Smoke on the Water

My weekends with PVC and PVC accessories usually occur unwillingly when I come home and find

It's beautiful!

yet another sprinkler has decided to take the opportunity of my absence and erupt.  Having little money and no real prospects, I’ve been patching together this thirty year old system in a vain attempt to keep at least some of the plants desperately clinging to life.

I’m pretty certain they’re meeting in secret and about to revolt.

This weekend was different.  I was walking out to my garage when I heard some water dripping.  My keenly tuned ears at first thought it was the condensation run-off for our central air conditioner.  This line runs from the top of the room, through our water heater closet and out into a patch of dirt.  Originally, the dirt contained one of those invasive vines that climb up the house covering it in a picturesque vision of greenery while simultaneously working into every nook and cranny to slowly, but inevitably pull the house apart.  To just get the roots out, which had started to regrow vines, took me two days, an axe, and a nuke from an orbital platform.

It was the only way to be certain.

But I digress.  As I walked to my garage on a mission I can’t even remember now, I heard the dripping of water.  I looked to make certain it was only the runoff, and saw one side of the water heater closet was completely soaked.  I could hear water dripping inside the closet, and a chill ran through me.  I figured it was probably some terrible leak, the water heater itself maybe.  I opened the closet door and saw, to my horror . . .

Nothing at first.  It’s extremely dark in there.

But when I got my flashlight out I saw . . . water dripping from the runoff line.

Paid actor.  Not actual water heater.

That’s it.  Not the water heater or one of the major pressure lines into the house.  Not even a hole or leak in the runoff line.  A deliberately placed T-joint was allowing water to leak inside the closet and drenching the wood. 

I couldn’t determine why the joint was there.  Whatever had been attached to the joint had broken off.  The joint itself seemed useless.  The line isn’t under pressure.  It’s meant to keep my roof from being damaged by condensation from the air conditioner.  Maybe you know?

Originally, I thought I could put in a splice with an upturned 90-degree joint.  I thought perhaps that air needed to get into the runoff line for some reason.  This wouldn’t work because of the broken bits still left in the t-joint.  I briefly considered rigging it with duct or electrical tape, but this meant I’d be back out in six months replacing it again.  The only solution was to cut out the pipe above the T-joint, affix a new splice.  This also meant I would need to put in another 90-degree joint at the bottom and a short length of pipe that would run out the closet itself.

Not such a big deal, really.  A bit of PVC joint glue and I should be in business.

But no small job goes unpunished.

The gods of DIY are a malicious and deceitful lot.

The first problem was getting my hacksaw into the tiny space to cut the PVC pipe above the T-joint. 

All this over a little 90-degree turn?

This wouldn’t have been such a bad thing, except the water heater closet is the home of two-million spiders.  I counted.  Once those were cleared out (again, I counted), I still couldn’t find an angle at which to get my saw into position.  It growing later, and my notorious penny-pinching, I opted instead to use an extra hacksaw blade to cut the pipe out.

This went exceedingly well.

Until I realized they’d run the pipe inside the two metal safety bands that secure the water heater to the house itself.  In the event of an earthquake, this keeps the water heater from tipping over, spilling hot water on an unsuspecting child who is playing in front of the closet, or allowing free-flowing natural gas to ignite in a fireball of Michael Bay-ian proportions.

I considered, and quickly rejected, removing one of the metal bands.  I know this trick.  It looks like a simple, single bolt.  It ends in cursing, tears and a panicked call to a plumber who charges triple for weekend, night time, and emergencies.  My head reminded me that PVC is actually flexible.  I might be able to bend the pipe out from between the bands.  If I could, then likely I could bend the new pipe back inside the closet.

Explosion is not to scale.

I know what you’re thinking.  That disaster you heard about on the news this morning, that was me.

Well, you’re WRONG!

Mostly wrong, anyhow.  There’s a blind spot on my friend’s car.  He really should have told me about it.

Anyhow, the short of the story is that the PVC pipe, with much negotiating, pleading and cursing, came free.  The new pipe went in with slightly more ease, and, for once, the end poked out right where it should. 

I glued the whole thing together, and still had time to put my boys to bed.

Get By With A Little Help From My Friends

Got books?

The “no author writes in a vacuum” has been done to death.  At least by me.  I’m sure you’ve heard me talk no end about my B-Team (and they’re awesome).  Today’s topic is subject matter experts (SMEs).  In the corporate world, these are people in the company who know everything about a very specific subject, but aren’t necessarily the best writers in the world.  They don’t have to be, their job is something other than writing.

Writing is my job.

But the reverse of this is also true.  I’m not an expert on anything really except writing.  I research, and sometimes deeply, to grasp historical events, battles, swordplay, gunplay, etc.  But The only thing I can truly claim deep knowledge and experience is writing.  When I run into a situation, say the need for my heroes to divert a plane en route and arrive at a destination ahead of schedule to get the drop on the Big Bad Guys . . .

Gun kata, anyone?

Yeah, I have no idea how, in the really-real world, that would take place.  I have two choices:

1 – I make it up based on my limited understanding of aviation safety rules and regulations (i.e. no understanding at all) and hope no one calls me on it.

2 – I find someone with a lot of patience who can explain it to me using very small words.

It seems like #2 would always be the way to go, but alas, it’s fraught with a minefield of issues.  Foremost among them is when an SME insists “that could never happen.”  Often, when presented with a particular scenario, like say the introduction of a compound bow in Medieval Europe, the SME will go into great length about how such a weapon could never be practically invented.  Historically speaking, the SME is correct.  The compound bow wasn’t developed five-hundred years earlier.

But I’m not a history writer.  I’m a fiction writer.  Making an SME understand that can be a trial in itself, taking more time than it’s worth to get to the question actually answered.

100% Historically Accurate

Recently, perhaps due to becoming published myself, this has been less of a problem.  A Japanese history expert reviewed my historical fiction novel about Tomoe Gozen.  I was pleased she found very little wrong with it, accepted some of my conceits as just that, and what she did point out was easily corrected.  It was really great to know that my research into the time period had paid off, and my mistakes were understandable.

While working on my latest Del book, I needed an SME for the aforementioned aviation question.  My SME didn’t just help me understand the rules regarding air travel on a private/charter plane.  He also provided several rational scenarios so my heroes could get around said rules, and reasonably accomplish the goals I needed.

I can never thank everyone who has helped, will help, or continues to help me with my writing.  It’s true, I do the author-thing.  But they make it possible.

Collection of My Favorite "Tears of Heaven" Ads

Mostly for me, but you can enjoy them too if you want.

When Good Programmers Go Bad

All programmers are this cool.

I’ve been searching for an autoposter system for Facebook that I can do my marketing with. There are a number of programs out there, but they seem to be all feet—everyone has one and they all stink. It’s even more of a battle because I’m not a tech guy, and some of these require some installation . . . ummm . . . tech-word-stuff.  No one wants me to fail, and they’ve all got some YouTube videos that are reasonably decent, but still . . . tech-word-stuff.

The latest was a program I picked up Friday, but it wouldn’t work with my system. So I shot the company an email and asked for a refund. I know my computer is old and twitchy and not really set up to do this kind of stuff.  I’ve known it for some time.  But really, at the end of the day, I don’t need to explain why I want a refund.  The timing between Friday and Monday asking for a refund, when I don’t computer on the weekends, is pretty telling.  A guy from the company (which appears to be a one-man show) named Sam (not Sam’s name) emailed me, asked me what the problem was.  My exact response was:

You can see I haven't had the software for more than a couple of days, and I haven't been able to use it.  Rather than talk you through all my issues, I'd prefer a refund so that I can keep moving forward.

Sam pressed me some more, so I responded:

. . . I feel your software will definitely be useful to me in the future when I get an updated computer.  At this time, it's not, so in order to get the computer, I need to start saving money so that I can in turn buy your software again when the time is right.

Let me introduce you to our Customer Service Rep: Lefty!

Rather than sit on software I can’t use, I’d rather put that money to a computer that can run his software and come back and buy it at that time. Call me odd.  Sam told me (and now I see the underlying threat) that he could check and see how many times I’d used the software.  That seemed a bit invasive to me, and is now a not-so-subtle way of calling me a liar.  I honestly didn’t see it as that at the time.  I figured that’s cool and he’d know immediately I couldn’t use the software and everything would be okey dokey. Alas, Sam seems determined to hold onto his $49 and insult a customer at the same time.  His next email was quite long, involved, and accusatory.  I ignored it, contacted PayPal and submitted the claim.

Sam must have gotten the PayPal claim, because he sent me yet another, long, involved, accusatory email and mentioned lawyers.  I like when people mentions lawyers.  Over $49.  Makes me want to write a long, detailed, and extremely accurate blog post.

So there ya have it.  People.  Even when you’re trying to be open and honest and just get on with your day, they manage to screw things up.

I Was A Potential Potential Juror

Jury duty would be fantastic if it weren’t for the people.

I don’t actually mind jury duty.  In most cases I would probably be selected if it came down to it.  I don’t have a lot of traumatic events in my life that would emotionally color my view of evidence.  I understand how judge instructions work, and I’ve been a debate coach/judge for the better part of 20 years.  I can set aside most of my personal biases and weigh a case based on the arguments presented.

But the people.  Good lord, the people!

First, there was Overly-Pedantic English Teacher.  On day two, when the judge gave instructions (for a solid ten minutes) about personal relationships and potential bias, and then asked the jury pool if

anyone knew the prosecuting attorney, everyone said no except Overly-Pedantic English Teacher.  He said yes and raised his hand.  The prosecuting attorney looked at him funny.  The judge looked at him funny.  Everyone in the room looked at him funny.

The judge asked, “Overly-Pedantic English Teacher, you know Mr. Prosecuting Attorney?”

“Yes,” replied Overly-Pedantic English Teacher, “we were introduced to him yesterday.”

The entire room groaned.  The judge went back over his instructions about personal relationships.

Thank you, Overly-Pedantic English Teacher, for taking up a good half-hour.

But Overly-Pedantic English Teacher wasn’t the worst.

There were also two people with obvious (and understandable) biases.  First was Oversharing Mother Whose Son Has Legal Troubles.  When asked if she could set aside any bias for or against a uniformed officer, we got to hear all about how her son was street racing, and even though the car was registered in her name, it was still impounded and every single officer or employee at the police station was rude and overly sarcastic.

The judge asks, “Oversharing Mother, do you think you could put aside those experiences and weight the evidence you heard without being biases for or against the uniformed police officers?”

Oversharing Mother replied, “It would be hard.”

“But could you do it?” the judge persisted.

“It would be really difficult because—”

And then Oversharing Mother told us more about her woes and raising a teenage boy who likes to drive fast.

Ladies and gentlemen, if a judge asks you if you may have trouble believing anything a uniformed officer might say, and you have a clear emotional bias, YOU SAY YES.  You don’t tie up the proceedings with a long diatribe explaining the nuanced details of your life.  YOU SAY YES.  When the judge asks you why, you simply say, “Based on my experience I believe there is a culture of bias among uniformed officers that would emotionally compromise my ability to judge the worth of their testimony.”

That’s it.  That’s all you have to say.  Done.  Out.  Peace.

But the gentleman who will forever remain ingrained in my life as having wasted a good twenty minutes of the courts time while the judge repeatedly tried to get him to answer “yes” or “no” to straight-forward questions was, Adamantly Not Your Man.

Adamantly had a personal bias that was very understandable.  A family member has suffered eerily similar circumstances to the charges against the defendant.  Here’s what happened when the judge asked him if he had any biases:

“No your honor,” Adamantly adamantly stated, “but I can tell you right now I’m Adamantly Not Your Man.”

“Why is that, Adamantly?”

“Because, I have a family member [insert five minute long terrible story of suffering eerily similar to the charges against the defendant here].  So you see, I’m Adamantly Not Your Man.”

“But,” the judge pressed, “while that’s a horrible story, it has no direct bearing on whether the defendant is guilty or not, correct?”

“Well, you see your honor, my family member [more of the terrible story inserted here], so I’m Adamantly Not Your Man.”

“But again,” the judge insisted, “while I sympathize, you understand that the defendant wasn’t part of your family members terrible story.  The defendant is presumed innocent until proven guilty.  That’s why we have a trial.”

“But you see, your honor, I’m Adamantly Not Your Man.”

“So you have an emotional bias that won’t allow you to hear the evidence and weigh it to arrive at a verdict of guilty or innocent?”

“No, I’m not biased, your honor.  I’m Adamantly Not Your Man.  No bias or bigotry whatsoever.”

Yes, Adamantly, you are biased, and that’s ok.  You’re biased because of a very personal, very traumatic set of events that happened to someone extremely close to you.  If you weren’t biased, I’d be more concerned (such as Miss Don’t Worry It Didn’t Affect Me Long Term).

But why, for the love all that is good and decent and kind in the universe would you make the judge spend ten, fifteen, twenty minutes trying to get you to say, without caveat, that you are or aren’t biased.

My friend, your response is this: Yes, your honor, despite my best efforts, I’m emotionally biased toward any victims, alleged or otherwise, and I would have a hard time weighing any contrary evidence.  I understand this shouldn’t be the case, but it is.  I am biased in this case.

Imagine my shock when all these people were released from service.