No, No FiOS. Not Yours.

No, there wouldn’t be any high-speed fiber-optic communications today. Why would I think that?

Look, there’s not going to be any whining here. Verizon was very organized and efficient, in a very organized and inefficient way, and the fiber optic installer tried mightily to get the thing done. It was not practical, so he folded his tent and went into the… afternoon. He’ll be back eventually, and I will get what I desire. But his efforts in vain were instructive nonetheless. I gleaned information about the zeitgeist for people in a manual/technical trade.

I used to manage rather a lot of them, but I’m out of the loop. Half a decade is a long time in that sort of field. The ‘tude of your average worker bobs like a cork on the wave of what’s possible and what’s required. You can gauge the current by watching them.

He was on time. He was polite and deferential, but very interested in stopping talking to the customer as soon as possible, and working on the installation. All customers are obstacles to work. It was ever thus.

He knew what he was doing. He answered my technical questions without hesitation. He only faltered when he was asked about procedural difficulties with the home office. There was a deficiency on the paperwork he was clutching. It was at odds with what I desired. This was a real problem.

Nothing else was a problem for him. He was equipped properly by the same persons who stymied him with protocol when there was a deviation from the norm. He knew what to do. He even knew what had to happen for my little problem to go away. But he stood in the cold for over a half an hour by the clock, waiting on hold while a faraway clerk tried to find a keystroke somewhere to bless the whole procedure. And I realized that the little problem had intruded onto the part of the relationship between the customer and the company that involved being a government regulated utility. There were a lot of rules, most obscure to him, that added up to: Stop. Ask for permission, big time. He bore this with with equanimity, and a kind of fatalism I’ve seen often before.

There is a scale of alacrity, generally. From go-getter to stasis, this is how it goes:

Individuals
Small businesses
Big businesses
Unionized businesses
Government regulated businesses
The government

Nothing much, or conversely, all sorts of things but nothing that makes sense, happens at the end of that scale. I’m referring to the cold, dead hand of the frameworks involved. Individuals labor to make the best of all situations, but we are all susceptible to the manifold signals we get from our surroundings, and we act accordingly eventually. We can only swim upstream for so long; we all inevitably decide to drift with the current. Or find another ocean to swim in.

In my former life, I’d ask people for herculean efforts, and they’d deliver nine times out of ten. They’d overcome all sorts of problems in the field where is was often difficult and tiring, and sometimes dangerous. But there was one way to make everything stop. The government. Any government functionary, low to high, could make you stop everything and stand around while they figured out if they wanted to let you do something, and especially while they figured out if they felt like figuring anything out for a good long time.

In this passion play, the scrap of paper he clutched was his government. He knew what to do. He knew how to do it. He had the resources and the time to accomplish what he wanted to do. But he didn’t know if he was allowed to do it. He knew it was a formality, a little error somewhere, easily rectified. But he would not, dared not proceed until he was assured it was OK down to the last jot and tittle.

I’ve seen people do foolish and destructive things when left to their own devices. But it’s rarer than you might think. Productive people are generally very smart about their own affairs.

I study people that do things, that make the world go around, very carefully. It is interesting always to see exactly how much of their mental and physical energy goes towards figuring out what’s allowed, and how much towards what’s possible.

It’s about fifty-fifty. Your move.

Be Vewwy, Vewwy Qwiet… I’m Hunting FiOS

I’ve always used the most mundane and utilitarian version of just about everything. “Eschew surplusage,” says the guy that should eschew using the words “eschew” and “surplusage,” and just tell you to stop flapping your gums. It’s good advice for anyone.

Well, it’s the surplusage of god**** !@#$%&ing bleeping @#!$!% goldurned $%#&&$ time I’m forced to spend staring at a frozen screen that I’m interested in eschewing. And I can eschew muttering to myself for a good long while, before exploding in a rage and throwing the mouse at the wall, too, when all I’m trying to do is look at a two minute low resolution video clip but my intertubes are all clogged up with interwebbage already. Why? Because they’re made of copper they can’t even be bothered to put in a penny anymore.

If it doesn’t work, and all that fiber-optic goodness they’re supposedly bringing me today doesn’t get me off the low-grade DSL schneid I’m trapped in, you’re going to hear me –old school analog screaming style– from your house, even if your windows are closed.

Noticing Things

The wee one.

He’s still three. I see him all the time of course, and so it takes a moment of detachment to notice a change in him. This picture is — was — such a moment.

His brother was playing the trombone in the auditorium. There was a lot of dead time while various permutations of performers set up, so the little guy roamed. And when he hit the gym — look out.

There was a giggle, and a moment of decision, and then he lit out across the floor like a rocket.

The floor is that all purpose, vaguely rubbery skin that makes for excellent footing. And to a little dynamo, months into weather enforced interior seclusion, the prospect of wide open spaces in which to run was irresistible.

I laughed and chased him a bit, and we had a grand time. I didn’t notice it until I looked at the pictures, though.

Look at the picture. Look at his foot. Look at the angle of his ankle. Look at the lean of his body as he runs around the corner. Look at the swinging of his arms, caught in digital amber. He’s really running.

He’s not bouncing like a homeless jack-in-the-box, his arms flailing around him like a chimpanzee trying to keep his balance. His feet aren’t landing flat. He’s not running in straight wandering line. He’s running like a sophisticated coordinated human being.

And what that means, to his old man, is that part of his life is dead and buried, never to be seen again.

The World’s Greatest Plumber

My oldest boy plays the trombone. Just like his old man did. I abandoned it for electrified instruments a long time ago, but kept the nasty brass pipe in my attic. My son found it a few years ago, and was transported with the idea of it. We were pleasantly surprised that the elementary school in our town had a very good music instruction program, and sure enough, the boy brought home the news: “I’m going to play the trombone.”

He’s pretty good, too. It helps that the woman who runs the program, Hannah Moore, is a trombone player herself, and my boy’s lessons are informed by the particular knowledge of the instrument she wields. We went to see the sixth graders play the other night, and my boy walked to the front of the stage, and played a little solo in the middle of “Night Train.’ Of course the batteries in my camera had died 5 seconds before that. Oh well. The ephemeral is still important.

I wanted to show my boy someone playing the instrument in an engaging way, so he could see that it’s not a dead end if he doesn’t want it to be. I was once asked to play in the Westboro Symphony Orchestra, back when I still played. I sat down next to the other trombone dude. I opened the music. It had a big black bar atop the page, with a “134” atop it. It meant I was supposed to count 134 measures rest before playing. Then there was about twenty five notes. Then there was another big black bar. Classical music doesn’t have much use for the trombone in general. The other trombonist said: “Do you mind counting the measures? I’m going to read.” He had brought “War and Peace” to the rehearsal. I bought an electric guitar the next day.

So I scoured YouTube, trying to find something as cool as the four Scottish women playing The Stars And Stripes Forever, so my boy would know that there’s a place in the world for anybody that masters his instrument. I wasn’t disappointed. I found the greatest plumber on YouTube — Nils Landgren: