Today, Im a pirate. While our own modem awaits the not-so-swift service call, targeted for a time frame no more specific than a given day sometime between dawn and dusk, I had to McGyver the wireless adapter to catch unpassworded signals bombarding us from all directions. No mean feat. First, it has to be outdoors. Apparently the house is made of Kryptonite, or lead sheeting. So, with a tripod for the old TV antenna, a cannibalized satellite dish from a discontinued cable service, and a wire whisk (not kidding) to shim the dish, I have a 360-degree arc of reception. I did this when there was no service at all, but the microwave matrix has changed since then. Neighbors have moved. Sheds have gone up. And in this particular case, the presence of one semi trailer is my bane. If you werent bored, stop reading, because this will do the trick. While there are about twenty signals available, only three are not passworded. No, wont hack at passwords. The neighbor south of us has let use have her password, but its not a great signal, and thats just for Ben if he wants to load his fanfiction books to his iPad. So theres this one public access signal, from a quarter mile away, but translating that into a useful stream makes me feel like the Professor from Gilligans Island. Ysee, its not a direct signal. Too many house twixt hither and yon. But theres a nice wide open space between two of them, and since were on the southeast corner of town, theres an open stretch of field between here and the signal on the highway. That signal makes its way over a quarter mile of distance, crossing a railroad track and bouncing off of a big metal building a block away. Ive learned this through trial and error, and supposition, occasionally punctuated by accidental insight and Holmes-like deduction. On occasion, when the semi-tractor at this business parks just right, it nearly doubles the signal strength. Sure, it has pitfalls. When a train passes by, everything goes wonky. Here in the boondocks, thats only twice daily maybe. Sometimes the truck backs into the loading dock, creating a perpendicular signal block, and my pirating metaphor falls short of me actually crawling up to the crows nest with a dish in my teeth. It would probably solve the problem completely, but its a temp problem, and I aint doin it. Before you ask, no, the library cant cut the mustard for a while yet. They got hit by flooding earlier this spring, and the server, kept in the basement there, was a casualty. It got ruined right about the time all the computers there hit their five-year obsolescence anniversary, so the library board and insurance companies are slinging it out on the main deck with cutlasses over the matter of upgrading and replacing the entire computer network. Arrrrr. That battle nears completion, which will retire me and my parrot and eyepatch of the digital age. Matey. So, my treasure hoard, the coveted booty, is the sweet spot where the signal is constant. When I hit it, its good for days. Weeks. At one time, months, until gale winds took down the dish and sheered the USB extension cord. Rough seas. Everything is hunky-dorey when the trucks park at right angles, or nice parallel lines to the building. I get here, and no one needs to know its often by a 21st century miracle of microwave technology, and plain old straight-line-of-sight versus rebounding signal sphere interference calculations done by adjusting a dish-and-cookware apparatus. Its just too much of a man-behind-the-curtain glimpse to expect readers to glom onto. Lucky you, that mystery is unfolding before your captive eyes. Still with me? What are you, a masochist? Then let me paint you a pirate portrait. It starts with me sitting in boxer shorts which proudly proclaim Its Good To Be The King. Theyre burgundy and black. Thank God for Fathers Day, right? Not only would I have never bought them for myself, I would not have known nor wanted to know that such apparel is out there for purchase. But they are soft, fit well, and truth told, it IS good to be the king. Who knew? Plus, they go really well with my olive-drab oak leaf camouflage long sleeve shirt. Before you cringe, these are my pajamas, and they match perfectly, if you go by thickness. And avoid full-length mirrors. So Im a pirate AND a vampire. So, thus attired, I sit at my command center, regaling the world with the elements of my life that are simply too crucial not to share. For instance, my royal boxer shorts have bd emblazoned at the front waistband. But from the wearers perspective, they say pq. One day, such observations may save a life if shared in a timely fashion. At the very least, it might save endless confusion in an underwear store. Youre welcome. With the hiss of air brakes, the ping of a back-up alarm and the distant sound of a slowing train, my reverie of underwear revelations and playing a superhero game online is about to end. Not only has the truck driver gotten creative with fractions of angles best reserved for French architecture, but a train hauling big black tankers of god-knows-what has decided to just leave thirty of them parked on the spur of tracks directly between my McGyver contraption and the dead mans chest of internet connectivity. A pirates life for me. So my metaphoric sail needed patching. I torqued one of the securing bolts on the tripod so hard it sheared off, so I have to improvise if my sail is to reach the heavens. A rarely-used beer cooler served that purpose nicely. And since my kingdom will not withstand another cord-ripping catastrophe, the legs of the tripod are weighted with cinder blocks. No matter how much this sounds like an episode of the Red Green Show, it doesnt look as bad as it sounds. Mostly because its hidden from sight. One last touch, since the adapter isnt water-tight: I rubber-banded a plastic grocery bag around the entire adapter tongue of the dish. And yes, I did it in my boxer shorts. We have a fence. Get over it. The neighbors only know Im wearing camouflage. Im pretty sure they think Im not wearing anything below the waist anyway. Let them dream. Its Good to Be The King. So, after all that, which includes trips into the apartment to check signal integrity, noodges to the dish angle, adjustments to the height (add one two-by-four....perfect), I get the DING of connection success. It sounds like a gold doubloon dropping on the deck. Arrrr. Im sure later, when I go to the hardware store later, Ill make a discovery that will render this all moot. I should add that Im going to the hardware store for varnish and sandpaper, because this pirate is currently working on an actual deck like a swabee. I never said I was CAPTAIN of this ship. But my route to the hardware store takes me past the library, and I just know in my heart of knowing that this will be the day theyve taken down the Internet Offline Until Further Notice sign. Thats just how Fate rolls, sometimes. But until that moment not far off, you are my shipmates, and if youre good sports, I hope to get a Yaarrr! or Aye, Matey! out of a few of you. This has NOT all been for naught. How do I know? In spite of the fact that it would probably have been slightly easier to hand-print copies of this missive and hitchhike to each of your doors and drop them off in person, it would have meant putting something on to cover my Burgundy and Black PQs (BDs, whatever). Probably. As it is, you can now sit in your own personal fashion nightmare at your own Cheetos-layered command centers, and hail my pirate vessel from afar. As it should be. No thanks are necessary. This is what we do. So for this Thursday of no import, Friday for those pirates down under, I bid you good seas and the wind at your back, while I heave this ho to the hardware store. Swabbing decks, and all that. I might even put on some pants. Im pretty sure the court order requires that. Yo ho ho.
Posted on: Thu, 02 Oct 2014 19:24:00 +0000
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