Iron Man ’story’
English of the Dead trailer
Deadly Creatures interview
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Funeral Masses
I think that one of the institutional sins of the Missouri Synod has been a despising of the gifts God gives in the Lord's Supper. This has started to turn around in some extremely significant ways, and I rejoice at that! One of them is the provision in Lutheran Service Book for the Lord's Supper to be celebrated in a funeral service. Today I officiated at a funeral service at which the Lord's Supper was celebrated, and if I could have my way, I'd probably never conduct a funeral without the Supper ever again.
The Lord gave in His Supper the comfort that these people needed. The Proper Preface always includes the words "with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven..." That includes the one whose loss we mourn. What better way to celebrate our Savior's faithfulness to the deceased!
The reason it will take time for this to catch on, I think, is that pastors are afraid to with love and concern address the topic of closed communion. I suspect that in most cases this could be done in a way that would still allow all to grieve, but probably not always. But just because we have to work a little harder doesn't mean it's not worth the effort.
The Lord gave in His Supper the comfort that these people needed. The Proper Preface always includes the words "with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven..." That includes the one whose loss we mourn. What better way to celebrate our Savior's faithfulness to the deceased!
The reason it will take time for this to catch on, I think, is that pastors are afraid to with love and concern address the topic of closed communion. I suspect that in most cases this could be done in a way that would still allow all to grieve, but probably not always. But just because we have to work a little harder doesn't mean it's not worth the effort.
Funeral Homily for Wyatt Bartholomew Frahm
Rev. Charles Lehmann + Wyatt Bartholomew Frahm + Luke 1:39-56
In the Name of + Jesus. Amen.
John, Jen, family and friends. Wyatt Bartholomew Frahm is come unto mount Sion, and unto the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of angels, to the general assembly and church of the firstborn, which are written in heaven, and to God the Judge of all, and to the spirits of just men made perfect, and to Jesus the mediator of the new covenant, and to the blood of sprinkling, that speaketh better things than that of Abel.
It has pleased Almighty God to call Wyatt to Himself, but it does not please us. We want to hold Wyatt. We want to see Him grow and mature into the man of God that we expected he would be. But the Lord has chosen another way, and we don't understand it. It makes us angry and confused. No answer seems sufficient. So we cry out to the Lord, "O Lord, rebuke me not in your anger, nor discipline me in your wrath. Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing; heal me, O Lord, for my bones are troubled. My soul also is greatly troubled. But you, O Lord--how long? Turn, O Lord, deliver my life; save me for the sake of your steadfast love. I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping. The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord accepts my prayer."
At moments like this we want to peer into the hidden counsels of God, but there is no comfort in the hidden God. That is not where the Lord directs us this morning.
We are directed instead to the God in Mary's womb. We are directed to our Savior. We are directed to the one who by his conception and birth has sanctified the wombs of all mothers. We are directed to the one who by his three day rest in the tomb has made holy the graves of all His saints. We are directed to Wyatt's Savior.
Elizabeth was a pastor's wife. From the moment that John the Baptist was conceived, we can have little doubt that Elizabeth spoke the word of God to him. John was prayed for at temple and synagogue. And even though Zechariah could not speak during the months that John was growing in his mother's womb, we can have little doubt that John's father prayed for him.
And John heard that word of God. Elizabeth's womb was no barrier for the Word of life. John heard and believed. And so when Elizabeth heard Mary's greeting, so did John, and by that miracle of faith John leaped for joy. His Savior was there! It was the greatest moment in his life to that point. God, still being knit together in Mary's womb, was going to stay with Elizabeth, Zechariah, and John for three months.
And so, even six months before the Lord's birth we can hear His words echoing in our ears. "Let the little children come to me, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." Jesus is for children, even before He is born. The faith of a little baby is real, precious, and confessed throughout the Scriptures. David prays, "On you was I cast from my birth, and from my mother's womb you have been my God."
We sometimes have trouble believing these words. We like to think quite a lot of our reason, and we want to put intellectual prerequisites on faith in Christ.
But thanks be to God! He gives us no tests. There are no placement exams for Christian faith. Instead the Lord says, "This is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, declares the Lord: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts. And I will be their God, and they shall be my people. And no longer shall each one teach his neighbor and each his brother, saying, 'Know the Lord,' for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, declares the Lord. For I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more."
The miracle of faith is for all who hear God's saving word of life, from the least of us to the greatest, and infant faith is not the exception. It is the norm. God attaches rich and great promises to the preaching of His Word and to prayer. And Wyatt even had one advantage in his earthly life that John the Baptist did not. Though both Wyatt and John both had faithful mothers who prayed for them, sang to them, and spoke God's Word to them, John the Baptist did not have the benefit of his father's preaching before he was born. Wyatt did. Wyatt for the thirty-seven weeks of his life was brought here, to this place, where his father preached the Gospel, the sure and certain words of eternal life without which none of us can live. From this very altar, Wyatt's father prayed for him. And from this very altar Wyatt's mother received Christ's body and blood in her mouth. And those prayers for Wyatt were carried out into the world by you, the saints of Gloria Christi.
Wyatt also had the faith sung to him by his faithful parents. John and Jen regularly sang the hymn "At the Lamb's High Feast We Sing" to Wyatt while he was still in the womb, and this past Sunday when Wyatt heard that hymn sung in the Divine Service, he, like John the Baptist before him, leaped for joy in his mother's womb. Wyatt spent the last day of his earthly life filled with the joy of Easter.
Easter triumph! Easter joy! This alone can sin destroy. From sin's power, Lord set us free. Newborn souls in you to be, "Alleluia!" Jesus Christ, in whom John and Wyatt rejoiced before they were even born, has gone to the cross, suffered, and died. He died for Wyatt. From the wood of the cross Jesus forgave Wyatt all his sins. And Jesus is not dead! Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!
And because Christ is risen, Wyatt too shall rise. And when the Lord returns on the clouds, we will certainly not precede this precious child. "For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord."
Wyatt lives in perfect peace and perfect joy for all eternity. And when finally the Lord brings Wyatt's parents into heaven he will greet them with joy. Wyatt will say, "Come my beloved father and mother. Enter the joy that our Savior Jesus Christ has prepared for you for all eternity. I'm so glad that you are here."
But you don't have to wait for that last day to receive the perfect joy and peace that Wyatt now enjoys. We know that in the Lord's Supper we feast with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven. There is but one congregation of the saints and it abides in heaven and on earth.
When the Words of our Lord are spoken at this altar, then heaven will descend to us. These walls will be filled with all the saints in heaven and on earth. Ten thousand times ten thousand will sing with us, "Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Sabaoth. Heaven and earth are full of your glory. Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest. Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord." And John and Jen, there is no doubt that Wyatt is among that myriad in heaven that sings "Worthy is the Lamb who was slain."
Jesus has offered His life for Wyatt's. All of your son's sin has been borne to the cross and destroyed there. And you know the wonderful truth about your Savior's tomb. It is empty. He is risen, and it is that apostolic word that has spoken life into Wyatt even in the womb.
Wyatt's Savior is faithful. He will not leave his dear child in the grave. Behold I tell you a mystery! We shall not all sleep, but we all shall be changed, and Wyatt will be raised incorruptible.
The souls of the saints are in the hand of God, and there shall no torment touch them. In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die and their departure is taken for misery. But they are in peace. For the Lord has regard for His saints, and He shows mercy to His elect.
To Him be glory forever and ever.
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!
In the Name of the Father and of the + Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
More info on Zelda manga heading to NA
Viz isn’t talking about what Zelda manga is coming to the states, but they have confirmed a release date. We can look forward to October 7th as the first day where we can get our hands on a localized copy. While Viz wouldn’t confirm what manga they were bringing over, they did summarize the two volumes.
Volume 1
In the mystical land of Hyrule, three spiritual stones hold the key to the Triforce, and whoever holds them will control the world. A boy named Link sets out on a quest to deliver the Emerald, the spiritual stone of the forest, to Zelda, Princess of the land of Hyrule. The journey will be long and perilous, and Link will need all his skill and courage to defeat evil. The battle for Hyrule and the Sacred Realm has begun!
Volume 2
After completing his training Link begins his journey to seek the remaining Sages. Meanwhile, Ganondorf continues looking for Princess Zelda and plotting to capture Link with the aid of the witches known as Twinrova. At the urging of the mysterious Sheik, Link enters the Haunted Wasteland to find Zelda. The journey will be dangerous but Link is determined to overcome the Twinrova’s traps and survive to face Ganondorf in an epic final battle!
Link
+ Wyatt Bartholomew Frahm
Our brother Wyatt is come unto mount Sion, and unto the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of angels, to the general assembly and church of the firstborn, which are written in heaven, and to God the Judge of all, and to the spirits of just men made perfect, and to Jesus the mediator of the new covenant, and to the blood of sprinkling, that speaketh better things than that of Abel.
My friend, the Reverend John Frahm III and his wife Jennifer suffered great loss as their son, Wyatt Bartholomew, passed away in the womb due to a cord accident. Just yesterday as Wyatt heard his father preach the Easter Gospel and heard sung the hymn that had been sung to him in his mother's womb for months, "At the Lambs High Feast We Sing," he leaped for joy in his mother's womb.
Please remember Pr. Frahm and his wife in your prayers.
The funeral, at which I will be officiating, will probably be on Saturday. I will give more information as I have it.
My friend, the Reverend John Frahm III and his wife Jennifer suffered great loss as their son, Wyatt Bartholomew, passed away in the womb due to a cord accident. Just yesterday as Wyatt heard his father preach the Easter Gospel and heard sung the hymn that had been sung to him in his mother's womb for months, "At the Lambs High Feast We Sing," he leaped for joy in his mother's womb.
Please remember Pr. Frahm and his wife in your prayers.
The funeral, at which I will be officiating, will probably be on Saturday. I will give more information as I have it.
Maundy Thursday Homily
Rev. Charles Lehmann + Maundy Thursday + Matthew 26:17-30
In the Name of + Jesus. Amen
This is not the sort of Passover that the disciples signed up for. They were looking forward to a nice cozy retelling of the Old Testament stories, some lamb, and maybe a little horseradish on the side.
But all that's missing when we read what the Scriptures say about this night. We never hear about a lamb or bitter herbs or a recounting of the story of Exodus. We have Jesus, and we have the Twelve. We have a warning of betrayal. We have the drama of Judas leaving under cover of darkness.
But where is the Lamb? Where is the one whose sacrifice will cover the sins of the family for the coming year? You won't find a lamb mentioned in Matthew, Mark, Luke, or in the Apostle Paul. Fluffy appears to be missing. And how, dear Christians, can there be a Passover without a Lamb?
And what about this Man. He's saying, "Take, eat this is my body." Now that's wondrous strange. But it offers an interesting possibility, doesn't it? Could it be? Could it be that the Lord Himself is the Lamb? Could it be that at this meal He is the host, the waiter, the chef, and the main course?
Yes, dear Christian. It could. It could be that that is just the sort of Lord you have. The Passover is ended forever. No more will a little sheep atone for the sins of the family. The true Lamb, the Lamb of God, is going to the cross to be slain for the sins of God's family forever. And so there's your Lamb, dear Christians. He's the one talking. He's the one giving His body to eat and His blood to drink.
The Lord speaks. We listen. That is the way with the Lord. No negotiation. No asking the Lord to give us His Words in another way. No looking at the gift and saying to Jesus, "Oh, no… I don't think so. You see, Lord. It couldn't really be that way. Have a go with these words."
No, the Lord will not have do with what we try to push on Him. Instead, we have to make do with His Words. He's spoken them, and when the Lord speaks, well… that's something. Stars start shining. Planets appear. Comets streak across the sky. Babies are born in feeding troughs.
So, no, we don't ask the Lord for different words because we don't like the ones He's given us. No… we don't look into the words of Scripture and say, "Jesus couldn't have meant that. That's disgusting." No. None of that. It won't do at all.
The Lord speaks. We listen. He says, "Take, eat. This is my body." He says, "Drink of it all of you. This is my blood of the New Testament." If we're listening to the Lord's Words, then we're believing them too. Not believing is not hearing, and not hearing is not listening. If any word, dear Christians, is in Christ, it's a new creation. The old has gone. The new is come.
And so when we look at the loaf, it looks like bread. When we sniff the wine, it smells like fermented grapes. But it won't do for us to throw that wisdom in the Lord's face. "Is," dear friends, is a glorious word. The bread is the Lord's body. The wine is the Lord's blood. The wine and the bread are there, surely, Paul tells us that. But the Apostle has listened to the Lord's words, and so he teaches us the truth: Where the bread, there the Lord's body. Where the wine, there the Lord's blood.
Sadly, some Christians don't listen. They debate with the Lord. They tell Him that He can't mean what He's actually saying. The gift is more than they can bear. The Lord's body in their mouth and the Lord's blood passing their lips seems perverse to them, and so they make the Lord's Supper into something less than it is. It's a symbol. Jesus isn't really there, they say. The bread represents the Lord's body and the wine represents his blood. When they come to what they call the Lord's Supper they say, "Oh, Lord… we're glad to celebrate your Supper today. But isn't it a pity? You're unavoidably detained in heaven and won't be able to attend."
But the Lord didn't say represents. The meaning of His Words is plain enough. "Is" means "is." The Lord's Word is sure, even though we like chaff can blow away. Our disgust at this can lead us astray. It can send us all over the Gospels trying to find a way to take the "is" out of "is." We can find analogies, metaphors, and similes and then say, "See, it must be like these, because Jesus couldn't possibly mean what He said. That would be nonsense."
But we can't do that, dear Christians. From the very earliest moments in the church, and even in 1 Corinthians, we have the Lord's Words confessed to mean exactly what they sound like they mean. We must let our reason lie crucified at the foot of our Lord's cross.
This is the blood of the New Testament which is poured out for you for the forgiveness of your sins. And though we throw around that word "Testament" all the time, we don't think about it very much do we. But most of you have Testaments, and I'm not talking about your bible. I'm talking about the other Testament… the one that's in a shoe box at home or in safe storage at the bank. Your "Last Will and Testament."
The Lord has signed His Last Will and Testament in His own body and His own blood. He has given you His Supper as a surety of the gifts He has won for you on the cross. You can't inherit the Lord's gifts unless the Lord dies. There is no blood of the new testament without the blood of the cross. And so, dear Christian, the blood of the new testament, the blood which the Lord's very words declare will be in that cup on the altar, that blood was shed for you when Jesus went to the cross, suffered, and died there. He did it all for the forgiveness of your sins and to give you life and salvation. That life is guaranteed. Even as the Lord is risen from the dead, so shall you rise and live to all eternity.
And now you are an heir of life. He has given His life for you, and now His life is yours. And this is never more tangible, more sure, or more certain when you stick to the Lord's Words.
The Lord speaks. We listen. He says, "Eat. Drink. It is My Body and My Blood, given for you, for the forgiveness of sins." And now that, dear Christians, leaves us with very little to say, but I have a suggestion. "Amen, Lord Jesus. I have received the gift you have given. It is your body, given for me. It is your blood, shed for me. I am forgiven. I am free."
And you are, people loved by God. You are forgiven. You are free. You are bodied and blooded together by your very Lord's body and your very Lord's blood. You receive the Giver when you receive His gifts.
Praise to you O Lord for your holy condescension. Praise to you O Lord for coming to us by the humble elements of bread and win. Praise to you O Lord for giving us your body to eat and your blood to drink.
In the Name of the Father and of the + Son and of the Holy Spirit.
Cashews up the Wazoo...
One of the myriad reasons why it fucking blows to be a telecommuter is that, on your birthday, no one takes you out for lunch. That may not seem like a big deal to you, but when you watch your co-workers on a TV all day, and you see them all file out of the office once a week for some big-ass birthday food orgy, while you sit at your stupid desk in an empty spare bedroom gnawing on the same goddamn turkey sandwich you've eaten for the last four years... well, it takes its toll after awhile, ya know?
So, you can imagine my surprise a coupla weeks ago when a package arrived, from the ol' home office in Chicago, on my birthday. I ripped the fucker open and was greeted with the mother of all care packages from Trader Joe's, my secret Chicago lover.
You've got your chocolate/peanut butter covered pretzel nubbins, your licorice nibs, your habanero pistachios, your dried fruits, your Thai Lime and Sesame Honey cashews, various pastas, coffees, teas, assloads of trail mix and countless other nibs and nubbins. The fucking jackpot, if you will.
At first, I was blown away. There was a card enclosed that was signed by everybody -- birthday wishes and messages of relief after the whole Mayo fiasco -- it was a regular lovefest, lemme tell ya. But now, about two weeks later, after ingesting about 9000% of my recommended daily allowance of sodium, fat and Thai lime dust, I'm pretty much in a constant state of about-to-hurl. Oh, and keep in mind that we still have about 18 boxes of Girl Scout cookies stacked in every nook and/or cranny that I've been stuffing into every one of my nooks and/or crannies, so you can add an additional 13,000% of the RDA of high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated soybean oil.
I swear to shit, I'm about to sprout a goiter the size of a hippity-hop outta my fat neck any fucking day now. My pee tumbles out in sugar crystals and I actually sweat honey. This is an recent photo taken of me after a fistful of Dark Chocolate caramels:
So, I'm not complaining -- I loved the care package and the sentiment behind it. All I ask is that next year, toss a fucking carrot or a celery stick into the box... and maybe a carton or two of Metamucil?
So, you can imagine my surprise a coupla weeks ago when a package arrived, from the ol' home office in Chicago, on my birthday. I ripped the fucker open and was greeted with the mother of all care packages from Trader Joe's, my secret Chicago lover.
You've got your chocolate/peanut butter covered pretzel nubbins, your licorice nibs, your habanero pistachios, your dried fruits, your Thai Lime and Sesame Honey cashews, various pastas, coffees, teas, assloads of trail mix and countless other nibs and nubbins. The fucking jackpot, if you will.
At first, I was blown away. There was a card enclosed that was signed by everybody -- birthday wishes and messages of relief after the whole Mayo fiasco -- it was a regular lovefest, lemme tell ya. But now, about two weeks later, after ingesting about 9000% of my recommended daily allowance of sodium, fat and Thai lime dust, I'm pretty much in a constant state of about-to-hurl. Oh, and keep in mind that we still have about 18 boxes of Girl Scout cookies stacked in every nook and/or cranny that I've been stuffing into every one of my nooks and/or crannies, so you can add an additional 13,000% of the RDA of high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated soybean oil.
I swear to shit, I'm about to sprout a goiter the size of a hippity-hop outta my fat neck any fucking day now. My pee tumbles out in sugar crystals and I actually sweat honey. This is an recent photo taken of me after a fistful of Dark Chocolate caramels:
So, I'm not complaining -- I loved the care package and the sentiment behind it. All I ask is that next year, toss a fucking carrot or a celery stick into the box... and maybe a carton or two of Metamucil?
Birth of the Anti-Crab...
I don't know how I'm feeling about this new, above-ground crabbydad. I don't know if it's the higher concentration of radon-free oxygen, or the constant bombardment of the UV sun rays, but he's kinda douching my crabbybuzz. Por ejemplo, yesterday, after picking up the spawnage from school, I rallied said spawnage (whose natural instinct is to scurry inside and stay there... as is mine) to go on a fucking bike ride around the neighborhood.
Who am I... Ozzie McHarriet?!
Oh, and they actually enjoyed the ride, by the by. For like a half an hour! They fucking loved it -- didn't argue, didn't complain about their legs hurting, didn't plow into the back of any parked cars. (Well, Mr. Z did get his wheel stuck in a sewer grate, momentarily, but he didn't even rack himself.)
And then yesterday morning, on my way out of the Y, I picked up this little ticket for the circus that's coming to town.
Now, I've picked up the exact ticket for the past three years, always thinking, "Hey, maybe I should take the spawnage to the circus. They'd probably dig it." Then I'd stick the thing in my pocket and forget about it. You know -- the time-tested, crabbydad way.
This time, though, the new above-terranean (is that that opposite of subterranean?) crabbydad got online tonight and ordered four row-three tickets to the goddamn circus! Can I get a "what the shit?!" Row three! The fucking clowns are going to be all over us like... like stink on clowns. We'll be close enough to feel the warm mist of elephant whiz raining down upon us, and when one of the motorcycles goes spinning out of control and bursts through the walls of the metal death-sphere, we'll be the ones ripped to shreds, as the steel-spiked tires tear through our sallow-usually-inside-people skin.
And it's all because of this dick: Go-Get-'Em-Dad.
The dude's gotta be stopped. If I don't keep his gumption in check, he's gonna do something really fucked, like volunteering to run the school rummage sale or, even worse, signing the spawnage up for after-school soccer practice. I think I'll go sleep in the basement tonight and force him back down into the dessicated, lifeless husk of my crabbycore where he belongs.
Who am I... Ozzie McHarriet?!
Oh, and they actually enjoyed the ride, by the by. For like a half an hour! They fucking loved it -- didn't argue, didn't complain about their legs hurting, didn't plow into the back of any parked cars. (Well, Mr. Z did get his wheel stuck in a sewer grate, momentarily, but he didn't even rack himself.)
And then yesterday morning, on my way out of the Y, I picked up this little ticket for the circus that's coming to town.
Now, I've picked up the exact ticket for the past three years, always thinking, "Hey, maybe I should take the spawnage to the circus. They'd probably dig it." Then I'd stick the thing in my pocket and forget about it. You know -- the time-tested, crabbydad way.
This time, though, the new above-terranean (is that that opposite of subterranean?) crabbydad got online tonight and ordered four row-three tickets to the goddamn circus! Can I get a "what the shit?!" Row three! The fucking clowns are going to be all over us like... like stink on clowns. We'll be close enough to feel the warm mist of elephant whiz raining down upon us, and when one of the motorcycles goes spinning out of control and bursts through the walls of the metal death-sphere, we'll be the ones ripped to shreds, as the steel-spiked tires tear through our sallow-usually-inside-people skin.
And it's all because of this dick: Go-Get-'Em-Dad.
The dude's gotta be stopped. If I don't keep his gumption in check, he's gonna do something really fucked, like volunteering to run the school rummage sale or, even worse, signing the spawnage up for after-school soccer practice. I think I'll go sleep in the basement tonight and force him back down into the dessicated, lifeless husk of my crabbycore where he belongs.
Well, We're Movin' On Up...
Have I mentioned that, after four, damp, musty years toiling away in the dewy bowels of the crabbyshack, I've finally ventured above ground and moved my office upstairs to the spare bedroom. Have I also mentioned that about four years ago, the Old Lady made this exact suggestion, but for some reason it has taken me four fucking years to pull my dumbass head out of my dumbass rectum to realize that it was a brilliant fucking idea?
I guess I'm just the kinda guy who needs to stew over things for awhile before taking action. The first year I was thinking, "I can't move all this crap upstairs into that tiny bedroom." The second year, was more like, "Hey, it's not too bad down here -- it's nice and cool in the summer, and nice and cool in the winter, and my skin never dries out because of all the moss and lichens growing on it." In year three, I thought, "Gee... my breathing's getting kinda shallow and my toes are numb... maybe I'll just put my head down for a bit and rest it off... so sleepy..." And, of course, this past year has basically been, "I'M DYING! I'M DYING!!!!"
But now I'm upstairs. With a window. And sunlight. And air. And I don't have to wear snowpants at my desk. Or fingerless gloves. And I'm less wheeze-y. And my gills have even closed up. Here's my former and current view:
Sure, I miss my friends: Frankie Furnace, Johnny Sump-Pump, the Spider family, and Toxie the Toxic Mold Patch, but I do get to visit them whenever I have to descend back down into the crevasse to record music. Which should be soon, as I'm about to take on another freelance gig to help stanch the seeping financial wound just inflicted upon me by the I-fucking-R-S. The bastards.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go stand in a darkened closet for awhile, as the burning rays of the sun are starting to take a toll on my pink eyes and my wrinkled, unpigmented naked mole rat skin.
I guess I'm just the kinda guy who needs to stew over things for awhile before taking action. The first year I was thinking, "I can't move all this crap upstairs into that tiny bedroom." The second year, was more like, "Hey, it's not too bad down here -- it's nice and cool in the summer, and nice and cool in the winter, and my skin never dries out because of all the moss and lichens growing on it." In year three, I thought, "Gee... my breathing's getting kinda shallow and my toes are numb... maybe I'll just put my head down for a bit and rest it off... so sleepy..." And, of course, this past year has basically been, "I'M DYING! I'M DYING!!!!"
But now I'm upstairs. With a window. And sunlight. And air. And I don't have to wear snowpants at my desk. Or fingerless gloves. And I'm less wheeze-y. And my gills have even closed up. Here's my former and current view:
Sure, I miss my friends: Frankie Furnace, Johnny Sump-Pump, the Spider family, and Toxie the Toxic Mold Patch, but I do get to visit them whenever I have to descend back down into the crevasse to record music. Which should be soon, as I'm about to take on another freelance gig to help stanch the seeping financial wound just inflicted upon me by the I-fucking-R-S. The bastards.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go stand in a darkened closet for awhile, as the burning rays of the sun are starting to take a toll on my pink eyes and my wrinkled, unpigmented naked mole rat skin.
And They Call It: Poopy Love...
So, Mr. Z has this huge crush on a girl in his class and, from the sounds of it, she kinda digs him, too. Which is great... and fucked up. The boy's nine, for fuck's sake. And since he skipped a grade, she's older -- 11 to be exact. Total Susan Sarandon/Tim Robbins thing going on.
Anywhich, each day, he comes home with more "evidence" that she's into him. Sometimes he catches her staring at him, she compliments him on his work in art class, she gave him a root beer lollipop at Family "Fun" night. Sometimes the evidence seems a little scant, but when taken all together, I think he's on to something.
Tonight, while we were chatting at bedtime, I accidentally unleashed a heinous fart. With an accent on the "einous." As he was tearing up and gasping for oxygen, we had the following exchange:
ME: Hey, do you think Miss E ever farts?
MR. Z: No way!!! She doesn't do that kinda thing!
ME: Oh, but she does. Remember that book "Everyone Poops"? Well, if everyone poops, then everyone totally farts. Especially Miss E.
MR. Z: [silently pondering this disturbing revelation]
ME: I know it can be sort of strange to think about someone you like farting and pooping. Maybe we should talk about something else...
MR. Z: I'll bet she has flowery, little pink poops.
ME: Okay, I shouldn't have said anything. It's time to go to sle--
MR. Z: And I'll bet she cuts tropical farts that smell like coconuts and bananas.
ME: All right, time to go to sleep, Tommy Bahama! You can dream about her tropical gassers all you want, but I don't want to talk about it anymore.
MR. Z: You started it!
ME: Oh yeah? Well... whoever smelt it, dealt it, okay? Goodnight.
Once again, I think I've managed to somehow invent a brand new fetish and then inadvertently foist it upon my son. Ten years from now, he's so going to be the moderator of the alt.binaries.tropicalflatus newsgroup. I better go lock up all the suntan lotion, just to be safe.
Aloha.
Anywhich, each day, he comes home with more "evidence" that she's into him. Sometimes he catches her staring at him, she compliments him on his work in art class, she gave him a root beer lollipop at Family "Fun" night. Sometimes the evidence seems a little scant, but when taken all together, I think he's on to something.
Tonight, while we were chatting at bedtime, I accidentally unleashed a heinous fart. With an accent on the "einous." As he was tearing up and gasping for oxygen, we had the following exchange:
ME: Hey, do you think Miss E ever farts?
MR. Z: No way!!! She doesn't do that kinda thing!
ME: Oh, but she does. Remember that book "Everyone Poops"? Well, if everyone poops, then everyone totally farts. Especially Miss E.
MR. Z: [silently pondering this disturbing revelation]
ME: I know it can be sort of strange to think about someone you like farting and pooping. Maybe we should talk about something else...
MR. Z: I'll bet she has flowery, little pink poops.
ME: Okay, I shouldn't have said anything. It's time to go to sle--
MR. Z: And I'll bet she cuts tropical farts that smell like coconuts and bananas.
ME: All right, time to go to sleep, Tommy Bahama! You can dream about her tropical gassers all you want, but I don't want to talk about it anymore.
MR. Z: You started it!
ME: Oh yeah? Well... whoever smelt it, dealt it, okay? Goodnight.
Once again, I think I've managed to somehow invent a brand new fetish and then inadvertently foist it upon my son. Ten years from now, he's so going to be the moderator of the alt.binaries.tropicalflatus newsgroup. I better go lock up all the suntan lotion, just to be safe.
Aloha.
Soon to be Pinching off My Own Troop of Brownies...
My fucking colon is killing me, as it's pretty much impacted to the hilt with about three sleeves of Girl Scout Thin Mints and a half-a-tray of Samoas. The cookies that Miss O sold for her Brownie troop came in this weekend and we've got boxes coming out the ying-yang.
We ordered probably 10 boxes -- a buncha Thin Mints, some Trefoils for the Old Lady, my precious Samoas, some All-Abouts and a coupla Do-Si-Dos. My parents ordered 12 boxes, but at the last minute my mom called and said, "You know, we don't really eat those cookies, so why don't you just keep them." Thanks mom -- I'll name my soon to be prolapsed rectum after you.
Mr. Z created a pretty bitchin' chart of the cookies we have hangin' around, waiting to be et:
If you look closely at the "All Abouts," he changed the cookie text to read "Girlscouts is (not) all about girls." You go, Mr. Z -- Title IX works both ways! My little Norma Rae.
Ow -- cramp! Holy fuck, these cookies are killing me. What are these girls putting in these fuckers? Let's see... partially hydrogenated palm kernel oil... dextrose... carrageenan... Carrageenan?! What the fuck are brownies doing messin' around with carrageenan? Isn't that made by boiling the flayed hides of dead Webelos?
That does it, one more sleeve of Thin Mints and then I'm cutting myself off for the night. And maybe eight more Samoas. And three Tagalongs... but then that's it. And a Do-Si-Do.
We ordered probably 10 boxes -- a buncha Thin Mints, some Trefoils for the Old Lady, my precious Samoas, some All-Abouts and a coupla Do-Si-Dos. My parents ordered 12 boxes, but at the last minute my mom called and said, "You know, we don't really eat those cookies, so why don't you just keep them." Thanks mom -- I'll name my soon to be prolapsed rectum after you.
Mr. Z created a pretty bitchin' chart of the cookies we have hangin' around, waiting to be et:
If you look closely at the "All Abouts," he changed the cookie text to read "Girlscouts is (not) all about girls." You go, Mr. Z -- Title IX works both ways! My little Norma Rae.
Ow -- cramp! Holy fuck, these cookies are killing me. What are these girls putting in these fuckers? Let's see... partially hydrogenated palm kernel oil... dextrose... carrageenan... Carrageenan?! What the fuck are brownies doing messin' around with carrageenan? Isn't that made by boiling the flayed hides of dead Webelos?
That does it, one more sleeve of Thin Mints and then I'm cutting myself off for the night. And maybe eight more Samoas. And three Tagalongs... but then that's it. And a Do-Si-Do.
Crabppendix...
Well, we're back home. Oh, and nice fucking snowstorm on the way, thank you very much. There's like a coupla goddamn inches of snow on the ground here. I'm not shoveling. Fuck it. Snow is dead to me.
So, yeah, I've been trying to process this whole four-month, snowballing health fuckstravaganza. I still can't quite wrap my puny brain around it. I started in November with some tingling in my fingers and toes, went to see my primary care doc, and four months later, I'm at the fucking Mayo Clinic getting my fat analyzed. Wha-happ'n?!
Don't get me wrong -- I'm fucking thrilled that they didn't find bupkus. I'm also kinda pissed that it seems as if all the testing leading up to it was completely mishandled. Sorry -- misinterpreted. Whatever. Someone, somewhere had his fucking head up his shithole, and I, along with my stomach fat and my bone marrow, paid the price for it. I guess I'm thankful that the clowns in Lansing realized that they were clueless and they bumped me upstairs to the big-boys in Rochester -- I'm just not too jacked about the 10 years of my life I worried away waiting for all the negative results to come dribbling in.
I'll tell you something, though -- I'm through worrying about this kinda shit. All I get for my fretting is loose stools and a hole in my pelvis that still hasn't fucking healed.
Of course, some good came out of it. I realized that, given 24 hours, I can fill up not one, but one and a half giant plastic jugs of steaming, frothy crabby-wee.
Oh, a little tip -- if you think you might need a second jug, don't wait until 7:00 the next morning to go pick it up. Especially if the next morning is a weekend, and the route to the building where you pick the jug up is closed and you have to somehow find an alternate route, without a map, and you've got about 40 gallons of bubbling tinkle that's starting to make your ureters look like a coupla over-filled water balloons, and every corridor you turn down looks exactly like this:
And you end up barely making it to the counter in time, and then you have to find your way BACK through all those corridors as you run-walk back to your room, and barely make it into the bathroom in time and end up blasting a Clydesdale-worthy steaming-stream of winky-tink into said container, creating a sound that's akin to that of a power-washer on full-blast-mode spraying the side of an Airstream trailer. Just an fyi.
I also realized that I've gotta get off my ass and start DOING more shit. Hell, doing SOME shit. I may not be thrilled with this fucking town, but if I don't start getting out and meeting people and getting back on the ol' self-actualization express, I may one day ACTUALLY find myself with some incurable disease and what'll I have to show for it? A piece of fucking shitfuck, that's what. So look out, Okemos -- Crabbydad's venturing OUT-OF-DOORS and he's gonna start DOING some SHIT... so outta my fucking way.
So, yeah, I should be done with all the bellyachin' 'bout my health for awhile -- though I know it has made for some fucking RIVETING reading. I apologize. I'll stop focusing all my crabbiness on my (still) tingling phalanges and get back to focusing it on the spawnage, where it belongs.
How am I going to do this, you ask? Well, for one thing, I'm going to spend a fuck of a lot less time listening to doctors and hanging out on WebMD and MedlinePlus, and a lot more time swimming, making music and hanging out with some new friends I met on our recent visit to Trader Joe's:
As a matter of fact, I think I hear one of my friends calling me right now. If you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment on the Island of Doctor Merlot.
Cheers.
So, yeah, I've been trying to process this whole four-month, snowballing health fuckstravaganza. I still can't quite wrap my puny brain around it. I started in November with some tingling in my fingers and toes, went to see my primary care doc, and four months later, I'm at the fucking Mayo Clinic getting my fat analyzed. Wha-happ'n?!
Don't get me wrong -- I'm fucking thrilled that they didn't find bupkus. I'm also kinda pissed that it seems as if all the testing leading up to it was completely mishandled. Sorry -- misinterpreted. Whatever. Someone, somewhere had his fucking head up his shithole, and I, along with my stomach fat and my bone marrow, paid the price for it. I guess I'm thankful that the clowns in Lansing realized that they were clueless and they bumped me upstairs to the big-boys in Rochester -- I'm just not too jacked about the 10 years of my life I worried away waiting for all the negative results to come dribbling in.
I'll tell you something, though -- I'm through worrying about this kinda shit. All I get for my fretting is loose stools and a hole in my pelvis that still hasn't fucking healed.
Of course, some good came out of it. I realized that, given 24 hours, I can fill up not one, but one and a half giant plastic jugs of steaming, frothy crabby-wee.
Oh, a little tip -- if you think you might need a second jug, don't wait until 7:00 the next morning to go pick it up. Especially if the next morning is a weekend, and the route to the building where you pick the jug up is closed and you have to somehow find an alternate route, without a map, and you've got about 40 gallons of bubbling tinkle that's starting to make your ureters look like a coupla over-filled water balloons, and every corridor you turn down looks exactly like this:
And you end up barely making it to the counter in time, and then you have to find your way BACK through all those corridors as you run-walk back to your room, and barely make it into the bathroom in time and end up blasting a Clydesdale-worthy steaming-stream of winky-tink into said container, creating a sound that's akin to that of a power-washer on full-blast-mode spraying the side of an Airstream trailer. Just an fyi.
I also realized that I've gotta get off my ass and start DOING more shit. Hell, doing SOME shit. I may not be thrilled with this fucking town, but if I don't start getting out and meeting people and getting back on the ol' self-actualization express, I may one day ACTUALLY find myself with some incurable disease and what'll I have to show for it? A piece of fucking shitfuck, that's what. So look out, Okemos -- Crabbydad's venturing OUT-OF-DOORS and he's gonna start DOING some SHIT... so outta my fucking way.
So, yeah, I should be done with all the bellyachin' 'bout my health for awhile -- though I know it has made for some fucking RIVETING reading. I apologize. I'll stop focusing all my crabbiness on my (still) tingling phalanges and get back to focusing it on the spawnage, where it belongs.
How am I going to do this, you ask? Well, for one thing, I'm going to spend a fuck of a lot less time listening to doctors and hanging out on WebMD and MedlinePlus, and a lot more time swimming, making music and hanging out with some new friends I met on our recent visit to Trader Joe's:
As a matter of fact, I think I hear one of my friends calling me right now. If you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment on the Island of Doctor Merlot.
Cheers.
Fat Wednesday...
Well, we're back in Chicago -- I was "dismissed" yesterday morning, after my appointment with the doc. Here's where things stand...
1. The initial protein that the neurologist found in my blood, way the fuck back in January, was, strangely, NOT found in my blood at Mayo. I don't know if it disappeared, was never there in the first place, or if it only shows up in odd-numbered months, but it ain't there now. Apparently, that's a good thing.
B. All the rest of my blood looks clean. Red cells, white cells, Beverly Cells, platelets -- no problems. My heart looks good, my lungs look good, my reflexes look good, and my ass looks good... in jeans, but is a little soupy in khakis.
iii. They don't have the results back from the fat pad aspiration yet -- I'm supposed to call tomorrow at noon to see what's the shizzle. They'll also have the results of this genetic test that determines whether I have the inherited form of this fucker.
Basically, the doc is pretty dubious that I've got amyloidosis. He says my physical exam shows none of the symptoms of someone with it, there's no evidence, so far, in my blood/bone marrow/pee that would suggest that I have it, and the whole thing just doesn't fit. There may be amyloid in my fat sample, but he says that, regardless, that does not suggest that it's systemic, which is the really bad version of it. I suppose there's still the chance that I'd have the genetic form of it, which is really heinous, but signs aren't really pointing to that either.
So, I'm cautiously optimistic, but I'm not throwing any fucking parties until I talk to him tomorrow. It's kinda like there's one second left on the game clock, the shot has been taken, but the ball is just spinning around the rim endlessly, and it won't fall in or out. A "toilet-ringer," if you will.
The only question is, who's gonna be there for the tip-in -- Bill Cartwright or Will Perdue.
1. The initial protein that the neurologist found in my blood, way the fuck back in January, was, strangely, NOT found in my blood at Mayo. I don't know if it disappeared, was never there in the first place, or if it only shows up in odd-numbered months, but it ain't there now. Apparently, that's a good thing.
B. All the rest of my blood looks clean. Red cells, white cells, Beverly Cells, platelets -- no problems. My heart looks good, my lungs look good, my reflexes look good, and my ass looks good... in jeans, but is a little soupy in khakis.
iii. They don't have the results back from the fat pad aspiration yet -- I'm supposed to call tomorrow at noon to see what's the shizzle. They'll also have the results of this genetic test that determines whether I have the inherited form of this fucker.
Basically, the doc is pretty dubious that I've got amyloidosis. He says my physical exam shows none of the symptoms of someone with it, there's no evidence, so far, in my blood/bone marrow/pee that would suggest that I have it, and the whole thing just doesn't fit. There may be amyloid in my fat sample, but he says that, regardless, that does not suggest that it's systemic, which is the really bad version of it. I suppose there's still the chance that I'd have the genetic form of it, which is really heinous, but signs aren't really pointing to that either.
So, I'm cautiously optimistic, but I'm not throwing any fucking parties until I talk to him tomorrow. It's kinda like there's one second left on the game clock, the shot has been taken, but the ball is just spinning around the rim endlessly, and it won't fall in or out. A "toilet-ringer," if you will.
The only question is, who's gonna be there for the tip-in -- Bill Cartwright or Will Perdue.
My Stay-O at the Mayo: Pt. I...
Quick update from Day 1 of MAYOPALOOZA '08! Woke up at 6 a.m. today feeling like the sun-baked husk of a cicada nymph because of the fasting I had to do last night. Something I've learned? Apparently, your body needs liquid in it in order to take a goddamn dump. I was unable to successfully lay some pipe this morning before all the festivities, so that has certainly put a taint on the day. Heh... taint.
Anywhich, today has been a whirlwind, so far. Met with the doc, Dr. G, who is apparently THE goto dude for amyloidosis in pretty much the world. Very nice guy -- kind of a John Turturro meets a guy who looks kinda like John Turturro... but older, type. I told him my entire saga, he did a fairly quick physical exam and then he told me that he's somewhat dubious about the diagnosis, but wants to redo some of the tests before he makes any real judgments.
So, he whisked me off to get another fat-pad aspiration sample, some blood tests and to pick up a giant moonshine bottle for a 24-hour-whiz-collection Peestravaganza!
The dude who performed the fat aspiration was totally cool -- not a douche like that asshead who did it back in Lansing. And this guy did the fine-needle kind and not the giant core-needle biopsy like Dr. Asshead. In and out -- zip and zip. He told me that a lot of the more inexperienced pathologists fuck the fat pad test up, and that, if there's anything actually in my fat, they'll find it at Mayo. He was strangely comforting, as he sucked meat out of my stomach with a needle.
Then I was whooshed over to the blood-letting area, had a few more gallons of blood sucked out of my gnarled and withered veins. Five minutes later, I was being handed the giant pee-collection vessel and told to "fill 'er up!" Apparently, I have to collect my liquid-leavings for 24 hours, which means I either have to hang around this hotel-of-death for the next day, or I have to lug this fucking carafe around with me as I tour the wondrous sites of Rochester. I was thinking of going downstairs to the "Grand Grill," plopping the jug on top of the table and saying to the waitress, "Honey, fetch me a pitcher of lemonade and pot of coffee and keep 'em comin'. I've got me a flagon to fill."
Oh, I forgot to mention the restaurant. The Old Lady and I went there last night so I could have my last supper before my 7 p.m. food/liquid cutoff time. I was told not to eat "anything fatty," so I ordered a cup of wild rice soup and half a turkey sandwich. Sounds lean, right? Well, the soup was like a cup of Campbell's condensed soup, without the added water, so I couldn't fucking eat that, and the sandwich was on a goddamn greasy-ass croissant, so I had to just gum the meat, sans bread. It was truly pathetic. Meanwhile, the Old Lady ordered a Cobb salad, that came with this nuclear-waste-red dressing that tasted like liquid Blow-Pop, and had chunks of turkey so salty, I got a mild goiter just glancing at them.
Oh, and this hotel, man -- it's like a goddamn geriatric-seeking neutron bomb went off here, as there are all these electric wheelchairs just scattered haphazardly around the lobby. Like all the scooter drivers just vaporized instantly, leaving their vehicles idling in the hallways.
And our room is like a smaller college dorm lounge room (think a smaller Clark 3rd, for any Grinnellians out there), but instead of it smelling like stale beer, it smells like BenGay and adult diapers. And old ham.
I swear to shit, think I've aged about 39 years since I've stepped foot in this fucking mausoleum.
But now I basically wait until my follow-up appointment with the doc on Monday. I collect my tinkle until tomorrow morning, and then we're off to Minneapolis for a Saturday amongst the living. Probably check out the art museum and have a meal somewhere that doesn't serve rice pudding and doesn't employ a waitress that calls anyone under the age of 93 "Hon."
Oh, and thanks to everyone who has sent their "positive vibes" my way. I don't know how this mofo is gonna turn out, and I'm not going to speculate because that will surely jinx everything, but all the well-wishes have made me feel less isolated and shitty, so I appreciate that. But for the the next two days, at least, I can pretend I don't have anything, so I think that's just what I'm a-gonna do.
Anywhich, today has been a whirlwind, so far. Met with the doc, Dr. G, who is apparently THE goto dude for amyloidosis in pretty much the world. Very nice guy -- kind of a John Turturro meets a guy who looks kinda like John Turturro... but older, type. I told him my entire saga, he did a fairly quick physical exam and then he told me that he's somewhat dubious about the diagnosis, but wants to redo some of the tests before he makes any real judgments.
So, he whisked me off to get another fat-pad aspiration sample, some blood tests and to pick up a giant moonshine bottle for a 24-hour-whiz-collection Peestravaganza!
The dude who performed the fat aspiration was totally cool -- not a douche like that asshead who did it back in Lansing. And this guy did the fine-needle kind and not the giant core-needle biopsy like Dr. Asshead. In and out -- zip and zip. He told me that a lot of the more inexperienced pathologists fuck the fat pad test up, and that, if there's anything actually in my fat, they'll find it at Mayo. He was strangely comforting, as he sucked meat out of my stomach with a needle.
Then I was whooshed over to the blood-letting area, had a few more gallons of blood sucked out of my gnarled and withered veins. Five minutes later, I was being handed the giant pee-collection vessel and told to "fill 'er up!" Apparently, I have to collect my liquid-leavings for 24 hours, which means I either have to hang around this hotel-of-death for the next day, or I have to lug this fucking carafe around with me as I tour the wondrous sites of Rochester. I was thinking of going downstairs to the "Grand Grill," plopping the jug on top of the table and saying to the waitress, "Honey, fetch me a pitcher of lemonade and pot of coffee and keep 'em comin'. I've got me a flagon to fill."
Oh, I forgot to mention the restaurant. The Old Lady and I went there last night so I could have my last supper before my 7 p.m. food/liquid cutoff time. I was told not to eat "anything fatty," so I ordered a cup of wild rice soup and half a turkey sandwich. Sounds lean, right? Well, the soup was like a cup of Campbell's condensed soup, without the added water, so I couldn't fucking eat that, and the sandwich was on a goddamn greasy-ass croissant, so I had to just gum the meat, sans bread. It was truly pathetic. Meanwhile, the Old Lady ordered a Cobb salad, that came with this nuclear-waste-red dressing that tasted like liquid Blow-Pop, and had chunks of turkey so salty, I got a mild goiter just glancing at them.
Oh, and this hotel, man -- it's like a goddamn geriatric-seeking neutron bomb went off here, as there are all these electric wheelchairs just scattered haphazardly around the lobby. Like all the scooter drivers just vaporized instantly, leaving their vehicles idling in the hallways.
And our room is like a smaller college dorm lounge room (think a smaller Clark 3rd, for any Grinnellians out there), but instead of it smelling like stale beer, it smells like BenGay and adult diapers. And old ham.
I swear to shit, think I've aged about 39 years since I've stepped foot in this fucking mausoleum.
But now I basically wait until my follow-up appointment with the doc on Monday. I collect my tinkle until tomorrow morning, and then we're off to Minneapolis for a Saturday amongst the living. Probably check out the art museum and have a meal somewhere that doesn't serve rice pudding and doesn't employ a waitress that calls anyone under the age of 93 "Hon."
Oh, and thanks to everyone who has sent their "positive vibes" my way. I don't know how this mofo is gonna turn out, and I'm not going to speculate because that will surely jinx everything, but all the well-wishes have made me feel less isolated and shitty, so I appreciate that. But for the the next two days, at least, I can pretend I don't have anything, so I think that's just what I'm a-gonna do.
MVP Summit - Conversando con el equipo de MVC
Algo interesante sobre las sesiones que se viven en el Summit, es que no se trata sólo de conferencias, sino que los grupos de producto reciben cantidades de preguntas, sugerencias y comentarios de los MVPs.
Acabo de salir de una sesión Deep Dive del equipo que desarrolla el framework MVC. Phil Haack y Scott Hanselman presentaron algunas de las novedades que se vienen para el próximo release.
Un fenómeno Scott presentando, y muy interesante las conversaciones alrededor de la necesidad de tener un framework de desarrollo Web tan diferente a WebForms.
Una de los features que mostró Phil fué una herramienta que permite ver la forma en la que se evaluan las rutas de acuerdo a la url que se accede. De esta forma es posible ver cómo son consideradas las rutas en cada request:
Un detalle para comentar: Los ejemplos que mostró Phil, utilzaban MoQ para realizar el testing de rutas.
Al concluir la sesión tuve la oportunidad de charlar con algunos de los integrantes del team MVC (que aunque no lo crean sólo está compuesto por dos testers, dos developers y Phil como PM) y Scott Hanselman.
Levi Broderick, developer de MVC me comentaban que están en constante contacto con compañias que ya están utilizando el framework para obtener feedback sobre cuáles son los siguientes pasos a tomar.
Tanto Scott cómo Phil conocían sobre el ReMix que se está organizando en Buenos Aires. Scott me contaba que tiene muchas ganas de visitar Argentina con su familia, sobre todo para poder mejorar su castellano :).
Para terminar (y no pudiendo evitar lo cholulo), les cuento que Scott vió mi cámara de fotos y me preguntó si nos tomabamos una foto juntos. Un fenómeno.
Saludos!
Have you taken exams 70-271 or 70-272?
Are you nice?
Excellent. Check this out: MCP mentors is a cool new program some people around here are cooking up, through which our certified community helps others get started in IT. To participate in this pilot, it makes most sense if you are in eastern U.S. or Canada, so you're in the same time zone. But more on that later...
Share your stories and help build the MCP community! Become an MCP Mentor.
As an experienced MCP, you have many stories--of both successes and failures. There was the time when the new guy brought down the entire system. The time you spent an entire week troubleshooting that elusive problem. And the time you completed your task in record time. Microsoft Learning invites you to share your stories, skills, and experience to make a difference in someone's life as an MCP Mentor.
HOW IT WORKS
The MCP Mentor Program matches an experienced Microsoft Certified Professional (you) with someone new to IT and studying to pass their first Microsoft Certification exam (your mentee). Through the program, your real-world perspective, technical skills, and community connections can help others overcome the experience gap to complete a path to proven skills, new career opportunities, and confidence.
As an MCP Mentor, you will share real-world experience with your mentee about objectives that are covered by the Microsoft Certification exam, helping to build self-confidence about his or her technical skills and preparedness. You will meet regularly with your mentee by phone or e-mail. In addition, you and your mentee will have access to an online community to share best practices, tips, and study tools. The online community also helps you and your mentee connect with other IT professionals of diverse experience, perspectives, and backgrounds.
VOLUNTEER FOR THE PILOT AT WALTER REED ARMY MEDICAL CENTER, UNITED STATES
Microsoft Learning is running a pilot of this program in conjunction with the IT Academy that is associated with Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The soldiers in this IT Academy program are recovering from recent injuries and waiting to find out if they will be discharged from the military. Most of these soldiers enter the IT Academy program with little or no experience in IT.
The MCP Mentor Program is not intended to be a replacement for training, but instead to supplement training. An experienced MCT supports these soldiers in their preparation. But these soldiers would benefit greatly from the kind of 1:1 mentoring relationship that you can provide. We need volunteer mentors to help these soldiers build the skills that are validated on their target exam(s), enter the IT profession, and join the MCP community. We are specifically looking for:
- IT professionals (vs. developers) with experience on MCDST exams 70-271 and 70-272 <corrected typo immediately after pressing publish. argh>
- Commitment of 2-4 hours per month over a 3-6 month period
- Local to mid-Atlantic United States preferred
HOW TO PARTICIPATE
If you are interested in volunteering, go to http://connect.microsoft.com and enter this Invitation ID to fill out an application survey: MNTR-CGPX-QQKK. If you have questions about this program, you can contact the MCP Mentor Program administrators at mcpmntr@microsoft.com.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)