A WIP Draws Near Completion - Regrets

Since early September, I have been working on a reboot of my Timmons Chronicles series. It started out as a prequel to the existing books, and was titled 'Regrets.' The idea was to show the characters from 'Theater Boy' and 'The Timmons Incident' before Robert/Bobby was pushed back in time. In other words, I wanted to show why he was so driven to change things.

The process of writing it has been difficult, because of my inability to find a permanent home. I've had to do almost all the writing for it at work, between calls. I even did some of it in Notepad, which didn't translate very well when I switched to Google's Doc. Let's say when I finished it and started editing it, I changed a lot of apostrophes and quotation marks to the curvy type.

All of my writing for the Timmons Chronicles before then had sort of been aimed at Young Adults, and rightfully so, since the characters then were aged 13-14 or so. But for the new writings not only are the characters adults at the beginning, but it turns out were driven to have sex together. So my dilemma then was: How much sex to put in and how much detail should I get into.

Let me explain what I mean by detail. When the story first starts out these two are so completely opposite that given ordinary circumstances, they'd never get together. But forces beyond their control are driving them together. And one of those forces is sexual desire.

The first time it happens, the sex is spontaneous and brief, but for Dottie Brown, the first act opens up a whole new world for her. For her sex is more than just the pleasurable part and making babies, though there is that. A lot of that. For her, sex is a way of driving away the dark dreams she's been having. It chases away her demons. Therefore, she wants it as much as she can if only for that purpose. But it goes beyond even that, because sex with Robert Simmons allows her to see into his mind clearer than ever before.

And he's got one hell of a mind, if I do say so myself. So why go into the detail which really becomes erotica? I need you to see how the sex affects Dottie, both physically and mentally. It opens up so much for her and I want you to be right with her, writhing in ecstasy as much as she does.

So once I decided to write some of the sex scenes as erotica, it came down to how much sex to write. I could simply have written 'They made love by the moonlight,' a few times, but sex is an important part of this story because it's part of what drives them together.

And then the children start to come, and then they become important to the story. This really is a story about family, after all, something that was missing in 'Theater Boy' and 'The Timmons Incident.'

When I started writing it, I thought it would end in the tragedy that would drive them apart. But as I got deeper into the story, I decided the ending for this book would be relatively happy. I also decided to change the name of the series to 'The Simmons Chronicles,' because I have plans to continue that timeline after the events of the second book, where I really lay it on. I've tentatively titled it 'Darkness.' Dark enough for you?

Anyway the first draft of the first book is complete, and I'm really just filling in a few gaps and proofing it at this point. I have a tentative cover for it:

I'm still trying to figure out if that's the best. What I want to know from you, gentle readers, is would you pick up a book with that kind of cover?

Well, guess what? I'm gong to make the entire draft of the book available for a short time. Please click on this link to access it. I might remove access after a while, so hurry!

Why I try hard not to live in a Shelter

Recently, I fought hard to not have to live in the shelter system again. I asked friends and family for help. Some of them asked why I would try that hard, even living in $100/day motel rooms just to avoid living in the shelter. Here are some of the reasons:

Why I try hard not to live in a Shelter

It's not just because of the crowded nature of shelters

Waiting for a bed

or the fact that there might not be enough room from night to night
or that beds are less than 2 feet apart
or that you will likely get your stuff stolen at least once in your shelter stay (4 times so far)
or that staff has seen it all and can appear uncaring
or that the food is designed to fill bellies but not to provide full nutrition
or that you have to put up with the unwashed
or that some of the people are drunk or high
or that some of the people choose to fight
or that I get searched every time I enter a shelter
or that I have to take a shower with 6-7 other men at a time
or that I have to see those men walk around naked
or that I have to squeeze in between those men to get to my locker
or that there are 10 inches of locker space before the next one
or that men snore at all hours
or that some lights are on in the dorm, if you're unlucky enough to be close to them, you can't sleep
or that you have to get up at 5am
or that have to wait in line to get fed
or that you have to wait to get your bed
or that you have to be in the shelter by a certain time to get a bed
or that some people like to talk while you want to sleep
or that men cough all through the night
or that diseases spread more easily in the closed confines of a shelter
or that once you're in, you can't leave until the morning
or that in some shelters you have to listen to a sermon
or that sometimes they make you dress in their clothes, that are either like burlap bags or prison-issue clothes
or that sometimes you can see the men's butts hanging out of their shelter-issued clothes
or that you lose control of your life when you enter the shelter
or that you lose dignity on entering the shelter.

I try to stay out of the shelter for all those reasons. Unfortunately, I failed in my attempt to stay out of the shelter, so I have to suffer through all of this.

Edit: One more note before I end this particular rant: Imagine doing this for a day, then imagine that day stretching out to another day, then a week, a month, and yes, even years. Welcome to my world. I hope my current time in the shelter won't stretch that far, but every day takes a physical and mental toll. Imagine how relieved I was to get out the last time. It will be double that this time.

Caring is Sharing - Except When It Comes to Money

I've had a rather hard month. My lease ended on my old basement room. I was scrambling like hell to find someplace within my budget before that lease ended. Craigslist and I were old friends. I thought I had a chance at one place, roommate to one of my co-workers. I went to see the place, told the guy I liked it despite the uphill climb to get there, and me with no car.

I filled out the application and waited. This was just days before my lease ended, so naturally I was kinda antsy to hear from him. Two days later, I finally got an email from him, saying someone else had taken the room before me. I was never told there was competition.

I looked into rooms in Hull, at the advice of a couple of co-workers, and found a studio apartment within my budget, but it wouldn't be available until after I moved out. None of my other leads had panned out, so I gathered what stuff I could and moved it temporarily into a Motel 6 in Braintree. $110/day. I even had the guy send me an application ahead of time so I could bypass the wait for that.

Days passed, and the day came for me to see it. I fought my way to Hull, had to do some walking because I got off the bus too soon, but I finally saw the place. It was small, It only had a microwave and a small fridge, but it was adequate for the price and it was a block from the beach. Cool, I thought. I'll take it.

I told him I really needed to move in NOW, but he needed to run it by the owner, oh, and he needed $2700 for me to move in.

Long story short, a week passed before I was approved, In the time between moving out and then I spent $1300, and had no money to move in. The guy knew I was spending money at a motel, but he kept delaying it, he said because there was a problem with my SSN, and I had bad credit. But he was willing to work with me and the owner.

But by then I was nearly out of money. I moved to a cheaper motel that was not within commuting distance to work, and thankfully, my employer was willing to let me work from the motel temporarily.

Temporarily seems to be my word of the month.

You don't realize who cares about you and who doesn't until you ask for money. I needed $2700 to move into that place, and at one time I had $1800. The owner wouldn't work with me on moving in with less. I asked my family for help and have heard nothing back from them. I put a posting on Facebook, lightheartedly asking those who could to send money to my PayPal account. They seemed to think it was a joke,

On the second night I stayed at the second motel, I had a crisis of faith in humanity. I gave real thought to broadcasting my live suicide, because I could see no light at the end of the tunnel. In all the years I was homeless, I frequently had thoughts of suicide, even jumping off a railroad bridge. I wrote a script about it, a short film. But I didn't do it, because I still had some hope left.

Just a couple of days ago, I temporarily lost hope.

I mean, why should people care that I've spent far more money than I have just to get moved into a new place? Why is it so hard for me to move? My daughter even found a new place to live, but I can't. I don't understand why every little aspect of my life has been so difficult.

Even when I found a place to live after moving to Boston there were issues. A freezing basement, a short-term lease that couldn't be renewed, neighbors that argued day and night and housemates that refused to pay their share of an electric bill that I took over. I seemingly had plenty of time to find a new place, but one thing or another has come up, One obstacle or another, and the biggest is money.

A small glimmer of hope remains. But whatever happens needs to happen soon. Or that hope will fade, and the thoughts that this life isn't worth living will return.

Or maybe I'm just getting what I deserve. I just don't know anymore. Right now my writing is about the only thing keeping me going, and I can't help but to dump misery on my characters.

Write what you know.

If you want to help, you can send money via my PayPal account: michaelharrisonfox@yahoo.com.

If not, I'll understand. I can't offer anything except my writing.

Writing: Timmons Chronicles Reboot - Chapter 1

Back when I first started writing about Bobby Timmons, Penny Thomas and Dottie and Sarah Brown, I knew where they all came from. I knew their background and what drove the characters. In other words, I knew that the original story did not start at the beginning. I wrote it with young adults in mind and threw some of what happened into flashbacks, yet I was always holding back. My thinking was: they were children. My readers would be children.

Yet as the story progressed and people started to read it, I realized the story was far more adult than it should have been, and as such, it appealed to adults more than young adults. My mistake was to rewrite it as an even more young adult book, and I failed at that, even.

Soooooo, I have begun to rewrite it from the beginning. From the very beginning. A very good place to start. None of our characters in this first novel, named 'Regrets', has a clue what will happen to them, or what is driving them. I've decided that there should be something driving them. The events that drove Bobby and the Old Man in the previous versions have not happened yet. We are in a different timeline, a happier one in some respects, and yet not as happy as it might be.

Here is the first chapter of this reboot. Not designed for Young Adults. Enjoy.

The Timmons Chronicles Book 1

Regrets

Chapter 1 - 1983

Dottie Brown looked over her notes for the umpteenth time. It wasn't that she couldn't remember the words, she had an eidetic memory. It was the emotions she was trying to convey that counted.

She lay face-down on her motel bed, propped up by a pillow, her notes in neat piles, one side that she had already gone over, the other was ready to read.

Show compassion; show pride, but not so much that you're arrogant; show humility but not so much that you're a pushover; show knowledge, and the capacity to think for yourself. She certainly could do those last 2. Years of memorizing the encyclopedias at home. Years of using her home chemistry set, working part time at the local chemical plant to get the 'safe' chemicals she needed. Months of trying to figure out what she liked best: Chemistry or Physics. She studied physics from books in the local library, mostly outdated, but with some practical information nonetheless. She was sure she knew more about both subjects than her high school teachers.

She clicked her tongue. Watch that arrogance, girl. If you make it into Harvard everyone will know more than you. But that was the whole point. She had reached her limits of what a Nebraska education could give her. Time to move away from the cow tippers and corn huskers and move into the real world. She just had to nail this interview.

Her brain told her it was time to dress: a perfect internal clock. She rolled over and out of the bed, then looked at the dress her parents wanted her to wear. Dress conservatively, they said. She hated dresses. Give her a comfortable pair of jeans and a pull-over shirt and she'd be happy as a clam. The less she had to think about dressing the more she could think about other things.

Plus dresses made her look awkward, to her mind. She put the dress against her and looked in a mirror. Yeah, awkward. It made her look like a beanpole, something the kids at high school called her frequently. Genetics made her tall; teasing made her mad.

She took a deep breath. That was the last thing she needed: to get mad. Harvard was her dream school. Bad enough her interview at Yale was terminated due to her temper. No. Due to a sexist pig of an interviewer. She shook it off, no sense in bringing it back just before the most important point in her life.

She jumped in the shower and afterward dried her shoulder-length, Fire-Engine-Red hair. As she combed it out the one positive thing she could say about it was that it was straight. She could not tolerate frizzy hair.

She slipped on the dress, dabbed a bit of makeup on her face: another sore point. Freckles were one thing, but combined with acne. Ugh. For half a minute she opened her mind to the possibilities, just to see if any challenges would reveal themselves. She wished she'd done that before the Yale interview... No, let's forget that.

She 'saw' nothing in particular, just some positive feelings. She took that as a good sign and slipped into her high heels.

"Hi, Dad," she said, a second before the knock on the door. She opened it. "I'm ready."

J.D. Brown was tall, but hardly the matchstick figure his daughter turned out to be. His work in construction for most of his life had made his body tough. But he had a jovial laugh and a good nature. Dottie frequently called him 'Corny,' but that had more to do with the area of Nebraska they lived in.

J.D. nodded at her and she followed him to the living area of the suite. Her mother, Beth, smiled sweetly at her. "I don't need to tell you how to act. Just be yourself and don't let the little things get you off-target."

Dottie understood. She and her mother had more than a familial bond: they thought alike. Only Mom didn't get mad. For that matter, neither did Dad. He only got 'disappointed,' but he let her know it by a silent frown or a terse word.

The drive to Harvard was silent. Dottie went over her notes in her head. Show compassion there, show pride there, show ambition everywhere, and show a little humility in just the right doses. That was her father's advice. She had no lack of ambition. But the humility was hard. She was right. She was always right. It irked her when someone told her she was wrong when she wasn't. They couldn't see things the way she could. No matter how right her visions turned out to be, no one believed her, except that one time. She shivered, trying to free her mind of the mutalated body she had seen in her head. But after that the teasing started, and she hid her 'gift'. 'Kids will'be kids', her mother had said. Yes, cruel and uncaring.

She closed her eyes and tried to meditate. Meditation had two repercussions for her: it calmed her so her anger had nothing to latch onto, and it increased her awareness of everything around her. The former had obvious good intentions. The latter had both good and bad repercussions. She felt minds all around her in various emotional states. Happy, sad, passionnate and yes, angry. She forced herself to concentrate on the happy and passionnate emotions she read. Her face turned red automatically when passions rose to their crescendo. She felt nothing internally, though. That was HER choice and no one else's. The happy thoughts, however, calmed her. They were happy moments in the lives of families in her general vicinity, and they reminded her of the happy moments her own family had gone through.

She saw a picnic setting with her parents and...No, no, NO! NO! Keep those thoughts away!

She pulled back from her reverie and opened her eyes. She felt a trickle of sweat run down her back, but that was the only sign that something had happened. No, her mother had stiffened. She felt it too. Dottie drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. The feelings of anxiety faded just as they approached the gates to Harvard.

***

Dottie sat in front of the group of Harvard professors and administrators. She had been through this sort of group interview before and knew what to expect. That helped to relax her. She got a generally good vibe from the group, with one or two negative vibes. She could overcome that. She had to overcome that.

The senior administrator cleared his throat. "Thank you for coming Miss Brown," he said. They were all male, all old men. "Tell us why you want to attend Harvard in the Fall."

Dottie drew a deep breath and launched into the prepared part of her notes. Knowing what they wanted to hear was a big part of it.

"I respect this institution. The foremost professors of physics and astronomy call Harvard home. I feel I can learn more here than any other school because of the resources at your disposal."

The grumpy man with the beard interrupted her. "Resources that cost money, Miss Brown. You applied for a scholarship. Can your family not provide for the tuition and room and board at Harvard?"

Dottie fought back the fit of anger caused by the interruption. Humility. "My family has never found that money provides happiness, Dr. Beckmann, we've always lived modestly on my dad's construction income. They can help me with room and board, but tuition is another matter. that's why I've applied for a scholarship as well as as many grants as I could find. I've worked 2 jobs over the last 2 years to earn the money I need for the first year, so I am prepared for that, but if and when I am accepted at Harvard, I want my full attention on my studies rather than how I'm going to pay for it."

The man nodded. "But why should we select you for Harvard, Miss Brown. Especially for our renowned Physics department?"

Time for pride. "I have straight A's in High School, and will be the valedictorian there when I graduate. I have perfect scores in the SAT's and Advanced Placement credits. I'd be starting out as a Sophomore. I've had an intense desire to learn about physics and I've read as many papers are in the public archives as I can. Even your book, (book title), Dr. Beckmann. I find the field of Astrophysics to be compelling. I-I'm even thinking of becoming an astronaut." She fell silent, her thoughts turning to space.

She heard a couple of huffs and a chuckle. The emotions she read told her they thought it was a joke. Yet it seemed to lighten the mood, so she let it pass.

She felt a piercing glance from another man, with glasses and small eyes. "Miss Brown, it has come to my attention that you were removed from an interview with Yale because of a fit of temper." He paused to see how she would react. She kept her posture relaxed. "Tell us about that, please?"

She drew a breath. Humility. "I don't know what you've heard, but this is the truth. Dr. Fields, I'm sure you all know him, made a comment about my body, suggesting I was trying to look like a man in order to fit in. His comment basically said I had no chest. I took offense to the fact that my gender or chest-size has any effect on whether I would be admitted to Yale. I regret that my temper got the best of me." Passion. "But my temper comes from my passion to learn and to succeed in discovering the unknown. I would much rather use that energy in finding black holes than in defending my - my womanhood."

She felt positive energy flowing from most of them. Nailed it.

The rest of the interview took on a more technical feel, being peppered with questions about what she knew. She answered every question with certainty.

At the end, the administrator stood. "Thank you, Miss Brown. We'll be in touch."

She stood and shook the hands of everyone there, getting a better empathic sense of how they felt. She left feeling highly confident.

She met her parents at a cafe on campus.

"Was it worth it," said her father. "I don't mean from a financial standpoint..."
\

Yes he did, partly.

"I mean do you feel that going for Harvard is worth all the - aggravation?"

She looked him in the eye. He had her best interest at heart. "I feel driven to get the best education. Period. Harvard can provide me with that, as well as the resources to continue researching after I leave. So yes, to me it's worth everything to go there."

She heard a voice in her head, one she hadn't heard before. It's vital you go to Harvard. It had a familiar ring to it, but she couldn't place it. She shook her head. This didn't feel like someone's thoughts. It felt like someone trying to tell her something.

"All right," he said. "Let's head home, then."

She opened her purse. "Not before I fill out these thank you cards and mail them. I want them to get these cards tomorrow." She began the process of writing each one, remembering individual details about each of them that she could use to personalize the cards. She had mastered caligraphy in her sophomore year, but kept her script plain, with the occasional flourish. She could feel her father's impatience growing, but she took her time, wanting to get it right the first time, every time.

***

When they arrived back at their home in Nebraska, Dottie unpacked quickly yet put everything in its place, slipped into her comfortable jeans, shirt and baseball cap, grabbed her bucket of baseballs, bat and glove and went to the nearby baseball field. It was empty but that was the way she liked it. She stretched and then ran a few laps, alternating her speed, feeling her heart beating faster. The time alone, with no one nearby, gave her time to think. She ran to the mound with her glove and ball, and threw pitches against the backstop, watching with delight as her pitches crossed the plate again and again. the boys hadn't let he play Little league as a child, and she was relegated to softball in High School. But baseball was her first love when it came to sports. She loved to watch the Major Leaguers pitch and bat, and mimiced them at first, but came up with her own style over the years.

She was in the process of hitting fly balls deep into the outfield when she saw a group of boys come up. She sensed they wanted to play a pick-up game and that meant she had to leave. But today she was feeling more defiant than usual and kept hitting. When one cleared the fence she got some whistles from the boys. But it was all a game. They knew she could hit, and pitch, but they didn't want her as a part of any team. She could sense the machismo and testosterone building in just the few minutes they watched. She hit the last ball in her bucket, then started to run after them.

She sighed as the boys started to take the field, assuming she was finished. She knew the answer even before she asked. "Mind if I play?"

The team leader was one of her classmates. An ugly brute who had hit on her more than once. She had shot him down every time.

"I'll let you play if you go out with me," he said.

Dottie carried the bucket of balls toward the rickety stands, turned and shook her head. "No thanks, Tom. I'm saving my dating life for the man I'll marry."

The brute crossed his arms. "How do you know he's the one if you don't date him?"

Dottie looked away for a moment, wistfully. "Oh, I'll know. He'll sweep me off my feet and make me feel like I'm a woman."

She heard the laughter in her head before she heard it in her ears.

"You are so dopey, Beanpole. We should call you Dopey Dottie from now on."

She stared at Tom. "And you wonder why I won't date you? Learn some manners and don't insult people." She felt like dropping him; she could. She had, once, when she was 15, but she got in so much trouble. She picked up her baseballs, her bat and glove and stormed off the field.

She dropped her gear on the floor of her room, curled up in her bed, and let her mind drift.

You'll know him when you meet. He won't seem right, but he will be the one.

She started out of her reverie. She had seen a figure, a man. She had seen herself too. The man was shorter than her. She soured at that thought. She always had the notion of looking up into her lover's eyes. Oh yes, she thought about sex, even if the act itself had not happened yet. She trembled slightly at the anticipation. Her Catholic upbringing might force her to wait until marriage, but that did not stop the urges. She drew a long breath, then went to take a cold shower. Not yet.






Copyright 2015 Michael Harrison Fox

CompuTrek: One Man's Journey to Build a Computer

It started with an interview, an accusation that my experience did not adequately prepare me for the job I wanted. That my 2 years on the phone troubleshooting systems did not count toward the experience they desired for Level 2 Deskside Support.

I knew I could do the job, I had built several computers from parts over the last 20+ years. But those were for me, not for an employer. I had taken classes in A+ Certification, but I did not have the actual certificate.

So, I asked myself, how could I prove I have the ability to be an effective Desktop Technician? My answer was: build a desktop computer from the various components and record myself doing it.

So began an Odyssey that has taken me several months to reach fruition. First, I had to have enough money to buy the components, a feat which was aided by 20 hours of overtime in May. Once I had adequate money, I needed to research what parts I needed, and more importantly, what tools would I need to prove my abilities?

I decided that I was going to prove all the skills that I had learned at NC State: A+, Net+, Security+, Windows 7 and Cisco. I would need all the tools and equipment that would prove proficiency in those skills. I decided to build 2 computers, one of which would be used as a server, one as the client (and a killer game system while I was at it), get a Cisco Router to connect them all together, put together a RAID system, and add all the security and networking tools I needed.

I've divided the process into stages. Stage One was to build the server. This computer did not have to have the killer hardware of the gaming system. I could get by with cheap. I researched motherboards, processors, graphics cards, memory, hard drives, Solid State drives, and cases.

I didn't really want to get everything mail order, so I found a local store in Boston, Micro Center, to have a chance to look at the components first-hand. The trek there led me from work, to the Silverline Courthouse Station, to South Station where I caught a Red Line train to Park Street, to a Green Line train that took me to Boston University West. It might be noted that the night before I had attended a concert, and had walked extensively before and after, so I was already tired and footsore. Once at the BU West station, I had to walk about 10 minutes to get to the Micro Center Store.

Once there I saw a vast array of motherboards and everything else, but a sign caught my attention, that said if you buy an AMD processor, you could get money off the motherboard for it. I wound up getting a motherboard for free when I spent $100 for the processor. I was very happy about that. I could have chosen a quad core processor, but instead I was sold on a 6-core processor.

Given that I did not have a car, and had limited carrying abilities, I broke my shopping spree into two trips. On the first trip I bought the motherboard, the processor, the power supply, memory and an OEM copy of Windows 7 Home Premium. I dragged the bags back the way I came, walking 10+ minutes, Green Line, Red Line then the Orange Line to go home. By the time I got home it was late and I was exhausted.

I had planned on going back the next day, but my knees, feet and ankles said no. So I went to work, but rested during the night. I did some research on what I'd bought, and found the motherboard doesn't work with Windows 8, which was fine by me. For my first system I had planned a dual-boot, first installing Windows 7, then installing MS Server 2012. They offer a trial version that's good for 6 months, plenty of time to prove my skills.

The next day, a Friday, I left work feeling a little better, and made the trudge back to Micro Center. This time I thought I might limit myself to a case and a keyboard, and a couple of smaller things. But I
did shop for monitors too. I found a suitable, cheap case, a suitable, cheap keyboard, and a suitable cheap monitor. I actually had a choice, two 24" monitors for the same price, but one was considerably heavier than the other. After lifting the lighter one, I thought, 'Hey, I can make this in one trip.' I paid for my stuff and prepared to leave.

The box for the monitor had a handle on it, which is what sold me on getting it. The box for the case had no such luxury. But it was relatively light and I found I could heft it all right. Then the first walk came, and what was a 10 minute walk any other time, became a 20+ minute walk of horrors, as my strength gave out time and time again, forcing me to put my packages down and rest a minute. My hands began to cramp up, and my back hurt. I have one strong arm, and one weak one, and shifting the packages around proved harder on my weak right arm.

I knew there was a bus stop close by, but I'd never seen the stop. I took the chance and walked in a different direction until I found the stop. The bus came and took me in the opposite direction of what I
wanted, but did leave me at a Red Line station. The transit system was crowded by that time, so I spent half the trip back standing, my packages on the floor or between my legs. No one offered to give up their seats to someone who was obviously struggling until near the end.

But the end result was that I made it home, exhausted, but at least I had all the computer parts for the First Stage. What I didn't have was a desk or table to set it up on, and a chair to sit in.

So I did my research and I found a Walmart in Quincy, Massachussetts. The plan that day was to go to Walmart, see if they had a place to cut hair inside, as they frequently do, look for a nice suit to record an
introduction in and then get the table and chair. I found the routes to take on the MBTA to get there, and found them lacking, much the same as for Micro Center: there was a period where I had to walk. Yet, I was determined to get the damned thing set up that weekend, so Saturday afternoon, I made one last trek, oh how I wish.

Orange Line, Red Line, Bus. I found a 4-foot plastic table and a chair that went with it, not too too heavy, and the table had a built-in handle. The chair had a hole in the back to put my hand through. But I found no place to cut hair there and I knew dragging a suit along with the table and chair would be a  bad idea, so I only took the table and chair with me.

The walk from the bus stop unencumbered took 10 minutes. Encumbered, with frequent stops to rest my tired arms and back took 20 minutes. But at least the way back was downhill, that was what saved me.

After getting chastised by a snooty bus driver for going to the wrong stop, I did finally drag my tired butt back home. Tired as I was, though, I was eager to get started with the build. I set up the table and chair, then lined up all my computer products at the desk, took a picture, then recorded an introduction to the actual players in my dramedy: the components.

I have a camera that happens to shoot video. It's a nice camera, and the video it shoots, as well as the audio were perfect for my needs, but it runs on battery power and an SD card. I had no way to plug it into the AC, only to charge the batteries. I have 3 batteries for it, and each battery let me record video for about 20 minutes or so.

The bottom line was a series of short videos that chronicled my attempt to put the computer together. Overall, it went well, until I tried to fire it up, and nothing worked. All the work I had put into it, shattered by a bad power supply.

But then this is why I wanted to get all the parts locally. I knew that, rather than having to send the part back, I could just walk back to Micro Center and get it replaced the next day. I could do nothing until the morning, so I removed the defective power supply and left everything else as it was. I went to bed exhausted and not a happy camper.

Then the rain started.

It rained all night. When I woke, it was still raining. Yet though I was still tired, I made the trek to Micro Center again, in the rain and carrying the old Power Supply. Orange Line, Red Line, Green Line, walk 10 minutes. I exchanged the Power Supply without issue, and picked up a couple of things that were missing: an HDMI cable (silly cheap monitor only had VGA), and a mouse pad, because the table surface didn't let the optical mouse work well.

Trudge back - Green Line, Red Line, Orange Line, and walk the 3 blocks home. In the rain.

Yet home I did arrive, and before I turned the camera on, I installed the Power Supply and fired up the computer, to be sure it worked before I rolled. It did. I finished my videos, stepping through setting up the BIOS. I split my 2TB hard drive into 1 TB partitions, installed Windows on one and left the other blank, intending to install MS Server 2012 on it when the time came.

But before I did that, I wanted a stable Windows setup. To my dismay, nothing seemed to work well at first, most notably the Ethernet. Then I remembered that the Motherboard came with its own installation disk. I ran through the installation, trying to skirt around the bloatware, and eventually got to the point where the Ethernet was recognized and I could surf the web, and begin the process of downloading and installing updates.

Anyone who has installed a fresh copy of Windows knows that the update process can take hours. So I used my laptop to do my daily routine and let the desktop computer do its thing. Hours went by and I'd glance at the monitor every now and then as the system first downloaded, then installed the updates, frequently restarting in the process. During one of those restarts, I saw something blue out of the corner of my eye, then the system restarted again. Blue again, restart. I got up and watched it go through its process again. I was getting the dreaded Blue Screen of Death, but the system was trying to restart each time. I started the system in Safe mode and that seemed to take it out of its infinite loop. The system said it was reverting back to a safe spot, and rebooted again. I started it normally, but still got an error message that the Group Policies task could not be started. That  meant that I could only run the system as the Admin.

That is where I left it, and I'm still deciding if I want to reinstall the system after performing a chkdsk to make sure there's no bad sectors in the hard drive.

But the plan is, when Windows 7 becomes stabilized, to install Server 2012 in a dual boot and record that process. I've never installed Server in any of its variations, so this will be a challenge.

Yet it's a challenge I don't have to walk all over Boston to achieve.

It's a mental challenge that I accept and expect to conquer.

Note: It's a day late, Windows has been successfully reinstalled and updated. Time to mke that Server video!

New book: Foxism: An Alternative to Capitalism

What follows is the introduction to a new booklet I'm writing.

Introduction

Ursula Le Guin, a writer whose work I admire, recently proposed that science fiction writers come up with ideas on alternatives to Capitalism. I’ve had the ideas that follow in my head for some time, churning as to what the details would be, what the pros and cons would be, what could go right, and, as my imagination kicked in, what could go horribly wrong.

I call it Foxism, perhaps out of a feeling of vanity, perhaps out of a desire to be remembered, A lot of social systems are named after their founders: Marxism, Taoism, etc., and some of those founders and authors are remembered well by some, reviled and ridiculed by others. If I’m remembered, I hope it will be positive.

It takes all kinds to make this world we live in. Foxism isn’t going to work for everyone. Those that embrace it will have to forego greed. Those that are greedy will consider it absurd. It will take a lot of work and cooperation. It will take a full embrace of the technologies that are available to do the menial tasks no one wants to do and to make the lives of every community members as comfortable as possible. 

If greed must be eliminated, so too must violence. Patience must be taught and so too should tolerance. But that doesn’t mean there will be no pride, no sense of accomplishment, no reward for hard work. It just can’t be in the form of money, or power.

So if you live for money or power, this system is not for you. But read on, you might learn something.

Paranoid and Hating It

As is my wont since I started to take the Silverline to and from work, I walked past the Boston Federal Courthouse today. In the past it had been a scene filled with officers of all types and a line of press and other bystanders. Today it was quiet. As I crossed the street to begin traversing the building, a mini-van pulled up to the last space before the street. It was a van covered in circular icons, and as I drew near I noticed it said 'Catering' on it. As I leaned down to look in the passenger window, a slight flow of paranoia creeping over me, and I saw the driver look at me. He was young, under 20 I'd say, was very thin but not very tall, had dark, curly hair and a slightly dark complection.

What made me move faster, in addition to all the above, was that he was just sitting in the van. It he was a legitimate caterer, he should have been jumping out of the van to do what needed to be done. I moved as fast as my poor knees would let me, fearing to be caught in a blast. If I'd had the presence of mind to remember I brought my camera, I might have even taken pictures or video.

I can safely say I was not caught in a blast, nor has any occurred as of this writing. As I moved away from the scene, the paranoia faded, and the temptation to call 911 waned. Then I got to thinking. Was he perhaps waiting for someone? He did seem a bit nervous when he saw me looking at him, Maybe he was picking someone up using compamy property. If I had acted rashly, things would certainly be different for him. The simple fact is I had no facts and therefore no justification in calling the police. Knowing them, in their own paranoia, made worse by the recent killing of someone who had threatened them, they would have moved in and shot him without provocation.

That's all right for them - well, no it isn't, really, but I understand where they're coming from. But for me, paranoia is a recent thing. I've never been at 'ground zero' of a major event, and the trial of the Boston Marathon Bomber had put me on an edge I really didn't like to be on.

But this is where I work, and I won't let the possibility of being blown up, no matter how remote, stop me from getting paid.

But that doesn't mean I like being paranoid. It's a feeling I really want to get rid of. Right now, though, I have to learn to deal with it. Because if I let it rule my life, then the terrorists win, amiright?