I played toy glockenspiel, and did percussion with a bottle opener. Nels played a strainer with a fork, and ran the effects. Frankly, I think he’s a little effects heavy, but OH WELL.

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A day at the races, originally uploaded by ralphhogaboom.

]]> http://ralph.hogaboom.org/2006/04/a-day-at-the-races/feed/ 0 http://ralph.hogaboom.org/2005/10/bon-appetit/ http://ralph.hogaboom.org/2005/10/bon-appetit/#comments Wed, 19 Oct 2005 14:56:00 +0000 ralphhogaboom http://ralph.hogaboom.org/?p=260 It started with the Sextracker statistic I stumbled over in a tech journal.

“70% of all internet pornography viewing is done between the hours of 9AM and 5PM.”
–Sextracker.com

Then, an employee brings in a home computer. “My child has been looking at porn. Can you help me track the activities?” Sure, during lunch breaks. Then — “How do I look at browser history? I think my boyfriend has been looking at porn. LOTS of porn.” I wonder if that has anything to do with the darkening skies, rain, etc driving people back inside.

The interesting thing here is that’s the conflict isn’t stemming from looking at naked people. It’s from secrets. In both cases, people are hurt that those who view aren’t open about it.

We’re supposed to be enlightened in America, right? Porn 50 years ago seems like National Geographic photo essays on naked natives. Or the chunky pulp stuff which gradually gave way to Betty Page, the golden age of pinups. But today, we have events celebrating the artistic side of porn. We have Gina Lynn’s column at Wired (yes, I read it), Sex Drive. We have Dan Savage, columnist for the Stranger, who is so over the top I feel queasy when I read him. We have researchers showing monkey porn to male monkeys (I couldn’t make this up). We have the very people in my office that came to me for help saying “… and I understand being curious, and wanting to see it …” They’re stressing their understanding side.

It would be so unhip to condemn porn.

In both of the above cases, the person worried tried to separate the action (viewing porn) from the trespass (keeping a secret / lying). I was pulled in initially for my technical skills in sussing out the porn, but gave advice anyway.

I don’t think you can keep these things separate, because the action is what drives the trespass. If someone wasn’t confused about what role porn should play in their life, they hide it. They don’t feel confident with seeing it, and so their insecurity compells them to hide.

It’s funny, because the thing that would clear this up is confrontation. But when you’re hiding something, you figure out how to do it well. A constant focus on clearing the web browser history, or hiding your magazines, or whatever else you’re insecure about. I say funny because the root of the issue is there, and it’s being ignored by the focus on hiding. A hider isn’t working on that root, only on hiding.

Until somebody gets wise and it’s knock, knock, we need to talk.

When I’m at work, I’m a buoyant fount of comedy and helpfulness. I’m significantly less so at home.

I now generally have a tendency towards low self esteem. I default to Deny, Failure, and Loss. But as far as my fatherhood, I take it seriously. I put time and thought into my actions. I put a lot of work into it. To confess less than peachy at home is hard.

There was this conference I was going to go to. The Mankind Project. More of a ‘finding yourself’ retreat, but I imagine it as something with mannish versions of The Trust Game. One of the testimonies in the brochure I had read something like this:

“I was in wonderful relationships with my family, but I wasn’t expressing who I was. I had lost the exuberance of my youth, and this weekend I found that and am now sharing who I am with my family. It’s been life changing.”

I found some truth in that, in relation to the work/family dynamic. I mean, what is it about my Dadness that can’t be as lighthearted? A visitor wouldn’t see it. They’d see that I get down on my hands and knees and play – often, too much even. I get grass stains on my work slacks because of it. They’d see I let my kids climb all over me, and I make jokes often with my wife.

But it’s not the same, it’s not really me. It’s just a part of me.

The old me, before kids, was a bit flamboyant. I took better personal care of my self and how I dressed. I was a wise-ass, all the time. I was very upbeat and lighthearted. I really enjoyed being around myself.

I can’t tell where the darkness creeped in. I somehow became someone different at home. Please don’t misunderstand me – I don’t prowl the halls at midnight like a savage beast with blood dripping off my fangs. I get home and immediately pick up my kids in my arms, and go play. We set the table, we all have dinner together. I usually get to bathe both of them and put them to sleep. I Am Not A Dad Who Comes Home And Sits In A Recliner To Unwind. I strongly reject that concept.

What I’m trying to say, and what I fear will be misconstrued, is this:

I don’t understand why I act differently at home and feel less like myself. I don’t know where the real me goes, and I’m uncomfortable scared about that.

Having admitted this to myself, for the first time, I wonder what tonight will be like.

I’m very proud of the company I work for.

I never thought of myself as having problems being around mentally retarded people, and I still don’t. But I can now realize that I wasn’t, and often am not, comfortable.

When I first started working here, there was the Jump Rope room. The Jump Rope room is full of mentally retarded employees. Some are severely mentally retarded. Most are very excited when people come through. I had to go through that to get to the server room.

At first, I avoided it. Then, a few weeks later, I started parking in back so that I would go through the room. When my family visited me (which is often, it’s a family-friendly place) I’d have us enter, and leave, through the Jump Rope room.

I got to know several of them. What’s interesting, to me anyway, is the number of times someone says “They’re like children.” The first part, they, establishes a comfortable distance. The second part implies sympathy.

The analogy works only to a certain degree. I’ll give you a case where the analogy diverges.

Our CEO, who started this company with many of the jump rope employees, had a birthday party recently. All of the folks from jump rope decided to make him a birthday card, and one card had Greg sign it. Greg signed his name with GERGEERG. It was really sweet, when it was explained “He’s been learning how to write.”

This is where the analogy breaks. Greg’s learning how to write is sweet, by in a painful way. When my daughter tries to write her name, it’s sweet in a potential way. She will be able to write her name. At first, she’ll falter. Then she’ll get better and better until she takes her place as someone who is literate. Greg’s improvements have been on behalf of some hard work. I don’t think Greg will ever write the way you or I do, and that’s sad. That’s limiting. That’s where the phrase “They’re like children” falls flat, because of the potential. But it’s a comforting thing for people to say, so they say it anyway.

There’s also a perception of ‘not quite a person’. Or ’shadow of a person’. That’s a more bitter analogy, that mentally retarded people are missing something, some part of them or their mind. And while it might seem more accurate, it’s also most insulting.

What is, is. Who people are, they are.

This is easier, in a sense, for me since I’m exposed to people with radically different mental stats on a daily basis.

It’s easy to do with words, but not so easy mentally. To accept that Greg is all that he is, he is who he is and he’s every bit a full person, was not easy. I do think I’ve done it, though. That doesn’t mean I’m comfortable, and I don’t think it needs to.

Here’s your homework. You know that woman that works at Safeway, the mentally retarded woman, who bags groceries? When have you ever said “How’s your day?” Ask her, and listen to her answer. Don’t couch your words. This is something I’m working on, too.

Avg rating: * * * *

Genre: Drama, Comedy

Plot outline: Ralph goes in for a vasectomy and learns first hand about the ramifications to himself mentally and physically.

User comments: Great performances, some funny scenes with a good message at heart.

Details: Except this wasn’t a movie. I really did go in, about six months ago, and get a vasectomy.

Here’s the one-time-only warning that I’m going to talk, graphically, about my penis and testicles. If you’re feeling faint of heart, fear not! Simply read another article.

Meetings

The Procedure

Like you don’t know, the vasa deferentia, the tubes which connect the testicles to the prostate, are cut and closed. This prevents sperm produced in the testicles to be in the ejaculated semen fluid (which is mostly produced in the prostate and the seminal vesicles).

My Procedure

I was told to shave, but not exactly where. I was given drugs to take before my procedure.

Next thing I know, I’m in a surgical gown on stirrups and some woman is saying regretfully “You were supposed to shave.”

“I did shave, here, behind my testicles.”

“Oh on, Doctor Kuznetsov needed you to shave on the front of your testicles.”

So she proceeded to shave me, dryly, until she was satisfied. With the drugs, though, it didn’t really matter. My biggest concern was that some person touching me would give me an embarrassing erection, which didn’t happen. Turns out the drugs take care of that for you.

You’re seriously relaxed.

After the shaving, Doctor Kuznetsov came in. He had an excellent bedside manner. The first thing I noticed was that he informed me of every single thing he did, before he did it. This proved immensely comforting to me. It was a form of respect that I haven’t attributed to doctors previously.

He even joked about his Russian name, Kuznetsov, CUTS-nuts-off. The fact that he still found that funny gave me even more confidence (the drugs? …. nah).

I felt two distinct stings during the procedure. Then I was done, with a jock strap and an ice pack. Kelly was in the waiting room and took me home where I laid on the couch for a good two hours.

The instructions were to stay on my back for two days. Yeah, right. I have kids. No deal.

The physical recovery proved easy enough. There were some stitches, in the front of my scrotum, that made me feel uneasy. I thought that it was a permanent staple. A week later, the stitches fell out and everything looks the same as before.

There was a follow up sperm test 1 month afterwards. It took all of five minutes, and I was pronounced sterile.

Functionally, everything else is the same, as well. There’s no difference ejaculating, even looking at the semen. It seems the same as before.

Emotionally, I felt slightly off-balance. I was sterile. ‘No longer able to create life’ somehow meant to me unable to support life. I wasn’t really prepared for this, believing that I’d thought through all the ramifications of the sterilization process.

Here I was, doubting. I’m not even sure what I was doubting in myself, to be honest. But the insecurity was there.

As a male, I’ve heard the message that a sterile man can cheat on his partner easier. No need for condoms or birth control. I’ve heard the message that I’m somehow more free of children, or possible future children weighing me down. But although I’ve received that message, it fell way flat.

Sophie and Nels were to be the last of my offspring. Sophie and Nels were to be the last of my offspring. The only two out of a million possibilities. I’d never meet another child of mine. Those two were it. It seems so limiting.

Not that we’d do well with more kids, honestly. It’s more like the giving up of hope. Think about it — if you were told exactly what would happen each day of every day of the rest of your life, exactly what would happen, you’d be dead inside. It’d crush your spirit. Because it would take away hope.

You’d have no real wish for anything other than what you were told. If you knew everything that was going to happen, you couldn’t possibly wish for a better outcome. You’d know the exact outcome of every scenario. You’d lose hope in anything being better than what you knew.

How totally depressing.

And that’s what I felt, at least a fragment of it. I lost all hope that I’d ever get to know another child of mine. That’s a big deal. To have the cut off, irrevocably, permanent. Forever.

It was about a week of mourning, and then I moved on. I had actual, real children right here and now to enjoy. So I moved on. Emotionally, some change took place inside to reconcile my sterility with my fatherhood. I integrated the two, and I’m not sure how. I’d like to know, but for now, what I have is working for me.

Irrevocably, permanent. Forever. Amen.

Server object error ‘ASP 0177 : 8007007f’
Server.CreateObject Failed
/lib/libhogaboom.asp, line 24
8007007f

[8:48:41 AM] Hoss says: Yeah, hang on 1 seconds … I’m working on that right now …

[8:48:49 AM] Doc Golbeck says: oh, ok

[8:49:19 AM] Hoss says: You can get it from my machine for right now.

[8:49:28 AM] Doc Golbeck says: Thanks!

[8:50:13 AM] Doc Golbeck says: can’t resolve by netbios name, what’s the IP?

[8:50:29 AM] Hoss says: .187.

[8:50:37 AM] Doc Golbeck says: thx

[9:06:39 AM] Hoss says: I rebooted that server on Saturday. It did have SP1 on it …. it came up from reboot just fine. BUT – apparently, there’s something in in that stops ADO connections, like what I use to access an Access database.

[9:06:56 AM] Hoss says: SO – for now, it is broken. I’ll let you know when I get it back up.

[9:08:59 AM] Doc Golbeck says: k

Update: And for the record, installing SP1 and rebooting the application sererfixed it.

Yesterday morning Sophie was kissing me goodbye as I was on my way out to work. She said, very sweetly:

“Daddy, can you bring me some claws home from your work today?”

She’s been fixed on dinosaurs as of late, which I’m guessing is the source of interest in natural defense. So I made her some claws.

She played with them off and on last night for quite awhile. Then said:

“Daddy, would you make me some scary teeth?”

What some of you plain blood folks may not know is that we get special calls.

“Is this Ralph Hogaboom?”
“Yes.”
“Hi Ralph, I’m Denise and I’m calling from the Puget Sound Blood Center. How are you today?”
“I’m good.”
“I’m so happy to hear that!”
“Thanks!”
“You’re in Port Townsend, right?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s the weather up there today? I heard you guys are in a rain shadow…”
“Oh, it’s balmy here Denise.”
“Lucky!”
“Yeah.”

Eventually we get ’round to scheduling a time for me to come in. See, when your blood is as valuable as mine, they respect your time a little more.

They also do reminder phone calls, ’cause they want my blood.

They’re also unfailingly nice at the blood center. They know I’m different than others because the check-in lady says “And here’s someone else for you … he has a 10 AM appt.”

That’s code for “He has an appointment, that means he has valuable blood. Treat this one well.”

I don’t love getting treated this way. It’s more accurate to say I looooooooooooooove being treated this way. I’m over a half gallon for the last 12 months; when I hit a gallon of blood donated, I get a new pin! I’m pretty excited.

I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would not be one cheerful face on the earth. Whether I shall ever be better I can not tell; I awfully forebode I shall not. To remain as I am is impossible; I must die or be better, it appears to me.

- President Abraham Lincoln