There are two kinds of freedom. Freedom fromto (positive freedom). The splitting of freedom into this binary framework can be traced at least back to Kant, was articulated by Erich Fromm in his 1941 work, Escape from Freedom, made famous by Isaiah Berlin’s 1958 essay, “Two Concepts of Liberty,” and explored more modernly by Charles Taylor.
~ Brett McKay from, Freedom From…Freedom To
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Here is the 2013 Super Bowl Dodge Commercial, “God Made a Farmer.”
https://youtube.com/watch?v=GdR5TOhHJGM
Here is the recent spoof, “God Made a Sysadmin.”
Obviously the ‘farmer’ video is a commercial. It intends to stir up empathy and appreciation for hard work, solid work ethics, traditional American values, (and perhaps some spirit of ‘rally around the under-dog,’) and then the corporation hopes everyone will associate those positive characteristics with their product. (This is also known as, ‘Intro to Marketing.’)
The ‘sysadmin’ video is a spoof. It engenders a healthy dose of pride, enables those who work in the profession to smile at the references, and to have a bit of winsome fun.
Both professions entail difficult work, (the type of difficulty is of course different,) and have clear work ethics. Without the farmers, or without the sysadmins, life as everyone knows it would end rather quickly.
The average person will understand all of the things which the farmers are said to do, but will understand almost none of those things which the sysadmins are said to do.
Sysadmins like to think, and I’ve said this myself, that they are part of a profession with a “long” history. In reality, computers and the profession are in their infancy. We have just 70-ish years of history if we measure from Alan Turing’s ideas, and we have just three different generations of people who have worked in our profession.
If we want to be treated as professionals, if we want to be individually granted a measure of respect based on our chosen profession the way farmers, doctors, and (some) lawyers are, then we must continue to work hard as we have done for 70-ish years.
We also need to work hard to raise awareness of our profession. We need to work together more, as a community of people, rather than an archipelago of individuals. We need to take better care of ourselves; We must not sacrifice our own physical and mental health at the alter of short-term advancement. We need to work to solve the larger problems — the ones which aren’t even system administration problems, but which are organizational, societal and philosophical problems — which put many of our fellows into untenable situations.
Our profession has a long way to go.
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Suddenly, my paltry `dd` and `y` vi skills seem pathetic.
Note to self: Read this. Read it again. Repeat.
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Self-possession implies the capacity for self-restraint, self-compulsion and self-direction; and he who has these, if he live long enough, can have any other possession that he wants.
~ William Hanna Thompson
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Al and I sprawled in the cockpit of “Golly Gee,” our chartered Landfall 43. We were both exhausted.
“This boat is a mess,” I said.
“Real pig sty,” Al commented unenthusiastically.
It was clear we had reached a low point in our vacation. Our energy was drained from the long day it had taken us to sail the 55 or so miles from the French island of Guadeloupe to the British island of Antigua. Also, we had made the serious mistake of skipping lunch since no one felt salty enough to go below while sailing hard on the wind. Furthermore, I had not adequately compensated for leeway and we reached our land fall about two miles down wind. Motoring directly into the big seas for the last two miles didn’t help matters any. Add to this, an anchoring drill worthy of real landlubbers, and it becomes obvious why our spirits were so low.
The smell of hot soup drifted into the cockpit from below. I suddenly realized just how hungry I was. When my wife, Terry, called, “it’s ready,” we moved without hesitation toward the galley. About halfway through the meal I silently promised myself that tomorrow we were not going to skip lunch, even if we had to pack lunch in the morning before getting underway.
After supper, and a short rest below, I returned to the cockpit and looked around picturesque English Harbor at sunset. There was no wind now and yachts anchored around us sat motionless on the glass-like water. Lights were beginning to flicker on and send shimmering reflections across th surface. I could feel my spirits and energy level returning. Our yacht still needed to be squared away, so I set about the task; cover the compass, coil the sheets and halyards, stow the life jackets, rig chafing gear to the anchor line. Al came topside with the sail cover in his arms and, without speaking, we began to wrestle the stiff cloth over the main sail. As we worked in silence, my thoughts drifted back to the events of the day.
Actually, we had made the long sail in excellent ime. Sailing with reefed main and storm jib, we still managed a speed of eight knots in the stiff wind, which I estimated to be about twenty five knots with higher gusts. I wished I had taken the time to gauge the wind accurately with the “windicator” I had brought along, but at the time, the huge waves demanded constant attention at the helm. Even though the yacht performed well in those conditions, the apprehension expressed by Terry seemed to be contagious and soon had everyone nervous. In retrospect, it seemed to me that sailing for hours with that uneasy feeling caused more fatigue than the physical work involved. Tomorrow would be another long day of sailing since our charter was nearly over, and we were still a long way from Parham Harbor, where we started. The many reefs along our path would require careful… no, meticulous navigation. Most everyone enjoys coastal cruising with gorgeous tropical scenery but, I worry more about reefs than big waves.
The next day dawned bright and sunny with puffy cumulus clouds moving high over head. Most of the harbor was quiet and still, except for one dinghy motoring slowly toward shore; its wake sending endless ripples across the otherwise undisturbed water. On shore, the restored government buildings created the illusion that we had somehow traveled backward through time to an era of greater simplicity. I could almost see square-rigged sailing ships against the city dock. The trials and tribulations of the previous day seemed insignificant now, and well worth enduring, in light of this spectacular tropical splendor.
We went ashore early with all our documents to find the customs officer. We located him near the docks, but he told us we were to wait on our yacht, and he would come out to board and check us through. So we all did an about-face and returned to the dinghy to ride back. In a short time, the customers officer did come alongside in his boat. After exchanging cordial greetings we went below and began the paper work. We showed him our ship’s papers, passports, and cruising permit while filling out several forms. He was very official in appearance and manor, but his big smile and friendly attitude made us all feel at ease.
“Sign here, keep this copy, and give this to the immigration officer.”
“The immigration officer? Where do I find him?” I asked.
“In the police station. The yellow building beyond Nelson’s Dock Yard,” was the answer.
We exchanged cordial farewells, shoved off the customs boat, and began to collect our passports and other papers in preparation for going ashore again. We boarded the dinghy, started the outboard, and set off once more for the city dock. Al drove the dinghy a little faster this trip. Perhaps his thoughts were on the many sea miles we still had to cover before the day’s end. Mine were. With the dinghy secured, our landing party began walking through the dockyard in the direction of the police station. Some natives were setting up there stands at the local flea market. Though it was still early, it was hot, so when the girls stopped to look through some dresses and tee shirts, I bought an almost cold soft drink from a vendor with a cooler. As I sat in the shade, Al took some pictures of our yacht anchored across the harbor. The girls returned with packages, and immediately began to compare their latest shell jewelry and tee shirts. Having finished all this, we were at last ready to move on, except that Al’s wife, Brenda, had to stop and take some pictures of our yacht anchored across the harbor. Parham Harbor sure wasn’t getting any closer.
The police station finally came into sight. We walked into the main room which contained one front counter and nothing else. There was no one in sight. We stood around talking louder than necessary for a few minutes and even faked a loud cough or two hoping to attract someone’s attention. At last a slender fellow in street clothes shuffled into the room and noticed us with some surprise.
“May I help you?”
“Yes,” I responded. “We would like to see the immigration officer.”
Without saying a word the man walked slowly out of the room and was gone for some time. When he did come back, he handed us a form and began to leave the room.
“We already have this form,” I said, showing him the filled-out papers the customer officer had given us. He looked briefly at the papers and left the room again. Be patient I told myself, knowing from experience there was no way to speed up this process. The man returned, this time with another man wearing a uniform-type coat with regular street pants and no shoes. This must be the immigration officer, I thought. I explained once again that the customs officer had given us these forms after which both men left the room. When they returned, the man in the uniform coat asked to see our immigration declaration. After a lengthy conversation, we ascertained that the paper in question had been given to us at the airport upon our arrival two weeks earlier. The man insisted he could not make up new copies even though there was only basic information such as our names, addresses and occupations on the form. Worst of all was the realization that this all-important paper was aboard Golly Gee in the folder containing our airline tickets! So… we all did another about-face to fetch same.
After walking a short distance, the girls volunteered to make the trip back to the yacht since it was not necessary for all of us to go, and Brenda wanted to drive the dinghy. I sat down in the shade with Al to wait. From this vantage point we could see Terry and Brenda heading across the harbor and returning some time later. We could also see them stopping in the flea market one more time. At last they returned, papers in hand.
Back in the police station, we handed the papers to the immigration officer which he took and left the room. When he returned, he was holding a book of receipts. He filled out several lines on each sheet, then his assistant entered the room carrying a rubber stamp and ink pad. The new papers were all filled out in triplicate, separated, and spread on the counter in preparation for the official stamp. Now we are really getting somewhere, I thought. The assistant laid the broken and dried up ink pad on the counter, raised the rubber stamp high above his head, and slammed it down on the ink pad with a resounding BOOM! Each paper was stamped individually in the same manner. BOOM! …BOOM! …BOOM! Now all that remained was to give us our copies. But wait, there was yet another mix up! The papers had been torn out of their book in the wrong sequence and the receipt numbers did not match the originals. The officer and his assistant were now involved in a four-handed paper shuffling drill that included tearing, arrangement, stapling, and re-arrangement, and lasted at least five minutes. Their antics were so comical, that an involuntary smile began building in my cheeks. I looked at Terry in disbelief. Her eyes looked toward the ceiling. Is this for real? Maybe we’re on Candid Camera!
“Sign here, keep this copy, and give this to the port authority officer.”
“The port authority? Where do I find him?” I asked.
“There,” was the answer as he pointed across the way toward Nelson’s Dock Yard.
At the port authority office we were greeted by a well-dressed young man who set about his paper work without speaking. Upon completion, he asked many questions about where we had sailed and how long we had stayed at his place or that. I answered accurately. Then he produced another form and asked for a large sum of money; I can’t recall the exact amount.
“What’s this for?” I asked trying to sound polite.
“Cruising permit,” was the answer.
“But I already have one.” I said, again trying to sound polite. I showed him the document given to me by the charter company. It was a pre-paid, one-year, cruising permit.
“You should have showed this to me before,” he said.
I would have, I thought to myself, if you had asked me or indicated what you were doing. He examined the paper carefully, Including the reverse side (which was blank) several times, and then sat down and began crossing out and writing over most of what he had filled in. Having completed the rewrite, he returned to the counter and asked for a smaller amount of money. We were charged for harbor dues, port of entry charge, and landing fee per person. The entire amount came to about eighteen dollars [USD]. I had neither the time nor the will to argue so I paid the tariff. The man collected my cash then sat down and began writing again.
“Is that it?” I asked after waiting a while. He nodded; we left.
Straight-away we heeded for Golly Gee and made immediate preparations for getting under way. The sun was already high in the sky as Al and I hauled in the anchor. Brenda handled the helm and throttle according to my directions. Everything went smoothly.
“This anchor gets heavier every time we go through this!” we both agreed.
“It is heavier this time!” I said looking over the side.
There was at least twenty pounds of black mud clinging to the anchor and chain. Buckets of sea water and lots of scrubbing only served to spread the gooey stuff. We ended up scrubbing the entire deck before we were through. As we motored seaward, we all took one last look around with that sad feeling in our hearts that accompanies leaving.
Sails were hoisted before we cleared the old fort. It was a fabulous day with a fair breeze from the right direction. Pulling the diesel kill lever worked its regular magic as noise and vibration ceased, and our sleek craft joined in the rhythm of the sea. Knowing there were no hazards to navigation in this area, my mind soon realized it had nothing in particular on which to concentrate. I relaxed in the cockpit while soaking in the pristine environment and warm Caribbean sun with all my sense. Cloud shadows slid silently across the majestic green mountain peaks of Antigua’s western shore. Thick palm groves lined the coast. Soon my exhilaration turned to elation in a way that words or picture cannot describe! I wondered how I had allowed myself to become hassled earlier. It all seemed so petty now.
The next several hours were spent with charts in one hand and binoculars in the other. Antigua has an abundance of nasty things to bump into off shore; all very harmless actually. All you have to do is avoid them! The wind began to fail as we sailed in the lee of the island. Some chart work and math gave me the unwanted answer I expected. We would have to maintain a speed of at least four knots to reach our intended anchorage at a reasonable time of day. This meant starting the diesel whenever our boat speed dropped. Soon it was necessary to take down the sails and run the engine constantly. The miles slipped by and it was late in the day when we finally reached the buoy marking the entrance to Parham Harbor. Once inside, we motored toward the small islands on the eastern perimeter of the harbor. It was our plan to anchor there for the night. This would allow us plenty of time to make the short ride to the charter company’s dock in the morning. After securing the yacht and checking the anchor, we made a hasty departure for some last minute snorkeling and a dinghy ride ashore to watch the sunset.
There was plenty to see ashore even though Bird Island is tiny and uninhabited. It’s cozy cove led to a small beach with a low grassy area beyond. About a hundred yards distant was the other side of he island and another sandy beach. To the right, a steep hill seemed to be calling, “come and see what is on the other side,” and of course we did. The summit revelaed a sheer cliff dropping straigh to the sea with the vast, open ocean beyond. Behind us, Golly Gee lay peacefully awaiting our return while the sun disappeared behind Antigua.
The sun was also setting on our vacation. By comparison, this charter had really gone smoothly. We had visited Antigua, Guadelope, Isles de Saintes and Dominica, and covered approximately 220 nautical miles. We encountered only minor problems which must be expected with a trip of this complexity. Sailing vacations can be more work than relaxation, especially on a bareboat charter. But this is not something I have only recently discovered. However, never before had we tried to cover so many islands and so many miles. I didn’t regret for a moment sailing as far as luscious Dominica, a mountainous, green-clad country of running waters and forests of mahogany, cedar and bamboo; the most unspoiled island I’ve seen. Although the schedule we had to maintain to get it all in, could have ruined our vacation. Yes… that was the problem… the schedule. Having to be there on time can take the fun out of getting there. Dealing with the natives can be exasperating if you are in a hurry. I may have been fooling myself by thinking, “I’m not in harry,” but my true thoughts were on the many sea miles left to cover in the time remaining. Also, jumping from island to island in an international area can necessitate checking in and out of customs and immigrations repeatedly. This can be tedious and expensive. You could spend days or even weeks at places we saw only breifely. For that matter, there is nothing wrong with cruising the same are more than once, since there is always more to see, and it’s never the same vacation.
Some charter companies send charts early so you can look them over ahead of time. This is great! However, making a sailing plan, even a tentative one, is a mistake. The next time I get the chance to charter, I’m going to stick my hook in the first nice place I come to and stay there until I’m good and ready to move on.
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A rather large asteroid will be swinging by on Friday. If we were hit by a rock of this size, it would be a regional disaster; Destruction on the scale of a large city, with major regional earthquake and weather side effects.
Our home planet is due for a record setting space encounter on Friday (Feb. 15) of this week, when a space rock roughly half a football field wide skirts very close by Earth at break neck speed and well inside the plethora of hugely expensive communications and weather satellites that ring around us in geosynchronous orbit.
~ Universe Today
The B612 Foundation is working to build a space telescope specifically designed to locate and track asteroids that pose a threat to the Earth:
B612 Foundation
If you knew you could do something to literally save the world, would you? We have taken on the audacious mission of doing just that. Our goal is to hunt asteroids that could hit the Earth and potentially cause human devastation.
~ B612 Foundation, «http://b612foundation.org/why-is-asteroid-2012-da-14-important-to-monitor/»
and…
How long ago did we learn of DA14 and its impending close flyby of Earth? DA14 was discovered on February 13, 2012, just one year in advance of its close flyby of Earth. Had it been on a collision course with Earth on February 15, 2013, there would not have been enough time to prepare a mission to deflect it. While we would have been able to accurately predict its impact location on Earth, our only possible response would have been to evacuate the area and hope for the best.
~ B612 Foundation from, 45 meter Asteroid to Skirt Very Near Earth on Feb 15
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Black Belt Magazine, from Aikido’s Morihei Ueshiba: Classic Martial Arts Profiles:
Every man, as he grows older, seeks some real or symbolic achievement with which to cap his career. If the calendar years have flown past the 80 mark, pushed upward to 85, you’re going to check your personal record books that much more…
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My background is not in Computer Science. (My background is in Engineering; More in About.) I happily stumbled, more or less backwards, into network and systems administration. Although I’ve always had the analytic and scientific skills for this work, I’ve had little education, formal or otherwise, on the theoretical side. Recently I was delighted to find a survey-level CS column in the Communications of the ACM.
Reading CS classics widens your perspective by introducing stable, timeless ideas. You escape the popular themes of your times and evaluate the field from a more literal position. You learn about the qualities that make a person a great scientist. You realize those people are delighted to think over problems. By learning the history of computers and studying the lives and works of eminent computer scientists we all recognize the true merit of being part of such a respectful profession and privileged community.
~ Selma Tekir from, Reading CS Classics, Communications of the ACM, Vol. 55 No. 4
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I dutifully queued the reference list for assimilation, and eventually I arrived at the following. If you’re a dyed-in-the-wool computer scientist, you surely see where this is going, and I encourage you to start laughing at me at this point.
I propose to consider the question, ‘ Can machines think ? ‘ This should begin with definitions of the meaning of the terms ‘machine’ and ‘think’. … Instead of attempting such a definition I shall replace the question by another, which is closely related to it and is expressed in relatively unambiguous words. The new form of the problem can be described in terms of a game which we call the ‘imitation game’.
~ Turing, A. M. I from, Computing machinery and intelligence, MIND LIX, 236 (1950)
I had to hand type a URL to figure out that “MIND” is a “quarterly review of psychology and philosophy”, and “LIX” was the volume number. This quoted article being from volume 59, issue number 236, circa October 1950. That’s a tri-axel dump-truck load of awesome in one citation.
HAH! Clueless me. This is THE article by Alan Turing. <me, stands gawking in awe>
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This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
~ Shakespeare Sonnet number 72
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
What happens if you’re in love with a young woman and, with age, her beauty fades? Old love.
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JAN 1 – The New Year dawns to a crisp winter morning. 3 inches of fresh snow adding to the snow that was already on the ground. This was the first “white Christmas” we have had in years. This new addition gives us a good snow cover. We clear the driveway quickly. It’s an easy job with everyone helping.
JAN 2 – 6 more inches of snow fell last night. I awakened to a beautiful winter wonderland. Snow covers everything and Jack Frost has decorated our windows. We clear the driveway again and have a snowball battle with the neighbors – WE WON! We are in awe of nature’s magnificent grandeur. Life is good. Them folks down south don’t know what they’re missing.
JAN 3 – Had to clear the end of the driveway because the snowplow pushed it closed. Also fixed the mailbox he knocked down. We all went for a walk in the snow and built a big snowman.
JAN 4 – 3 more inches of snow. Cleared the driveway again. No sooner finished, the snowplow closed the entrance again. I’l clear it tomorrow.
JAN 5 – Cleared the entrance to the driveway.
JAN 7 – 6 more inches of snow. Spent an hour and a half getting the snowblower started. I think the last time I used it was 1989. Put the mailbox back up. Mail can be delivered again.
JAN 10 – The temperature has not been above freezing in 17 days. Every flake of snow that came down is still here. The weatherman is predicting 14 inches of snow for tomorrow. That can’t be right!
JAN 12 – The weatherman was wrong. It snowed 18 inches. Spent the entire day shoveling and clearing our roads. Got some help for a while but not much. Soon as I finished the snowplow closed by driveway and knocked the mailbox down. No mail today.
JAN 13 – Bitter cold. Opened the end of the driveway again. Searched for a half hour to find the mailbox and then made quick repairs. Snowplow came by as soon as I finished. Near as I can figure, he waits around the corner watching me.
JAN 15 – More snow. I don’t know how much. There’s so much here I can’t keep track anymore. Who cares? The mailbox is down again. The hell with it. Who needs mail.
JAN 17 – Bitter cold – High winds – Dangerous wind chill factor. I cleared the end of the road. The snowplow came by as I lifted the last shovel full. I’ve had enough of this winter!
JAN 18 – Actual temperature -10F degrees. Coldest temperature in this area since the weather bureau has kept records. In the 30 seconds it takes me to walk to the garage my feet get cold, my hands and ears are numb, the hair in my nose is frozen, and I have ice in my mustache. Winter sucks!
JAN 20 – It warmed up to 30F degrees. Just warm enough to rain. 2 inches of rain. Everything is frozen – including me.
JAN 21 – Temperature drops to +10F degrees. The snowplow closed my driveway again and this time the snow mound is an immovable frozen ice mountain. Tried to clear with the snowblower. Hit something terrible and wrecked the snowblower – I think I found the mailbox! Terry says, “What’s the wether for tomorrow?” I say, “I stopped watching the weather channel – Surprise me.”
JAN 22 – SURPRISE! 8 inches of new snow. Managed to get to the hardware store to buy repair parts for the snowblower – they’re all sold out. They don’t have rock salt either. Cleared the end of the driveway again. I’m ready to move to Florida.
JAN 23 – Good News. The heatwave melted the snow on the roof but the gutters are frozen solid. The water is coming in around the front windows inside the house.
JAN 24 – Water started coming in the kitchen ceiling and bathroom window. The frozen bathroom window broke. Went to the hardware store for more buckets. They’re all sold out. Cleared the end of the driveway again. Broke the snow shovel – my back is killing me. The zippers are broken on my snowmobile boots.
JAN 26 – Went shopping for new snowmobile boots. They’re all sold out. They don’t have any snow shovels either. But I did manage to buy a bag of salt out of the back of a rental truck from Florida for $20.00.
JAN 27 – The dog can’t go to the bathroom. The snow is too high. I have to hold him up in the air.
JAN 28 – How many days does this month have? More snow, more bitter cold.
JAN 29 – Good news. There are no storms coming for a couple of days. Finally got the snowblower running. Got the roads and driveway cleared.
JAN 30 – End of driveway plowed shut again.
JAN 31 – It snowed most of the night. If I see one more flake of that white shit… Snowplow closed the end of the driveway again. I swear I heard that snowman laughing at me.
FEB 1, 3:45am – It’s snowing. I’m crouched behind a snow pile with my gun – waiting for the son of bitch that drives the snowplow. Winter sucks, life sucks – I’m moving to Florida!!!
~ Bruce W Constantine
Back in the 80’s and 90’s, my father tinkered with writing. It turns out he wasn’t very good at it. Never the less, as we went through various things in the house, I found a ring binder with a few stories. It pleases me greatly to think that once again my father has told a story, and perhaps even made you laugh.
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