Prima donnas

So yesterday I had my second fight at work. No blood or guts, more like being treated to a tantrum; the throwing of dolls out of the cot; suitable expletives and the likes. The first fight was a war of words, two weeks ago, which gradually spun out of the realm of logical, civilised argument and onto the stage of insults levelled at me by the Group Leader of Software in front of colleagues. Yesterday's tantrum, from a different colleague, was sparked by a single sentence from me: "The changes in the build system are getting disruptive. " That was my opening remark and the only sentence of the whole conversation related to the subject matter. The response was a raging torrent of insults, mostly unsubstantiated. Today, further changes to the build system by the said prima donna left that system only partially usable where it used to work completely, if somewhat less efficiently than the prima donna would have liked.

It would appear as if I have worked myself up through the ranks in a hierarchy precariously perched amongst prima donnas of sorts. Now that I have earned some formal authority over certain areas and am exerting some of that authority in questioning the free reign of the prima donnas, the fat is in the fire. It would appear as if some regard themselves as untouchable and unquestionable.

Unfortunately for the general software community around here, I am rather to the point when it comes to matters that are out of line or obstructive to sane engineering. I am not in the business of polishing others' over-pampered egos for them, nurtured on flattering, adjusted school scores and over-accommodating parents. Neither do I subscribe to the unwritten software principle of free reign and boundless individualism. This is not the Wild West. It is 2006. California has a governor. Get over it. Move on. Go free reign in your own one-man show for some shareware site if you can't work in a team and abide by policies and standards that are devised to support system development of a professional, commercial product. But of course, I dare not say that aloud.

In discussing these two events with my line manager, it became clear that Prima Donna One and Two are notorious for their potential volatile personalities. It was not entirely news to me. I had witnessed the side shows of these two fellows before.

Today peace and calm have been restored. I have had good working sessions with Prima Donna One and Two, respectively, even respectably. There is hope for the future.

At the end of the day

Yesterday evening, as the sun was setting, the old Sunday evening melancholy crept over me. For one thing, I wanted to be in Stellenbosch with every bit of my strength. There are times when the normal rhythm of the day subsides and deeper thoughts have their turn at the top of the stack. Sunday evenings are such times. What gets buried under layers of necessity crawls through the crevices. It is such times that my longing for my own country and hometown overwhelms all other considerations.

It is when we would call a few mates and quickly put together a barbeque as the sun sets. We'd be around the fire all evening, staring at the stars and chatting all sorts of bull until the small hours. We'd revamp the national rugby and cricket teams, sort out the national politics, put Bush in his place, joke over Tony Blair, and solve all local relational issues over a few six packs.

On a Saturday night we would even pack up and go out to a club in Cape Town after the barbeque - why, the place stays open until 05h00. Or some weekends we'll load the Golf and slip off to Kogel Bay to have beers on the beach and pitch a tent for the night. Life is rich and free in my country. We may not earn dollars over there, but we have quality of life. Some things can't be bought even for a million dollars - like the freedom to party until 05h00 in the morning, to drink beer on the beach, to leave home and be in the mountains between coming from work and sunset. To sit on Stellenbosch Mountain and watch the sun set over Table Mountain is priceless. For everything else there is Mastercard.

In about 12 months I should have my Green Card - the right to stay in the US for as long as I want and work and live in the US where I can find these things. But deep in my heart lives a part of Africa and it will not leave. And in my veins flow Scottish and Dutch blood and a Euro-centric upbringing that drives a yearning in my soul for Europe. And all the time I live a misplaced live of necessity. I go through the motions of every day, send my money back home every two months and keep hoping to discover that life here in the US is more than just work and money and shopping and gadgets and a never-ending rush to nowhere at all.

Sports season starts

For this chap sports season starts with the advent of the first F1 Grand Prix race of the year. Today, the first race was held at the Bahrain F1 track. Those blokes are located somewhat closer to a decent time zone, so for the late snoozers over here, the race had to be recorded. Fear not, we have DVR. Technology, technology, tut tut tut. Right, so at 12:30, I parked in front of my puny piece of scrap TV, under the duve and hit play. By Jove, did it play! We had sparks from the word go. No, I didn't blow the trips. Alonso and Michael went for it - their girl friends were somewhere else I suppose. An F1 car is just super for getting and staying in touch with your fast. Why, there is only one seat. The demanding spouse cannot come with even when throwing a tantrum over it.

These chaps were quite in touch with all that mattered. Some of them displayed rather major attachments too. Jenson Button, David Coulthard and rookie, Miko Rosberg all had their moments. Luckless Kimi, whose McClaren rid itself of its rear suspension yesterday during practice, started from right at the back of the grid to finish on the podium in third position. Now, for those in the know, this was an F1 race, a race of notable complexity, not Indy. One doesn't just start in the back row and end up on the podium by bumping a few opponents off the oval. One does not bump and there is no oval. From about 10th position one has to deal with rather major driving talent. But Kimi had what it took. That guy deserves a proper race car, such as a Ferrari or a Renault. McLaren (Kimi's car constructor) needs a revamp, or go and build coaches for royalty. The team does look better this year than last, but horrid reliability bugged them all of last season. It's early days for this season, though.

We had two rookies in the race: Miko Rosberg (famous Keke's son) of Germany and Scott Speed of the US. Herr Rosberg delivered and finished in 8th place - in the points, on his maiden drive, a major achievement held only by a few. Mr Speed still has to shed some attitude and then things might turn better for him, having ended in 13th position. One notion Mr Speed should put in the rubbish bin is that the driver "keeps the team focussed and working together" to quote the young gentelman. Uhm, in F1 that is the task of the team manager, Mr Speed. Your job is to drive the car and give feed-back to the race engineer, now isn't it? Let's get on with it, shall we?

Today leaves no doubt that it is March and not even halfway. The duve is calling. So is the piano. Decisions, decisions.

On a clear day

Today was a clear day in Boston. I would not claim that I could see forever, but it was a great day for visiting the city. There was a hint of spring in the air even though the plants still did not show any signs of taking such notice.

My mission was to buy the 24 preludes by Chopin, the Henle Verlag edition. There is only one shop for that, which is the Music Espresso right across from the New England Conservatory. On previous occasions I took the Tube into Boston, but today tried my luck with parking. Lo and behold, I managed the rare feat of finding parking near the NEC.

Wandering through Boston anywhere near the city centre is a treat. For starters, the notorious Boston traffic notwithstanding, the city is pleasantly disposed to walking. The architecture is interesting and rather pleasing. My favourite Hancock building is within sight from almost any position. It haunts me - I have a whole collection of pictures of the building from all angles. Everytime I see it, I want to add another picture. Perhaps that should become a project - a Hancock picture book, with pictures from the oddest view points.

Today I was supposed to practice piano - there is much work ahead of me. But sometimes, when the load gets high, I just want to let go of it and relax. So, I cleaned my car's interior, pampered the leather upholstry and took the car in for a high pressure spray clean in a self-serve bay. And I took a nap earlier in the afternoon until my housemate returned, waking me with his darn creaky bedroom door. I summarly oiled the hinges tonight.

African survival kit

In South Africa, Easter is the annual population culling season with the highest road death toll of the year. Still, the author loves driving. Coming from Stellenbosch in sunny South Africa, which of course as we all know is on another planet according to the USCIS, previously known as the US INS and entirely unrelated to either the US CIA or the US NSA for all we know, the author has an African survival kit.

The survival kit includes dealing with lions on the front porch, in the backyard and along the sidewalks amongst other distractions from a daily live in suburbia Africa. Add to that the odd corruption scandal; rampant rape; diseases the names of which the South African Minister of Health cannot even spell; an assortment of burglaries; assault with various levels of aggravating circumstances; gun violence at number two after Columbia; lovely weather during working hours; beautiful beaches within 20 minutes from campus; warm, friendly social habits with lots of beer, barbecue and roughly 10000 deaths on the road per year.

The roads - great roads, I must add - are in a reasonable state of repair and the best system of its kind in Africa by a long shot - comparable to that in Australia, not that they would agree. At least the Brits did leave us something for all the gold and diamonds they so callously had stolen from the poor Africans. The horrible, Afrikaans, white government that followed the previous, horrible, English, white government did their bit quite handsomely in keeping and expanding the road network. The current, goodie, black government is busy. Uhm, I am not sure with what, but they are busy and they are spending money, so I guess they are doing something. There were rumours that some of the $90billion total state budget will go to roads this year. Jolly good, I say, for some of these roads are of the best for what roads are for: driving.

We have a speed limit of 120km/h (75mph) on our freeways. The secondary roads have a limit of between 80km/h (50mph) and 120km/h depending upon how the local council felt the day of the decision and how well the road worker that erected the sign could read at the time of erection. Towns are down to 60km/h (35mph).

We like to drive fast - faster than the speed limit, regardless of the speed limit. We do not like limits. A few can afford really good German and Japanese cars and they drive even faster. But most drive rather old and more mundane things, which they would have liked to be faster. So these things are made to look the part without really having what it takes. Never the owners know, who just drive these things as if they were as fast and furious as any old Ferrari F50. The result is a rather unfortunate road accident figure. But as they say in our ancestral France, c'est la vie.

South Africans do not generally drive very well, I am afraid. Sure, we do not lack in spirit - the veggie class does rarely emerge on a South African road and only at its own peril. But the madmen clans are perpetually in a dual over tar turf. Their fighting arsenal can be quite daunting - bling wheels that cost more than the actual car sitting on top; a tail pipe the size of a SAM-7 launcher with the roar of St Paul's pipe organ during "Onwards Christians". The whole thing - typically a 10 year old Nissan or Ford - growls menacingly, ready to gallop on the Fourth Crusade to eternal glory a few blocks further down the duly harassed local neighbourhood.

Those of better class storm forth in fury in their bulging SUV's. Yes, South Africa has fallen for the SUV. We started years ago with the luxury, double-cab 4WD pickup truck. You know, the type that never puts a tyre off the tar. Now every end of the year, the coastal holiday towns are blocked with X5's and M500's.

Everything travels at great speed, passes precariously on two-way roads and demands to pass with the most aggressive tail-gate detent that side of the pond.

Oh, I just love my country. To survive living there, one just goes for a nice, fast drive. Speed is a fundamental freedom. Live free or die.

Breeder bins and automotive philanthropists

In the previous, inaugural post, the author classified Bostonian drivers into two classes: The vegetating procession and the madmen. Here is a sequel.

A special subclass of the veggies is reserved for the commanders of breeder bins, which are devices also known as vans. You know, those big, ungainly things, with enough glass windows to outfit a shopping mall plus sliding doors gallore for good merit. Purely due to their sheer girth, these things afford their commanders a perfect command over any piece of tarmac. Such command is then also promptly exercised at the most frightfully frustrating pace. Breeder bins turn and stop just where their commanders desire, other traffic notwithstanding. Imagination seizes to fathom the breadth and width of the insane maneouvers that breeder bin commanders can envision. Do not hope for a bit of fun joining a freeway with a breeder bin ahead on the on-ramp. Expect a traffic jam behind a breeder bin stopped at an unholy spot in peak traffic so the commander can pick up or drop off whatever the mission demands. Breeder bin commanders hate to walk, even more so than other Bostonians.

Then we have the automotive philanthropists. These creatures can be from either the veggies or the madmen, with the first group more likely. As careful research will surely bear out, an automotive philanthropist is the single, biggest cause of unimaginable traffic disasters. Nowhere else in the world has this author come across a more misguided maneouver. Picture this: In suburban traffic trundeling along at a peppy pace, the philanthropist endeavours to earn brownie points somewhere only God knows by stopping in the middle of the moving traffic to obstruct against all expectation; logic; perfectly functional existing traffic regulation and natural flow, to allow across two lanes of traffic, approaching from both directions, some cross traffic comprising one single car. Suddenly, this philanthropist has turned into an instant traffic light - unfortunately, with most bulbs blown it would seem.

And so it goes and so it goes. Let's retire to the Boston Common.

A Stellenbosser in Boston

This is the launch posting of my common, by-the-way web log - a web log by an alien for locals and aliens. The author comes from another planet, if one can believe the CIS (used to be the INS, but Bush changed that). This is not the serious, issue-ridden web log. Nope. Not this blog. Of course, as expected by anyone who knows the author, the odd bitch and moan session will make a frequent appearance. And being a web log by a foreigner - or is that an alien - the locals will be sent up here too.

This author listens exclusively to British radio over the Internet - incurably a culture snob. A pity the car doesn't have Internet. There the radio has to be on 101.7. Nothing else suffices.

Speaking of the car, this author is helplessly in love with driving. But alas, driving in Boston during normal hours is an exercise in exotic insanity. It must be a disproportionate fear of insurance rate hikes that insure against sudden death by violent mutual occupation of common ground, also known as the car accident.

The most exotically insane road manoeuvers play out in and around Boston on a daily basis. Interposed along the time line of automotive frustration is a certain vegetating procession spread across as many lanes as the Massachusetts Road Authorities could care their pockets to allow. But the number of lanes are not the issue here. The Bostonian car driver knows not his left lane from his right lane. That is the issue here.

Submerged in a sublime preoccupation with the inner self, the Bostonian driver would blissfully glide along at a most frustratingly slow pace in the uttermost left lane of a freeway, cell-phone implanted in one of the ears. That left lane is the place to be, the first open space the Bostonian driver seeks out, regardless of cruising speed, or the lack thereof. That left lane speaks of accomplishment - the top of the world; the king of the castle, pottering along in the fast lane, ruling with a real sense of bourgeoisie over lesser mortals piled up behind. Pick anyone of the handful of creepways that bless Greater Boston and you'll stumble upon these creatures. They spread like vermin from right to left, east to west and north to south around Boston, pottering along.

Then there is the mindless madman with the death wish, tearing along at silly speeds in something resembling a clone of a batmobile, cutting from lane to lane in a death-defying dice with fate. The highest accomplishment for this category of insanity is the near miss uber-late dash for the exit lane. That is the grand prix par excellence. Snap the breath from your nostrils with the bow-wake off his super-uber-modified-bespoilered F16 ground edition. You could count the spot welds on the rear suspension arms whisking past within microns of your preciously pampered front bumper.

Of course, in Boston you seem to get only the two extremes: the vegies and the madmen. That is, if you ignore the foreigners, who sit around in shock and awe, gasping to overcome the culture shock.