It’s because AI is different.

As someone who writes for a living, the difference between using AI and those other writing tools seems clear to me. First, let’s talk about my favorite dinosaur, the Thesaurus. When I get stuck on a word choice or I just need to use a different adjective than the one I’ve used twice already, I’ve got my thesaurus on speed dial. For example, when I want to repeat how scary AI can be, I can use chilling or alarming to round out my feelings on the subject.

But this requires thought. To use this writing tool I have to:

1. know what I want to express.
2. recognize that I am getting redundant in my descriptions.
3. consider which words that the thesaurus gives me will work best for the thought I’m trying to convey.

Even if I navigate to thesaurus.com rather than crack open a paperback version, it’s the same process. Whether I use my computer or a book doesn’t change the way the tool works. I still need to stretch my brain to make the tool work effectively.

And while we’re at it, what about computers? I gave up writing stories and articles longhand sometime around 1994. The lure of the word processor was too great. Screw up a word? Don’t sweat it, just hit that DELETE key and you’re back in business. It doesn’t even look messy! And hey, isn’t spell check awesome? I admit that sometimes I turn it off when I’m trying to focus, but reviewing a piece and letting the computer point out all my typos is sliced bread.

But I would argue that using a computer as a writing tool is much different than relying on AI. And you might wonder “Isn’t spell check just a dumber version of AI?” It’s a fair question, but I don’t believe spell check is anything like AI. My reasoning is the same as above. To use spell check, you still have to exercise that coiled, gray noodle between your ears. Sure, spell check is just a click away, but it’s not attempting to think for you. Spell check can spit out a version of a word it holds in its database, but it’s not capable of knowing that when you write about someone named Mr. Capyberra, you’re not trying to refer to a capybara. Or Canberra. Or carapace. Only you know that. So yeah, spell check is dumb, but it’s not the same as AI dumb.

Yet in fact, AI isn’t dumb at all. It’s actually getting smarter all the time. The more data we feed it, the more knowledge it has at its figurative fingertips when we ask, “Why is my capybara eating her feces?” And if that’s suddenly something you need to know about, then please try Wikipedia. Or better still, dust off those Encyclopedia Britannicas you use to decorate your home office.

AI is essentially a short cut to all the knowledge resources we have available online. And I believe that most people use it that way — a sort of glorified Ask Jeeves. Instead of typing a query into a search engine then combing through a couple pages of results to find a viable resource (Let’s be honest, who goes to the third page?), it’s much easier to just ask a question and get a written answer back. But this shortcut is actually making us dumber. And we’ve been here before, just in human form. When you were a kid, you might have asked a parent, “Why is the sky blue?” or “Where do babies come from?” or my personal favorite, “Why is my capybara eating her poop?” Depending on your parent’s education, personality, and level of chaos management in that moment, you got some kind of a reply:

“I don’t know.”

“Ask your Mother.”

“Cappy eats her poop to feed her gut flora, Honey (likely followed by, ‘But humans don’t do that!’).”

Whether you got a real answer or merely a deflection, you were relying on a handy resource to feed you information. Most likely you didn’t question the given answers because you trusted the parent you were asking. That’s a good thing — unless you are one of my children in which case it was a good idea to question just about everything I told you. By now my adult children know that God did not use crayons to color the sky. It was oil pastels.

And that’s the point where AI breaks down, too. Whether you ask AI a question or submit an idea to have it fleshed out for you, you are effectively turning off your brain and trusting that you’ll be spoon fed something that’s magical and correct. And why are we so intent on turning off our brains these days? Oh, right. Social media. A topic for another time, I suppose, but still relevant.

I read a story today about a teacher in Texas who does not allow her students to use AI in her classroom. They must use paper and pen to create their writing. More importantly than eschewing the computer, they are being taught how to use their brains.

As the world moves into the Age of AI, we’re going to have to reckon with it. Meaning, it’s going to be integrated in just about everything we do — if it isn’t already. We won’t be able to avoid it altogether, just like the inevitability of the motor car replacing the horse and buggy, the Industrial Revolution, or attempts at Fascism. What we can’t do is stick our heads in the sand and pretend the world isn’t changing. So are we doomed?

No. Not if we act now. While we face the imminent onslaught of AI, we still have our brains. And we need to use them as much as possible. Our society is on a slippery slope to the scene in Wall-e where people float lounge in floating chairs and rely on computers to do all their thinking for them. But we can avoid that fate by refusing to let AI engines reduce us to children asking the color of the sky. We need to be teaching our children to think through difficult tasks rather than offloading them to a computer. And just as a good parent guides their child in the direction of answers rather than handing them out like candy, AI tools should be viewed as an assist, not a feeding machine — after we solve that nagging using-up-all-our-Earthly-resources-and-killing-our-neighborhoods problem, of course. Humans are natural creators and problem solvers, and we only thrive when we’re actively engaged in solving problems and creating games, art, and music. Once we offload those tasks to a computer, we’re done for as a species.

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I’ve always been fascinated by people who don’t love to read. I admit that I’ve been judgy about it over the years. “How can they not like to read?” is a complaint my wife has heard me ask many times. I’ve wondered about it more than is healthy, more than I’ve wondered about the whole sock-disappearing-in-the-dryer phenomenon. Then a couple days ago I came to a realization about why some people don’t love reading — or even like it at all. There are many reasons, of course, and in fact during my research I learned that there’s actually an anxiety disorder called Bibliophobia, which is the fear of books. It’s rare, and I don’t believe it’s an issue for the majority of people. After dismissing anxiety disorders and being shipwrecked at a young age, the biggest reason I landed on for why some people don’t read is school. Or at least the schools in my experience.

After the lower grades, we weren’t taught that books are a form of entertainment (Hint: they are). Sometime after 7th grade, we were no longer taught that books contain exciting stories nestled between covers. Somewhere along the way they morphed into intellectually heavy tomes to be dissected, out-of-context paragraphs to be studied, and comprehension questions to be answered like so many algebraic equations.

The schools beat all the fun out of books.

Every now and then, there’s a teacher or librarian who wears their geekiness for reading on their sleeve and helps students discover — or rediscover — that books were written for people to enjoy. Sometimes it’s too late to turn a kid against reading, because they’re already hooked (yours truly). But for some, reading becomes a chore, just another boring homework assignment to suffer through on the path to college. Don’t get me started on the horrors of the group read. You take a kid who’s still stumbling their way through pronunciation, force them to read out loud in front of their giggling peers, and you just shattered any possibility that they will ever enjoy reading. Still, some kids manage to hold on to the thrill that comes from picking out a new book or revisiting an old one with the cover that needs taping again. Schools can’t kill all the fun, but they sure like to try.

I don’t remember any of my teachers in high school asking if I liked a book or story I was assigned, only if I understood it. “What does the author mean by this paragraph?” “What is the significance of the main character’s reluctance to participate in the ancient ritual?” Those are important things to understand when you’re reading — sometimes struggling through — older authors like Dickens, Melville, or Austen. And I believe this is an important lesson to teach students, that sometimes you’re not going to like a book and that is entirely okay. It doesn’t make you an idiot if you don’t enjoy Great Expectations. It’s okay to know that you don’t appreciate that style of writing. I think I’ve picked up Moby Dick fifty times and I still haven’t made it to the end. When Ismael gets on the ship it suddenly turns boring for me. So I put it down and go read something easy like Stephen King. When reading becomes an assignment, it becomes a chore. By assigning reading and attaching pass or fail pressure to comprehension, schools helped create the system of reading the Cliff’s Notes version. Cliff’s Notes helps with grades, but it kills the love of reading.

It’s not entirely the fault of the schools. There are lots of forces at work that turn people away from reading. Society often tells us that “Books are for girls,” or that only brainy, over-educated nerds read books. Parents can reinforce these ideas unknowingly through subtle actions or conversations. Throughout history there have also been barriers to entry for people of color that make getting into books challenging. For example, I’ve had black friends who didn’t visit the library because the one time they tried they were followed around like a criminal. Similarly, some didn’t grow up with books in their homes because they were thought of as something “not for them.” I could never comprehend that experience as completely as someone who experienced it firsthand, yet I understand it as a reason.

Money can also play a big, yet mostly unseen role in keeping kids from getting into reading. I was fortunate enough to experience the joy of seeing the Scholastic Books box arrive in my classroom, knowing there were at least three books waiting for me inside. Some kids never got those books. At the time I couldn’t imagine there was an economic barrier, I just assumed they didn’t like to read. Now I know better.

Lastly, there are those who just don’t get into books very much. Some people get lost in video games, others would never pick up a joystick to save their lives. For some people, reading anything other than Sports Illustrated or Newsweek seems like a waste of time. I’m trying to practice non-judgment. I still think they’re missing out, but it’s kind of like how my kids think I’m missing out by not playing Baldur’s Gate or Fortnite. They might be right, but they’re not forcing it down my throat and I’m not going to do that with books, either. They like to read — maybe not as much as my wife and I do, but we set the bar pretty high.

I’ve pointed out lots of reasons why people may not like to read, but why do I care if people read or not? I considered that maybe I was just getting judgy again, so I thought some more about why I care, or why anyone would care. And I discovered that it’s not just about me.

For one, people who read a large variety of books tend to develop a broader view of the world. I know that I’ve learned a lot about our history and how people from other cultures think through the books I’ve picked up. And I’m not just talking about dry old history books, I mean novels and stories that were actually fun to read. I’ve learned about our differences, but more importantly I’ve discovered how we’re all very much alike in the ways we love, our struggles, and our purpose as humans. I like to see people reading because it helps create a society that’s harder to divide so easily. Reading stories that stretch across cultural, gender, racial, societal, or religious lines may not bring total understanding, but it’s a step in the right direction.

People who read always have something to do. Especially today when it’s so easy to turn to social media for entertainment (guilty as charged), books are an escape that doesn’t come loaded with derisive comments or annoying ads. They say idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and even if you don’t believe in the devil you can appreciate the sentiment. Bored people do dumb things. Someone who can get lost in a book is almost never bored.

Reading has the power to bring us together. It’s an easy conversation starter to ask, “What are you reading these days?” or “What are your favorite books?” And if you encounter someone who doesn’t read, well, that’s a conversation, too.

I think reading makes us better. More interesting. Harder to scam. Less divisive. More open to new ideas. If you haven’t been a reader and you hate reading, I encourage you to pick up a book and try it again, even for fifteen minutes. It doesn’t matter what book, and yes, it’s okay to judge a book by its cover. Choose something that just looks fun. Or weird. Something you think that only you would find interesting. It doesn’t have to be on the New York Times Best Seller list, although that can be a good place to start. Find a book that looks good to you. And if it’s boring, put it down and find another one. You wouldn’t keep eating a meal you didn’t enjoy, so don’t choke down a novel that isn’t engaging you. If you don’t like the Filet Mignon, grab a hot dog, a banana, or even some Sour Patch Kids. I’ve had to teach myself over the years that it’s okay if I just say, “Meh” in Chapter One and put the book down. Life is too short. There are lots more books into which I will disappear from the first page.

I love that I’m surrounded by books. I’m very fortunate to have the luxury of books. And even though the books take up just about every available surface in the house, I still manage to find something new at the library or a thrift store. I love that I always have something to do, wherever I am, that’s not Instagram or the news.

I’ll end this with my conversation starter. What are you reading these days?

Photo by Lilly Rum on Unsplash

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#1 The privilege of wealth

You know the song “Wooden Ships” by Crosby, Stills, and Nash? The song, released in 1969, is about a group of people leaving the U.S. because of fallout after a nuclear war. They sail away to be “very free and easy, you know, the way it’s supposed to be.” I always liked the song itself and didn’t think too much about the subject matter until I heard Jackson Browne’s answer to “Wooden Ships” in the form of his song, “For Everyman:”

Everybody I talk to is ready to leave with the light of the morning
They’ve seen the end coming down long enough to believe that they’ve heard their last warning
Standing alone, each has his own ticket in his hand
And as the evening descends, I sit thinking ’bout everyman

Seems like I’ve always been looking for some other place to get it together
Where, with a few of my friends, I could give up the race and maybe find something better
But all my fine dreams, well thought-out schemes to gain the motherland
Have all eventually come down to waiting for everyman

Waiting here for everyman
Make it on your own if you think you can
If you see somewhere to go, I understand
Waiting here for everyman
Don’t ask me if he’ll show
Baby, I don’t know

Make it on your own if you think you can
Somewhere later on, you’ll have to take a stand
Then you’re gonna need a hand

Everybody’s just waiting to hear from the one who can give them the answers
And lead them back to that place in the warmth of the sun where sweet childhood still dances
Who’ll come along and hold out that strong but gentle father’s hand?
Long ago, I heard someone say something ’bout everyman

Waiting here for everyman
Make it on your own, make it if you think you can
If you see somewhere to go, I understand
I’m not tryin’ to tell you that I’ve seen the plan
Turn and walk away if you think I am
But don’t think too badly of one who’s left holding sand
He’s just another dreamer, dreamin’ ’bout everyman

© 1972 Jackson Browne

There are people like Ellen DeGeneres who have the means to hop on out, find a nice castle, and forget about everything they left behind. Isn’t that nice for her? And hey, if you can do that, fine. Just, you know… keep quiet about it. No one wants to hear how great you have it while we’re all here living through what you couldn’t handle.

#2 Our rights

Speaking of what you can’t handle, Rosie O’Donnell recently commented that she would return to the U.S. “when everyone has equal rights.” I respect Rosie and I enjoy how she baits the Orange One, but on this one I have to call for an umpire.

If everyone left the U.S. until all rights are restored, who would be here to fight for them? And as far as everyone who cares about this being able to leave, I refer you to #1 above.

#3 It’s our country, dammit!

If we all — and by “we” I mean everyone who is horrified and angered by the injustices being carried out in 2025 — start leaving, isn’t that handing the MAGA people what they want? Won’t they be tickled to death to see the “losers” leaving this country all to them?

I can’t do that. MAGA does not own patriotism. And as a veteran and a patriot, it’s my duty to at the very least stay here and be a citizen on my terms.

“If you see somewhere to go, I understand.
(I’m) Waiting here for everyman.”

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I come from a family of hoarders. But instead of hoarding old vinyl records or knick-knacks, we gather and collect cholesterol like it’s on sale at Walmart. Instead of buying it, hereditary high cholesterol was a gift passed down to me. You might say it’s my inheritance.

This fun trick of nature is called familial hypercholesterolemia (FH). FH is an inherited disorder that makes it harder for your body to remove low-density lipoprotein (LDL) cholesterol from your blood. And if you don’t already know, that’s what leads to heart disease.

Of course I’ve known about this for years, watching grandparents, uncles, aunts, and my father suffer the aftermath of multiple heart attacks and surgeries. It’s not a future I looked forward to. But when you’re young you think it can never happen to you, and when you’re young it mostly doesn’t. But I know that I’m not going to live forever, and now that I’m in my 50s (when did that happen, anyway) I feel a much stronger urge to stay vigilant.

Rather than just hoping I’m okay, I’ve been getting regular checkups for the last several years. Some of the results I’ve been pleasantly surprised with and others it’s tempting to clap my hands over my years and chant na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na I can’t hear you. But ultimately I listened and took action.

First, in a checkup in 2021, my blood pressure was what they call “borderline high.” Not high, just… borderline. Enough for mild concern. Here are some of my other numbers from that time:

I was shocked at my cholesterol numbers, and I’ll tell you why: I eat a strict vegan diet. I have been eating 100% plant-based since 2001. In case you’re not sure what that means exactly, I don’t eat any animal products whatsoever. Yes, that includes not eating seafood (animals), or eggs, or dairy — which come from animals. I’ll get to what I do eat in a moment. For now, please share my shock and dismay. I was totally bummed, I thought I had been doing so well, which is why it pays to get checked out.

What the doctor said

After sharing my disappointing numbers with me, and knowing about my vegan diet, my doctor had suggestions:

1. Cut down on alcohol
2. Exercise more
3. Cut down on oil
4. Take blood pressure medication
5. Take blood thinners
6. Start eating some fish, or take fish oil capsules
7. Take Vitamin D regularly

Right off the bat, I felt like I could definitely take on the first three recommendations. Cool, I’m on it. About numbers 4 and 5 I was extremely hesitant, particularly when she casually mentioned that she typically prescribes those drugs for most people my age anyway. It’s almost like she knew the exact words to say to make me challenge the very idea. Number six was a total deal breaker. There was no way I was going to start eating fish or a product of fish. Not happening. But Vitamin D, sure.

With a sigh, she acknowledged my concerns and we compromised on a plan.

What I actually did

First of all, I realize that I could drink less alcohol. I don’t often get drunk or suffer hangovers, but sure, I could cut back if it will help my heart. I suppose I could just stop altogether, but I felt like we weren’t there yet.

Exercise was an easy one. I realized that even though working in my screen printing shop counted as regular physical activity, I needed to do something more focused like walking and running. So I started a walking/running program that got me moving at least three times per week, plus doing some old yoga stretching and strengthening poses. I had to dust off my brain to recall them, but there they were.

As for the fish, what was really needed was an uptake in Omega-3 fatty acids. Most people get this from fish, but it’s also found in walnuts, chia seeds and flax meal. These days I put a tablespoon of flax meal in my morning porridge.

We agreed that I would forgo the medications for a year and see if changing my lifestyle habits would do the trick. Cool.

How it’s going

It’s now 2025, and I’ve been getting (mostly) regular checkups in the five years since that disappointing doctor visit. I’ve kept up the diet and exercise changes as well.

Since then, things have improved significantly. For one, my blood pressure is fine these days, not even borderline high. As for my blood levels, here are the results from today:

To this day I still haven’t taken any medication for my blood pressure or to lower my cholesterol. These numbers look much better. Unfortunately, I moved out of state and have a different doctor, so I won’t get the satisfaction of seeing her reaction to the change.

It’s extremely gratifying. My genetic predisposition to hoarding cholesterol usually means my LDL levels will stay up no matter what I eat. However, I managed to dramatically change my hereditary high cholesterol with diet and exercise alone. I should probably mention that I don’t smoke, use any kind of tobacco, or vape, which are also contributing factors to heart disease.

Why doesn’t everyone do this?

I don’t mean to get on a high horse here. I’m not one of those scary, militant vegans who goes around shaming people for eating animal products. I don’t carry around buckets of red paint or post pictures of slaughterhouses in my Instagram feed. I just choose to eat my way.

However, I do think that if someone is given the choice of managing heart disease through diet and exercise alone and they refuse, it’s a lot weirder than being vegan.

This is also one of those things I’m passing down to my kids. Yes, I have bequeathed the heart disease genes, but I am also giving them the tools to keep it at bay.

The post How I Manage My Hereditary High Cholesterol With Diet appeared first on It's Just DJ.

Somewhere around 1986, my friend Jeff acquired an old Moto Guzzi motorcycle from his brother-in-law. As much as operating a motorcycle excited me, riding one as a passenger did not. But Jeff’s enthusiasm wore me down and I climbed on the back despite my misgivings about not being in control of the machine. As soon as we took off down his street, I regretted my decision. I didn’t even know where to hold on. If I were attracted to Jeff in a romantic way, I would have immediately thrown my arms around him. That was not the case, so I searched in vain for some kind of handle, and eventually settled on grasping the taillight arms with four fingers on each side.

That worked fine at 25 mph on a straight-as-an-arrow suburban street (yes, that’s also a metaphor), but as soon as we had to turn, I panicked. Having never ridden on a motorcycle before, my first inclination was to lean away from the direction of the turn and clench every muscle in my body from my pinkie toe to my left temple.

As a Mandalorian would put it, “That is not the way.”

We pitched wildly and my fear increased exponentially as Jeff quickly skidded the bike up to the sidewalk.

“Are you okay back there?” he asked.

I exclaimed that no, I was not okay, and maybe this was a bad idea. Having not ever actually seen Jeff operate a motorcycle, I couldn’t be sure who was messing up — him or me. Then he explained that I was supposed to lean into the turn, not away from it. Ever the adventurist, I decided to give it another shot. I was only 15, I could probably bounce back from anything, and even if I died, it would at least be an exciting ending. I pictured other kids at my school weeping over my coffin, whispering, “What an adventurous, generous, talented, intelligent soul.” A win-win.

We took off again, and drove to the Cine Capri theater to see some movie that I have now forgotten because of the Moto Guzzi transportation drama. When we left, we did so in heavy, very slow traffic, which at least made the ride back less anxious. As the sun began to set, Jeff made an suggestion.

“Hey, my brother told me how you can get into the orchards on Bell Road.”

“Um, what?”

“Let’s go check it out!”

By this time I had become somewhat acclimated to being a motorcycle passenger, so the ride to the orchard wasn’t bad. The sun had set, the air was cooling, there wasn’t much traffic, and the smoothness of the newly asphalted streets made everything feel calmer. Suddenly, Jeff made a hard left into what looked like… nothing.

We bounced over a curb and descended into blackness. I leaned around to try and see what was in front of us, but I could only make out black blobs and a white flash that looked like “No Trespassing.” Jeff weaved between what I started to make out as rows of trees. Then it it me.

If you’ve ever smelled orange blossoms, you probably had one of two reactions; this is too much for me or this is absolute heaven and I want to smell this for the rest of my life. Mine was the second. We rode quietly through the orchard,the only sound the purring of the Moto Guzzi. Orange blossom fragrance wrapped itself around my head and enveloped me in the kind of sweetness that could instantly turn cloying but somehow maintains its breath of flowery delicacy. It was such a high that I let go of the bike and stretched my arms out to the side as we flew through the trees. It was probably only five minutes, but it felt like going to another planet and back.

Jeff dropped me at home about fifteen minutes later. Although I’ve driven motorcycles since, I’ve never gotten the hang of being a motorcycle passenger. But to this day whenever I smell orange blossoms, I feel like I’ve spread out my arms and I’m flying through an orchard.

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I’ve used Pomodoro apps on my phone and laptop, and I’ve also set timers without any bells and whistles, like activity trackers. Yesterday I was messing with my TRS-80 and wrote a short, super simple program in BASIC that sounds an alarm after a certain amount of time I designate. The TRS-80 sits right next to me, but I still have to move out of my chair to stop it. So it’s actually more helpful than if I just clicked my desktop or picked up my phone. Plus, it was just a little retro computer fun.

If you’re curious, here’s the code:

10 PRINT "HOW MANY SECONDS"
20 INPUT S
30 FOR Z  = 1 TO 460 * S
40 NEXT Z
50 PRINT S " SECONDS ARE UP!"
60 FOR T = 120 TO 180
70 SOUND T,1
80 NEXT T
90 FOR T = 150 TO 140 STEP -1
100 SOUND T, 1
110 NEXT T
120 GOTO 50

Type RUN. That’s it. Here’s how it works in real life:

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“Losers!” was the single word he shouted, followed by a couple of honks. The same driver has done this at least two more times since. We live on a fairly busy road, one that connects to an even busier road full of chain stores and businesses. Does he live in the area? Does he work nearby at the courthouse or an office? We have no idea. And it doesn’t matter, really. What matters is that he knows where we live and what we support.

The fact that he feels bold enough to taunt us as he drives by gives us cause to feel uneasy, to put it mildly. What if he decides that yelling isn’t enough and feels that his thoughts need to be expressed through property damage — or worse, violence?

To be honest, I’m not actually very concerned about either. BMW office guy is a classic cowardly bully, of the same ilk who hide behind private Instagram accounts just so they can say nasty things. What I am more concerned about is that men like him who aren’t as cowardly will become more bold in voicing their dislike for things that “aren’t American” or welcome in “Our Christian Nation.”

A few years ago, Jenni and I were walking into the grocery store wearing masks. This was after the COVID scare had died down, but we wore masks that day because we were getting over chest colds and we didn’t want to cough all over other shoppers. As we crossed the parking lot, and older man saw us, stopped, started shaking his head and mumbled… something. He was clearly referring to our masks, which for some reason got his panties all bunched around his neck. It was very performative and silly. We still talk about it, scratching our heads over how he thought our masks affected him at all — and kicking ourselves for not confronting him in the moment. After all, we were trying to protect his elderly immune system from our illness. I mean, you’re welcome, right?

But it’s not just the obvious mask-wearers or sign-posters that face potential retribution in this new “America” we find ourselves in. The new U.S. administration should have us all nervous. It’s obvious that women, immigrants, and transgender people have cause to be wary of what will happen in the next four years — and beyond, I suppose. Trump explicitly apprised us of his exact intentions, first in his inaugural address, then with the flurry of executive orders that same day. What’s equally concerning is what he didn’t say. Meaning, no one knows who his next target(s) will be. A white heterosexual Christian man may feel like none of this affects him, that he is perfectly safe in his being — and it’s true that there is currently no one safer in America than that man. But what about tomorrow? What whims will Trump indulge next as his cabinet puts little bugs in his ear? All it will take is someone to accuse that “safe” man of being not as Christian as some would like. Or maybe someone finds out that his grandfather was an undocumented immigrant. No one is safe.

There’s an episode of The Twilight Zone called, “The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street.” I encourage you to watch it, but for now I’ll give you the closing narration:

“The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices … to be found only in the minds of men. For the record, prejudices can kill … and suspicion can destroy … and a thoughtless, frightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all of its own—for the children and the children yet unborn. And the pity of it is … that these things cannot be confined to The Twilight Zone.”

By now we’ve all heard the words of Right Rev. Mariann Budde when she asked Trump and his administration to have mercy on those in our country who are scared right now. A caring, dignified leader might have expressed appreciation for the words and taken the opportunity to paint his views in a more positive light, at the very least. Instead he insulted her by responding, “Apart from her inappropriate statements, the service was a very boring and uninspiring one. She is not very good at her job! She and her church owe the public an apology!” This, at the mere suggestion of being merciful.

Many of the Jan. 6 rioters who have been pardoned didn’t quietly go home and back to their families and jobs. Instead, they have vowed revenge on those who prosecuted them. That reaction represents a growing nastiness in the United States. It started in Trump’s first administration and has only become bolder and stronger since. With his recent win, one would think that his followers would crack open a proverbial beer and chill. Enjoy the win. Instead, they have decided that being nasty is a very fine sport and they are practicing every day. For now, it’s mostly online comments and of course in my case it’s an idiot driving by my house. Sore winner, indeed. The U.S. has become a country of sports fans yelling “In yo face!” at the TV and each other. There is no class or dignity in any of it.

To the person who has been driving past our home and yelling, “Loser” at us, I feel sad for you. I am sad that you grew up with so little self-worth that your only means of expressing outrage at how much you loathe being you is by attempting to belittle others. There is no win you will ever truly feel, for you will forever feel like you’ve lost something. There is no real happiness being you. I also feel sad because you have only strengthened my conviction that the people who voted for Trump are either not very intelligent, or scared out of their wits that they’ll be left behind. Perhaps both. And perhaps that will be their fate when he turns his nasty gaze upon them.

Photo by mwangi gatheca on Unsplash

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What does recognizing a gender spectrum and allowing a third gender marker on passports or other official documents cost anyone? Absolutely nothing.

I get that it can break someone’s brain to understand that there can be a gender spectrum. Whether you “get it” or not is irrelevant. It exists, it is reality.

It affects you in absolutely zero ways.

His speech was both chilling and laughable, but one thing is clear: His administration aims to remake this a country under one god and one religion, adopting the beliefs and rules of extreme conservative Christianity. As in all things Trump, it is mostly performative, only made chilling by the standing ovations he received. Trump is not the problem, his followers are.

They may change the laws. But they cannot change who I am, no matter how many executive orders he signs.

You can choose not to recognize my gender identity. That is your right. You can even choose to believe that I have a mental condition, or I am an abomination in your god’s eyes, and that I should be “fixed.” That is also your right.

But you cannot tell me who I am.

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Several years ago, I made a foray into rescuing old laptops and making them useful again. The first one, the guinea pig, was my 2007 MacBook. It was running Mac OS X (Lion) and it was updated as far as it could be with the existing hardware. It was still a useful machine as is.

However, at the time I had read about refreshing old computers by installing Linux. So I decided on Linux Mint, using the Debian version. I loved it. It was cool to see how I could do things I could no longer do in Mac OS X with the same hardware. There were some limitations, too, but mostly I was psyched to be using an alternative OS and keeping the machine updated.

Since that time, I’ve acquired many more vintage laptops. On some of them I’ve installed a Linux variant, and others I’ve kept to Windows or Mac OS. In that time I also moved over to using Linux as my daily driver, which I’ve enjoyed immensely.

Last year, I picked up a classic (circa 1988) Macintosh SE at the Vintage Computer Festival. It booted up and ran Mac OS 6.0, and I intended to keep it that way for nostalgia. I also love the idea of maintaining vintage machines as a way to preserve history. I’ll write more about the Macintosh SE project soon.

Anyway, as I was eyeing my laptop collection, I thought about my old MacBook. Since I was running Linux on so many other computers, I felt like I had proven my point about keeping older machines going via Linux. So today I dug out my Mac OS X disks and started putting Mac back on the Mac.

I bought the MacBook new in 2007 and it only just occurred to me today that it’s almost 18 years old. I think that qualifies as a piece of computer history, and I’m going to maintain it in its original form for preservation purposes. Maybe one day I’ll set up a temporary vintage computer museum at the local library. For now I’ll just reminisce about iTunes, iWorks, and iffy WiFi functionality.

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When Jenni and I got married, it was almost assumed that a young newlywed couple should buy a home. That’s what a lot of our family members and friends did. Our circumstances were different in that I had just shipped off to Germany in the Air Force and Jenni joined me a few months later. Finances being what they were, and not knowing what the next few years would bring, we rented the top floor of a house in Kindsbach. It was a beautiful village and we absolutely loved it.

Flash forward to our return to the States and my discharge from active duty. It may not be a surprise that you don’t become wealthy serving in the military as an enlisted member, especially for only four years. From that point forward, we rented apartments and homes. Every place we lived, we walked the neighborhoods ogling homes and dreaming of the day when we could own our own. A few times, as our finances improved, we sought a mortgage. There always seemed to be some reason we couldn’t obtain one. Either we didn’t make enough money, or our credit score was just a few points below what the lender would like — a totally bullshit system if I ever heard one. We always seemed to be on the cusp of qualifying, but never quite achieving the magical numbers the mortgage officers and credit reporting agencies dreamed up. Never mind that we consistently paid more rent each month than the mortgage payments would be. Somehow we were deemed a poor risk.

So we rented. And many times I tried to convince myself that renting was the better choice. After all, we’re not on the hook for plumbing issues. If the roof leaks, it’s the landlord’s problem to fix. And in the buildings where we had a doorman, it was like living in a luxury hotel. I pinched myself a few times in those situations, too.

We’ve lived in some wonderful places as renters. The amazing Bunker Hill Towers in downtown Los Angeles, Central Park South in New York City, an alpaca farm in rural Oregon, beautiful downtown Washington, DC. We’ve lived in a few not-so-wonderful places, too. That cardboard box of an apartment in the San Fernando Valley next to an electrical transfer station comes to mind.

Yet even in the less-than-idyllic abodes, we made good memories. We managed to live our lives and have birthdays and celebrate small things with the kids, like discovering the daily parade of FedEx trucks around the corner. But there was always a landlord or property management company to remind us that our living situation was likely temporary.

I think that’s the crux of why I find it so hard to get used to owning our home now. It’s the absence of temporariness. There’s no one to shock us with an ungodly raise in the rent and make us hit the internet with new home searches. For better or worse, we are here. We’re done. We live here.

I realize there are some people who, despite owning their home, find themselves selling and moving. Maybe it’s a new job, or they get tired of living under the threat of fire, flood, or earthquake. Maybe they want a safer place. Or, they simply feel the urge to seek out a new view from the living room window. Maybe they can make a lot of cash in the currently ridiculous real estate market. Our situation is different. First, we’re a couple in our 50s with two adult children and one soon-to-be adult. We won’t need to find a home with more rooms to house a growing family. We’re not into flipping this home (or any home for that matter — an increasingly disgusting and market-ruining practice). We found a really nice neighborhood. More importantly, I am personally dog-tired of loading and unloading moving trucks. Seriously, I’m done. If I never have to hoist our furniture up a ramp again — or pay someone else to do it — I will be very content.

So we are digging in. Quite literally, in fact, because we finally have a place to create a garden without asking anyone’s permission or worrying that the landscapers will spray Round-Up on the tomatoes or stomp through a newly-seeded patch of zucchini.

It’s far from perfect. There are quite a few repairs to be done on our cozy 1948 Cape Cod. The garage needs replacing, the electrical was total bunk, we’re getting all new pipes, and a few other smaller projects await our attention. In fact, as I write this I can hear work boots stomping up and down the stairs as people work on our upstairs bathroom and basement laundry. It’s a bit of a mess at the moment.

But it’s our mess.

After 32 years, it feels amazing to be in our own home. I wake up every day and I’m still not sure it’s real. That’s my window. Outside the window is my yard and my shed. That’s my driveway and it’s nobody’s business how I park my cars. It took a long time to get here, and it feels as sweet as I imagined it would be when we peeked through living room windows and imagined what it would be like. It will take some getting used to.

If I could go back in time, I would tell myself not to rush buying a home. I would tell myself not to change a thing. Drop the pressure of buying a house to feel like a “real” member of society or fulfilling someone else’s vision of what your life should be like. Dream about it, but don’t try to force it into reality.

We’ve been very fortunate to arrive in this situation where we can finally own a home. I don’t accept it lightly. It still feels weird. But I’ll take it.

Photo by Luke Stackpoole on Unsplash

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We just moved into our new home in March of 2024. It’s our first purchased home after renting for the last 32 years of our marriage (go ahead and fill in your Hacker Bingo card for that one). You can imagine it’s fairly significant for us. The house came equipped with the typical things you would expect in our modern age; indoor plumbing, a roof, flooring, electricity. Good stuff to have. It also included some bonus items, like a refrigerator, microwave, stove/oven, washer/dryer, and automatic garage door opener. There’s nothing particularly interesting about any of the appliances, except that the range and garage door opener are WiFi-enabled.

As we got settled, we set about figuring out how the appliances worked. When we open the refrigerator door, a light comes on. It keeps things cold. Yay! Same with the microwave, it does what we expected. Not a lot to figure out there. The range, however, is a whole different ballgame. Not only are there no knobs or switches for the oven, it comes equipped with an LED console that I imagine is similar to the cockpit of a 737-MAX — and I’m just as dubious about this system as the FAA is about the MAX. It also has WiFi. The more I think about that feature, the more I wonder, “Wi?”

I started to walk myself through all the scenarios where we would need to control the oven from a distance. And even as I write, “control the oven from a distance,” it sounds more like a bombing plot than an aid to cooking.

First, let’s talk about the necessity of remotely controlling the oven from my phone. Our home is under 2,000 square feet. From the farthest room away from the kitchen, it takes about 20 seconds to get to the range (yes, I timed it, and yes I am that person). It takes roughly the same amount of time for me to grab my readers (grumble), open/unlock my phone, find, and open an app. In terms of time savings, we’re talking about a few seconds. WiFi is not the time saver the LG marketing people seem to think it is.

But let’s pretend we wanted the convenience of controlling the oven when we’re not at home. What if we were out somewhere and wondered if we had turned the oven off? Wouldn’t it be comforting to know that we could turn it off from our seats at Wrigley Field? In full transparency, we used to have a Nest thermostat and I enjoyed the convenience of adjusting the temperature when we weren’t home. The odd (stupid?) thing about using that feature is that 90% of the time I used it, our older kids were at home and I could have just texted them to adjust it. Similarly, we could have our neighbor pop in and turn off the oven. Obviously, not everyone has neighbors they want inside their house — whether they’re home or not. That just happened to be a feature that also came with our house. Either way, I can’t think of an instance in our entire married life where we forgot to turn off the oven when leaving the house.

For a third example, let’s talk about baking. My wife is a baker. Not like a Jiffy corn muffin box baker, like an accomplished bread-from-scratch baker. So there are several steps in her process of baking bread. There’s proofing the dough, which entails letting it rise in a bowl at a temperature no warmer than the oven light. Sometimes there’s a second rise, and then there’s the actual baking. This all requires a fair amount of attention. We might be able to run up to the grocery store during proofing or rising, but otherwise the baking process is very much eyes-on. In all of this, I can’t imagine how controlling the oven remotely would be effective. Unless we get free smells through our smartphones, it doesn’t seem advantageous.

To sum up, I can’t imagine a single scenario where remotely controlling our oven makes life any easier.

Our garage door opener is another device with unnecessary WiFi capability. Again, it came with the house and the previous owners left instructions on how to set it up. The day we closed I decided to download the app and see how it worked, purely out of curiosity (see: tech nerd). It turns out I have to reset it and scan a QR code on the back of the opener. It was too high for me to see, and our moving truck hadn’t arrived yet, so no ladder. The opener came with two remotes anyway, so the WiFi could wait. I moved on to more important projects, like how to unlock the oven console.

Since then, I’ve been thinking about different scenarios where we would need to use WiFi and an app to open the garage door. If we’re home, we can either use a remote or go inside the garage and press the button. If we’re pulling into the driveway, we can use the remote from inside the car. Potentially, we could leave the house and forget to close the garage door. I deem that highly unlikely, considering we would have been looking at the door as we pulled out of the driveway. I couldn’t think of any real-world scenarios where we would need WiFi. So I started getting creative and thought up some other potential WiFi-necessary garage door situations:

• What if we’re not home and a neighbor needs to borrow a handsaw for an emergency backyard amputation?
• What if there’s a zombie apocalypse, we’re not home, and a friend needs to retreat to our garage for safety?
• What if we get an alert that Kool-Aid Man is running around town and we’re not home? It sure would be nice to have the garage door up to avoid any “Oh yeah!’s.”

Another aspect of all this WiFi-enabled lunacy is cybersecurity. What if someone hacks our network and decides that it would be fun to turn our oven up to 600° F? Or they open up our garage to pilfer our handsaw — or worse, our holiday decorations?

My garage door opener needs WiFi as much as a banana does.

More seriously, the hacking potential for IoT devices in the home is real. Imagine if your home has all the connected things; thermostat, security cameras, water heater, air conditioner, refrigerator, oven, garage door opener. What if they get hacked? Or what if they just simply go on the fritz and you can’t use them? I’m no Luddite by any means. I drive a Tesla, for Pete’s sake. I have a smartphone, several laptops, and I even run a web server from my home. For all those connected shenanigans, I’ve set up extremely good security. But I’m no fool and I know there’s always the potential for hackers to sneak in somehow.

Security, possible tech fails, and Kool-Aid Man aren’t my biggest concerns, though. For me, setting up WiFi on every appliance in my home just doesn’t seem worth my time. Spending hours tinkering with multiple configurations and educating my family on how it all works, for the tiniest sliver of convenience? Nope. I’ll keep turning on my stuff the old fashioned way.

My oven doesn’t need WiFi.

Photo by Discover Savsat on Unsplash

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The Wrigley I’m referring to, for those who are not baseball fans — or even acquaintances — is Wrigley Field in Chicago. Home of the Cubs. Cubs Park. The Friendly Confines. Or Weeghman Stadium, if you just time traveled in from 1914. The historic park has been home to the Chicago Cubs for over 100 years, and I’ve been going to games there since 1974.

I still remember the first game I went to at Wrigley. My grandfather sat next to me and helped me fill out my scorecard. If you’re not familiar, in the Olden Days they used to hand you a paper scorecard as you moved through the gates. You kept track of the runs, hits, errors, and other minutiae of the game, recording it all on your little card. If you’re wondering, yes, they had a scoreboard back then, and no, we did not get paid for our work. It was just fun. I still don’t really understand what constitutes an error, but I’ll search it later. And then I’ll probably forget again. Or they’ll change the rules. Ahhh, baseball.

The last game I attended was last Saturday, for my birthday (if you’re playing Hacker Bingo, go ahead and mark that square now). My family and I made the long-ish drive from the suburbs, navigating lower Wacker Drive as confusedly as the rest of Chicago. The Cubbies lost to the Nationals that day, 5-1. And that’s always the first question people ask me when I say I spent the day at a Cubs game. “Did they win?” Which I suppose is natural. And of course I care if they win or lose, my preference being the win. But my response to the question is always, “It doesn’t matter, because any day at Wrigley is a good day.”

You can probably say that about a lot of things, but just speaking about Wrigley Field, my reasons are several.

First, I can never get over just being in the stadium. It’s a significant piece of history. Seeing the original steel beams, the field itself, and (I suspect) one of the original custodians from 1914 is a thrill. That painted-over wad of gum stuck on that girder? History! There is one holdover from another era that could stand a refresh: the pee trough in the men’s room. Never a thrill, but hey; more history. Communal peeing.

Then there’s the feeling. Before you even get to Wrigley, there’s a palpable vibration in the air. It comes off the people walking to the stadium. You can sense it in the streets. Even the trees seem to be excited. There’s a game today! The Cubbies are playing!You can feel something similar in other ballparks, too. Dodger Stadium has its own vibration, so did Old Comiskey Park. Baseball offers a vibe, if you’re catching my drift (it was a pop fly, hard to miss). But there’s something different about the environment that Addison, Clark, Waveland, and Sheffield surround. When you’re there, it’s going to be a good day.

The ivy in the outfield. The bleachers across the street. The organ music. Filling up a tray with giant pickle spears from the hot dog condiment station. Neon relish and cold beer. There’s a lot to take in.

And yet, we lost. I suppose that could count as a bad day. No W flag flying, no banners. No Go, Cubs, Gosong. But spending the day at The Friendly Confines isn’t about the win — although that’s always a bonus. Some might say it’s a goal. I don’t disagree (I mean come on, guys,it was the Washington Nationals for chrissakes).

There have been uncomfortable winning days, too. Take this past April when none of us could feel our knees for the chilly Lake Michigan air flowing around them. Yet we stayed. We stuck it out and were rewarded with a Cubs win. A bad day? A frozen day. I’ve been to the Arctic and I had some pretty good days there, too.

In the end, a day at Wrigley beats a lot of other days doing other things, hanging out in the Shawshank Prison library being one of them. Come to think of it, it beats most days outside of prison, too.

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The Vintage Computer Festival has been going on for 18 years, but this is the first one I ever attended. I had no idea what to expect, but after CoCoFest in May I had an inkling. Same level of geekery, but more brands and models of machines to gawk at.

I took two of our kids with me and had fun explaining how things worked back in the day. Aside from vintage computers on display, there were old phones (Kermit phone!), video games, and more computing parts than you could shake a floppy at. One person had created a ginormous keyboard out of a bifold closet door and snack trays. It really worked — it was hooked up to a Commodore 64 and I programmed a quick print line in BASIC.

I swear, I did not plan to buy anything. I only wanted to gaze at the tech. But I got…itchy. I stumbled upon a Toshiba Tecra 700ct that works perfectly and for $50 I deemed it worth playing with at home.

After looking at the dozens of Apple I and Apple II computers in the space, I remembered how I always wanted one. But in 1989 I didn’t have an extra $3,000 (or any multiple of a thousand) to spend on a computer. In 1990 when I went to art school, there was a hall cubby devoted to the one Mac the school possessed, but it was off-limits to Freshmen. So when I saw a Macintosh SE FDHD on a back table today for $149, I had to have it. And since the show was closing down and they didn’t want to lug it back to their shop, I got it for $90. Boots up fine. It only needs a serial mouse, a better keyboard, a little cleaning, and it will be a beautiful addition to my collection.

This is probably the last computer festival I will attend this year. And probably a good thing, too.

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Ever since I can remember, I’ve always loved making art of some kind. I think mostly because it was a quiet, solo activity I could get lost in for a while. And it seemed like a good way to keep adults from pestering me. If I was “doing my art,” I was apparently engaged in an approved activity that couldn’t be interrupted with questions about homework or pleas to clean my room. After I was done doing my art, I was no longer in the safe zone, of course. I was fair game for homework and housework.

I liked all kinds of art. Painting, latch hook kits, wood burning, Decoupaging little plaster puppies, you name it. When my grandma came to visit, she would load me up with art supplies and craft projects until I almost didn’t have room to do them. But mostly I loved drawing. I drew everything. Given a giant paper pad and a pencil, I would be occupied for hours. I drew in all kinds of styles, from realistic landscapes to Ziggy and Mickey Mouse. I still have some of those early drawings. Some were good, some were decidedly not so good, but I kept cranking them out regardless.

Of course, the more I did it the better I got. I got noticed, too. I won bookmark-designing contests at school and became a 2nd Grade celebrity. My family knew me as The Artist (no, not that one), and my parents would sign me up for drawing classes and indulged my need for more paper — my dad once brought me a giant box of unused dot matrix computer paper from work. I probably went through it faster than the printer would have. You might say I had a passion for drawing. Adults noticing that passion liked to comment, “Oh, I know what you’re going to be when you grow up.” They said it so much, and I did it so much that I began to believe that yes, that’s what I should probably do to make a living. Duh.

And that’s exactly what I did. Not right away, though. Aside from doing sporadic, low-paying freelance gigs and scribbling on napkins for free, I didn’t actually earn a living from being an artist until I was almost 30. And soon after that, I was doing the job I had dreamed I would be doing back when I was doodling on printer paper. I became a storyboard artist and animator at Nickelodeon. From there, I had a long and successful career both as a freelancer and full time employee doing animation, graphic design, illustration, and eventually my own screenprinting business. You may have even seen my name on some stuff. Fun.

The funny thing about all this is that as I was actively doing these jobs, I probably wouldn’t have said that art was my passion. In fact, sometimes it was downright dull. Sometimes it was fun and sometimes it was just earning a paycheck. There were days where I even hated it. I’m sure there are those who would wonder how I could possibly feel that way when I was doing something that many people only dream about. Yeah, I’ve often wondered that myself.

I was thinking about how when I was in the Air Force, I spent my days running up and down the stairs of massive cargo aircraft, driving vehicles on and off the planes, chaining down pallets — sometimes in the worst weather — then standing on the tarmac in the freezing cold rain or roasting desert sun, considering how lucky I was to be able to do that job. There were days I loved it — I dare say was passionate about it — days when I was just earning a paycheck, and days where I hated it.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the nature of passion and work and how we try so hard to combine the two. Just about anyone who has sought answers as to what job or career they should pursue is given the advice, “Just follow your passion.” I used to spout that aphorism myself, because for a long time I believed it. After all, I followed my passion and it resulted in a successful art career. These days, I don’t think it’s the best advice.

In his book The Algebra of Wealth, Scott Galloway suggests that, instead of following your passion, you should follow your talent. The reason is that while you may be passionate about something — dogs, for example — it doesn’t necessarily follow that you would enjoy being a veterinarian. Instead, it’s better to cultivate a talent you already have and turn that into a lucrative career. Maybe you’re really good at making spreadsheets and tracking money. Becoming an accountant is one way to leverage that talent and make a lot of money. In your downtime, you can indulge your passion for dogs.

Another aphorism that’s overused is, “Do what you love and the money will follow.” I would change that to “Do what you’re good at and the money will follow.”

I’m fortunate enough that I am both good at something — drawing — and I also love doing it. For fun, anyway. But it turned out that every time I tried to sync up my passion for drawing with work, it became just another job. The shine rubbed off. Along the way I discovered that I’m also good at analyzing data and creating visual representations of vague concepts. For a good portion of my career in art, that’s what I did. It wasn’t as sexy as animating cartoons, but it was extremely lucrative and I had a knack for it.

These days I create art for art’s sake. I still love it. Maybe I’ll sell it in some way, but it’s not something I need to do to pay the bills. Instead, I maintain websites and write about software. Is it my passion? Hardly. I enjoy the work and I’m good at it. I get to mess around with databases, write some code, solve technical issues, create tutorials. It’s a living that I can live with. In the meantime, I can indulge my passion for art — I’m thinking of doing another animated film or even hosting a festival — but the money isn’t a factor.

If you’re banging your head against the wall because you don’t have a so-called “passion,” to turn into a career, I’m here to tell you, let that shit go. Find something your pretty good at, develop the skill, and figure how to get paid for that. Then go dabble in all the other things you love just because you can. You’ll make more money and more importantly, you’ll be happier.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

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After reading this Time article about the hack, I had more questions than answers. Which is par for the course when you’re tallking about media coverage of anything regarding politics, health care, science, or data breeches.

After the gazillionth data breach in a few short years, with the same experts and agencies always weighing in, I wanted to write a little something about where things stand from a layperson’s point of view. Translation: most of us living in the actual world.

How Cybersecurity firms and credit agencies profit from breaches

Cybersecurity firms profit anytime there’s a breach by providing their expertise to the media. It’s free advertising, but it does nothing for the average person.

Cybersecurity firms are hired by companies to do damage control, or by companies who haven’t yet been breached to prevent it from happening. Every time there’s a breach, the media trots out a cybersecurity expert to tell us “what it all means.” Aside from some free advertising for their agency, they never really tell us anything we don’t already know. Use multi-factor authentication. Don’t click on “suspicious links” that may not really be from your bank. Meanwhile, our banks continue sending us emails with a big blue button so we can conveniently log in and see our statement. Hmm. Maybe the banks can start doing better, instead of leaving it for us to decipher the good links from the phishing ones.

To cybersecurity experts and media wonks, it’s all perfectly reasonable. To the rest of us, it all feels like bullshit.

Credit agencies profit by selling us “identity theft protection,” which really does nothing for the average person.

After the recent Ticketmaster hack, I learned that I was affected. They sent me a letter to tell me that my data was compromised, and assured me that everything was just fine. They told me that I probably have nothing to worry about, but they suggested I sign up for Trans Union’s credit monitoring/identity theft protection service. It would be free for a year with a code included in the letter. Except the code didn’t work. But I was offered the opportunity to pay for the service.

Also, as long as we’re talking about cybersecurity, I need to mention that the service linked to in the handy QR code took me to something called “TrueIdentity.” Which sounded a bit scammy to me. And wait — I thought this was a Trans Union service? And before you can even get started with anything, you first have to enter all your information. You know, identity information like name, address, email, phone, and last four of your social security number. I’m sure it’s pefectly safe.

It turns out that the service really is provided by Trans Union, they just call it something else and use a different website. I have to wonder, with all the phishing scams out there, wouldn’t an agency who claims to protect your identity want to go out of their way to make sure it looks legit? Leaving no question as to who is asking for your data?

Yet here’s another opportunity to upload your private info to a mysterious online database that in all likelihood will be hacked sooner or later.

There’s nothing we can do to prevent our data from being stolen

Our data is going to be hacked. Period. No matter how many multi-authentication systems we put in place and how vigilant we are about phishing scams, our data is still not under our control. When someone else holds our data, there is nothing we can do to make sure their servers are locked down, their employees are trusted, and their systems are up to date. It is out of our hands.

In February of 2023, the Los Angeles Unified School District was hacked, affecting about 2,000 people. Social Security numbers, Driver’s License numbers, student IDs and emails were among the types of data stolen. They suspect that hackers gained access when an employee fell victim to a phishing scam.

There is nothing we can do to protect our own data when it’s held by a third party. Not because of how bad computers are, but because of humans. No matter how hard we try to educate people about online scams, someone at some point is going to click a link in their email that opens them up to hackers. And when you work in a large organization like the LAUSD, it’s not just your data — it’s potentially everyone else’s, too.

Speaking of humans, I’ve experienced the same scary scenario multiple times. It goes like this. I’m sitting in a public space; a library, an airport, or a mall food court. There is an elderly gentleman speaking loudly into his mobile phone on speaker. He’s trying to get access to an online account and the tech is helping him. In the process, he shouts his name, address, social security number, the name of the website he’s on, his secret security answers, and in one instance an entire bank account number. If I was evil, I would have written down everything while I listened. But I am not evil, so in two instances, I gently alerted them to the fact that everyone could hear their conversation. One of them said, “Wha? Oh? Okay.” and sallied forth with their loud call.

Humans. We are a big part of the problem. But ultimately it’s the responsibility of the companies holding our data to secure it. But when they reassure us that they’re doing everything they can to address security, it feels like bullshit.

Is it all bullshit?

For many of us, reading articles in the news about the latest data breech is kind of like reading about the astronauts being stranded at the space station. “Ok, interesting… so now what?” Just as we can’t rescue the astronauts ourselves, we have no power to control how our data is stored by companies and government agencies. So telling us about a breech is just another way to get us worried about something we have no control over.

No matter how many experts weight in on the matter, we’re ultimately not sailing under own power. It just feels like bullshit.

I don’t mean to hack on (pardon the pun) cybersecurity professionals. They do provide a valuable service to companies and individuals, helping us understand how to better secure our own data. As a SysAdmin myself, I realize that sometimes the advice I give people about securing their data and accounts can sound like a bunch of crazy, magical bullshit.

Most of us can follow simple advice about not giving out our credit card to an unknown caller. If we get a text from our bank reporting suspicious activity, I believe the majority of people will not click the link and instead check their account safely. We can use encrypted email services and cloud drives. Very few of us conduct private account business in the middle of a crowded airport. Many of us use random password generators. Once we’ve done all the obvious things we can to protect ourselves, that’s it. There’s nothing else.

The rest is bullshit.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

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Until last November, that is, when we closed on our first purchased home. Not that you were doing the math, but that’s 32 years of paying rent. I’m not going to get into the details in this post about why we’ve always rented, but it’s a little bit scary to think about how much money we’ve paid to other people without actually owning any property. Yikes.

It’s nice to own our home. No, it’s great to own our home. let me count the reasons:

• No landlord to please; i.e., why do you have a metal table on the porch?
• Our money isn’t padding someone else’s bank account.
• We can do whatever we want; plant a garden, paint the porch, rip out the drywall, etc.
• The simple satisfaction of checking the “own” box on tax and bank documents that ask if we own or rent.

Of course, there are also things about owning a home that are less than great:

• Property taxes (although I imagine our previous landlords factored that into our rent — if they were smart, anyway)
• We can’t just pick up and move on a whim. Even an end-of lease whim.
• If something breaks, we have to fix it.

Let’s talk about that last one. We did have our home inspected before we purchased it. So we can pat ourselves on the back for not being completely stupid. Although we’ve since un-patted ourselves for not realizing that the whole home inspection process is kind of like sniffing a t-shirt you found on the floor to see if it’s wearable.* It might be at first sniff. Later in the afternoon, you discover odors that cause you dismay.

*Of course I would never do this. I’ve only heard…accounts of other… friends who… I’ve seen it on — okay, yes, I totally do this.

We also knew there were a few things we were going to want to fix or upgrade after moving in. And, there were some surprises. Surprises are not good, because they eat at the budget you set aside for things you just want to do. For example, as we were confidently planning how we would install a drop ceiling in my basement office, the 76-year old sewer pipe had other plans. As in, “I think 2024 would be a good year to let these tree roots completely ravage me while I take a short break from delivering your poop to the city.” So the drop ceiling can wait, because poop extraction is decidedly more important.

Then came the bats. You probably wouldn’t believe that getting rid of bats would cost more than a really nice-looking used Buick, but you would be wrong.

But wait! There’s more!

We’ve got shower leaks, basement leaks, and sinking concrete slabs in the driveway and garage to sweeten the deal.

via GIPHY

If you’ve read anything I’ve written so far, you probably won’t be surprised that I created a spreadsheet detailing the costs of our repair and restore projects. Of course I did.

A few of these are “wants” and not “needs,” like the… the… and the… well, I mean where the bathroom… oh hell. It’s all needs.

Nine months after closing, we’re in for about $74,282 in repair/replacement/remodel costs. And we don’t even get a baby.

I’m not complaining. Okay, I am complaining. But not just complaining-complaining, I’m factoring in the joy that comes from the idea that this is all ours to do as we please. Yes, we have to install a bathtub upstairs because it’s only been a tiny cubicle shower for several decades. But, nobody is telling us what kind of bathtub we need to put in. Or who will do the work.

Yes, the AC will quite possibly fail next summer. But we get to pick the new one — or decide that we don’t really need to do it at all. Which is a choice we never had as renters.

Plus, there are a lot of projects that need doing which we’ll take on ourselves. Ripping out drywall can be very satisfying, not to mention the savings in labor costs — and again, the fact that some landlord isn’t going to freak the hell out.

There are costs we didn’t anticipate when we bought our first home. True. But we plan to be here for several decades, so the money and time we put in now will be very satisfying when we’re in our 80s. We’ll likely look back on this time and think, Wow, I’m really glad we drank all those cocktails every night.

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These are the books sitting next to my living room armchair at the moment:

One Summer, Bill Bryson

Data Science, Kelleher and Tierney

An Inconvenient Woman, Dominick Dunne

Bitwise, David Auerbach

There are more on the shelf next to me and across the room. And if that’s not enough, Jenni’s pile is even bigger.  It’s comforting to know that there’s always something to pick up and read.

Also another reminder of why libraries are so important to our society, and why keeping titles- any titles- available to the public is crucial to the understanding of our world and different cultures.

Oh, and it’s just fun to read.

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I thought it would be fun to review the issues, and the numbers.

I say “fun” and I mean fun for you. Seeing as how it’s our checkbook, time, and stress. Enjoy!

Sewer pipe

Our first major problem. The basement started flooding right before Easter weekend (why is it always holidays and weekends?). The drain in the laundry room was backing up, and nothing we flushed was going down. Gross. The plumbers had to dig down about 8 feet to find that the old clay pipe from 1948 was being destroyed by tree roots. The pipe was replaced, hydro-jetted, and a clean-out access pipe put in; all of which the house probably needed about 40 years ago.

Total = $9,441

Bats

Stop me if you’ve heard this. We took a short trip back to Los Angeles to help our teen say goodbye to his friends by way of a home school dance. Who says homeschooling isn’t social? Not United Airlines and Marriott.

When we returned, I went out the back door and saw a pile (pile!) of… poop. Squirrel? Opossum? Rat (please don’t be rat poop, please don’t be…). The poop was also covering the second-floor window sill. Weird. You probably guessed by the heading, but it was bats. We had bats living in our attic. There are laws against killing bats (of which I’m glad), so the exterminators had to extract them by means of a “bat valve” that lets them escape but not get back in.

They also discovered that we had essentially no insulation in the attic. Fun fact.

Total = $8,595

Shower Leak

Few things are more disturbing to one’s inner peace than being in the shower and having someone bang on the door. It’s jarring in the best of circumstances. In the worst, it’s someone telling you, “The shower is leaking into the basement!” Just what I was hoping to hear this morning.

Sure enough, the upstairs shower was leaking into my office. If you’re questioning my sanity in putting my computer lab full of sensitive equipment directly underneath drain pipes, then you just joined my tiny club. Welcome.

Another fix that should have been done before Nixon resigned, but here we are.

Total = $1,558

Garage Door

Today’s error involved the garage door that wouldn’t close all the way — unless I disengaged it from the automatic opener and closed it manually. I took about 45 minutes inspecting it and tried various solutions before I decided to call someone. And I kick myself for calling a pro every time, because I consider myself a DIY-type of person. If I can’t solve a problem myself, I feel a little less-than. But Jenni reminds me that sometimes it’s not worth beating your head against a wall and it’s okay to call an expert. So I did. And he was great. And it turns out it was a simple fix that I suspected, but didn’t act on because I was nervous I would get it wrong and make it worse. But at least the garage guy gets the award for the least expensive fix we’ve had done to date.

Total = $180

$19,774

That’s what we’re in for to date. Almost $20K in fixes. And we know there’s more to come, like raising the driveway slab that’s causing the basement to flood in heavy rain. So we’re kicking ourselves for the negotiations during the home purchase process. Then again, we’re very new to this experience. And we’re grateful that we are able to foot the bill for this stuff, because if we couldn’t finance the fixes, we would be swimming in sewage, not using the shower, and living with flying mice.

Consider us fortunate.

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