This most recent installment of Splutschnik has taken it from being unequivocally my favorite thing to do in Kansas City, to the point where I'm not sure if I want to do it again. I definitely had fun, as did the group that actually did show up for it, but there were a lot of disappointments.

First, almost fifty people committed to attending on facebook, and another perhaps thirty people responded, "maybe." Now, I understand that these numbers never reflect the actual numbers, but the turnout was truly disappointing by comparison. Lots of people contacted me directly, talking about how excited they were, and how much fun it was going to be. When the day of the event came, most of these people didn't show. Not even a word.

There was a misunderstanding that led one team to go to Westport for the bulk of their bars, and I suppose I'm to blame for not taking them aside and saying that Splutschnik is supposed to be a downtown-only event. But even so, I wasn't upset about it. Unfortunately, others took what they perceived to be my lead, and proceeded to berate the wayward team, to no benefit but the satisfaction of their own sense of self-righteousness. This caused these people, good friends of mine, to leave in a huff, and without a word. I didn't find out about this until today, and I feel terrible about it.

It just puts the whole thing in a bad light and the comraderie that the event is supposed to foster was just spoiled by it. It's put a bad taste in my mouth about what I had previously considered one of the best ideas I ever had. I hate the idea of canceling the next installment of Splutschnik, but that's how I'm feeling at the moment. Maybe I just need some time to think about it.

I went to Massachusetts last week. I flew in on Friday, the 22nd, and worked in Devens until Thursday the 28th. Devens was a bona fide US Army installation until about 15 or 20 years ago, when the Feds decided that they needed a quick buck. So, they sold off the land to a bunch of corporate office park developers who are better at building parking lots than they are at making buildings, and most of Fort Devens became just Devens. Fort Devens still exists, but it's a tiny fraction of what it once was. tiny as it is, that's where I was working. On a small fenced military installation about ten miles down MA-2 from Leominster.

The actual exercise didn't happen until Tuesday and Wednesday, the 26th and 27th, respectively. So we spent the abundant time beforehand setting up a bunch of computers, trying local hamburgers, and training soldiers on how to use the software that is used during the exercises we run. Everything went without any problems, and by Wednesday afternoon we were done. My partner Paul took the rental back to New Hampshire and few out the next morning, as he's not much of a fan of extended travel.

So, alone the next morning, I took a cab into Ayer, MA, to catch the 11:43am train into Boston. The driver pointed out various landmarks of the Devens that once was, and that no longer is. It appears that its transformation from Army base to ugly suburban office park was so gradual that nobody even noticed. The train was three minutes late, but I was in no hurry. I rolled into town in comfort, with an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia ending right as the train pulled into Porter Square.

I surfaced at Porter Square, and started walking north along Hancock out of Cambridge, and into Somerville. I was staying with Tobias and Tessa that night at their place on the other side of the bikepath. I arrived at their doorstep at about 12:45pm, and saw Tessa striding up the street minutes later. She let me in, offered me food, and made me feel at home. I was anxious to go out and get into the area, so I declined the food and legged it to Davis Square. I found a burrito place called Annie's Taqueria, and enjoyed sitting still with hot food. All week in Devens I had never spent a great deal of time outside, and even doubted my decision to pack gloves, a scarf, and a hat. How foolish it would have been not to, because Boston was cold!

I settled into a stool at the Burren, an Irish bar I remember visiting with Carl some years ago. I began my day. By the time the day ended, there were four reunions, two restaurants, five bars, one dinner, and eleven beers. Needless to say, I woke up on Friday feeling less than amazing. I took deep breaths for hours to avoid getting sick. I breathed so heavily that I made myself dizzy, and dried out my mouth and throat. Eventually I got up and moving. I packed up my stuff, rolled away the air mattress, wrote a thank-you note to Tobias and Tessa, and made my shivering way to Kenmore Square.

I checked in at the Hotel Buckminster, right on the corner of Beacon and Brookline, overlooking the square and Fenway Park. The view from the fifth-floor room was spectacular. I napped the rest of the day and afternoon, until Jenny's flight arrived late that night. We met at South Station after the worthless "Silver Line" bus took 45 minutes to go a mile and a half. We went back to the hotel and found that all the restaurants were closed, so we asked the front desk what places delivered this late, and he said, "Domino's" without hesitation, and with a straight face. Famished, we made the call. We waited for two hours, and they never came. We cursed them and went to bed just shy of 3am.

We still got up before 9am, as we were on vacation, and had a lot we wanted to do and see. We were going to take the train downtown, but instead opted to walk, as it was sunny out, though it was still well below freezing. Jenny's eyes popper out of her head when she saw an H&M store, and we went inside. She kept apologizing, but I assured her that I was expecting H&M insanity, and I patiently wait for her to burn out, getting myself a little something in the meantime.

After that we continued our walk down Newbury Street, until we reached the Public Garden, and walked around on the ice for a while. Lots of sickeningly cute pictures were taken, and fun was had. Jenny bruised her thigh, having lost her footing several times on the non-liquid ice. We pushed on, crossing Boston Common, and officially entered downtown at Park Street. We wandered through non-straight streets until we emerged at Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall. We walked from there to the waterfront, and grabbed some seafood lunch at the Chart House, located in an old building right on the harbor.

We took a water taxi to Charlestown, and had a drink or two at the Tavern-on-the-Water before we called a cab and got moving again. We met Carl and his girlfriend Jenn for dinner at Artu, a great Italian place in the North End, and followed that with chocolate-covered cannoli and tiramisu at Cafe Vittoria nearby. They walked with us back to the T, and rode with us to Kenmore, as it was on their way anyway. Jenny and I spent the rest of the evening together, and slept happily that night.

We got up earlyish, but wound up basking around until checkout time. We took the T west until we jumped off at some random stop for lunch. We adjourned at that point to grab our stuff at the hotel, and took the T over to the Institute of Contemporary Art, in South Boston. We passed our last hour there, before hastening to the airport and heading home. We had a great time and a great trip. Jenny was a little disappointed at its brevity, but it was great for me, as I was on the road for a total of ten days, and was very ready to come home.

We'll work out a trip that both of us will appreciate equally. Maybe I'll write a webapp to decide.

In the interest of updating like I did in 2005 and 2006, here goes nothing!

Work wound down yesterday by the usual time, and I put on some warm clothes. It snowed all day and most of the night, with the dizzying swirls and lamppost-illuminated multitudes of falling snow reaching fever-pitch at around 9pm. You'd have to be crazy to go out into that. So, I caught the 47 at 10th and Main at 5:45 or so, and alighted at 39th and Bell to join Nicolas and Karen at Gilhouly's for pitchers and popcorn. For over an hour we were the only ones there. We did impressions of each other to waves of raucous laughter until Anna joined us with snow in her hair. Matt appeared soon after. We had a regular night out on our hands.

After perhaps four pitchers, we groped our way across the a street to Fric & Frac for food. I got the sandwich that's named after me, as I always do, and we split some delicious nachos and fries. We're all going to die. We drank some Irish Ales(the first of the season), and agreed that 2010's batch is A-OK. Justin, of course, was there when we arrived. Matt rode the bus down to the Midtown nethers as well, and the two of us watched buses going by, always resolving to catch the next one, and be ready for it when it comes. It never happened. Instead, when Nick, Anna, and Karen were fed up with having a good time and left, Justin graciously offered to give us a ride home in his badass urban assault vehicle.

We picked up some beer for the road and drank it in the car, appreciating Missouri's lack of an open container law for passengers. Justin dropped me off at my shabby apartment, and I was asleep in minutes.

That's it!

For those of you that are seeing this through facebook as a note, please be aware, this is a post on bahua.com, which is my own personal website. Facebook picked it up through the RSS feed I entered when I created my facebook profile. Though more people may see this as a result of them being my friends on facebook than by actually checking my world-readable website, and that makes me sad. That's what I get, I suppose, for never updating.

Anyway, that was a record. It's been over two months since I wrote anything on this website. I could say I've been busy, but I really haven't. I've had work to do, and things to take care of, as I always do, but the real reason I haven't updated is because I just haven't really had anything on my mind to write about... until now.

That said, hello! How have you been? I realize it's been a while, and I'm sorry about that. I figured that perhaps people didn't want to read about every tiny minutia of my life, and about how I went to Grinders and ate a pizza. Well, from conversations I've had with people, I figured wrong. So, I will make an effort to keep you updated about every boring aspect of my life, asnd maybe even pepper it with some original prose from time to time. Lost Outlines, a short piece that was written to capture a moment in time, has received favorable feedback from the people to whom I have shown it. I assume that the positivity therein is more a direct function of people being excited that a friend made something approximating art, but any press is good press.

I wanted to let you know that I'm seeing someone. Her name is Jenny, and she's amazing. I'm not linking her profile/website or posting pictures, so please don't ask. We've been seeing each other for about two months, and official for one. We get along famously. She lives close, which is handy, as we seem to spend a great deal of time inspecting one another's residences. I've already rearranged furniture at her behest, and she's altered her home electronics configuration at mine. In short, I'm happy in a way I hadn't previously thought possible or even imagined.

That also means that I've been a bit off the radar, and for that I apologize. I will make an effort to be more available, because too often do new relationships consume one's life, and block out all the friendships and commitments of one's pre-relationship life. I don't want that to happen.

In other news, it is a new year, and new possibilities abound. I just completed my extensive employee self-evaluation, and was about to complain aloud about doing it until I realized that I began 2009 with no job at all, and that it would be in pretty poor taste to complain about busywork at my current one. We, meaning my home owners' association, hired a new management company that took over on the first of the year, and barring some sloppiness with the garbage transition, things have been going great.

Money still sucks, but that's the way it goes. I've been struggling ridiculously to pay off the last of the debt I accumulated in my six months of unemployment, and Capital One has taken to using dozens of area codes to try to trick me into answering a call. Pursuant to getting that paid off, I am reinstating my online ledger program, and making some programming updates to it to make it more effective. If you want to try it, let me know.

I think that will do for updates at the moment, but be sure to expect more, because they are coming.

I did a bit of traveling over the weekend. My employer sent me to Massachusetts to conduct a site survey for an upcoming simulation exercise. The actual work portion of shaking hands, establishing a point of contact for receiving the equipment we'll be using at the simex, taking measurements of the room, and noting all the power outlets took no more than thirty minutes. I'll be doing it again this weekend in Lincoln, NE. Fortunately, I'd previously arranged to meet up with my fellow Kansas City friend Karen, who was in Boston for a conference of her own, by coincidence.

Though the site survey itself was at a mostly shut-down Army base near Leominster, MA, I was instructed to find accommodations in Worcester, a small city of roughly 170,000 about 15 miles down the road. In Massachusetts, fifteen miles will cover a lot of ground. In my seemingly short drive from Worcester to the site, I passed a half dozen decent-sized towns and three state parks. Massachusetts, though it's small and dense, is a very wild place outside the inhabited parts. Mountains, thick forests, and swamps abound. In late October it's truly a sight to behold. Though the biggest frenzy of vivid leaf colors had passed perhaps two weeks earlier, there was still an abundance of dazzling color in every direction.

People at work advised me that I should avoid flying into Boston, as there's traffic. Instead they recommended that I fly into Providence. I wasn't into this idea, but I did understand the futility of depending on Boston's Logan airport with a car, and instead chose to fly into Manchester, NH. I flew out of Boston to come home though, because I was there anyway, with my friend Karen. I had never used Manchester's airport before, and it was an absolute breeze. From gate to street was roughly three minutes, and that includes a pee. I had no trouble getting a rental, and hopped on I-93 to speed southward to my destination.

About seventy minutes later, I rolled into Worcester, a city named for the British city in the center of the region that gives my father's favorite steak sauce its name. As is the custom in Massachusetts, Worcester has a salad bar of colleges, large and small, and so of course has a significant youthful population. Undulating hills score its landscape. This combined with its considerable age of 336 years (ancient for America) make for an incongruous mishmash of streets that follow no particular pattern and heed no address numbering scheme of any kind other than buildings just incrementing addresses on a particular street. I noticed this on Massachusetts' highways as well. They most certainly do have mile markers, but the exit numbers have nothing to do with them. Anyway, this all comes together to form an excellent built environment in Worcester, and it goes without saying but I'll say anyway that it's an extremely walkable city.

I walked to Armsby Abbey on the advice of the hotel staff, and they instructed me to "have one" for them. They love beer in Massachusetts, and it shows. I went inside and found that the bar had a selection of about forty beers available on draught, including several Belgian flavors. I'm not a big enthusiast of Belgian beers, as they're on average too sweet and bready for my taste, but I do acknowledge that the commitment, both monastic and commercial, to the craft is a time-honored tradition in Belgium, and here in the States, people flap their arms for Belgian beer.

I helped myself to a local IPA and a local Porter, and got a lot of turned heads when my food came. Some kind of gouda-based concoction that featured bacon and potato salad, and that almost made me start looking around for an apartment guide, was dropped off in front of me. It was a late dinner and I was very hungry, but even so it was an explosion of flavor. I asked the bartender who was, of course, from the Midwest, like everyone else in cool coastal cities, where would be a good place to go after this. She recommended the Boynton, but admonished me that without the benefit of a car, it was "a hike." I told her I didn't mind a walk, as it was a beautiful night. She reluctantly gave me directions.

It took me fifteen minutes to walk there with a full sidewalk and respected priority crosswalks on every step of the route. I don't know what she was talking about with it being, "a hike." I walk farther than that in Kansas City all the time, and have to keep my wits about me to avoid getting flattened by motorists who don't take kindly to people walking on their roadway. Anyway, the Boynton had an outstanding draught selection, but almost everyone there was drinking bottled grey beer. The bartender dusted off the 90-minute IPA handle for me, and I watched the Phillies lose game 2 of the World Series. I was back at the hotel by 11pm, and went leisurely to sleep.

I awoke the next morning in no particular hurry, as I had no specific obligations until after 2pm. I checked out at noon, and drove up to the site just to do what database partner Paul calls, "recon," on the location and the route. With an hour to spare, I periscoped for some lunch. After a pretty sad showing (ie. nothing), I finally came across a Wendy's in Ayer, MA. I ate a 99-cent burger that isn't available in Kansas City, while I watched with quiet humor a revolving door of something you don't hear a lot about in the Midwest: New England Rednecks.

I've been to Massachusetts many times, but never before in my adult life had I visited the provinces this extensively. The natives, especially in the country, have the thickest New England accents I could have imagined. My friend Carl told me several years ago that the accent had "left Boston," and removed to the surrounding areas. I had forgotten this until it was brought home to me at that Wendy's in Ayer. After I finished eating I had perhaps twenty minutes to make the five-minute drive to the site, and I got a phone call. It was my point of contact, letting me know that the site survey wouldn't be possible for another ninety minutes. So, I had some time on my hands.

I decided to head into Leominster for three reasons. One, it has my middle name in its name; two, it was very close; and three, it's the purported birthplace and hometown of Johnny Appleseed. So I headed into town and encountered a ridiculous traffic jam just outside the downtown area. I pulled off and found a spot at a Catholic Church aptly named St. Leo's, suited up, and walked into town. Leominster's downtown is a New England-style modern-art puzzle crammed around a sunny lawn with a Gettysburg memorial reverently erected in its center. No fewer than six church steeples were visible over the orange and red treetops. I took a couple of pictures, but realized that really, there's nothing remarkable about Leominster. It was very different and interesting and exciting to me, but to the average Leominister(?) it's just another town. Even so, I wandered around downtown, peeking into shop windows and trying not to act surprised when people smiled their hellos as we'd pass on the sidewalk. It was a very agreeable town.

I got a call from Ed, my point of contact, as I was heading back to the car. He said he'd be at the site in perhaps thirty minutes. We met at what used to be the Post Shoppette (basically an army gas station), but was now just a regular gas station. I got there first, so I used the bathroom, picked up a hawaiian punch, and sat outside and read a chapter of a book I've read a hundred times already. Ed arrived and we made short work of the work for which my employer paid an extensive sum to finance.

My work obligations complete, I had nothing to do but have a good time. So I hopped on Highway-2, and zoomed into Boston for Halloween weekend. The highways directed me toward the Masspike, and soon I was $2.50 lighter, and headed toward the Prudential building to Neil Diamond in open 60mph traffic. It was a very exciting for me. For a moment I forgot about my debts, my obligations, my troubles, and just enjoyed a sublime point in time.

I dropped the car off at the airport, happy to be rid of it, and jumped on the silver line "train" to the World Trade Center stop. Karen was waiting for me there, and we shared a weird sideways hug. Karen and I are two pretty different people. She actually enjoys things that are good for you. To me they're a necessary, but entirely unpleasant aspect of life. When I travel I abandon the pursuit of making myself a healthier person, in favor of enjoying myself as fully as I can. Beer, meat, potatoes, cholesterol, sugar, refried beans, guacamole, loud music, walking at leisure- these are all things of which I usually avail myself fully when I'm traveling for fun, while Karen is more of a mind of staying the responsible healthy course she has set for herself in her daily life, and which she has come to love and enjoy.

I wish I could enjoy that sort of thing, but I just can't. So I chew my greens and wash them down with water to get the horrible unprocessed veggie taste out of my mouth, and press on. But even so, Karen and I got along just fine when we spent the weekend. I think she was being a little more accommodating than I was though, and I feel the need to apologize to her for that. I need to remember to do that the next time I see her, and to remember that she gave up her weekend for me. I'm not sure I ever fully conveyed my thanks to her for that.

Anyway, she walked me back to the hotel, and I did a five-minute unsweating of my face and armpits in the bathroom when we arrived. I had already arranged with Carl that I'd meet him for dinner and drinks that night. (It was Friday.) Karen had an opening reception to attend for the weekend's conference, and said she'd try to meet up later. I had outstanding luck with the trains, and managed to catch one as soon as I arrived at each platform. As a result, I beat Carl to the rally point by a good ten minutes. This was in the middle of Allston, so the streets were alive with beautiful young people. Carl strode up soon after, and we hugged, not having seen each other for the better part of three years.

We went to a bar called Deep Ellum, which as I recall, is the name of an artsy neighborhood just outside downtown Dallas, TX. As such, I had the theme music from Dallas stuck in my head all night, along with images of Charlene Tilton. We shared a table with a friendly couple, had dinner, drank some delicious local beers, and caught up. It was really wonderful to spend time with Carl on Friday, brief as it was. After we'd been there a little while, I got a text from Karen, proposing that we meet at the Publick House in Brookline. We heaved sighs, but Karen had never been there, and it's definitely a place that everyone needs to visit at least once.

I'm sure there were plenty of buses and cabs that would have been happy to carry us the mile and a half that lay between Deep Ellum and the Publick House, but we agreed that it was too nice of a night not to walk it. Even on foot, we still beat Karen there by at least twenty minutes. We grabbed some beers, and wedged ourselves into a window-side table among the spent glasses of the table's previous occupants. Karen appeared in the picture window about halfway into our beers, and the three of us sat and talked for perhaps an hour before other people from her conference that were walking by recognized her, and split us into conversation groups of Carl and John, and Karen and the conference people. It was actually really nice.

The conference people persuaded us to join them at a costume party about a half mile away. Carl excused himself for the evening when we arrived, and after a couple of beers and laughs, Karen and I left too. It was after 1am, so the buses and trains were not an option. We grabbed a cab, and were stunned at the short time it takes to drive from Brookline to South Boston, compared to our previous point of reference: the T. We went upstairs and were asleep in minutes. Karen reported the next day that not only was I snoring loudly, but I was also growling and speaking in complete sentences, presumably, to people with whom I dreamily interacted.

We met Tobias at a bookstore and brunch place called either Trident or The Trident, on Newbury St in the Back Bay. I had an eggs benedict and too many potatoes, while Karen and Tobias each had some kind of fruit-stuffed french toast dish. it was all extremely tasty. We left there and cruised down the sidewalk of Newbury St. We got our hands lavishly and pungently washed at a Lush store, and we browsed the inescapably expensive wares at Louis Boston, which had a Ferrari parked out front. Karen spotted a pair of glasses with wooden frames, ambitiously priced at just over five hundred dollars, not counting the cost of actually fitting her prescription lenses therein, and was tempted enough to talk about them until we were considerably past capable of purchasing them. I suggested she run the search through google.

We wandered across the Public Garden, and found ourselves in Beacon Hill. Tobias told us stories about how this was his first home in Boston, and the place from which he first began to know and appreciate his new home. He pointed out places where he loved to eat, shop, and walk, and had more stories about people that he knew and had known in various parts of the neighborhood. Beacon Hill, clearly, is important to Tobias, and it's easy to see why. It's almost unimaginably scenic, and its location is the stuff of cliche. If the housing stock wasn't protected as historically significant, it would all be towering highrises now. I knew one business in Beacon Hill: the Beacon Hill Pub; a lone cash-only dive bar in the middle of the charming opulence of Charles St, conveniently situated within 100 yards of the Charles/MGH Red Line stop. We drank beer from faux pint glasses constructed of shatterproof light plastic, and talked some more about nothing in particular.

We agreed it was time to head north, so we got on the Red Line nearby, and traversed the Longfellow Bridge with the afternoon sunlight glinting off the whitecapped Charles River as a foreground to the view of the skyline of the Back Bay to the west. Karen looked up at me, smiled, and said, "I think I like Boston."

We got off the train at Harvard Square, and were immediately shocked by the much greater numbers of people on the streets in Cambridge than there had been in Boston. But it then occurred to us that it was late afternoon on Halloween in America's most overtly collegiate town. Of course people would be out en masse. We weren't quite ready to sit down yet, so we walked around Cambridge for a while. It's very surprising how abruptly the commercial storefronts give way to quiet, tidy neighborhoods of immaculate New England-style houses, but it is so. Cambridge is a singularly lovely town. I've always enjoyed visiting.

Again on my suggestion, we went to Shay's, a basement beer and wine bar about three blocks off Harvard Square. We grabbed a table and some beers, and watched the place fill up around us. Probably half the people we saw were in costume. One woman came in, dressed as a flawless Chun Li from Street Fighter 2. Shortly afterward, six men, dressed perfectly as six-foot tall versions of Oscar the Grouch, Bert, Ernie, Grover, the Cookie Monster, and the insufferable Elmo, sat down at a nearby table. We liked this very much. Even so, after one beer, we felt the need to ramble.

We walked for a bit more in Cambridge, and wound up, on Tobias' suggestion, at a fantastic pizza place called Cambridge 1. We shared a pizza with lobster, sorrel, goat cheese, and corn on it. It was delectable. We didn't even leave any crumbs. Out the back window of the restaurant, next to which we were seated, was a centuries-old cemetery. We decided we wanted to have a look. It fronted Mass Ave, but we took an intentionally circuitous route through the neighborhood behind it for aesthetic reasons. We saw 300-year old headstones amid the falling yellow leaves and late afternoon sunshine. We left there and crossed Cambridge Common, for a bar of the same name.

Our waiter was dressed as Marty McFly, so I called him, "butthead," when I thanked him for our drinks. He laughed appreciatively, as there had been few people that had known what his costume was. Full credit must be given to Tobias though, for first spotting the costume for what it was. We had a couple of beers before we set off again, toward Tobias' home of Somerville, where we had planned with Tobias' wife Tessa, and Ted, one of the people that Karen had met at the conference. We hopped on the red line at Porter Square and rode for one stop to Davis Square, and grabbed a table at Damaskar for some excellent Indian Food.

The food, drink, and conversation were delightful. Nobody could finish their dinner, so Tobias and Tessa gratefully and graciously accepted everyone's leftovers. We said good-night to Ted, who had a party to attend, and went to Tobias and Tessa's apartment about 3/4 of a mile away. We watched some football while we talked, and Tobias and I discovered that his mother and my sister attended the same small girls' college in Terre Haute, IN. Tessa brought me close to tears as she played us a beautiful piece on their new piano, and we watched an episode of Saved by the Bell.

By this time, it was about 11:15pm, and Karen and I had an early flight the next morning, so we thanked them for their friendliness and hospitality, and retraced our steps to the Red Line stop at Davis Square. On the way, the weather went from sprinkling to drizzling to raining to pouring. We hastened to put electronics into protected pockets and bags, but everything got wet. We alighted at the T stop bedraggled and soaked, but I still rather enjoyed it. It was certainly wet, but the temperature was very pleasant, and I always enjoy walking in the rain. Also, though it did rain, neither of us made any effort to hurry. I think we had a silent understanding of our mutual appreciation for the simple novelty of finishing our weekend with falling rain.

It had been almost three years since my last visit to Boston, and though the visit was brief, I can't imagine how it could have been improved.

I chat using google Talk. A lot. Instant messaging is a big part of my daily routine, almost regardless of what I have going on. At any typical moment, I'll commonly have at least fifteen chat windows up, with conversations in various stages and degrees of activity. As such, I can't use the chat feature within gmail, as I'd have so many miniature windows up that I wouldn't be able to use my actual email, which I'm using constantly for work and otherwise.

I've been using gmail for about five and a half years, and Google Talk for a little over four(since it came out). I was talking to Derek this morning about nothing in particular, and it occurred to me that since, by default, all my chats are logged in my gmail account, I could probably find out how many times I've had a chat window open with a particular person. So I started searching. Unfortunately, Google has no reporting tools available to the public, that could probably have compiled in seconds all the information I mined over a period of an hour or two. So, I made do, and forged on.

The results were absolutely shocking. I know I communicate a lot over instant messaging, but I wasn't prepared for the numbers I saw. Just Derek, with whom I was chatting at that moment, accounts for 264 individual conversations, many of which go for hundreds of messages apiece. I decided to dig more deeply, and found that Derek is quite literally the tip of the iceberg. Instead of regaling you with exasperated prose about my internet addiction, I did what any good geek would do. I made a chart. Click it for the full-size image.

This image is a chart of the aggregate total of all the chats I was able to find of everyone in my chat list with more than ten total chats in my history. Sorry, Josh Olsen, but our six conversations didn't make the cut. As you can see, the distribution is pretty one-sided. Mr Jeffrey Denny handily tops out my list, and is followed by Chris Harper, Matthew Staub, and Brad Schmitt before the number dips into the triple digits, of which Nicolas Bock is the chief. In short, I have personally authored hundreds of thousands of words of informal correspondence with friends, relatives, colleagues, and a group I affectionately call, "the ladies."

Speaking thereof, I also made charts that isolated the numbers to the two commonly-accepted genders of our time: men and women. This is all tied together in greater resolution and numeric verbosity in a spreadsheet, from which these quite possibly useless charts are derived.

This all adds up to almost fourteen thousand individual conversations. However, as great is my fascination with these numbers, greater still is my enthusiasm for compiling them for you.

I have a bit of a problem to solve around here. My database guy at work, Paul, uses an internet/network connection that's provided by Fort Leavenworth's Directorate of Information Management(or DOIM). Despite the name of the organization I assure you that this is the US Army, not the KGB. Anyway, Paul's connection comes through DOIM, and DOIM has the most restrictive network policy I have ever seen. On top of the fact that they block the majority of websites out there, they also dictate how you can use your extremely locked down machine.

For example, they don't like it when he disconnects his laptop. I take mine home every night, but Paul usually leaves his docked. This is fine, as he doesn't do any work from home. I do most of my work from home, and well outside business hours. Different strokes, and that's fine. But sometimes Paul travels for work, and needs to take his laptop with him, and DOIM gets very upset when he does this.

The most annoying restriction however, and the reason I'm writing this up on my website (and through the magic of syndication: Google Reader and Facebook Notes) is his USB port, and the fact that he can only use it for input devices, like his mouse and keyboard. USB flash drives are strictly prohibited. The hamper this places on us is that if he needs to copy something to or from one of our network-isolated simulation machines, he has very little recourse.

I am able to take care of it for him, but that's only because I refuse to connect to DOIM's restrictive network, and get my machine locked down. Instead, I tether my cell phone, and use that for my internet access. It obviously isn't as fast as a hard-wired connection, but it gets the job done. I'm writing this blog post through my phone's internet connection right now.

As it is right now, Paul has to ask someone else to move files for him, between the internet and our simulation machines. This is not an acceptable situation, in my opinion. He is not able to complete his job with the tools he's been given. I have a couple of ideas, but I'd be happy to hear yours.

My first major idea is USBnet. Basically, I would like to set up a network connection over USB between Paul's machine and the closest machine on the simulation network. It isn't likely that DOIM is technically adept enough to detect or restrict this, and it's also possible that they wouldn't even have a problem with it, especially if I talk to them first. This way, he'd be able to move files in and out of a non-production staging area on the closest simulation machine, as simply as if they were sitting on his own laptop. This is the ideal solution.

Another idea is for Paul to write to rewritable CDs. This would certainly work, but it would be extremely clumsy, and would still require an inordinate number of CDs. One positive of this though would be that the folks in supply would maybe possibly see that tons of CDs were being used because of an illogical restriction. However, supply and DOIM are not particularly associated.

Basically what I'm looking for is a creative solution for what is an unworkable situation. Any ideas?