pwohlers

On Vox: nurse

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 02:03:05 GMT

Originally posted on peter.vox.com

On Vox: Last round of drinks (for a little while at least)

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 02:01:17 GMT

So last Wednesday was my last day at Six Apart. Off to a new opportunity, but I'm really gonna miss my crew. And not all of 'em are pictured either. Wider lens might have helped.

So, we went to one of our watering holes Bacar...A little more formal than I like but they seem to have half price drinks on thurs and fri and dollar oysters. They have new ownership and seemed very confused about the specials we told them they were offering.

We're not open yet, yes we are, we have happy hour, no we don't, yes we do. C'mon folks...it's not that hard!

Finally we set them straight on their offerings, but they seemed to be abysmally slow on the service. I mean, it took some of us over an HOUR for a friggin' drink to get served. Their excuse of 'a computer problem' seemed so completely lame-assed, I had a hard time believing it. I can't think of any good watering hole that would let some silly thing like a computer terminal interfere with good service. Lame. They did comp us for two dozen of the four dozen oysters we ordered, but some of the drinks seemed to magically fall out of happy hour pricing. wankers.

And just in case you're wondering, if you look here you'll notice that somehow it seems like we have the same seating arrangement at all of our drinking spots :)

Originally posted on peter.vox.com

On Vox: blasphemy

Fri, 19 Oct 2007 05:30:22 GMT

The opening bars warm my heart.

However Nissan's use of the Clash's cover of the Maytals' Pressure Drop to sell cars really rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it's how suddenly (ok...not suddenly...Iggy's been rentin' out the catalog for a few years now) marketing slimeballs think it's OK to play with my sentimental memories of 10" vinyl discs...

Super Black Market Clash

Originally posted on peter.vox.com

test2

Mon, 04 Jun 2007 22:01:52 GMT

I don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quietI don't know if Brian Moran felt different at his dot-com job than others in the Bay Area felt at theirs. What he describes certainly sounds familiar: He weathered the bust. He made good money. His work wasn't overly taxing. But he was sort of bored. Less familiar is what he did about it. While other unfulfilled office workers plodded their way into grumbling acceptance, the 31-year-old San Francisco resident jumped ship. He landed not at a slightly cooler office or, say, the MFA program that always beckoned. He landed in the San Francisco Bay.

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quiet

test post

Mon, 04 Jun 2007 19:35:46 GMT

That was five years ago and he still smiles -- actually smiles -- when asked about his current job. What's rare isn't a career change. What's rare, I think, is choosing happiness over that alternative offered by so many office jobs or, for that matter, any job we gradually surrender to: the vague promise of something possibly leading to happiness. Anyway, to this day Brian still lands in the bay each morning -- he pulls on his flippers and mask and slides on in.

Brian dives under boats and cleans their hulls. When he left behind office life -- his the customer service variety -- he had no idea such a job existed. He didn't even really have a solid conception of a hull in the first place. What he had was the hazy notion that he wanted to be working with boats. Or maybe trains. No idea where this transportation thing came from, he says now, he knew nothing about either. He picked boats.

Turns out life is receptive to daring career changers. The Spinnaker Sailing School at San Francisco's Pier 40 was willing to hire Brian with no experience; for the next two years he varnished and sanded and performed general maintenance. One day, the hull cleaner next door invited Brian to learn the business. That, too, he did for a while -- getting to know many of the marina's boat owners in the process -- before standing on his own two flippers. In February 2005, Brian's Boat Cleaning set sail.

The South Beach Harbor marina is a sprawling, gated grid of 700 slips. Rows and rows of sailboats patiently await their weekend furlough, tethered with their special sailboat knots to the tidy network of docks. (Nowhere else in the city could a single pair of scissors ruin so many golf games.) Just beyond the sea of masts rises AT&T Park; the unrelenting gray of the Bay Bridge stretches in the other direction. Between these landmarks stand all the office buildings Brian no longer enters.

"This," he says, pointing at the water, "is the opposite of an office."

I don't doubt it. I observe no ringing phones, flickering monitors or whatever else gives a desk job that cluttered aura of despair. Seal-like in his wet suit and fed by a red air hose, Brian simply slips under his boats and cleans. On a given afternoon, there is little sign of his efforts but the drone of the air compressor on the dock and an occasional eruption of bubbles at the water's surface. He's out of sight a good half hour (leaving me to dream up brilliant mottos for his business: "Think your hull will clean itself? Don't hold your breath"). The gleaming white Kick-n-Back bobs happily in the meanwhile as its underside is scrubbed.

The boats are all gleaming white, by the way. The marina is mildly oppressive in its moneyed shimmer. A dangerous number of vessels have wind chimes. Nevertheless, a funny peacefulness suffuses the place, underscored by downtown's clamor just beyond. It's quiet

working with dimitri

Fri, 09 Mar 2007 18:08:15 GMT

foo

playing with cache-control

Wed, 07 Mar 2007 19:15:22 GMT

seeing if this fixes things...it seems to....

what about compression????

load balancer testing

Mon, 05 Mar 2007 23:35:54 GMT

foo\

bar

grrr...new load balancer config..

Thu, 01 Mar 2007 00:09:48 GMT

my bad.

assimilation

Wed, 07 Jun 2006 18:31:06 GMT

blog post

most of my shit is at wohlers.org....

maybe i'll mt-it instead :)