Checking out the New Year

Progress is necessary, change is so very welcome, and a new year feels like we closed the old door and have walked through a new one. There is so much to look forward to, so many things to do, books to read, games to play, ideas to learn, places to visit, opportunities to experience. Life to Live.

Doing something as inane as writing down a new year on a new check, has always given me a little thrill. It's a number never used before. I have to think consciously, to make sure I don't write down the old year by accident. Seeing that new number opens my mind to all that is possible again: what was wrong can be changed, and what was right can be re-done, re-accomplished -- only with better results, better times, better scores.

It's a thing of the past now: the year 2012. We never need to treat it with as much importance again. It's a has-been year, a back-number -- obsolete, outdated, outmoded -- passe. It's a time we can relegate to our memories. Perhaps with some fondness, a year so full of wonderful happenings, it will be a year we can forever look back to as one of the great ones.

"Remember 2012?", we'll say, then pause, as the memories envelop us, bring smiles to our faces, and warmth to our hearts.

For others, the passing year may be one we'd rather forget, one of the years so full of anguish and loss, a year we'd rather not repeat, or even remember. Unbidden and uninvited, the memories will pop back into our heads.

"Remember 2012?", we'll think, then pause, as the memories wash over us, feelings of regret, sadness, longing, even embarrassment.

I no longer have much need of checks. My life is mostly all digital. I used to go to the ATM to get cash, only ever used for kid's allowance. Now there is no more allowance, and almost no more need for cash. Just a twenty dollar bill, for emergencies, is all that's required -- for those times that digital let's me down. There are no more ATM runs, and no more mass check writing for me. My order of a hundred checks will last maybe twenty or thirty years -- maybe a hundred. I expect they will last past the time they are even usable.

"Remember checks?" we'll say. "Remember cash?"

We'll laugh at the memory, much as we laugh at rotary telephones, room-size computers, or a life without Internet. We'll try to remember when it was we stopped using them, and end up relegating them to a decade. Every year we'll use them less and less, until they are only a distant memory. Every January I'll think back to all the other January's, much as I am now, remembering the times I derived enjoyment from that small thing: writing down a new year on a new set of checks. Then I'll move on, be thankful for an evolutionary lifestyle that makes such drudgery a thing of the past, embrace the new ways, and walk through the door to a brand new year. It will always be the best one yet, because it's now and it's different, and it's never been used before.

Welcome to a new year! Welcome 2013!

The Silver Lining

We were looking for a steak house last night on our way back from visiting wineries and decided to go to the Silver Reef Casino. We'd been meaning to go there for the last 2.5 years we'd been in Birch Bay, but never found the time.

The casino is in the middle of nowhere, on the Lummi Reservation. First impressions are important ... so we were enthused to hear, then see, the losers hanging out of their hotel room, yelling at their friends in the parking lot. The loser friends yelled back up. Then the hotel room losers yelled back again. It all sounded a lot like "Wooo! Look at us up here!" "Yaaaaaa We're coming up!" "Wooooo! Get yer sorry asses up here!" Very important stuff.

There was a man sitting on a bench outside. As a taxi pulled around, he got up, fell down, got up again, and weaved his way, head tilted to the side, in a zig, then a zag, then a zig and another zag, across the pavement where he pulled open the door and fell again. Reaching up to the door, he pulled himself up, with the help of the driver, and got inside.

Walking through the doors, we were hit by a big wave of smoke. The patrons were all zoned out, sitting at their slots like zombies pushing the buttons over and over, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. We circled through the casino, past the banks of slots, then a small table area, and more and more slots. I can't help but wonder why people choose slots ... they are such a rip off. The $5 tables were packed, the $10 tables were empty, and there were no tables more expensive than that. Las Vegas this is not ... unless you're counting one of the outlying Station properties. That's pretty much what I thought of it. One of the places you go for a cheap, good breakfast buffet but don't stay long after.

 First we had to weather the masses, and make our way to the Diamond Dividends center, the booth that every casino has, where you sign up for a card and get some freebies for it. We're not big enough gamblers to ever get any perks, so the sign-up deals are the only reason we bother. They gave us a coupon for $5 off any of the restaurants, $5 slot play, and $5 match play on any of the tables.

We pushed on through the bar where people were consuming massive amounts of fast food in outdoor patio furniture, then past a ballroom where a private party was being held. A tacky bar band was playing typical wedding fare songs. Harold got a little excited when he saw a poster at the doorway. "Wow, Ray Charles is going to be playing here!" I almost didn't have the heart to tell him it was only an impersonator. Isn't Ray Charles pretty ancient? I remember him being old when I was just a kid. Does he even tour anymore? For that matter, is he even alive?

I wasn't expecting much from the steak house. The door to The Steakhouse was in the corner, almost hidden away, as if they were embarrassed by it. We opened the stained glass door to walk into a completely different world from where we'd come. This was a beautiful, quiet, classy restaurant, something we'd expect in downtown Vancouver, or in one of the nice casinos on the strip. The room was full and we were lucky to get the last table available without a reservation.

While we were waiting to order, I noticed a man walk through the restaurant pushing a bar cart. He stopped at a table across the room where he mixed the man's martini at the table, with a lot of flash and flair. It was a lot of fun to watch, and I was tempted to order my own martini.

We settled on a bottle of Chateau St. Michele Indian Wells Cabernet Sauvignon instead. It's a wine we've enjoyed a lot in the past but haven't had in a year or more. When it arrived, and after Harold had sampled it, the sommelier poured it through a glass aerator, where it funnelled out through the side holes and down the inside edges of a beautiful decanter. It was interesting and entertaining to watch.


We ordered rib-eye steaks, medium rare, and I talked Harold into having the Caesar salad with me. They require a minimum of two people per table order it. While we waited we were served onion crackers with crab dip and sliced fresh carrots. A waiter walked down through the tables pushing a different cart. He stopped at a table across the way from us and began to prepare their meal.

They serve two dinners that are made table side: Steak Diane, a Filet Mignon Sautéed with Shallots, Thyme, Grain Mustard and Mushrooms, and Steak au Poivre, a Filet Mignon, in a Peppercorn Brandy Sauce. Huge flames emerged from his pan, a couple of feet high, in a grand production that got everyone's attention. I could tell from the wonderful smells they had ordered the Steak Diane. I now wished we'd done the same.

Our waiter arrived, pushing a different cart. This one the Caesar salad cart. The original Caesar salad was created in the 1920's by a Mexican man, Caesar Cardini, with restaurants in San Diego and Tijuana. He had depleted most of his supplies during a Fourth of July dinner rush and put the salad together from what he had left, adding in the dramatic flair of the table-side tossing by the chef. It became known that it was to be served table side or it wasn't a real Caesar. I've had a ton of Caesar Salads, some of them amazing, some of them barely edible, but never one made for us table side. It's also been my experience in most of the places I've visited in the U.S. that they don't know how to make a decent Caesar Salad or English style fish and chips (at least as well as what we have in Vancouver). Obviously, I haven't been frequenting the right places, as this Caesar salad was, hands down, the most amazing salad I've ever had.

We didn't see everything he put into the salad, though we were watching very carefully. He brought out a huge, thick wooden bowl, to which he added fresh, crushed garlic. He mashed the garlic all over the sides of the bowl, then added olive oil, salt and pepper, wine vinegar, fresh squeezed lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, and mayo (usually coddled eggs are used, perhaps they make the mayo in the back). As he added in each item, he mashed and swirled it into the mix, creating a dressing that coated the entire edges of the bowl. Next he brought up the romaine lettuce, pushing it down and up along the edges, so all the leaves were coated in dressing. Only when he was satisfied that it was all evenly distributed, did he add Parmesan and croutons. Then once again, on our plates, he added more Parmesan cheese. This definitely was not to be a good Paleo day, but we'd already known that.

A fresh baked french loaf arrived, and we just didn't have the heart to turn it away. Paleo was already damned and it smelled so wonderful. Accompanying the bread were little balls of butter. It seemed common sense to use the tiny little English tea spoons to serve ourselves. We only realized our error when the waiter next brought us a sorbet in champagne, served in a martini glass. He saved our pride by returning immediately with new spoons.

Our huge baked potatoes came next, covered in sour cream, real bacon pieces, cheese, chives and I'm sure probably some butter somewhere in the mix there. It's been a long, long time since we've had potatoes, and even longer since we've had a baked potato. We surely would have been happy with this as our main course. It felt so decadent. But a moment later, our rib-eyes arrived, on their own plates, covered by a metal lid. The server whisked away both lids at the same time, then asked us to slice the steaks down the center to see if they were done to our liking. Ironically, it hurt me to do that. My OCDish nature likes to cut around the edges and then into the centre, but my rule-following nature had me slicing the poor thing right down the middle, as he'd requested. Then I looked over to see Harold only cutting part way through the meat, just enough to see the colour, and I wanted to kick myself. Why hadn't I realized I could do that? Of course, it was done perfectly, and once the server left, I quickly pushed the two sides back together, as if they'd meld back into one piece again.

The steak was amazing. Only once before, in my life, have I had a steak as wonderful. That one was at one of the top steak houses in Vancouver, and even though it was 15 years ago, I remember both how delectable it was, and how jaw droppingly expensive it was. This was, a decade and a half later, half the price of Gotham Steak House.

There was just no way we could finish it all, so we returned home with most of our steaks, knowing we could, without guilt, without Paleo cheating, consume them for the next night's dinner. I can't wait.

After our meal, we exited our oasis, and pushed back out again into the masses. It was even more of an assault on the senses, after the tranquility of The Steak House, but the wine we'd consumed helped with that.

We went up to the cashier where we traded in our coupon for a credit of $5, then we found a couple of empty poker machines. I hate slot machines with a passion. They bore me to death. All you do is push a button over and over. The few times I've played them, I make myself pull down the big lever. It makes it more momentous for me. I find the poker machines only a trifle more stimulating. At least you have to think for a second about what best to hold. It's still pretty monotonous and I'm glad when I can either cash out or lose all the free money they've given me. I lost my free $5, Harold was up $11. So, along with our two $5 meal vouchers, that was $21 off our meal. We had planned to gamble a bit at the tables, at least to use our match play coupons, but it was so smokey, I just wanted to get out. Home was calling.

A glimpse into the Zombie Apocalypse

Walking back from Gastown to Chinatown, there was a woman walking ahead, short badly bleached hair and super short shorts, cut right up, showing most of her butt. Quite obviously a cheap Hastings hooker. As she came up to an alley, she started yelling "Gimme my money! Gimme my money, you bitch!"

This hugely fat woman lumbered out of the alley, reaching for her, as Blondie ducked, still yelling at her, "Gimme my 20 bucks!" and as she saw us, "Call 911!" I didn't see anything worth calling the police over, so I just watched as we kept walking.

Moving past the alley Goliath had come from, I heard scuffling and banging, and my attention was drawn there.  Shambling out of the darkness was a group of addicts so hideous, I swore I was seeing the zombie apocalypse happening before my very eyes. There were about ten of them scuffling from the cracks of the buildings, eyes black and vacant, bodies barely controlled, arms hanging almost disconnected, and necks cricked over. I could imagine they were all thinking "BRAAAAAAIIIIIIINS!" But I expect it was something more like "FIGHT!"

I was now afraid for Blondie. Goliath had her in her massive grip and was punching her, in what looked like pretty slow motion, unsteady on her gigantic feet. Goliath looked like she had some power but she was dreadfully slow. Someone other than a drug addict could have run circles around her. I figured we might have taken her, but there was no way we were getting in this fight, especially with the gang of freaks bearing down on them.

I grabbed out my cell phone, starting to call 911, sure that I was about to see Blondie ripped to pieces by the horde. All of a sudden, I saw the hellish creatures ranks spread apart, as a man walked between them, right up to Goliath, commanding her to let go. At first Goliath ignored him, intent on her kill, but he kept yelling at her, pulling on her arms, until she looked up, and let go, almost in surprise.

With freedom and life upon her, Blondie ran off into the alley, yelling back over her shoulder, "You better gimme my money, you bitch!" as the darkness swallowed her up. The zombies sank into themselves, disappearing back into their crevices. Goliath looked back and  forth down the street. I swore she was about to roar and beat on her chest. Instead she lumbered back into the darkness where the others had disappeared.

17 Ways to Be Happier in 2012? I'd cut out all those lists!

My response to the article at http://abundance-blog.marelisa-online.com/2011/12/13/ways-to-be-happier-in-2012/

I've always been a pretty happy person, but have definitely had my unhappy times. Some of the points on this list are just part of my nature ... but others are just never gonna be a part of my regimen. The list is just too listy!

First off, I just adore sleep. I almost always get enough ... except when I have a deadline (like everytime I am about to go on vacation) and have to pull an all-night work session, or when I'm somewhere exciting that is open 24 hours (Hello Las Vegas!) where I can't stand to miss anything. Not missing stuff is a very good reason to miss some sleep, in my opinion.

Happiness journals just make me roll my eyes at their fake-depth, Oprah, 90's style fashion. I'm a programmer, and live on the beauty of logic, so there is just no way you'll get me to give up "If-then" thinking! I do see the point ... be happy now, don't base it on a future occasion. I'll give them a half point ... if I were grading, which I'm not ... because grades are counterproductive to happiness. How do I know this? Is it on the list? No, as a matter of fact, it isn't, but it is a much better idea than writing a happiness journal!

I've written dream/bucket lists and they just seem silly to me. I want to do everything, but I'll settle on doing lots of stuff in a rather random style. I don't need written lists to guide me, my dreams do that just fine!

I love my work, and I love that I am constantly learning. That's something I agree with, and my if-then logic has me always breaking down tasks into steps. Hah! Again, the if-then is a good state of mind!

Definitely I agree with the need to overcome perfectionism. I've been thinking about that a lot lately. You visit other cultures where they aren't as well off as we are, aren't as clean, as pristine, as new, and well ... not as perfect. But you see they are healthy, and happy, and live just fine lives. It makes you feel ... well, it makes ME feel, like I don't need as much, like I want to go home and simplify things. Which ...

Oh! That's number 11! I'll skip ahead for a moment. This is the part when I show I can go out of the linear, if-then, must follow a pattern style I am most happy with. I've been simplifying my thoughts and my need for things the last few years, trying to decide what is most important, what are things we need, versus what we want. We need travel, clothes, food, water, housing, and transportation. We need computers, books, bikes and backpacks. I didn't need a new huge-screen, 3-D television for Christmas, and I'd probably have a hard time arguing that a kayak is a need, rather than a want, but well, sometimes you have to fall off the strict regimen, and increase your daily pleasure! Woohoo! That just happens to be number 9!

Okay, so they want you to make another list. I think that's bogus. I don't need a list of daily pleasures. I need to take part in daily pleasures! I'll fill my extra time with experiences I enjoy while the blogger who wrote this can keep writing lists. Not that I'm against lists, mind you. They are great for shopping, for work tasks, for menial to-do items. I just don't want to get so constricted by making lists of what I want to do to be happy that I miss the time to do the things that make me happy!

I enjoy being kind to others, of course. If I found an argument against that, I'd be labeled a monster. I definitely agree that when you do something nice for someone it makes you feel really good. That leads right into number 10 ... exercise! Wow, if I don't exercise, I'm definitely a monster. Ugly, scary, mean ... and that's just to myself! Exercise should be number 1, or well, number 2. Sleep is pretty damn important, after all.

And that brings us back to number 1, a nice round, rather sporadic circle of happiness, without any lists!

My daughter shaved her head

My daughter shaved her head.

"It's only half shaved Mom!" she said as I stared in horror at her bald scalp.

I'd seen her scalp before, of course. Back when she was an infant and it took forever for her hair to grow in. She'd been the baldest baby for far too long, but once her hair came in, the wait had all been worth it. She had the most beautiful golden curls. People remarked on the beauty of it, and I was so proud of it. I'd thought never to see that bald scalp again.

Once she became a teenager, Cairo started experimenting with the colour, going from blonde to darker hues until finally settling on what she liked to call "Rihanna-red". My Mother disapproved, of course, but I've always thought the teen years are the exact time when you should be experimenting with your looks. Besides, I think she really suits the colour.

Twenty-five years ago, I'd been rather experimental with my own looks. It was the 80's and the clubs we went to were all New Wave. I tried different styles, going shorter and shorter with crazy colours. I'd sign up with hairdressers to get free dye jobs for being their hair model. They liked me because I'd let them do what they wanted. At one point I had 10 colours and lines shaved in my head.

My Mother hated it and was embarrassed. My Grandmother said things like "You're such a pretty girl. Why do you want to ruin it like that?" If I'd been living at home still, I'd never have been allowed to do it. But I was 19 and living on my own. The only problem I had was with work. No one would have ever taken me seriously like that, so I eventually grew up, got a normal hairstyle, and moved on. My family was relieved.

I always figured I'd be a very open Mother about these sorts of things, since I understood the desire to be different and try crazy things. So when Cairo brought her friend Nadya over to show me the style she wanted to have, it seemed like a pretty cool thing to do. Nadya had a small patch at the front of her hair cut very close to the scalp. It was long everywhere else and was cut so that, if she wanted to, she could just swoop some hair over and you wouldn't even see the short hair there. I really liked it and agreed Cairo could do something similar.

I waited patiently at the coffee shop down the road. It seemed to be taking an awfully long time, but I had my tablet with a good book, and a coffee, so it was an easy wait. When she came in the door with a huge smile on her face, demanding to know what I thought, I didn't know what else to say, except ...

"Ohmygawd, you're bald!"

The entire left side of her head was completely shaved off. From the front, all the way to the middle at the back, the hair was gone. The top and side was a mass of Rihanna-red curls. I loved the right side, her hair looked so beautiful. I was horrified at the left.

"But don't you like it Mom?" her smile began to falter. All I could think of was that I needed to get out of there, just get to the car, get her out of this very public space.

When we got to the car she asked me again, "Don't you like it Mom?" and I lost my temper. "Why would you do this Cairo? It's horrible! You shaved your head! We didn't agree on this!" And she started to cry.

"I know! I didn't know she'd take it all off. I didn't mean to have this happen!" She replied.

My first mistake was letting her go to a hairdresser who has both sides of her head shaved. My second mistake was letting her go in alone. But I'd been letting her go in alone for years, and she'd always come out looking exactly as I'd expected her to look ... a full head of hair ... on both sides. Talk about bad hair days. This was the worst.

I tried to put a good face on for her sake. She was feeling very worried about it, especially after a friend came over and was as shocked as I'd been about it. I didn't want her to be as embarrassed about it as I felt. That night I couldn't sleep and woke up repeatedly. I cried pretty much all the next day, and was rewarded with a huge headache and red puffy eyes, just in time to go away to San Francisco.

Everyday it gets better though. It's pretty surprising how fast hair grows. It's also surprising at how ones feelings can change. Everywhere we went in San Francisco, people young and old, were telling Cairo how much they loved her hair. The little kids though, just stared at her, as if she were dangerous. No longer could she stop and talk to them and have them respond. I noticed many looks of shock from others, and also probably some disdain, but honestly, it's just hair, after all. It grows back, eventually.

I just hope this is the last time I see that perfectly formed scalp of hers.

Kingpin: How One Hacker Took Over the Billion-Dollar Cybercrime Underground

I've been reading hacker literature since the late 80's, books, 2600, and online. My favorite has always been the book, Hackers, by Stephen Levy. It's been interesting, seeing the way hackers have really pushed the bounds of computer security. Those who really love poking around and searching into what makes things work and what makes things bonk, can appreciate the desire to push limits and go where they aren't supposed to be.

In the beginning, it was college students at MIT, who simply wanted more access to the mainframe systems, and to figure things out. Then it moved to California, where the first personal computers were coming out, and no one had a clue what to do with them. Eventually equipped with modems, phone phreakers and hackers were united in their desire to get access to foreign systems.

Then came the division between white and black hat hackers, the good and bad of the hacker elite. There were a lot of people who were prosecuted and jailed for simply pushing boundaries, getting into systems where they shouldn't be. It's only since Internet shopping has evolved that hacking has become a very lucrative career.

The author of this book, Kevin Poulsen, is a name well known in the hacker community. Known as "The Hannibal Lecter of computer crime", he eventually spent 5 years in jail for poking around in systems, after going on the run, breaking into more systems, fixing radio contests and needling the FBI by revealing details of wiretaps on foreign consulates.

Now a senior editor for Wired, he's written this sympathetic character study of the conflicted gray hat, Max Vision, a highly talented hacker who becomes a top modern US cyber criminal and an engaging tale of cops against robbers against other robbers.

Don't want no more of the crying game.

"If I told you, you'd cry!"

Huh, what? If you did what, I'd do what? I'd cry? Uh, why? What was this strange little woman saying?

I looked closer at her, taking in the details. Short, round-bodied, her jet black hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Her dark skin made me think she was of African and Spanish descent and with her slight foreign accent, I felt she might have been originally from the Caribbean. Large, dark glasses covered her eyes and quite a bit of her face. Movie star glasses, I thought, the type you'd see someone famous wearing, when they want to hide. She sat hunched down in her wheel chair.

We'd barely even sat down, we'd smiled, said good morning, and asked how they were, as we lowered ourselves into our seats, taking our menus from the waiter. This was the way we started all our mornings on board, after our run up on deck. We always asked for a shared table, where we'd meet different people, hear where they were from, what they did, how many cruises they'd been on, and what they had done in port. Some people were more talkative than others, some friendlier than others, but all were happy and excited about their vacations.

"Oh no! That bad?" I replied, trying to sound concerned.

Nodding her head, she looked down at her lap in misery. The white haired man sitting beside me just stared at her, unspeaking until his coffee came. Then he started barking orders at me.

"Cream!"

I responded by quickly passing the small white cream jug, thinking to myself "The rude jerk!".

"Sugar!" he barked again. I wanted to tell him to at least say please, but the dark woman looked up and said it for me.

"Say please...", she moaned at him, cocking her head to the side. I had the feeling if I could see her eyes, they'd either be dark pools of misery, or hard, and calculating, like the children on the docks of Acapulco, as they tried to sell me chiclets and wilted flowers. Perhaps both.

The old man grunted. "I don't speak before noon."

Looking at the man beside me, I was able to see him in more detail, as I thought about what he'd just said. Elderly, white hair, pale white, very wrinkled skin. An outback hat on his head, one of those hats worn by the older, traveling set. The Indian Jones type. The hat, not the man. He looked a lot older than the woman, older even than my own parents. Did he not know it was rude to wear a hat at the table?

You don't speak before noon, I thought, and she is a pile of misery. So why would you ask to share a table? Why aren't you off in some dark corner instead of ruining my breakfast?

I kept my thoughts to myself, except to look over at Harold, to see my feelings mirrored in his eyes. Looking down the other way, at the long table, I counted another six seats, three on each side, three couples worth of a chance at salvation from these two. As if reading my thoughts, a hostess weaved her way towards our table, followed by an elderly couple. At first glance they appeared happy, friendly, our respite. They looked down the table, and as I heard their words, I felt my stomach drop in disappointment.

"We'd like another table thank you." the woman said, her husband nodding beside her.

I wanted to stand up, and call them back, at least demand an explanation. Did they know these two? Had they sat with them before? Played bingo with them? Been barked at or whined at by them? Oh sure, there was a pole right behind where one of them would have sat. That could have been it. I sure wish I'd thought to notice that pole and ask for a different table. Maybe someone else would come along soon, though. Someone who didn't know them, and someone who didn't mind the pole.

Our breakfast arrived, and we did exactly as we always tell ourselves not to, when in social situations. We stared at our plates, and ate our food in total silence. Misery stared out the window, sighing, and heaving her shoulders. Hat-man stared at her, as he ate his toast.

"Eat your froot loops." He ordered, and she turned back dejectedly, picking up her spoon and complying.

I suppose Harold thought there was still a chance at conversation, as he surprised me by looking over to the old man and asking him one of the standard cruising questions.

"Have you been on a cruise before?"

Hat-man surprised us by not only responding, but then refusing to stop talking. On and on he went for the rest of our meal. We heard about cruises and train voyages. We heard about how Canada charges too much for train trips. We heard about how they had toured all around the continent, never getting off the train even once, except to switch trains. It sounded like pure misery to me, and I caught myself thinking, "Perfectly tailored for such a miserable couple!"