First the good news:
Now the rest of the news:
The local technocrats decided to "fix" the mailing list server. Showing the usual disregard for customer concerns, they're written a new server soon to become "the internet standard." Complete with all the features to make it completely unusable by subscribers, it will no doubt soon be embraced by the system administrator community.
When I received the email informing me the glorious day would be March 24th (10 days away) and what I must do (instructions that didn't work), I went into a blind rage. After posting a comment that killed the thread, discussing this issue, deader than invoking Hitler or Nazis, I recovered my wits enough to realize now was not to time to go off half-cocked. No, now was the time to go off locked and loaded. As a red mist descended over my vision, memories of the Marine Corps came to mind. Bad memories.
We were in Beaufort, South Carolina. Geographicly near Hilton Head Island but economicly distant. Far from San Diego boot camp but all too close to Parris Island.
We had assembled for formation during the wee "O" hundred hours. The military doesn't have morning or AM. They only have hundreds of hours. Most of the time it seemed more like thousands.
We had among us enough hangovers and bad attitudes to make Roseanne's PMS look like the Cold War compared to the Great War. They would pick this morning to try out a new sergeant.
Marine Corps sergeants are a breed onto themselves. They're neither born nor made. They're cloned. This clown with mirrored sunglasses standing before us was not a sergeant. He was just one of us with one too many stripes on his arm. In a vain effort to gain some respect, he tells me to put out my cigarette.
Looking at the image of myself in his twin reflective lens, I just say no. The Sylvester Stallone look alike standing next to me lights up, turns to the sergeant and says no. As the rest of this motley collection of cutthroats began to break out butts (the smokers sharing with the non-smokers), a movement attracts our attention.
The master sergeant, who had been there all along, chooses to become visible. In a voice some claim killed small animals in the nearby woods, he suggested we, "Knock it off assholes and come to attention!" This was a real sergeant. The very marrow in our bones came to attention. If you cross this man the only thing that will beat you to the hospital is the headlights of the ambulance.
They took names and kicked ass. Despite giving a false name, I became a private again.
Well, I figure if I can survive saying no to a sergeant, I can survive changing ISP's. Now the question is: can everyone else.
Should we:
So I'd appreciate some feedback. Sometimes I feel like I'm talking to myself here (which isn't always a bad thing). Yes, this does sound like I'm feeling sorry for myself but maybe all I need is a hug or a kick in the ass. Either way let me know.
I almost forgot my shameless self-serving plug: http://www.lies.com/mar96/031496.html
As the fog of memories best forgotten fade from my mind, I realize I'll got this weeks URL's to get out.
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March 17, 1996 |
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