In the spirit of the last post, I’d like to make mention of the biggest Seminole fan on the Internet. I’d also like to mention the Bad Ham song author, as well as the original Blizzog, the one J.G. writes.

I’m trying to think of other appropriate names for my favorite pages. Y’all help a brother out.

Some clever webloggers have convinced Google to link our fine president to the search term ‘miserable failure.’ Simply type in “miserable failure” into Google, click on “I’m feeling lucky,” and Google will take you to the prez’s bio.

Read about this amusing hack here at ABC News.

It’s been a while since I mentioned Clay Aiken, the Raleigh native who went on to snag the silver medal as American Idol. Now I know Clay’s the best thing since indoor plumbing, but I don’t know much else about him, except that he’s generally a good guy.

Recently, the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals made a reference to Clay Aiken in a recent ad campaign about neutering. The ad read “Neuter your pets. It didn’t hurt Clay Aiken.” As you can see, the ad copy doesn’t really make sense, and one wonders why Clay’s name was even mentioned (other than perhaps to improve the web hits through search engines, but who would stoop so low?)

It turns out that in an interview Clay once made mention that he doesn’t like cats. “They’re satan,” he said, in what was probably an innoculous statement. PETA didn’t take kindly to the remark, apparently believing that everyone must swear allegiance to cats. “If Clay makes a pro-cat statement, we’ll consider withdrawing the ad.”

I think PETA’s cause is generally a noble one. Animals do suffer in our world, and it’s not right. I don’t always approve of their means of getting attention (although the “naked model” method is an exception 🙂 ). But this has gone too far.

I don’t approve of them attacking Clay. Sure, his music career was born in cheese. His fifteen minutes may have been up a long time ago, but the fact of the matter is that Clay’s a good kid. Before he made it “big,” Clay worked as a YMCA counselor. That’s right, he did social work. And I happen to believe anyone doing social work deserves a ton of respect.

So to PETA, I say “call off the dogs!” Leave Clay alone. This is still a free country and Clay is entitled to hate cats if he chooses. Quit picking on good-hearted pop singers and bring back the naked models!

Indoor sneeze contests
Are games I would rather lose
Sickness Is Big Sux

It’s been a day spent caring for my girls. Kelly and Hallie spent the week fighting illness. Yesterday morning, my throat began to feel a bit scratchy and I was added to the “sick list,” too. I spent the day mostly caring for Kelly and Hallie, though Hallie is probably the healthiest of us all.

Kelly seemed to be on the mend yesterday, but woke up today feeling pretty bad. It wasn’t until after noon that she began to seem herself again.

I’m thinking my throat scratchiness will be as far as mine goes, though I’m extremely tired (Kelly wound up coughing all night). We could all be out of the woods by tomorrow morning, hopefully!

Its possible that we’re subconsciously reliving the pure hell we went through this time last year, when we had an uninvited guest fall through the roof after the ice storm.

I visited my buddy and former shipmate Matt this week. When Matt first met me, I had terrible taste in music. Hair bands and the like. Matt turned me on to the world of music not available on those shitty AOR (album-oriented rock) stations I’d been listening to up to that time.

After seeing him for the first time in years, the topic of music naturally came up. Matt bemoaned the fact that he’d not seen many good bands in his new home of Palm Desert. At this point in the conversation, I wanted to mention some of the good music I’d heard lately. The funny thing is, though, I didn’t have much to say. It’s been months since I heard a band that really thrilled me.

Part of the reason for that is that most radio stations in this area are run by the the devil. The other issue is that most music is produced by the devil. Both devils have done nearly everything they can to piss me off and make me never want to be their customer again.

So what’s the alternative? There are still some local stations which care about music. Then there are some great college radio stations here. I’m still considering a subscription to Music Choice, if I can get it without putting money into Time-Warner‘s pockets.

As for what the record industry calls “product,” and I call “compact discs,” there is some hope. I found a search engine today which can tell you if the CD you’re thinking of buying is part of the evil empire which is trying to oppress you, or if it is from a customer-friendly independent label.

Give a visit to the RIAA Radar page. And, please: support independent labels whenever you can. Together, we can make music fun again.

I spent the early part of this week in familiar territory, the beautiful city of San Diego. I was there to watch the final moments of service the USS Elliot (DD-967) would provide to our country, as it was being decomissioned. I’d been on a recent kick to revisit my old haunts, so naturally I could not miss the opportunity to say goodbye to a home which stirred more emotion in me than probably any other.

This mass of steel was where I lived and worked for three long years. For three years, it sheperded me around the world, always bringing me safely back to this great country. Walking its decks, I learned what I was made of. Standing at its rails, I watched some of the planet’s most breathtaking scenery. Many nights I spent captivated beneath the nighttime skies, billions of stars above me. My soul leapt the surf with visiting dolphins, their skin glistening in the sun as they raced the bow, and glowing eerily as they weaved through the nighttime wake. I toiled with zen-like serenity through countless hours spent buffing decks and shining brass.

The crewmembers came and went, each with their role to play onboard. Though each officially went by rank and last name, I prided myself on knowing almost everyone’s first name, though there were often close to 400 crewmembers.

It was also where I learned a lot about leadership. Once the gangway is removed and the colors are shifted it quickly becomes apparent who is deserving of respect and who is not. At sea, there is no place to hide. There is no faking; no doubts about who you are. When bounded by miles of ocean, your real self rises to the surface.

For some I had looked up to, the initial aura of respect unraveled. For others, it began to shine. Regardless of who you worked with, though, you had to get along. Because if you couldn’t, there could never be more than 563 feet of separation.

The shipmate I visited Tuesday was one of the guys I looked up to. Paul Wilkes was a second-class petty officer when I knew him. Now he is a “mustang”: an enlisted sailor who has climbed the ranks to officer. Mustangs are the strength of the fleet. They rightfully command respect from every level of the chain of command. Paul wears the mustang label quite comfortably. Knowing him from my time onboard, I am not surprised he got where he is.

Paul has always been a straight-shooter, often a rare thing in a military where the CYA (“cover your ass”) rule runs rampant. He is honest to a fault, which is why his commanders always trusted him. And his watch teams. It wasn’t always easy, though. Paul didn’t care if it was easy, he cared that it was right. I learned early on that when Paul decided on some decision or fact, it was usually the correct decision.

Another influence was my first captain, Timothy LaFleur. I knew then he was destined for greatness and my hunch has proved correct. He now wears stars and commands the entire Pacific surface fleet: hundreds of ships. LaFleur was “squared-away.” He commands respect and is a natural leader. If you didn’t have your shit together, you got the dressing down you deserved. Conversely, he rewarded achievement generously.

One early morning, I neared the end of a midwatch with a senior petty officer as the watch supervisor. The watch sup was supposed to deliver the captain’s morning intelligence report after revilie. This particular morning, the watch sup refused to go, deciding his current activity was more important.

Foolish choice. You don’t keep the captain waiting, especially before he’s had his coffee.

As requests for the report from the bridge became more insistent, I pleaded with the watch sup to deliver the report. It was no use: he wouldn’t budge.

Taking matters into my own hand, I grabbed the tardy report and headed to the bridge, knowing full well I’d be walking into the firestorm of a furious commanding officer. Sure enough, as I arrived at the captain’s chair he let loose with tirade about his missing report. I stood there respectfully, my hair being blown back from the force of his anger.

“Why is an E-3 bringing me my report?!” he roared.

I gulped, scared as hell. “Because, sir, no one else would,” I replied.

With that, he looked me over for a moment, turned around, and quietly read his report.

From that point on, the captain respected me. I’ll never forget it.

It was good to see my shipmates Paul, Matt, and Joey; LaFleur, my old “old man;” and the officers who also had an impact on me: Dan Haggarty and Frank Slattery. Seeing how high those leaders had risen who were so influential in my development gave me pause to think “what if?” My thoughts drifted back to the same ones I had when I first arrived: that one day I would wear khakis. In some time shift out there, I do today. I savored that thought for a moment, and then let it go.

I smiled as the image faded. How things change.

It was then time to say goodbye to the place where I became a leader: the ship I alternately cursed and loved. The one I couldn’t wait to see disappear when I walked away almost twelve years ago but has never left my thoughts since.

I watched in silence as the band played, the colors were struck, and the last crewmembers filed onto the pier. Soon I found myself alone: an empty ship in front of me, and a world of memories behind me.

The USS Elliot has been decomissioned. It will sail my memories forever.

I see from Slashdot that Microsoft is demanding royalties for the use of the FAT filesystem in products such as flash cards and digital media devices. Who would have thought Microsoft would generate business through lawyers?

While it is their right to pursue licensing for their technology, I’d say that they missed the boat when it comes to FAT. It’s everywhere, unlicenced and free. How do they reign it in now? Isn’t the cat already out of the bag?

What about the products which don’t depend directly on FAT? Once upon a time, software was distributed on these quaint things known as “floppy disks.” To use these “floppy disks,” one had to first format them with the FAT filesystem. Under these licencing rules, would these software firms be liable for royalties for using these “floppy disks?”

Man, Microsoft just makes me puke sometimes.

Joe McGoneagle, retired USA Chief Warrant Officer and star of the STARGATE remote-viewing program, will be speaking in Durham Friday night from 7-10 PM at the Rhine Research Institute.

Joe has had incredible success in his career as a remote viewer, sometimes gleaning details about a target that would make your jaw drop. He’s a rock star in the world of remote viewing, or anyone interested in the untapped powers of the mind.

I’d do anything to get a chance to meet him or hear him talk, but unfortunately I’ll be just getting home from my California trip and don’t feel I could extend my stay away from home any longer.

If you happen to be in Durham and don’t mind donating $15 to hear a mind-bending three-hour discussion, drop by the Rhine Friday. And if you do, please give me the scoop afterward!