaning unless a person can make decisions based upon the values and beliefs that he holds as the product of his upbringing, education, life experiences, emotional makeup, and philosophy.

As a bonus aside, I’ll assert here that a person’s values are most often a uniquely individual balance between benefit to oneself and benefit to others, where the latter category might be further subdivided into one’s “in-group/family” and “outsiders/others”, however broadly or narrowly one chooses to make that distinction.

So that’s my operative definition of personal freedom; now let’s consider whether we do a good job attaining it…

We humans like to think of ourselves as complex, multifaceted, and diverse, as the pinnacle of evolution, and imbued unique capacities of intellect, free will, discretion, morality, and freedom of choice.

How ironic then that, across all cultures and times, the overwhelming majority of human behavior can be reduced to two very simple principles:

Get more of the sensations that we perceive as pleasurable, and
Get rid of the sensations that we perceive as unpleasant.

This two-line algorithm is not only sufficient to describe almost all human behavior, but that of nearly all animal life, down the simplest amoebae and paramecia. If it’s pleasant, move toward it; if it’s unpleasant, run away from it. It’s poignantly emblematic that the Declaration of Independence, one of mankind’s most cherished documents, proclaims “the pursuit of happiness” as a vital and basic “unalienable right” of all men.

What does it say about our vaunted sense of freedom and individuality if 99% of all human thought, feelings, and behavior can be boiled down to a ludicrously simple two-line program, the exact same one used by the most tiny, primitive unicellular organisms? Where is freedom to be found in slavishly obeying that biological imperative?

Here is where the Buddhist in the audience has something to contribute.

Without judging anyone’s individual spiritual practices, I would assert that Buddhism is not fundamentally about stress relief, quiescing our thinking, blissing out, self-improvement, earning merit for future lives, extraordinary experiences, psychic abilities, or deconstructing the self. Those things may or may not happen along the way, but I think that the core goal of the Buddhist path is breaking free of our instinctual programming by first understanding that we habitually live under a false illusion of freedom, then gradually learning how to find genuine freedom by ensuring that our thoughts, speech, and actions are driven by conscious, values-driven choices, rather than never-questioned blind reactivity and maladaptive habit patterns.

Realizing that pleasure and discomfort are the central drivers of our biological programming, the principal line of inquiry for Buddhists has been cultivating a more skillful and beneficial relationship to these influences. A key tenet is the principle of dependent arising, which describes the chain of cause and effect that explains how our relationship to desire creates our experience of dissatisfaction. My distillation of it goes:

Because we are alive, we have senses.
Because we have senses, we experience contact with sensory objects.
Because we experience contact with sensory objects, we experience sensations. These sensations are immediately perceived as pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral at a pre-verbal, instinctual level. Let’s call that the sensations’ “feeling tone”.
Because our perceptions produce these low-level feeling tones, we instinctually relate to the pleasant ones with desire, the unpleasant ones with aversion, and are mostly disinterested in the neutral ones.
When our desires and aversions arise, we react with craving and need, becoming entangled and increasingly attached to having things be a certain way in order for us to be happy.
Because of our attachment to things being a particular way, in a world where we control very little and where change is inevitable, we suffer when our needs and desires are not met, and even when our desires are fulfilled, we become anxious knowing that it’s only temporarily.

This is the sequence of events that leads to our experience of dissatisfaction, stress, anxiety, suffering, and unhappiness.

Of course, if dependent arising were an immutable progression, it wouldn’t be of any practical value in our quest for freedom. But there’s one key step where — with sufficient mindfulness, wise intentions, and skill built up through patient practice – we can pry open a tiny window in this sequence of events and grasp our one opportunity to consciously choose a different response.

And that window of opportunity presents itself in how we relate to our sensations. It’s telling that, looking back on what I’ve written above, aside from “pleasure”, the other word that appears in both my two-statement definition of human behavior and the Buddhist principle of dependent arising is “sensations”.

A Buddhist would say that the only place where we have the opportunity to influence our unrealistic expectations is found in how we relate to our sensations. If we can see our perceptions clearly and in real-time, as well as the pleasant/unpleasant/neutral feeling tones that they evoke, we can wake up from our unexamined habit of letting those feeling tones blossom into the reactive craving and aversion that drives most of our subsequent thoughts, emotions, and behaviors. In each moment, if we can bring mindfulness to our sensations and our reactions to them, we can consciously choose to respond in a way that is less compulsive, less harmful to ourselves and others, and better informed by our values.

When it doesn’t harm ourselves or others, pleasure is a vital part of living a fulfilling life. However, our dysfunctional habit of blindly following pleasure and running away from discomfort needs to be balanced by wise intentions like purpose, mission, and ethical values that are more complex but also more advanced in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. In this sense, the traditional Buddhist monastic way of life may go a bit too far in its inclination toward banishing or vilifying pleasure, rather than seeking a middle way that allows one to wisely examine, engage, practice with, and potentially master one’s relationship to pleasure and aversion.

Note that this isn’t the same as saying that “life is just suffering” or that one has to avoid pleasure and resign oneself to pain. What I’m saying is that we can learn how to relate to our desires and aversions more skillfully, rather than being mindlessly led around by them. And that is the only path to true freedom and living a fulfilling life of integrity, wisdom, and joy, and a life that is in alignment with our innermost and highest values.

Rhonda, one of my meditation teachers back in Pittsburgh, used to liken it to commuting on a familiar route. Taking the main highway might require the least mental effort, but it might not be the best, fastest, safest, or most pleasant route. The only way to know is to cultivate the ability to choose something different: something other than what comes to mind automatically.

Then she would describe her commute home on Ohio River Boulevard. She could stay on the highway, but the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation had thoughtfully placed a big traffic sign indicating (the town of) “Freedom” with an arrow indicating the off-ramp (that’s it, above). True freedom is exactly that kind of off-ramp, giving us an opportunity to get off the limited access highway of compulsive reactivity and mindless habit.

If you want to be truly free – not satisfied with the mere illusion of freedom and the suffering that it entails — you need to be able to see beyond desire and aversion, beyond reactivity and habit. Freedom means being fully awake in every single moment, willing and able to make real, meaningful choices that are informed by one’s ethical values.

The key to success is developing the skill to be awake enough in each moment to avail ourselves of that little window in the chain of dependent arising, where our perceptions of pleasure and discomfort, if unexamined, can blossom into untempered desire and aversion. If you will excuse me hyper-extending an apocryphal truth: in terms of manifesting wisdom and living an ethical life, the price of freedom is eternal mindfulness.

Or so it seems to me.

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Harden My Heart

2025-03-10T19:17:32Z

It’s been five months since my stroke, and four months since my last blogpo about it. But Friday was another big milestone, and well worth another update.

It’s been a long road getting here. My stroke required a four-day hospital stay, and since my discharge, I’ve:

The Amplatzer Talisman Patent Foramen Ovale Occluder!!!

Visited my PCP twice and consulted with him online once
Visited my cardiologist twice
Visited my neurologist once
Visited my hematologist once
Had two lab blood draws and work-ups
Wore a heart monitoring device for a month
Consulted with a nutritionist three times
Had my cardiologist perform an in-hospital procedure called a “TEE test” where a camera was sent down my esophagus to observe the condition of my heart
Had an in-hospital radiologist perform an ultrasound to examine my legs for evidence of blood clots

At least that’s the ones I remember, and that doesn’t include another dozen-odd phone calls and emails, plus lots of wrangling with my insurance company over coverage and claims. Fun times!

All that work was intended to determine why my stroke occurred. But it didn’t.

In cases where there’s no smoking gun, cardiologists look at a specific feature of the heart called the foramen ovale. That’s a small hole between the heart’s two atria that allows blood to bypass going to the lungs before a unborn child begins breathing on its own. After birth, that opening usually closes and fuses shut.

But for one in four adults, that opening doesn’t fully close, which allows a small amount of unoxygenated blood returning to the heart through the veins to bypass the lungs and go straight back into the blood stream to the rest of the body. For most people, this isn’t a problem, but if a blood clot sneaks through that side door and travels to the brain, it can cause a stroke. So it’s one of the things that cardiologists look for when an otherwise healthy person has an unexplainable stroke.

Needless to say, that TEE test I had confirmed that hole in my heart, called a “patent foramen ovale”, or PFO. Ideally, if one could seal that opening between two chambers of the heart, it would prevent any possibility of that defect causing another stroke.

Amazingly, not only is PFO closure something modern medicine can actually do, but it’s considered low-risk and pretty routine. A thin catheter is inserted into the major femoral vein in the groin and up that vein directly into the heart itself. A collapsable metal device – it kind of reminds me of a mesh kitchen strainer – is sent through the catheter and deployed inside that hole, sealing it shut. Visually, it’s like a disc the size of a dime on one side of the opening, and another the size of a quarter on the other side, connected by a very short rod in the middle. See the goddamned photo (it’s not my favorite thing to look at, I’m afraid).

In order to ensure this all goes well, a second catheter – this one bearing a microscopic camera – is threaded up the femoral vein on the other side of the groin. And in my case I think a second camera was sent in through my arm, as well. Throw in an IV for fluids and anesthesia, and that’s a whole lotta jabs!

As I say, this is now considered pretty low-risk and routine. Patients are usually walking and sent home a couple hours later, and I was apparently the third PFO closure that my cardiologist had scheduled that day.

But from the patient’s (my) point of view, having a chunk of metal surgically implanted permanently inside my heart isn’t something I’d consider “routine”!

So leading up to Friday’s procedure, I had a fair share of anxiety about heart surgery and metal implants. It sounded like a whole lot of expense and effort just to reduce my chances of a stroke, especially when there was no clear evidence that this is what caused mine. I’ve been blessed to have never relied on the medical industry very much, so my nerves were pretty highly activated in the lead-up to my surgery.

Fortunately, I had my partner Inna to lean on, plus a number of friends who took an interest and expressed empathy and compassion, including but certainly not limited to Carolyn, Helen, Sally, Robie, Rhonda, Ben, and some of my PMC riding buddies. I might be going through some medical trauma, but I didn’t feel like I was doing it all alone, and that made a huge difference.

Happily, the procedure seems to have gone well, at least from the perspective of a couple days post-op. So now my concerns and preoccupations are focused primarily on the somewhat-involved process of recuperation.

Short-term, I’ve got some annoying restrictions, mostly so I don’t rip open those incisions into major veins. That means no driving, no flying, no lifting, and virtually no exercise. Those restrictions will ease over the coming weeks, but this will curtail and require a major reset for both my cycling and my kyūdō practice. For more on how this operation will impact my cycling, see the companion post on my cycling blog.

So for now I’ll be getting back some free time, which will be put to use catching up on some low-priority projects that I’ve deferred for ages: things like revising several bits of old computer code I rely on, cleaning up my personal online archives, and the like.

From a cardiac perspective, the most important short-term concern is to rabidly guard against any possible infections that might lead to endocarditis. Not only does that mean frequent washing with antibacterial soap, but more aggressive precautions. I’m literally not allowed to see a dentist for at least 6 months, and will need to take antibiotics before every dental appointment – even just cleanings! – for the rest of my life!

And of course there’ll be more medical followups. At minimum there’ll be another cardiac ultrasound to verify the work, plus followup meetings with my cardiologist and PCP.

But things seem under control at the moment, and hopefully I’ll be making a full recovery, after giving things a month or two (or six) to properly heal. And now I look forward to getting back to posting some less dramatic and more typical content!

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Memorabilia: Power, Amplified

2025-02-21T00:07:34Z

Although it didn’t start out that way, I guess this qualifies as a “memorabilia” post, given that it deals with stuff I’ve kept for the past 33 years…

Everyone has their own way of relating to significant purchases like a car, computer, television, camera, or stereo. Some people love buying new stuff when it’s on sale. Others pride themselves on getting a bargain by buying used. My M.O. has always been to buy the absolute best I can find, mostly irrespective of cost, then making it last as long as humanly possible… often long after newer, better things have made it obsolete. I take pride in having top-quality stuff and keeping it forever, and because of that I often form an emotional attachment to the objects I’ve acquired.

I can’t say that my first stereo was one of those things. It wasn’t very noteworthy, but it provided a lot of pleasure during my high school and college days.

But as I graduated college, got married, and moved into the workforce, digital audio arrived in the form of compact discs, and in 1992 my cheap high-school era stereo was decidedly worn out and in need of replacement. And my first job after college provided the necessary cash to splurge on something nice.

As fortune would have it, my then-spouse was working at a local electronics specialty store called Leiser and could get top-quality stereo components at cost. We wound up buying a hand-picked ensemble, spending around $1,500 on equipment that would have retailed for around $3,200 (which translates to about $7,000 in 2024 dollars).

I really loved that system, and was always proud to show it off. I’ll say more about that in a bit, but first let’s follow its history.

The majority of that system stayed with me following our divorce and my half-dozen subsequent moves, although I used it less and less over time, and the remaining components spent the last decade-plus stored away in their boxes…

Until recently. While noodling around YouTube I stumbled onto a tiny product that is essentially nothing more than a Bluetooth audio receiver with stereo outputs that could be hooked up directly to the auxiliary input of a traditional preamp. Such a device would allow Inna & I to stream any audio from our computers or smartphones directly through my audiophile rig. That was enough to spur me to finally dig up my beloved 33 year-old components and set them up for our enjoyment in 2025.

Of course, a couple of the old pieces are gone. The CD player that we received as a group wedding present from several university friends eventually self-destructed, and there wasn’t any point in keeping the old cassette tape player from my high school stereo. And I’d tossed my huge trunk-sized Infinity 7 Kappa speakers when the cones had dry rotted. I’d also discarded my old speaker cable and patch cords, but those were easy to replace.

But the most important three core pieces of my system were still there – my preamp, equalizer, and power amp – which needed little more than a thorough dusting. Lemme do a little show-and-tell about those, because I still hold a lot of affection for these three components.

Let’s start with my graphic equalizer. An EQ is useful to boost or cut specific frequency ranges in an audio signal. Got speakers that sound tinny? Use the sliders to boost bass and midtones. Don’t want to wake the baby on the other side of the house? You might quiet the bass a little while leaving everything else normal. Got a room where one speaker has to be placed in a back corner? Boost the left channel or reduce the right.

My 12-channel Denon DE70 graphic equalizer is a quality and useful piece of equipment. It’s always provided great service, and I find its lit bank of 24 faders visually appealing. It’s a bit unique in that the faders for the left and right channels are interleaved as paired green and yellow LEDS, rather than the more common setup that uses two physically separate banks of sliders. And there’s my little Bluetooth receiver perched at top left:

Next, the crown jewel: my power amplifier. A power amp has just one job: take a microwatt “line level” audio signal and boost it to the tens or hundreds of Watts necessary to drive one’s chosen loudspeakers. It’s the final device in the audio processing sequence, connecting to and controlling the output from your speakers.

My power amp was manufactured by Carver, which comes with a bit of backstory.

Bob Carver was a legendary audiophile engineer, especially known for his innovative and impressively powerful amplifiers. I was first introduced to his work in high school, when my friend Paul showed me his brother’s stereo, which included Carver’s M400 old-school vacuum tube power amp, a radical-looking 7-inch square black cube that could pump out 200 Watts per channel: a ridiculous amount of power for a home system at that time. It made quite an impression on me!

The Carver TFM-4.0 power amp that I bought in 1992 is one of Carver’s followup models, offering a ludicrous 375 Watts per channel. It’s a great amp by a great engineer, but because Carver only produced this model for one year, it’s a rare and collectable component even within Carver’s exclusive lineup. Like the M400 that Paul showed me back in 1981, its only display is six sets of LEDs to show the power level of the signal it’s sending to the speakers; and in all the years I’ve owned it, no matter how high I pumped up the volume, I’ve never been able to light any but the first, lowest power level LEDs. The thing is a 23-pound workhorse!

That just leaves my preamplifier, which is like the central conductor of a stereo system, orchestrating inputs from various sources (e.g. CD player, radio tuner, turntable, tape deck, microphone, and now even Bluetooth devices), sending a normalized signal out to the EQ and back, and then downstream to the power amp and speakers.

Like my EQ, my preamp is a decent piece of equipment. Being a CT-17 preamp/tuner made by Carver, it matches my power amp, but doesn’t have anywhere near the same cachet as his power amps. But the built-in radio receiver is a convenient combination.

Which brings me to the final, missing piece of the puzzle, the thing that kept me from setting up my stereo over the past decade-plus: the lack of speakers.

A good stereo is worthless without good speakers, and for a long time I wasn’t able to justify spending a lot of money on a set that would do justice to my other components. But I finally found a set of bookshelf speakers with positive reviews, that wasn’t too exorbitant, and which – if I bought them refurbished – would fit neatly within the credit card rewards bucks I was about to liquidate.

So let me introduce you to my one brand-new component: a set of Polk Audio R200 bookshelf loudspeakers. While I haven’t had them long enough to form a strong opinion of them (or bond with them), they seem to be doing a good job so far. They’re noteworthy in having a very flat response, which means considerably less tweaking of the frequency curve on the equalizer than I’m used to. I only wish I could move them a little farther from the wall, to better distribute the bass.

Although this didn’t start out as one of my official “memorabilia” posts, overall I’m delighted to have my old components back in service again. Despite being 33 years old, they still deliver great sound quality, and it’s really nice having a Bluetooth connection to stream music at will from any of Inna’s and my laptops and phones. I’m really glad I lugged this equipment around with me for all these years!

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MEMORABILIA: CAPITALIZATION MATTERS!

2025-02-18T22:19:17Z

LOVE IT OR HATE IT, THE CAPS LOCK KEY IS A THING. AND IT’S DEFINITELY ONE OF MY THINGS! OR MAYBE ABOUT A HUNDRED OF MY THINGS…

THERE ARE PEOPLE OUT THERE WHO GET FULLY CHEESED OFF AT THE CAPS LOCK KEY, NESTLED NEATLY ON THEIR KEYBOARD’S HOME ROW BETWEEN THE TAB AND SHIFT KEYS.

THERE ARE ORGANIZATIONS DEVOTED TO THE KEY’S ERADICATION. GOOGLE EVEN BANNED IT FROM THEIR LINE OF CHROMEBOOK LAPTOPS, REPLACING THAT SPACE WITH (WHAT ELSE WOULD YOU EXPECT FROM, GOOGLE?) A SEARCH BUTTON.

BUT EVERY DISPUTE HAS TWO SIDES, AS SHOWN BY A SIMPLE GOOGLE SEARCH FOR “TURN CHROMEBOOK CAPS LOCK ON”, WHICH RETURNS 114,000 RESULTS.

TO ME, THE ANGER TOWARD THE CAPS LOCK IS REMINISCENT OF THE HATRED DIRECTED TOWARD THAT OTHER ICON OF EARLY PERSONAL COMPUTING: THE COMIC SANS TYPEFACE.

BUT THAT WASN’T ALWAYS THE CASE. BACK IN MY CONSULTING DAYS, EVERY NEW CLIENT PROJECT MEANT SETTING UP A NEW LAPTOP, AND THE FIRST THING I DID WAS REMOVE THE CAPS LOCK KEYCAP. AT THE TIME, HATING ON THE CAPS LOCK KEY WAS JUST ONE OF MY PERFORMATIVE WAYS OF GETTING ATTENTION.

BUT SINCE THOSE MACHINES WENT BACK TO THE CLIENT AT THE END OF EACH PROJECT, I HAD TO HANG ONTO THAT KEYCAP, PUTTING IT BACK IN PLACE WHEN THE LAPTOP WAS RETURNED TO THE CLIENT.

AROUND THAT TIME I ALSO USED TO HANG OUT IN THE I.T. SUPPORT OFFICE, AND ONE DAY SPIED THEIR BOX OF BROKEN KEYBOARDS. HAVING ALREADY ESTABLISHED THE HABIT OF POCKETING AND SAVING CAPS LOCK KEYCAPS, I STARTED LIFTING THEM FROM DEAD KEYBOARDS, FROM MY OWN HOME COMPUTERS, AND ANYWHERE ELSE I COULD REASONABLY GET AWAY WITH IT.

AND SO, A COLLECTION WAS BORN.

SINCE I STOPPED WORKING, I NO LONGER GET AS MANY OPPORTUNITIES TO GROW MY CAPS LOCK COLLECTION.

BUT PERHAPS MORE IMPORTANTLY, MY QUIET HOME LIFE DOESN’T NEED THE IDIOSYNCRATIC, PERFORMATIVE BEHAVIOR THAT I RELIED UPON FOR ATTENTION BACK WHEN I WAS WORKING DIRECTLY WITH OTHER PEOPLE.

IN FACT, AS I TYPE THIS POST, THERE ARE CAPS LOCK KEYCAPS STILL FIRMLY AFFIXED TO MY BOTH MY MACBOOK AND MY WIRELESS MECHANICAL KEYBOARD, WHERE THEY’RE LIKELY TO STAY…

… UNTIL I’M DONE WITH THOSE DEVICES, OF COURSE! ONCE THEY’RE NO LONGER BEING USED, THEIR CAPS LOCK KEYCAPS WILL JOIN THE SCORES OF OTHERS HOUSED IN MY PERMANENT COLLECTION.

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All the Gear and…

2025-02-16T16:22:01Z

Like golf, kyūdō is supposed to be a little humbling. Part of this Japanese martial art is to provide the archer with opportunities to observe and reflect on his emotional reaction to stress, adversity, frustration, and failure.

I really don’t think it’s supposed to be this hard, tho.

But before I talk about what’s going wrong, let’s talk about what’s gone well: buying things!

Soon after restarting my lapsed kyūdō practice in a new lineage, I purchased a basic kyūdō uniform: a dogi, kaku obi, hakama, and tabi (i.e. shirt, belt, pleated skirt-pants, and footwear). Plus my first yugake (shooting glove), custom-sized for my hand and specially crafted in Japan.

Last year I added the essential equipment. I ordered four semi-fletched arrows from respected kyūdō teacher Dan DeProspero in North Carolina for close-range indoor use with a makiwara target. Then I gained a beautiful set of six fletched arrows for long-distance shooting, which my buddies picked up for me while they were attending a workshop at Blackwell-sensei’s dojo in South Carolina. And I topped it off with a new, extra-long (yon-sun), 12kg draw weight Jikishin II composite bow in a group order from Japan’s Sambu Kyuguten.

I definitely look the part. So what’s the problem? Literally everything else!

But taking aim at the main problem: I can’t release an arrow properly. Sometimes the arrow launches feebly and bounces off the practice target. Other times it flies thru the air sideways and clangs off the target. Sometimes the string tries to rotate around the bow so violently that the bow “flips” and inverts itself, requiring a manual reset. I’ve even broken the string on one bow. And every misfire produces eye-wateringly painful abrasions and bruising on my left thumb or wrist.

This kinda thing happens to archers from time to time. With a normal problem, you would diagnose what you’re doing wrong, correct it, and move on with your practice; but it’s been more than 18 months, and I’ve tried so many things, with no success in fixing my release. In the past six months, I’ve made just 23 successful shots, against 31 misfires of various kinds. And I sat out three entire practice sessions purely out of fear of shooting. I’ve even had actual nightmares about kyūdō.

These days, I panic before every shot, anticipating the painful abrasions and bruising that accompanies yet another humiliating misfire. Obviously, my “release anxiety” isn’t helping matters at all.

Another frustration is the number of plausible fixes I’ve tried. At first I thought that the glove on my right hand wasn’t holding the string securely, causing it to slip free unexpectedly, with my other fingers impeding its release. When fixing that didn’t solve my problems, I started looking at my left wrist, which is weak and thus has a tendency to buckle inward or outward at full draw. Then we tweaked my grip on the bow, even swapping in a larger grip, because my fingers are considerably longer than those of the average Japanese archer. I tried rotating my right arm vertically on release rather than horizontally, in case that motion was interfering with my release. I tried changed where the arrow was positioned against my glove and putting less torque on my right hand, thinking my glove might be nudging the arrow out of nock. I’ve perpetually been advised to loosen my grip on the bow, but that’s something I’m pretty cognizant of, and doesn’t seem to be the main problem. Because I’ve been afraid of doing a full draw for so long, I tried altering my stance to force myself to fully extended my left arm, in case that was influencing the flight of the arrow. And most recently, I’ve tried focusing my grip on the bow with my middle finger. Out of all these things I’ve tried, nothing has worked.

A complicating factor is that our club doesn’t have an actual experienced teacher among us. Our most senior member is still pretty junior, only recently graduating from Second Dan. So although I get a ton of well-intentioned advice from other members, it’s mostly amateur guesswork and is sometimes contradictory. So many different suggestions have been piled on simultaneously that I can’t adequately test whether any of them are working. Especially when we are only able to shoot three or four arrows per weekly session!

As I said above, part of being a kyūdōka is learning how to manifest stoic strength, showing neither elation nor disappointment in one’s performance. So I’ve been exceptionally patient, never showing any overt emotional response. Meanwhile, I’ve helped new practitioners, who began with considerably less skill and self-awareness, advance far beyond me in skill. Although I really don’t care about rank at all, after nearly two years of incompetent struggle, I’m not improving, and I’ve finally exhausted my willingness to suffer in silent solitude.

A normal kyudoka would long ago have called on the experience of their teacher. For better or worse, our Austin group falls under the auspices of a Seventh Dan teacher who lives in South Carolina and runs his own group there. He never comes to Austin, and we can only travel to see him once or twice a year, when he holds kyūdō seminars that are well-attended and open to the public. At those seminars, he prefers to work with his advanced students, and I don’t want to show up on his doorstep asking for him to solve some aging stranger’s beginner struggles. Ideally, I’d get my problems cleared up and develop some basic competence before working with him. But until that happens, I’d be too ashamed to show up with such fundamental problems, and it would be a pointless waste of a trip if I was unable to participate in shooting.

While I expect my struggles to continue, there are two potential options for possibly getting help.

Our sensei has mentioned the possibility of hosting a weekend seminar specifically for our Austin group. This could be a way for me to meet him and get some personal instruction without taking his precious time away from his favored students. The challenge would be getting a critical number of students to schedule travel together to South Carolina to make it worth sensei’s time. And meanwhile, I’ve got an upcoming surgery that’ll prevent me from flying for six months.

Another possibility might be sending video clips to him for his critique. This has the advantage of being easier to make happen, but it would limit how much sensei can see, as well as how quickly I could test out his suggestions and get rounds of feedback. Plus it would still be an imposition, and he’s known for being terse and a poor correspondent.

At any rate, I’ll be taking the month of March off from kyūdō following my upcoming surgery. I have no idea whether that downtime will be a useful reset for my technique or an opportunity for me to atrophy and fall even further out of practice.

This is all an immense challenge to the air of competence and Buddhist stoicism I usually try to exemplify. Despite my obvious struggles over the past year and a half, I successfully remained nonchalant and kept my frustration on a low simmer. But at this point the pressure has built up and reached an explosive level where it has to come out. It’s been a very long time since anything has frustrated and humiliated me so thoroughly as kyūdō.

After two years of continuous struggle, it would be illogical to think anything is likely to change. So there’s no way to end this post optimistically. Just venting, while documenting my lengthy, painful, and ongoing struggle.

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24 Years of HUI-VUI!

2025-02-16T00:08:30Z

The time has come – the Walrus said – to talk of many things… Specifically, my underwear.

I am, of course, referring to Ornoth’s well-documented Hexannual Universal Internal Vernal Underwear Interval (abbr. HUI-VUI, not VUI-HUI), wherein our protagonist spontaneously does an in toto purge of his undergarment inventory every six years, around the end of February.

Although this cyclical behavior is known to go back at least as far as 2001, it wasn’t discovered and documented until 2013, when it received its official nomenclature. Six years hence, science confirmed this theory when the subsequent purge took place in March 2019.

In that illuminating initial 2013 research paper, a prediction was made that reprises of the HUI-VUI phenomenon would transpire again in early 2019, 2025, and beyond. With the 24th anniversary of its first documented observation fast approaching, this had obvious implications for expectant pantspotters everywhere.

Happily, our on-location Brief Patrol has verified today’s arrival of our long-expected bundle of joy. And there was – as they say – much rejoicing.

The HUI-VUI’s next predicted episode will occur at the end of February, 2031. Be there, or be squarepants! 🙋‍♂️

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Memorabilia: The Satanic Bible

2024-12-13T15:05:59Z

I had this entry all ready to go last week, but I couldn’t help but defer it when I saw that Friday the Thirteenth was coming. So now that it’s here…

Imagine this scenario: you’re the parent of a child in seventh grade. In the evening, you casually ask them how school went, and are told that English class had featured some students doing book reports. Did any of them stand out as particularly interesting? Well, one kid gave a ten-minute presentation on a book called “The Satanic Bible” by this guy Anton Szandor LaVey, the founder of The Church of Satan…

Yeah, that was me at thirteen years of age. The same year that Mrs. Bernier read “The Hobbit” and “A Wrinkle in Time” to our English class, I was getting my kicks by introducing my impressionable prepubescent peer group to LaVeyan Satanism.

This was suburban Maine in 1976, so to this day, I’m still surprised that there were no repercussions… at least none known to me.

I clearly remember hanging out in Mr. Paperback on my way home from school one day, looking for anything that piqued my curiosity. And there’s not much that’d capture a twelve year old boy’s attention faster than a black book titled “The Satanic Bible”, with the inverted pentagram of Baphomet on the front and back cover, with the latter serving as background for a crimson portrait of its grim-looking, goateed, bald author with a piercing gaze. I hope my grammar school classmates enjoyed my book report!

The book – along with LaVey’s followup piece, “The Satanic Rituals” – continued to provide a unique conversation piece that followed me through high school, college, career, all the way to the present day. And it paved the way for several other infamous occult acquisitions, including Robert W. Chambers’ “The King in Yellow”, Aleister Crowley’s “The Book of Lies”, Clark Ashton Smith’s “The Monster of the Prophesy”, and the Simon “Necronomicon”.

As for our dear Anton, he provided a lasting final connection with me by passing away on my birthday.

Cue the “Twilight Zone” theme…

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Memorabilia: No Place Like HomeLink!

2024-12-10T16:24:27Z

Of all the places I’ve worked, the one I’m most proud of was Sapient, one of the first and most successful Internet consulting agencies of the Dot-Com Bubble.

And probably the thing that I’m most proud of about Sapient is the list of amazing and noteworthy clients I got to work with, including National Geographic Magazine, Verizon, JP Morgan, Staples, Vanguard, WorldCom, Wells Fargo, Cardinal Health, and many others.

But one client and project will always stand out in my memory: HomeLink and OfficeLink, BankBoston’s first Web-based banking sites for individual consumers and small businesses respectively. And because of that, I’ve retained a not-small pile of memorabilia.

Why does that client stand out? Because I was already a HomeLink user! I had been using the first iteration of HomeLink for a few years already, back when “online banking” meant installing the bank’s dedicated software, which used your modem and public telephone lines to connect directly to the bank’s systems!

In 1997, the bank wanted to scrap the old dialup system and create secure, online banking websites for home and business use. They came to Sapient to design and build it, and Sapient assigned me to the project, since I had already accumulated fifteen years of experience programming Internet-based information services.

Before I go on, don’t let the company names confuse you. When I first started using HomeLink, I was a customer of BayBank, who had licensed the dedicated dialup software from Citicorp. But in 1996, BayBank merged with the Bank of Boston to become BankBoston, who wanted to offer HomeLink via the Internet. They were in turn bought out by Fleet Financial, which became FleetBoston; which was in turn acquired by Bank of America in 2004. But unlike the company name, HomeLink survived all those mergers.

Now let me share some of my archaeological exhibits, beginning with the old BayBank days, back when I was a dialup modem customer, years before Sapient got involved. First there’s this branded mousepad and 3½” HomeLink install diskette (version 1.0c)!

Tho my favorite memorabile from the old BayBank system is this screen capture from the installation program, where a really mediocre drawing of the greatest Boston Bruins player of all time says, “Let’s log on,” while a huge disclaimer reads, “This is a fictional situation. In real life, Bobby Orr is not authorized to view your account information under any circumstances.” Effin’ priceless!

Moving on to Sapient’s design and development of the new HomeLink, here’s a couple of Sapient “design center” signs. We used these to direct client staff where to go when they arrived for design sessions and development checkpoints, and I kept dozens of these from my old projects. Note how the eventual OfficeLink site was originally named “BusinessLink”.

Finally, here’s some marketing materials that BankBoston produced for the new HomeLink rollout, along with a demo CD-ROM.

The client engagement began with the design of the consumer banking site. As that transitioned into the development phase, the design of the small business site kicked off. I joined the latter team, and did requirements gathering and user interface design for OfficeLink, but once those plans were signed off, we all rolled into a single, unified development team. I was on the project for about a year.

This was the best example of doing development on a product where I was already the intended end-user. As such, I was immensely proud of my contribution, the site’s rollout, and its long-running success in the marketplace. And it still stands out in my memory, even amongst all the other prestigious clients and projects I worked on.

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Memorabilia: Punch Cards

2024-12-02T16:50:53Z

Recently, in my post about my new computer keyboard, I mentioned that punch cards were still in use when I was in college. Did you question that story? Well, lookee here!

Now, I didn’t say they were common. There was only one card punch and one card reader in the university computer center, and by the time I graduated, even these peripherals had been removed. You didn’t see them very often, but every so often you’d see an old card deck lying around, possibly abandoned.

That’s how I came across a box of cards labeled “Egypt Dictionary” and adopted it.

Why bother? For one thing, they were a disappearing rarity. But I’d also grown accustomed to using them for jotting down lists and notes, kind of like then-recently-invented Post-It notes, only free, a more usable size, and more robust thanks to being made from card stock. Although I gotta admit that blank cards would have been a lot more convenient than cards that already had holes punched in them!

And lest you think the University of Maine was some rustic relic still using peripherals that were backward-compatible with rocks, here’s a very stylish customized punch card that I procured while visiting the City University of New York’s Queens College computer center in 1985:

But while we’re discussing the computer equivalent of the Stone Age, here’s Page 218 from Pugh, Johnson, and Palmer’s 1991 book, “IBM’s 360 and Early 370 Systems” showing one of IBM’s early innovations for permanent storage: Mylar punch cards!!!

How, you might ask, did I know that image was on Page 218? Well, I found it quickly because I’d left a bookmark on that page in my copy. That bookmark was, in fact, an exceptionally appropriate use for one of my old punch cards!

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Memorabilia: The Black Smurf

2024-11-29T17:09:48Z

Imagine a Smurf. Little blue guys in white pants and cap singing “La la, la-la la la…”

Now imagine a disease-infected Smurf with black skin, clenched fists, and angry red eyes, whose only actions are hopping around, shouting “Gnap!”, and biting other Smurfs on the ass (which then turns the victim into another Black Smurf).

That was actually the premise for a 1963 comic by the Smurfs’ creator, Peyo. In it, all the Smurfs wound up turning into Black Smurfs – even Papa Smurf, who was working on an antidote – but the world is saved when the Black Smurfs cause Papa Smurf’s lab to explode, scattering his in-progress antidote into the air, where it does its job of resetting the plot.

That story was also adapted in the 1981 Hanna-Barbera Smurfs cartoon, although they chose to depict the infected Smurfs as purple rather than black. Perhaps appropriately, the episode debuted on Halloween of that year.

I found this rare collectible Black Smurf figurine in 1982 in a tourist gift shop called The Smiling Cow in Camden, Maine, while on a date with my first girlfriend, Jean. I didn’t know its background at that time, but the uncharacteristically angry and Black Smurf figure (literally?) screamed to be purchased. It’s been a conversation piece and highlight of my memorabilia box ever since.

I’m pretty sure that the Black Smurf figurine was quickly recalled, or at least discontinued, making it something of a rarity and a collectible. Pretty interesting, if more than a little bit dubious.

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Memorabilia: T2SP Chucks

2024-11-22T18:38:09Z

Here I was, all set to post my first of these new “Memorabilia” blogpos, when this happened:

See that big black gaping hole in the toecap of my pine green Chuck Taylor sneakers? Yep, they bit it. Now let’s talk about why I care about a dirty old pair of Chucks…

Out of all the pairs of Chucks I’ve had, this was my only real custom order. Back in 2011, I used Converse’s custom sneaker configurator to build this pair up from scratch, with gunmetal grey stitching and eyelets, green highlight stripes, and a gingham patterned inner lining. But the topper was the silver embroidered “T2SP” on both outer heel panels.

The significance? It’s a reference to an old fable about a monarch who commissions a ring to make him happy in times of sadness. The ring is inscribed with the phrase “This too shall pass”… hence “T2SP”.

Although the story is Persian in origin, it echoes the central Buddhist doctrine of impermanence, anicca, one of Three Characteristics of Existence. Something well worth keeping in mind at all times!

While they were my favorite pair of sneakers for most of the past fourteen years, impermanence finally caught up with my Chucks this past week. Into the bin you go!

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Thanks for the Memories

2024-11-20T03:17:27Z

Eighteen years ago, in one of my more sentimental moments, I blogged this:

This is what it's like to grow old.

I've lived my life thinking: while I'm young, I'll live it up. That way I'll have a huge collection of wonderful memories to relive when I get old, and can't do all those fun things anymore.

I guess I'm over the crest of that proverbial hill, because when I look back, I'm filled with hundreds upon hundreds of memories of my life.

I see now why old people feel isolated. It's not because they're alone; it's because they've lived an amazing, deeply touching novel that no one else will ever read.

So many people and places and events have touched my life, but no person will ever share the things I remember, the things that even today bring up deep feelings that toss me around like a toy boat toy boat toy boat.

Nearly two decades of life experience later, that image – of one’s life being a rich and meaningful story that no one else can ever fully appreciate – remains a powerful truth. That’s doubly so because most of our lives only persist within our own memories, locked within a single mind with no effective way to share them.

Don't Look Yet!

But all is not entirely lost. For many of us there are, in fact, a few precious, long-buried and boxed-up artifacts from those distant times. Fragments of the past that can be seen and touched, perhaps even photographed and shared.

So partly to share them with those of you who care, and partly just to honor the sacred memories of my life, today I begin what will probably be a long and ongoing new project: digging up and posting about some of the more interesting memorabilia that I’ve collected over six decades of living, laughing, loving, and adventuring.

I hope you’ll join me on this journey back through the times of my life. Maybe some of you will even see an item you recognize from our shared past. That would be delightful!

My plan is to share one item at a time, posting regularly, maybe once or twice a week. Photos will be accompanied by a brief writeup. Everything will be tagged “memorabilia”, and I’ve added a link to that growing collection of posts in my blog’s sidebar.

But the journey has already begun, in some sense. There are a handful of artifacts that I’ve already highlighted in past blogposts. So along with this introduction, I’ll begin by linking to those.

In vaguely descending order of their age, here are:

I’ll leave you with those for now, but you can look forward to lots more, as I begin this new series of postings. I’m certain I’ll enjoy it, and I hope you do, as well.

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Retrogression Analysis

2024-11-15T14:41:22Z

I was probably 15 or 16 years old when computers first started appearing at the consumer level.

In the late 1970s, these were mostly for playing games. I played Pong (1972) and Asteroids (1979) on the first arcade consoles; Air-Sea Battle (1977) at Sears on the Atari VCS; Carriers at War (1984) on the Apple ][, and Crush, Crumble and Chomp! (1981) on the TRS-80.

My first experience using a computer for anything other than games was the University of Maine mainframe in 1982, long before the invention of the Web (1989) or even the TCP/IP protocol (1983) that heralded the creation of the Internet.

This was a time when card punches and readers were still being actively used. Students preferred to do homework on paper-fed teletype terminals like the DECwriter II rather than video display monitors, because they would still have a printed record of their assignment if the mainframe crashed and lost their work. It would be years before the first IBM PC model would appear on campus.

It’s a fair question to ask: with no games and no Internet, what did we actually do on the university computer?

Herein lies an interesting tale. You see, before TCP/IP, IBM had created its own networking protocol called RSCS, and in 1981 – a year before I arrived at UMaine – RSCS was used to connect computers at UMaine, Yale, CUNY, and a handful of other colleges in an academic network known as BITNET. BITNET allowed users at different sites to send programs and data files to one another, exchange email, and send interactive messages, and it would eventually grow to over 3,000 universities across much of the developed world.

In 1982, the idea of being able to send an instant message to someone across campus – or even across the country! – was incredibly compelling.

But RSCS messages weren’t all that. An incoming message would interrupt whatever you were doing, whether that was running a program, archiving files to magnetic tape, or composing a term paper. Each message was separate; there was no concept of an ongoing conversation, and there was no way to include anyone other than the sender and one recipient.

TeleVideo 925 terminal

That all changed in 1983, when one of our university’s computer center staffmembers took an example program from a magazine and ran it on his mainframe account: WGH@MAINE. The program was what we called “a chat machine”; users across BITNET could sign in and send messages to it, and the program would echo those messages to all the other signed-in users. It was the ultimate ancestor of later services like Chat@PSUVM1, Relay@Bitnic, IRC, and Discord.

And its use spread like wildfire among the undergrads. If you were a smart kid who wasn’t into partying, then hanging out on a chat machine was how you spent your time. I devoted endless hours with a cadre of other geeks in the mainframe’s “user area”, idly hanging out on these early chat machines, conversing by text message with an increasingly familiar set of students from random sites across the world. I joined several other Mainers in making the trip down to New York City to attend the world’s first ChatCon meetup in 1984.

These days, I still retain a deep sense of nostalgia for those early days, and keep a few of the memories alive in odd, eccentric ways. Not only does my laptop’s “Terminal” window open in the classic green-on-black of a monochrome mainframe terminal, with the standard CMS “Ready;” prompt, but it also paints the default character-graphic VM/370 login panel. I wish one of my friends still had a copy of the old CAPS/UMaine login panel: an outline of the state of Maine, done in asterisk characters!

My Terminal window also uses the same idiosyncratic font-face as the huge old IBM 3278 terminals of the day. That’s kind of an indulgence, because I never used one… The only 3278s were kept inside the mainframe machine room; lowly student users like me only had access to TeleVideo 925 or 955 terminals… And no one has bothered to port those terminals’ fonts to modern Truetype or Postscript files!

One of the attributes of those mainframe terminals that I recall most fondly were their industrial-strength keyboards. They were of the same vintage as IBM’s “Big Iron” mainframes, long before “planned obsolescence” was a thing. Those keyboards were built to easily withstand a decade of student use, or a direct thermonuclear explosion, whichever came first.

Those old 4½ pound mainframe keyboards were so different from the flimsy, commodity rubber membrane actuated keyboards you get today, or the 1.4 pound Apple Magic Keyboard with its little scissor switches and a mere 1.15mm of key travel. And frankly I really missed the typing experience of a solid, durable keyboard with mechanical switches.

So now I have to admit… This whole nostalgia dump was really just a lead-up to this: I recently bought my first mechanical keyboard.

Now the first thing I’m gonna do is warn you: if you get intimidated by too many choices, selecting a mechanical keyboard is a complete morass! You’re absolutely inundated with choice, beginning with what size keyboard you want, and what keyboard layout. Then there’s tons of different keycaps to choose from, coming not just in different colors, but with different heights and profiles. Next there’s hundreds of different types of switches, with different travel, activation, and sound profiles. Mechanical keyboards are – unexpectedly – one of those incredibly detailed, technical areas that enthusiasts love to submerse themselves into, for reasons known only to the cognoscenti.

Saving you all the drama, I chose a Keychron V6 Max. I wanted something really traditional: a full-sized keyboard with dedicated function keys, arrow keys, and a number keypad, similar to the original IBM Enhanced PC keyboard, which is probably the most famous keyboard in history. The V6 Max is also wireless, which I prefer, given that I often type with the keyboard on my lap. And it’s sturdy, weighing in at 4.47 pounds, only half an ounce lighter than my beloved TeleVideo 925!

I kept the stock keycaps, which are a nice two-toned blue, with reddish ESC and ENTER keys. The keyboard has modes for both Mac and Windows, as well as dedicated keycaps for both OS’ idiosyncratic command keys.

Not knowing much about switches, I ordered two sets: the Gateron Jupiter Brown and Gateron Jupiter Banana, but I quickly opted to run the latter, which have a more satisfying sound, which will hopefully not perturb my housemate.

Other features… The keyboard is customizable with industry-standard QMK or VIA software. It also has a handy dedicated volume/mute knob on the top row just to the right of the F12 key. Like many modern keyboards, it comes with (often maligned) programmable LED backlighting, which I’ve set to simply flash blue underneath each key as it is activated. I also bought a nice clear plastic keyboard cover to put over it when not in use.

Having had it for six weeks, I have to say that it’s been a pure delight, and I find myself looking for reasons to sit down at the keyboard and bang away on it. In fact, I enjoy typing on it so much that I’ve been thinking about setting up a Discord text chat for a gathering of BITNET friends to revisit those old days when we used to spend hours upon hours typing to one another across the ether (hence the reminiscing about chat machines, above). And fair warning: another way I’ll satisfy my rejuvenated enthusiasm for typing is to produce more longwinded blogposts like this one!

I’ve only had two minor niggles. I had one bad switch – which happened to be on my ‘s’ key – that would register a double-strike about half the time. However, that was easily remedied by swapping the switch out. The other niggle is one I’ve had in the past with several other keyboards: the little rubber feet on the ends of the keyboard’s prop-up legs always seem to come loose for me, requiring an end-user application of superglue to stay put.

So after all that, the bottom line of this post was just to spend time gushing about having finally bought myself a quality keyboard. I’ve been dealing with garbage chiclet keyboards ever since I left college back in the late 1980s, and – given the amount of time I still spend sitting at the computer! – I was way overdue in treating myself to a higher quality input device.

And I’ll type, type, type till my baby takes my key-board away…
(no apologies to Brian Wilson)

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The Duke of Mentality

2024-11-13T22:22:28Z

I’ve always been a little – sometimes a lot – older than the friends I hang around with. So I figure some folks might be wondering how it’s going following my recent stroke… What it’s like to live with the realization that a portion of my brain is, literally, dead.

The most pertinent fact is that my stroke is over. Actually, it was probably over by the time the EMTs showed up, but then there was the whole diagnosis and treatment protocol and investigation and followup plan. But now, six weeks later, that episode is as much a piece of history as my first driving test.

Physically, I’d like to say that I have no lingering aftereffects. Sensation returned to my left hand over the first 48 hours, and that numbness had been the only significant aftereffect.

The psychological impact was more lasting, manifesting in several flavors that’ll fill the balance of this blogpo.

Betrayal

Easily the most prominent emotion has been the feeling that I was betrayed by my body. For sixty years, I knew in my bones that my body could thrive and succeed no matter what outrageous demands I placed on it. Eating like a 14 year old? No problem. Bike 150 miles in a single day? Piece of cake! Going out drinking and nightclubbing until 4am and getting up at 6am to facilitate meetings with Fortune 500 clients? Easy-peasy! Work 80 to 120 hours per week for nine months straight on a death march project? BTDT.

But completely out of the blue one morning, the body I’ve relied upon all my life suddenly betrayed me, with no warning, while doing nothing more strenuous than walking down a staircase, something I do dozens of times every day.

I can’t tell you how much of a shock that was. I’ve been through the classic responses: anger, grief, bargaining. The only one I missed was denial, because it just wasn’t possible to ignore.

Mistrust

Trust, once broken, is difficult to restore.

Even after the hospital sent me home, I didn’t feel that I could just go back to a normal life. Even though that episode was over, I didn’t trust that I wasn’t still in imminent danger. I still felt that I had to stay vigilant, on guard against anything that might come up, even though I know that I’m not in full or direct control of my body’s health. Once bitten, twice shy.

Hyper-awareness

Because of that, I’ve been hyper-aware of every little niggle that arises… and in a 61 year old body, there are plenty of them.

I have developed some neuropathy in my feet, and any time a body part “falls asleep” sets off stroke alarms in my head. And that pain in my armpit: could that be a lymphoma? The stitch in my side kinda feels like a kidney stone, or maybe diverticulitis. The pain in the opposite side is probably pancreatic cancer, or maybe just liver failure. And my chest pains might be a symptom of atrial fibrillation, which is a huge risk factor for stroke.

I’m not normally prone to hypochondria, but nor am I used to waking up one morning and having a stroke. Even after consulting my physician, I can’t say for certain whether all these maladies are complete fiction, or real but minor discomforts, or something far worse.

Fear

What does the future hold? How much longer will I live? The truth is that I have almost no information and very limited influence.

That’s hard. It’s a cause for anxiety, uncertainty, and unease. In a word: fear. Raw existential dread. Not something I’ve ever had to face directly, so it’s one of those unpleasant “learning experiences”.

During the day, there’s enough stuff going on to distract me from all this, but the fears are more insistent at night. Keeping one’s imagination in check is a full-time job!

Living a normal life in this midst of all this is not easy! But then, what’s the alternative?

Fortunately, every morning I get up and notice that I don’t appear to be fatally ill. And after six weeks of evidence to the contrary, my worst fears have weakened to the point where life has started to feel normal again.

Coping

What helps? Good question.

Has my longstanding meditation practice helped? Somewhat. Meditation taught me how to distinguish between skillful thoughts and unskillful thoughts as they arise; that I don’t need to give full credence to everything a fearful mind envisions; and how to short-circuit the mental proliferation that can fuel unnecessary fear about the future. It also allows me to see that my moods and emotions are intensely charged interpretations of one possible future – not reality itself – and that they are essentially both transitory and empty of real substance.

That doesn’t mean that I’m able to dispel all my fears, especially in the dark, lonely silence of a late night, with nothing to think about other than my body, its ephemeral nature, and its treacherous sensations.

The thing that seems to help most is the simple passage of time. As I mentioned above, day after day, the worst case scenario doesn’t seem to happen. And that data has slowly piled up into an irrefutable conclusion that I seem to be mostly okay, at least in this moment.

Not that I feel like I can trust that just yet. But it does seem more and more plausible as each day goes by.

Conclusion

I am subject to aging. I am subject to sickness. I am subject to death.

These irrefutable truths are hard to face, and they’re a rude awakening that every one of us will have to come to terms with, at a time and in a manner we do not control. And this society does a shitty job preparing people for this immense challenge.

I’ve had a conceptual understanding of these truths since my sister died following a stroke fifty years ago. In my life, they’ve been reminders of the preciousness of life. Now they’re more omens about the precariousness of life. My life. My very finite life.

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Stroke of Misfortune

2024-10-09T16:48:10Z

The following text was composed in my hospital room, 72 hours after my episode, and shortly before my discharge home. Be warned that you might not want to read this at night, alone, or if you're prone to existential dread. Sorree!

I had a stroke.

I can't possibly begin to communicate what those four words mean to me.

I used to have an older sister named Martha. When she was 21 years old, she was newly married and a brand new mother. One night, in the middle of the night, she had a stroke and fell into a coma. She was placed on a respirator, and her husband and my parents were in the terrible situation of making the ultimate decision.

At the time I was only nine years old, but the loss of my sister left a deep permanent impression. I can't imagine what it was like for her to wake up in the middle of the night and what she went through. Nor can I imagine what her husband went through that night. Since then, I can’t count how many nights I’ve layed awake, next to my sleeping partner, with the horror of that memory playing through my mind.

I also had a grandmother, who after her stroke was left perfectly lucid, but anytime she tried to speak, all that would come out is, "Beh beh beh beh." Stroke is sudden, unpredictable, and absolutely devastating.

Those fearsome memories come back to me very often both in the day and the dark nights when I'm awake alone. So I've always been highly sensitized about stroke: its symptoms and causes, its devastating effects, and how vanishingly quickly life can change or be entirely snuffed out at complete random.

I can't describe to you the visceral horror that stroke has been throughout my life. It has always been my biggest dread of all.

I had a stroke.

The good news -- that you all want to hear -- is that somehow, miraculously, mine was vanishingly small, and at this very early point in my recovery, it seems likely that I will regain full functionality. So in a sense, I'm okay.

That doesn't mean that I will continue to be okay, or that I can simply resume living my life as if I hadn't had a stroke at all. For the first time I will be on long-term meds: blood thinners and statins, which have unpleasant side effects. And there's going to be a whole battery of follow-up tests and procedures. Although stroke symptoms last a long time, both recovery and the risk of recurrence can last years. It will take time to see if and how I can resume all the activities that I used to do, including cycling and kyūdō. And I'm finally going to have to start eating and hydrating like an adult.

For now, although I appear mostly okay physically, I can't begin to describe the mental and emotional impact on someone who was sensitized to stroke as a child. If you've survived one stroke, you're much more prone to have subsequent ones. That has doubled the dread that I've always felt and tried to manage.

In my meditation practice and in my personal philosophy, I've often referred back to my sister's death as the thing that defined my relationship with life and death. Her passing taught me at a very young age that death is very, very real; that it will take every one of us; and it can come without any warning at any time, no matter how healthily we live. That has been the justification for my attitude of enjoying every day as much as possible, realizing how precious and ephemeral each moment of life truly is. I've always considered it a blessing to have learned that lesson so early in life.

Of course, acknowledging death is a completely different thing when it's happening to you, when the proximity of death is part of your present-moment reality. And now I somehow have to figure out how to cope with this sudden increase in dread for the rest of my days, however many or few remain. It's hard. And it's inescapable. And it’s final.

Of course I'm thankful that for now I'm recovering well. Throughout my life, in many ways I've been incredibly lucky that things always worked out well for me. And I guess I have to thank my luck as well for this dreadfully ominous warning being such a benign episode. My stroke could very, very, very easily have resulted in major disability or death. So I'm incredibly appreciative of my miraculous good fortune... at least this time.

And I have the deepest, most heartfelt gratitude for the caring presence of my life partner Inna. She is the irreplaceable foundation of my life. But I’m also concerned about what'll happen when either one of us dies, since we're so dependent on each other. So to my many friends: if I were ever to predecease her, my dearest desire would be for those of you who care about me to reach out and offer your friendship and support to Inna: the most important person in my life, and the person whose life would be most impacted by my passing.

Having said all that, I don't have much of a way to end this post on a positive note. Facing one's own mortality is grim work. It’s very easy to face toward life and be thankful, joyous, and share as much love as one possibly can. But it's also wise to see, know, and come to terms with what the ultimate future holds for all of us. And now that death has gently tapped me on the shoulder and gotten my attention, it's time to start taking my own mortality very seriously.

With a heart and mind full of love, joy, and dread.

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Book 'Em, Danno

2024-09-02T17:28:38Z

I’ve been burnt out on dhamma books for a number of years, feeling – justifiably – that after a certain point, reading about dhamma has diminishing returns, and what’s truly important is putting what you’ve learned into practice. But circumstances ensured that these five titles made my reading list. Here’s some capsule reviews of my dhamma reading from earlier this year.

Richard Shankman’s “The Experience of Samadhi”

The jhanas — esoteric states of heightened concentration – have perplexed me since my 2007 reading of the Buddha’s Middle Length Discourses. Although they are emphasized in a huge number of Buddhist suttas, there’s lots of disagreement about what they are, how to achieve them in meditation practice, and how important they are. Shankman’s book was recommended to me by Mariposa Sangha teacher Carolyn Kelley. The first half summarizes what the original Pali texts say about jhana, contrasting that with the radically different reformulations that derive from the Visuddhimagga, a commentary written 900 years later.

The latter half of the book contains statements — also frequently at odds with one another – from well-respected modern teachers, both lay and monastic, including Jack Kornfield, Bhante G, and Ajahn Brahm.

My takeaway is that it’s futile to strive to find a “real answer” to those questions about the jhanas, because the disagreements have persisted for centuries. The best thing to do is to concentrate (pun intended) on your own practice, ignoring all the furor over what the jhanas are, whether they actually exist, how important they are, and how to achieve them. From Shankman’s introduction:

“Dharma practice is not a matter of finding the one ‘true and correct’ interpretation of the doctrine and practice that is out there waiting for us to discover, if only we could find it, but instead, it’s the ability to examine ourselves honestly, recognizing our strengths and limitations so that we may apply our efforts in the most fruitful directions.”

Robert Pantano’s “The Art of Living a Meaningless Existence”

I’m a sucker for these kinds of brutally honest titles: this one by the creator of the philosophical “Pursuit of Wonder” YouTube video series. This book is basically an encapsulation of the author’s version of the quest I undertook 25 years ago: to revisit the philosophical and ethical alternatives to religion, as well as my own personal beliefs. Then – given those beliefs – how to find the best way I can to live in accordance with my values.

Pantano pulls from all the major Western superstars, including Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Jung, Emerson, Bukowski, as well as my biggest influences: Sartre, Camus, and Alan Watts. He doesn’t spend much time evaluating Buddhism, but — like many kids these days – gets positively juicy about Seneca and Stoicism.

Ironically, when alphabetized by author, this book sits on my shelf directly adjacent to the “Philosophy For Dummies” book that I kicked off my inquiry with back in 2002 (blogpo)! I found it enjoyable going back over some of the intellectual paths I trod over two decades ago and hearing what someone in a similar situation made of it. From his summary of Ernest Becker’s work:

“What’s worse than living a life knowing that one will die is living a life knowing that one will die without having lived as many moments as one can properly relishing in the fact that they have not yet died.”

CIMC’s “Teachings to Live By”

I received this privately self-published book as a benefit for being a longtime member and supporter of the Cambridge Insight Meditation Center. It is a compilation of reflections that were sent out by email during the Covid-19 pandemic lockdown, authored by several CIMC teachers, including Larry Rosenberg, Narayan Liebenson, the late Ron Denhardt, Madeline Klyne, and longtime dhamma friends Zeenat Potia and Matthew Hepburn.

This book reminded me of so many things about CIMC that I hold precious, even a decade after last setting foot in that building. One of those treasures is the center’s unwavering dedication to ensuring that practice isn’t an esoteric, intellectual exercise, but visibly transforms our mundane, everyday lives.

I think that’s summed up best in the following citation from one of Narayan’s sections, entitled “Begin Again”. I’ve already read this in one of my dhamma talks, and will no doubt continue to share it with other practitioners.

Remember that meditation is not sitting. Sitting is a form and meditation is the love of awareness (whatever posture the body may be in). And sitting is an invaluable form in which to cultivate the love of awareness and the capacity to bring our practice to the entirety of our lives, not just to the cushion.

Larry Rosenberg’s “Three Steps to Awakening”

Cambridge Insight’s eminently practical view of meditation practice derives largely from CIMC’s founder, Larry Rosenberg. I studied with Larry for twelve years, and nowhere is his understanding of the dhamma more compellingly articulated than in this book, plainly subtitled “A Practice for Bringing Mindfulness to Life”. I heartily recommend it to anyone interested in meditation’s value in learning how to live.

Larry has distilled a lifetime of dhamma practice into three steps that anyone can perform. In my own words, those are: finding calm by maintaining awareness of the sensations throughout the body that arise with breathing (shamatha); using awareness of the breath to identify less with habitual discursive thought (vipassana); and transitioning awareness from the breath to the silence that underlies all the happenings in our daily lives (choiceless awareness).

That sounds pretty esoteric, but Larry is always practical, down-to-earth, and immediate.

Don’t put your faith in a “future you” who will evolve over a number of retreats and sittings. Of course you will reap byproducts down the road. But you do not have to wait, because meditation is a never-ending process of learning how to skillfully relate to everything daily life presents. Confirmation and verification occur right here and now!

Actually, this seeming passive activity sets in motion a dynamic energy that does move you in a wonderful direction. But don’t divide your attention with a preoccupation to improve. In our approach, you’re not attaining specific stages of wakefulness, or life goals, but rather taking care of each moment, whether on the cushion or at home or in school. This is why you are encouraged to not separate practice and daily life.

The Buddha is considered a fully awakened human being. He is offering you help to join him. Each moment of awareness is a small moment of Buddha mind. As the wakefulness matures by applying it to every occurrence in life, off and on the cushion, you will see the by-products of the learning that comes from this enhanced awareness. You are learning how to live skillfully in every moment, whether on retreat or at home with your family, at work with colleagues, or with strangers on the bus.

Narayan Liebenson’s “The Magnanimous Heart”

Narayan is a co-founder of Cambridge Insight and Larry’s longtime partner in teaching at CIMC. I also received her new (well, 2018) book as a thank-you gift for my support of the center. Amusingly, it was the first work selected by the new book club at Mariposa Sangha, my new meditation center in Austin.

The book is her very personal response following a period of tremendous loss, grief, and trauma in her life, and she confronts these topics head-on, without denial, distraction, or avoidance. It’s an unvarnished sharing of how an experienced meditator met some of life’s most painful challenges, which may be of value to others going through similar difficulties.

Fortunately, my life has been largely free of trauma, so for me the book was more like an evocative, frank, heart-opening account from a dear friend.

Is there any moment other than now that is more worth being awake in? We would have to answer no to the question, given that now is the only moment in which life can be lived. There is nothing to be gained by looking forward to future events that seem better than this boring moment right now. This boring moment right now is our life, and everything else is just thought. When we make contact with the sparkling nature of right now, the specific content we encounter in this moment matters less. Ultimately, being present for whatever is going on is more important than whatever is going on.

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Binary Digits

2024-09-02T01:46:04Z

Say you were a young college student taking a programming class, and your aging computer science professor’s first assignment was for each student to write a program to print out their name and telephone number.

That wouldn’t be the least bit sus, now would it?

Apparently, back in 1984 it wasn’t! Lemme tell you a story…

I was recently bedridden with both a back injury and my first case of Covid. And having already purged many of my old books, I really had to stretch (metaphorically, of course) to find something to entertain myself with.

One book that followed me through my migrations – from Maine to (five different locations in) Massachusetts, then Pittsburgh, and finally Texas – was a college textbook that was highly cherished by most of the CS majors I knew back then: George Struble’s “Assembler Language Programming for the IBM System/370 Family”.

Yes, I was so bored that I started re-reading a 40 year old textbook on one of the driest topics in all of computer science, for a computer that no longer exists!

Chapter 1 is a snoozer (not unlike the rest of the book). It’s all about how mainframe computers used combinations of ones and zeroes to encode numbers and characters. Like any textbook, the end of Chapter 1 had a dozen exercises for the student to solve, to promote active learning and demonstrate a practical understanding of what’s been taught.

Here’s the text of Problem 1.3: (emphasis mine)

Each byte of storage in the IBM System/370 contains eight bits of information and one parity bit. The parity bit is redundant; it is used only to guarantee that information bits are not lost. The parity bit is set to 1 or 0 so as to make the sum of 1’s represented in the nine bits an odd number. For example, the character / is represented in eight bits (in EBCDIC) by 01100001. The parity bit to go with this character will be 0, because there are three 1’s among the information-carrying bits. The character Q is represented by 11011000, and the parity bit is set to 1, so there will be five 1-bits among the nine. These representations with parity bit (we call this “odd parity”) are also used in magnetic tape and disk storage associated with the IBM System/370. Using the character representation table of Appendix A, code your name and telephone number in eight-bit EBCDIC representations, and add the correct parity bit to each character.

That’s right: on just the third exercise in the entire book, Struble is asking the student to provide their personal contact info, presumably to their instructor. I can only imagine the repercussions if a professor presented this exercise to his or her class today.

To be fair, when Struble’s book came out (in 1969, then revised in 1974 and again in 1984) such an assignment simply wouldn’t have set off the red flags it does today. The author and his editors probably felt safe in the assumption that women wouldn’t be taking hard-core mainframe assembler classes. And for the odd exception, what harm could possibly come from a young coed revealing her phone number to an upstanding member of the academic community?

What harm, indeed.

I’m not one to condemn past generations for not living up to more modern social norms, but still… Today that exercise just screams of inappropriateness and invasion of privacy. For me, reading that was a head-scratching moment of astonishment from an unexpected source, a true blast from my past.

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