marknelson.com

Adios, Big Woo

marknnelson — Wed, 27 Oct 2021 19:06:00 +0000

So I’m back in my hometown for the week, helping my mom move. Of course she waits until her grandkids are grown and (almost) moved out of our house before she decides to come out to Colorado. Oh well. I had a chance to do a little walkabout, see a few of the old sites, and say goodbye.

Let’s see what I came up with, shall we?

Let’s start with the homestead itself. If you’re not from the Northeast, this is what’s called a “three decker“. Three levels, three separate apartments.

We’re not sure of the exact pedigree of this one, but most of them were built between 1870 and 1930. When you’re a mill town having a pre-war boom, you need housing for all of the incoming European immigrants.

Quick to build, and ready to help aspiring families become part of the landlord class. Also, don’t forget the cloth-covered house-fire-waiting-to-happen copper wiring, the sieve-like home heating characteristics, and the probable lead paint hiding under the 40 layers of wallpaper in every room. This was my home from birth through college, and for my mom, from her wedding day until this fall… 58 years.

Yeah, the paint job is a little lacking. And now there’s a fair amount of trash blowing around in the street, including the occasional used hypodermic. But it really wasn’t that bad a neighborhood to grow up in. We played outside until sundown, rode our bikes up and down the street, and went sledding down the hill at the other end of the block. Everything you’d want in a childhood.

View from the back porch. We lived on the 2nd floor.

Long after I’d moved out, the neighbors on this side paved their whole back yard for parking.

So from there, I headed a couple blocks away to where my grandparent’s lived when I was little. Didn’t grab a pic, but it’s a similar house. At some point, way after my grandparents had moved out, it was condemned. But they pulled off the front porches and renovated it. Right down the hill from that is the park and pool where Grampy would go shower after work every day, since Grammy wouldn’t let him shower in their bathroom. That was because it’d mess up her clean bathroom tile. True story, the man could take a bath, but wasn’t allowed to shower in his own house. Yeah. No.

Here’s random scenery from a loop through downtown:

From there, I headed back around to my neighborhood.

My grade school, Granite St. Elementary. Every Memorial Day, our principal Dr. Wolosz would have us do an assembly around this flagpole. Each class would either recite a poem or sing a patriotic song.

The back of the school, where we spent every recess playing 3 outs against that wall.

I was disappointed they replaced the floors. They used to be actual stone, as were the stairs.

The corner store we’d stop in every day walking home from school. Snuck a peek at my first Playboy behind that there counter while my buddy Bobby distracted the owner.

This is the orphanage right across the street from my elementary school. My friend Ray lived there. I still remember one Christmas, my mom and dad made strongly encouraged me to pick out a present that we could bring him. I remember it being super-awkward, but I think it was the only present he got that year not from the facility.

My old high school. Formerly Holy Name CCHS, now St. Paul’s

The former Providence St. Jr. High

The scene of many a forced 8am-icy-water-why-did-you-sign-me-up-for-this-torture-session. Err, I mean swimming lesson.

My old paper route. Kicking through unshovelled walkways in the winter, stopping to drink out of every side yard hose in the middle of the 95% humidity Massachusetts summer.

The hill across the street from my paper route, where that kid Darrin rode down on the back of his buddy’s bike, knocked me off of mine, and stole it. Honestly, at first I typed “that asshole Darrin”. But for the heck of it, I just googled him, and he’s dead. Died on Christmas Eve some years back. So I guess I’ll abstain from speaking ill of the dead. But that was a major formative negative event of my young life. So yeah, fuck him.

The field where I still regret not playing little league. But none of my friends played, and I didn’t want to go do it alone.

Tour’s over, back to the start.

It’s been a while

marknnelson — Tue, 15 Jun 2021 18:43:00 +0000

Holy shit, take nine years off from blogging, and the whole freaking world changed. Or did it?

In February 2012 (my last post), Tom Brady was in the Super Bowl.

This year? Same.

In 2012, well-known celebrities died.

This year? Same.

In 2012, half of us didn’t like the most recently elected president

Now? Half of us don’t like the most recently elected* president.

*yeah, I know, I know. But that’s a whole other can of worms that I’ll leave to Dr. Briggs or someone. We’re apolitical here.

What else hasn’t changed?

The sun still rises every morning while I’m out walking, and still sets every evening. Although now I usually see that sunset from my home office. #ZoomLife #WFH

There’s still good music coming out:

As well as some greats who are no longer putting out good music, for varied reasons:

RIP

You’re an entertainer, not my conscience. Shut up and play.

———–

But all that said, of course some things have changed in the last almost decade.

My beard is this funny color now. Not black. Not brown. Not sure what this is called, but I am pretty sure I don’t like it.
Mrs. Marky Mark started and finished grad school, and is running her own successful practice. The kids and I are super proud of her.
#1 son is headed to college.
#1 daughter is out on her own, living the southern California life.
I learned to bake sourdough. Nothing special there…so did half the country.
Speaking of which, I heard there’s some sort of flu or something going around that a bunch of people are worried about?

Right under your nose

marknnelson — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 18:08:00 +0000

When I was a kid, I lived, breathed, ate, drank and slept fishing. I remember once when I was home sick with strep, my Mom brought me some fishing magazines, and I read them cover-to-cover, over-and-over, for four days. Burned ’em into my brain. I had this recurring dream throughout those years. In the dream, I discovered that there was a pond right in the park across the street from my house. Somehow it had been there all along, but I had never noticed it. And this pond had some huge fish swimming in it. So I’d walk over there, toss in a line, and pull out these monster world-record bass. That’s right, world record bass right up there in Massachusetts. And for an obsessed kid who was still years away from driving, having a fishing spot not only within biking distance, but actually right across the street? It was almost better than that time my buddy Tommy and I found his grandfather’s Playboy stash. But I digress…So cut to real life, a few years later. One day in Junior High, I was talking to some friends, and I randomly learned that maybe a couple hundred yards away from the school, on the side opposite how I always arrived, there was a small pond. I’d never seen it because we never went over there. It was past the teacher’s parking lot, and students weren’t allowed over on that side of the building. So I’d never known it existed before that day. Learning that that pond was there was my old childhood dream actually coming true. Constantly that spring, I’d pedal back over there with my gear, trying to catch whatever was hidden in that murky water. Nothing much ever came of it, maybe a couple bluegill here and there. But still, this city kid was fishing, a mere stone’s throw from his house. And then one day, the owners, whose house backed up to the other side of the pond, decided to drain it. And as quickly as the dream had materialized, it vanished. I hadn’t thought about that pond in a long time, until the other day. I had taken the kids to the you paint pottery place here in town, a place we’ve been to plenty of times. And when we were walking out the door, I noticed that across the street is a pretty substantial used book store. Somehow I’ve lived in or near this town for like 15 years, and I’d never noticed that store before. Apparently it’s been there that whole time too. I just hadn’t noticed. And for the 45 year-old version of me, a big ol’ used bookstore is pretty much equivalent to a fishing pond for the 13 year-old me. I’d better get in there before they close down.

Just keep doing it until you’re happy

marknnelson — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 17:16:00 +0000

So the little man has an annoying habit. We’ll be walking down the street, or across a parking lot, or wherever, and he’ll stop to pick up some random bit of interesting-looking trash. Now this is an 8-year-old we’re talking about here, not some toddler. But if you have, or have had any contact whatsoever with, a male child, then you know that discussions regarding germs, bacteria, or hand-washing are completely useless. It all started a couple of years back when his Cub Scout den talked about the “leave no trace” ethic. Well kudos to Den Leader Matt, the lesson stuck. Now look, I’m all for picking up after oneself, especially when traipsing through the wilderness, the psuedo-wilderness of the scout camp, or even the local park. But there have to be limits, or you’ll spend all day getting from here to there, and you’ll arrive with a full hefty bag. Take yesterday for example: The boy just picked out a sweet pair of Adidas b-ball shoes, complete with the skull laces. Can he really be a men’s 5 already? We’re walking out to our car, and he grabs somebody’s index card shopping list off of the ground. I patiently explain for the umpteenth time that picking up the paper has now changed its status. Before, it was somebody else’s shirked responsibility. But now that he’s picked it up, it’s his. Even though it was already litter, now that he’s taken possession, it’s his litter. He responds that he’s just trying to leave no trace. So as we pull out of our spot, I point to other pieces of wind-blown trash that have made their way to the edges of the parking lot, and I make what seems to me a well-reasoned argument. Why stop with just that one piece? Maybe he should grab one more, and then one more, ad infinitum. Of course I didn’t use the term “ad infinitum”, because then I’d have to make an aside to explain what it means, and that would ruin my parental speechifying flow. And for the briefest of moments, I noticed that I sounded like a father in a Twisted Sister video or something. Like one of those “You don’t understand how the world works young man. Just wait until you have a job, and responsibilities, and people counting on you, and …” dads. Blecch. But truly, that vision lasted just a millisecond, and it didn’t derail me from wrapping up my argument. If the goal is to remove all litter, then he could almost make a lifetime endeavor out of it, just in this one multi-big-box parking lot. And that’s what I told him. So then I close with my clincher: “How would you know when to stop picking up litter? You’d never really be done.” To which he responds simply, “I’d just keep doing it until it made me happy. Then I’d stop.” Huh.

Real men don’t drink Chamomile

marknnelson — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 20:02:00 +0000

If you’re old like me, you might remember this bit of internet humor that went around in the mid-nineties. It was a supposed high school paired writing assignment that went south very quickly. See Alex Bogusy and Snopes for a couple of examples of the story.

Cut to last night. We’re driving to dinner, and Styx’s “Come Sail Away” came on the classic rock station. Now, just to be clear, I love Styx. The Grand Illusion was the first album I ever brought to school for our 5th grade “bring your music to class” days. So I was perfectly happy to enjoy the fine musical ramblings of the boys from Chicago.

However, my darling wife disagrees… Mrs. MarkyMark don’t dig on classic rock. But before my bride scowled me into changing the station, I remembered that paired writing story. And I was struck with how similar that song is to the high-schoolers’ essay. The first half is all idyllic and, well, meaningful. And the second half is aliens.

I know Dennis DeYoung gets the sole writing credit on the tune, but now I’m wondering if Tommy Shaw and DeYoung secretly did a “I’ll write the first 2 verses, then you close it out” thing?

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear

marknnelson — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 19:56:00 +0000

The other day was my 2nd-grader’s inaugural ride in the front seat of the van. He was checking out the new view from up there: Dad, what’s that? What’s that one? What’s that? I was explaining what a tachometer is, and trying to figure out why our Honda Odyssey even needs one, when he read the passenger-side mirror: “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear”. So I explained what that was all about, and it got me thinking.

The 2 rearview mirrors have completely different functions, different magnifications. And they’re not interchangeable. If the driver’s side was zoomed out and convex like the passenger’s, you wouldn’t know just how close someone coming up on your left to pass really is. But if the passenger side wasn’t wide-angle, you’d miss someone in your blind spot.

Kinda like life. Sometimes you need a focused, accurate perspective, just to make sure you’re not about to get rear-ended when changing lanes. Other times, you need that broader but less-accurate passenger-side view, just to make sure you’re not missing something way over on the periphery.

Moreover, you need to make sure you’re switching back and forth between them often enough. You get fixated on one or the other, and something comes up and bites you.

So as this year passes into the next, and before you get bogged down in too many holiday to-do’s, resolutions and yearly goal lists, remember the mirrors. Keep your focus, but don’t forget the wide view too. It’s good to have another front seat buddy.

Although, just like his sister before him, he needs to understand rule #1 of front-seat passengering: the driver runs the radio.

That “swish-swish” you hear is the sound of my tracksuit.

marknnelson — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 19:29:00 +0000

So I got laid off about a month ago. I’d love to write you a few thoughtful paragraphs about how I’m feeling, what I’m doing, and what the future may hold. But I’m in kind of a bullet-point mood, so here goes a few random observations:

The severance package was decent enough (I’d been there for just short of 10 years), so I’m not feeling a panicked urgency to take whatever I can find. I’m trying to balance spending enough time to find a good fit, with not sitting still for too long. “So, Mark, what did you do for all of 2011?”
We are all expendable. Read it again. It’s true. Even you.
Mrs. Marky Mark and I have decided for now to just call me “retired”, and go buy matching track suits. But at some point, if we’re gonna stick with that designation, we be rocking the tracksuits in a van down by the river.
I kinda dig driving carpool.
Over the course of the last few months, there’ve been a few things that I’ve either gained or regained interest in. I’ve had time now to pursue them, without guilt that I’m taking time away from my family, or stretching my lunch hour unreasonably. I fired up the table saw and router and built something the other day. And I played guitar for about an hour today. I sounded like shit, but hey, at least I knocked the dust off.
Do you know how truly great it feels to sit at the bookstore for two hours with a cup of coffee? And in the middle of that, when you start feeling that tension building up in your gut, and you think “I’ve got to get back to the office”? That’s when you realize “No I don’t. I just need to pee.”
The employment picture for IT positions in and around Denver is pretty solid. I just read somewhere that unemployment for DBA’s is tiny. The more I’m networking with peers, the more I’m realizing that corporate staffing bulimia is epidemic. The yearly springtime hiring binges, followed inevitably by the yearly fall staff purges. But this is why you hire people to do what you could buy systems to do, right? After all, you can’t lay off a system in October to make EBITDA look better.
A few weeks before the layoff, I’d started a decluttering project. It all began when I discovered manvsdebt.com. I downloaded a couple of Baker’s books here and here. With my extra time, I’ve ended up selling a bunch of crap from the basement on Amazon, EBay & Craigslist. It’s not like this is a paycheck replacer, but it is basically free money, with a side of “clean basement” thrown in.
Good things about the last place:
- Most of the people that I worked with.
- Good professional growth trajectory for the half of my time there, from Developer to Manager to Director.
- I learned a lot from a great CIO that I worked for during those years. She was a bit off, but she liked me, and she knew her shit.
- The money flowed like water in the early 2000’s. Parties, cash bonuses, big annual raises.
- Minimal business travel.
Bad things about the last place:
- Removed most of ’em. They sound too much like sour grapes. But I will keep the following on the list:
- Sitefinity blogging software
- Expensewatch
- Having Pandora and GMail blocked on the corporate network. Yeah, I get why. I just didn’t like it.

Hey, who knows. Maybe now I can stick to a blog posting schedule?

The random back-to-school post

marknnelson — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 17:23:00 +0000

My head is spinning right now. I’ve come to an unexpected realization: I don’t really care how my kids do in school. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to under-parent. I care very much what they do in school. I care about what they learn, I care about how they treat other people, and how others interact with them. It’s just that I feel like maybe I’ve finally turned some corner with not having any of my own ego tied up in their being A students with 160 IQ’s. Carlin had a riff that went something like “Think about how dumb the average person you meet is. Now realize that half of the people in this world are dumber than that.” Well, let’s just lay our cards on the table here: I don’t think I’m in that half.

Look, I understood a long time ago that any smarts I may have are because God gave them to me, and my parents encouraged me to use them (when I wasn’t watching Gilligan). So this isn’t bragging on my part. But Mrs. Marky Mark and I are reasonably intelligent people. So naturally, and I’m sure like any other parents, we expected our offspring to be freaking geniuses. And I’m not saying that they’re not. I’m just saying that if they’re not, that’s okay. We read to them as infants, we played them classical music. We sent them to a Montessori preschool, and now to a charter grade school that certainly raises a high bar in terms of the level of the students’ work. We even felt appropriate levels of guilt when we let them watch too much TV. Although as a side note, I happen to think that watching as much TV as I did as a kid helped me in some specific ways. But we’ll leave that for another post.

We had this in the bag, right? Well, maybe. Or maybe not. But less and less am I convinced that it even matters. Pop culture depictions and children’s opinions notwithstanding, parents generally don’t want their kids to be miserable. We want them to be happy. And there are a whole lot of people for whom the High School Valedictorian => good college => good corporate job => big house track does not equal happy. Maybe he’ll want to build custom cars for a living instead of being an attorney. And maybe she’ll be an artist instead of a veterinarian. Maybe they’ll be A students, and maybe not. And you know, that’s okay. If they’re putting in the time and the effort, and they’re pulling C’s, then that’s who they are. So what I want is for them to listen to their gut, to pay attention to their instincts, and follow where that leads. Admittedly, modern life is more difficult for an artist than for an investment banker. But I’d certainly rather they be happy artists than miserable bankers.