Rainy Day Dream Away

Rain again, all day … just like yesterday, and the day before, and for the next four or five days, according to the forecasts.

(Thankfully) soccer practice was canceled. Girls upstairs watching the tube. Me, chillin’ with a 40 ounce in the basement.

So – do I love or hate rainy days?

All things in moderation, I say. “Say” that is, not “do.”

Ah heck. Days like this just remind me of this tune –

CEO, Spaceboy Industries

I had a wonderful dream two nights ago.

I was some big head honcho of some high-tech space-age nuts-and-bolts roll-up-yer-sleeve-and-git-to-work company. We put rockets up into space, manned and robotic, into every corner of the Solar System. We worked hard on creating new forms of air and vacuum propulsion. We toyed with curving space to locomote faster and better. We tore up the earth and built great factories and landing fields and everyone won with us. And me, I was in the thick of things, involved at all levels of production and planning.

That was the background, and though it wasn’t explicitly exposited in my slumberings, it just was, and I knew it.

What was wonderful was what happened.

I was hosting a cocktail party at my mansion. My mansion was nestled on a mountainside overlooking the bright suburban and urban lights of a great metropolis, with the nebulous Id-ian sea just beyond in the distance. It was just beautiful. The main reception area of my mansion was open to the air, and guests lingered about tables with glasses in their hands, or stepped out into my perfectly manicured lawns, which ended shortly at a railing before a steep fall.

Suddenly, excited shouts followed by hushes percolate randomly, spontaneously, and exponentially, through the crowd.

Bright lights are approaching in the deep dark sky … but they are not moving in any discernibly predictable way. Better stated, they ain’t flying towards us as any known vehicle would. Yet, they aren’t naturally phenomena. They are … controlled.

Then, to the gasps of many, they get close and swoop down … overhead … and whoosh past us, incredibly vivid and realistic. I felt my heart thud the way it does when I find myself square in the radial standing wave pattern of a massive bass amplifier. Then they circled around, zooming out over the city, and back.

I studied the intricate detailed designs of these alien craft (now, unfortunately, forgotten in the post-dream state), mouth agape, trembling with awe. And I knew I had to get my hands on them!

Like some Ayn Rand philosopher-king in an industrialist guise, like an Asimovian John Galt, I realized, and this was the most wonderful part of the dream, that it was only a matter of time before I did get my hands on them. Simply a matter of time.

Then I woke up and had to pee.

Iftikhar's Trick

About a dozen years ago I spent a little time doing help-desk computer support. I did it for about two years, taking over 5,000 phone calls from all over the world. Dubai and China were probably the most “foreign” places I supported. I always say that job made me learn how to speak on the phone. I also learned a ton about computers through on the job training, self-study and outside certification, and trial-by-fire feet-in-the-fire stress. And I worked with guys who were really, really good with PCs and networking, guys for whom the whole business came second-nature.

One such guy was Iftikhar, a Pakistani dude who grew up here and was a very, very funny fellow. He sat in the cubicle to my right, and we would crack each other up every now and again – he cracking me up in particular. There was one thing he did once that I have never forgotten, and I absolutely love it for its cleverness and ballsiness.

The company sent him out to get some training. Like a lot of us, we thought being sent out for some training a massive waste of time. Just give us access to what we were supposed to support, let us tinker with it, and in a few hours we’d be able to support it. So he went to this training – whatever it was, don’t remember – in search of something desperately interesting and entertaining to do.

Quickly he considered himself more knowledgeable than the trainer. But how to prove it? Hmmm. A short lunch break was called and everyone filed out of the conference room, everyone, that is, except Iftikhar. Once alone in the room, he went to work. Seems the trainer left his laptop open and on, and not password-protected, either.

Mistake.

First thing Iftikhar does is take a screen shot of the laptop’s background wallpaper, icons and all.

Then, he moves all the icons into the far corner of the screen, scrunched up all in the upper left corner, barely visible save for a tiny Microsoft-grey-hued square.

Finally, he makes the screen shot he just took – icons and all – the new background for the laptop.

Get it?

The trainer gets back, claps his hands, says, “Okay, class, let’s resume where we left off,” then starts clicking on the icons on his laptop –

And nothing happens!

A look of confusion crosses his face, then consternation and a furrowed brow. He tries ctr-alt-deleting, tries rebooting, tries completely powering down and pulling the power cord out of the wall. Checks the BIOS, boots up in safe mode. Nothing. No response from the laptop when he gets to his desktop.

It’s kinda like when Road Runner paints a black tunnel entrance on a giant rock, and the Coyote keeps trying again and again and again to get through.

Minutes go by as the class is getting antsy, and the trainer can’t figure out what’s wrong with his laptop. After letting him sweat for a couple of minutes, Iftikhar fesses up, though how he avoided getting booted out of that class – or prosecuted for hacking! – I have no idea, but he was that kind of guy. A good-natured practical joker who’d help you out in a jam, especially one originating in a country on the other side of the planet.