Alma, Why am I still Single?

The answer is: I'm ill with a disease called Terminal Shyness.
Shyness, because I am, to unhealthy levels.
Terminal, because everybody has got to die of something, and I decided that this is the death for me.

Why am I bringing this up? I just had dinner with this woman I know. And I just can't tell where it's going, and I have no idea how to find out. I never did. Every girlfriend I ever had made the first move. I'm thirty two years old, and I still don't have a good pickup line (People tell me that's key for picking woman up).

What's going to happed is that I'm going to become very good friend with this woman. And that's it. In a few months she'll suddenly tell me of the wonderful new boyfriend she has, and that I really should meet him because he's really great and funny. I would be left to wonder if I ever did have a chance if I would have gathered up the nerve to go for it.

This is the story of Alma. Alma, who was always almost but never actually my girlfriend.
Now, right of the bat, it should be known that I was twenty, and completely smitten with this girl who is completely wrong for me. Alma would have broken my heart, no doubt about it.

This is an old army story, so I'm looking at with a ten-years perspective, and now it's actually kinda funny. I skipped a lot in the middle, but it's unimportant.

I was a brigadier-general's communication sergeant and was always off base somewhere. Alma worked in the encrypted traffic office of our communication company, and spend all her time on base. It took me more than a month to realize she has joined the company, and that she was the the greatest thing I've ever seen. She was pretty, she was funny, and even in her regulation B-class uniform, she was very sexy. She had red hair that drove me crazy.
Anyway, by the time I worked up the nerve to actually go talk to her, I missed the boat and she started dating somebody from another company. I spent the next six month moping about it (in the army you have plenty of bored-time to think too much).
She then broke up with the guy and we started getting a little closer. It was one night that I finally worked up the nerve to make my move, as they say. Our weekend on-base duty coincided every month and a half, and that coincidence happened again. It was Saturday night, and we were both in the Company common, watching TV. Alone. Some stupid movie was on, and we were sitting close. My moment had come. I would turn to her, look her in the eyes, and say nothing. Hold it for five seconds, and bend to kiss her. I'll either get slapped or kissed back. At that point, I was willing to take the chance.
But then someone shot Yitzhak Rabin, our Prime Minister, and a second after I made up my mind the TV broke in with the news that "something happened" (We did not know what for a while).

As a side note I will mention this, for the benefit of whomever did not have that experience: an assassination of a national leader (especially when you are in uniform) is a terrible killer of romance. Just wanted to explain.

We stayed watching until three in the morning. She held my hand the entire time, wiping her eyes on my sleeves occasionally. I didn't mind, and I don't even know why I noticed. About then we realized that there is nothing to be done, and nothing more was going to be told. Out week was about to begin in a few hours, mine with a trip to the south for a three days surprise training exercise for one of our battalions. We ran the exercise, so it was going to be three days of no sleep for me. She had a shift at six in the morning, so we left the common and headed back to the barracks. Her to the women barracks and me back to the company barracks. I got a small kiss, on my cheek, and that's it. With what had just happened not yet sunk in, everything seemed too stupid and unimportant.

After that, we hardly saw each other. I was in the field most of the time, and out weekend on-base duty just failed to coincide for a long time. One night I heard her on her cellular phone - she was talking to her new boyfriend.
Shit.

Now, it's the military, and you don't get to meet a lot of new and exciting people all the time. I just wanted to say that because I don't want to seem obsessive. There were only eight women in our company of thirty five. The whole base was no more than a hundred or so people, with a low percentage of females, so the points of attraction, if you will, were slim. Since there was nothing to take my mind off Alma, it stayed fixed.

As these things go, it was another six months before Alma broke up with her boyfriend again. I meanwhile, found myself together with another woman on base, but she transferred after a couple of months and we lost touch.
It was Passover, and we both had long leaves from the Army. Alma has invited me to spend a couple of days at her house. I thought YES! This is my chance. She's interested, obviously, and she's invited me in.
I spent the Seder with my parent and a few other people, and had a great time. Through the entire thing I thought of tomorrow afternoon when I will make the trip to her house. Unfortunately, the universe conspired against me, again, and at eleven o'clock the phone rang and I was recalled to base. Operation "Grapes of Wrath" has begun in the north. It was the time to bomb the hell out of southern Lebanon for no particularly good affect again. I spent 35 days on the front line, and she spent 35 days on base.
With very few people; everybody else went to war.
She was bored and alone.
By the time I came back she was dating one of the operations sergeant that remained behind (he had his arm burnt pretty badly as consequence of Stupid, so he couldn't go).

I'm making her sound pretty bad. She wasn't.

Anyway, I gave up, and we just remained really good friend for a while.
We both finished our service and continued to be friend in civilian life, hanging out in the same circle of friends, going to parties together and the such.
It was a healthy time, because the more I got to know Alma the more I realized that she's completely bad for me. She has the kind of personality that I could not be with for long, and it was then I realized she was destined to break my heart if I ever let her. I'm glad she never got the chance, although there is always the shadow of doubt that keeps a small unfulfilled crush alive at the back of the head (or is it the heart? I'm not sure where those things I kept).

Two year went by, and one night I found myself a block from where she lived. I called her and told her that I have an early evening and I'll be done about ten o'clock so I'll drop by. Great, she said.
So I did.
By the time I showed up she was a little drunk and crying. Her boyfriend said or did or thought something bad, and she was hurt. We sat on the floor of her bedroom (well, almost the whole small apartment was dedicated to her bedroom) and she cried on my arm again.
She then looked up and said: "Why didn't we ever get together? You're the guy I should be with. A nice guy. Not like those bastards".

That's when I knew she was crazy. I realized it all of the sudden. Now it's too late, I knew. Three years ago would have been great. We would have gone out. I would have loved her, she would have loved me. I would do something stupid accidentally, and she would break my heart. Normal relationship for young people. Back then I would have taken it with both hands.
Now I knew I had to bolt from there! But I didn't because I was, am still I'm told, a nice guy, and I would not leave her sobbing on the floor of her bedroom. A couple of more friend appeared after that, and half an hour later her boyfriend came back, ready to do whatever it takes to make it all better, and I made a quite, dignified exit.
We kinda drew further apart after that, and within a couple of years we didn't speak anymore at all. I saw her last five year ago in a wedding of a mutual friend.

And so we're left with the story of Alma. The story of almost every girl I knew in my life.

I just know that now I have a new really good friend...

I don't need a new really good friend.
What I need now is a really good GIRL-friend.
At this point I'll settle even for a mediocre girl-friend.

(Please let me know if I sound like whining idiot; I feel like one.)

Clocks and Chickens

I'm not a computer gamer (I think I said it before). I do like the little games that you can download and play which don't require any strategy, or thinking for that mater, and not much skill accept quickness of the hand. There is a long list of these games I like, but one of my favorites is "Chickens Invaders" (google it for more information). It's based on the old "Space Invaders" game, but this time the Solar system is invaded by waves after waves of evil, erratic, egg-shelling chickens, led and controlled by the mighty Mother Hen-ship. I love the game, and it's not quite as explicable as you might think. Or at least as I might think. I thought of it long and hard, and came out with a critical conclusion: Everything Is Funnier With Chicken!
It's a lesson that should be learned and understood.
We take it for grated, and years of slapstick comedy relied on it, without actually formalizing it.

I have proof:
A couple of years ago a co-worker has told me of a friend called Yaron Hayut (sorry, no link) who is a mechanical engineer by trade, a clocks enthusiast by passion, and a general mad-designer by choice. He creates non-traditional time keeping devices that could be referred to as non-clocks. He is a horrible business man and terrible at promoting himself, so there is not even a web-site where the clocks may be viewed. You might have to take yourself to MoMA in New York to see some of his work on display (if it's still there, it's been years).
Anyway, that whole concept of "It doesn't matter what time it is, but rather how it is displayed" struck as me ingenious, and kept lingering in the back of my mind. I kept looking at clocks, trying to find the uniqueness of them. The art. It just stayed there, like a little post-it note on the brain, until about a year ago when I visited London, England, and walked around the shops in Covent Gardens. There I saw a little wall clock that had a very unique way of identifying the hour. A spiral arm stretches out and back into the oval face of the watch. Across the face are the numbered the hours. The arm crosses across the correct hour. It is simple, brilliant, and just makes me happy (cheap happiness at 5 pounds). I bought the clock and brought it back home. A few weeks ago I struck a conversation with my co-worker about the clocks and I mentioned that I have bought this clock in London. Consulting his friend, Yaron has asked for a photograph of the clock, being unfamiliar with it. Not knowing of the origin of the clock he has asked in return whether it was bought, by any change, in London, possibly in Covent Gardens.
Apparently, fifteen years ago Mr. Hayut walked through Covent Gardens and saw strangely engineered clocks and thought "Hey, I can do that!". He's been designing clocks ever since. And if I never would have heard of it, I would never have notice that clock that now hangs on my wall. I dare anyone to contest Karma!

Anyway, I promised you chickens.
Rubber chickens. It would not have been the same with a rubber bat (baseball or sonar-guided fliers of the night). A rubber chicken smacked over someone's head holds a special kind of comedic charm that would be otherwise impossible.
The Muppets. It's not a coincidence that Gonzo's is a chicken (or is he? He's actually an alien. They said so in a movie!). At least he is a rooster-chicken by association with his band of singing hens. Gonzo has got to be the funniest (or is it ridiculousiest?) character there. It would not be the same if he was goat now, would it?
Yaron Hayut has also invented an alarm clock that, upon going off, releases a bunch of eggs into a basket. The awoken person must return the eggs back into the clock to stop the alarm. It's a brilliant waking mechanism, but more than that, it is hilariously funny. Why? It's just an alarm clock!

Because everything and anything can be made funnier with Chickens.
Whenever there is a little sadness in your life, think of chickens.
It'll make it all just a little bit better.

Everything is Funnier with Chickens!

Pak-Pak....Pak-waaaack!!!!

Maintain the Balance (or go MAD)

Tom Lehrer wrote in the song "Who's Next"

First we've got the bomb and that was good,
'Cause we love peace and motherhood.
Then, Russia got the bomb, but that's O.K.,
'Cause the balance of power's maintained that way.
Who's Next?

Mr. Lehrer spoke, of course, of the Atomic Bomb, the fear of Nuclear Weapons proliferation, and invention of that absurd theory, which is probably what kept the world alive until now, of Mutually Assured Destruction, with the aptly acronym MAD. "The balance of power" Lehrer called it. The idea that fear of my own (assured) destruction would deter me from taking an action that would assure my enemy's destruction (modern Nuclear Weapons do come with an "Assured Destruction Certification", apparently). It's a good theory, and like I said, as long as sane people were at the button it worked. I use "Sane" as in "understand the implication of starting a nuclear war"-sane not "Sane" as "Hi, I'm Stalin, I feel like killing a couple of million of my own people today because it's possible they will look at me funny someday in a parade"-sane. This theory fails today because nuclear weapons have new kind of owners. Their Sanity is limited to "let's fire this thing and God (-Allah, Jesus, or the minor Goddess of "things lost in drawers" * ) will handle the rest and assure my Heavenly eternity" brand of sane.

But that's not what I want to say.

Something that happened at work got me thinking of the "Balance" line of the song. Lehrer speaks of the balance of power. I'm thinking of the The Balance of Stupid. It is my conclusion that if there is a balance for everything in the universe, then there is also a Balance of Stupid that must be maintained.
In a previous ranting I spoke of a programmer that I referred to as the Old Man. Nothing against old (older) people, I swear. I know of Old thirty-some years old and Young of sixty-some years. This man simply programmed like it was 1986. I program likes is 1996, and in our line of work even that is soon-to-be-old. But nevermind the aging tangent.
This man was fired ("and there was much rejoicing") a couple of months ago. We were dancing among the cubicles and chanting Yey-chants to all the small gods we could think of. I got responsibility for all the items he was in charge of, and the imagination soared. I felt uplifted (I'm not kidding). My head literally dizzy with all the neat things I will finally do the software. The software module in question is our infrastructure and there were about 6 years of neglect. People, including me, had to come up with their own solutions to problems that could be solved in a central (infrastructural) manner.
I'm going on and on to try and explain my excitement (albeit a professional excitement, I am, indeed, a geek). I thought that all my frustration was over. No more blank stares from someone who could not follow simple logic (he actually said once "I can't do that for you, it requires logic"!). No more idiotic solutions to the wrong problems. No more waiting two years for a month's worth of work. Utter bliss.

And in that euphoric state of mind, I was blindsided.

My other major project right now is a Linux migration. I'm supervising an outsourcing of the work by another company.
And there, waiting, was another old man.
Another man who doesn't believe in order, or neatness.
Another man who doesn't listen.
Another man who could call me with the same question three times because he doesn't like my answers, and then goes ahead and does what he wants anyway.
Hence the Balance of Stupid is maintained. My original conclusion was that we need to find a way to shift the Balance of Stupid in the right way, so the weight falls on unimportant things. Then I realized that whenever you have to cover for somebody's stupidity, that specific task turns to supreme importance, so a shifting attempt is futile.

Suffer stupidity in quite (it's impossible, I tried).
Nothing left but to suck it up!

So I am left with only this small wish: I hope that I'm not someone else's Balance of Stupid.

Although I probably am. If so, I apologize.