A most peculiar gray

That's Florida up there, hiding in the explosion of clouds just to the north of Gustav. This NASA image taken by GOES 12 earlier today is impressive, beautiful, humbling, and frightening all at the same time.

Living along the gulf coast is certainly an odd experience with regard to these storms, to say the least. I doubt I'll ever become accustomed to it. As soon as we're in the cone of uncertainty for anything above a tropical storm, the locals buzz forth in a flurry of activity as they attempt to purchase bottled water, batteries, canned goods, and flashlights. A handful of shopping carts in isle six will contain nothing but gallon jugs of Zephyrhills, while another already past checkout has a sixpack of liter Gatorades, frozen pizzas, and box of tea light candles. Each time, every time, it is as if no one has ever done this before, as if the threat and fear of a new storm wipes away the memories of all the ones that came before it. 48 hours prior to landfall, the gas pumps run slow as they try to pull from the depths of the underground tanks. 24 hours before landfall, they're dry. People rush online to see what flood zone they live in, others look to their roof and ponder the possibility that they might dwell in a house built in the pre-Andrew era without hurricane braces. Even more go about their daily business, having done absolutely no preparation at all.

Today, the run on the grocery store bordered on madness. Charcoal, beer, food, and supplies flew off the shelves and filled the carts of shoppers as the clouds began to roll in. Boxes of ponchos were eagerly grabbed at as a steady stream of cars flowed through the parking lot just outside. Bags of ice left the store, coolers were filled to capacity. Rain from Gustav had just started to fall, pickup trucks filling the hardware store parkinglot as residents refilled propane tanks.

But people along the north side of the gulf coast, today, aren't getting ready for a college football game tailgate party as the hoardes of USF fans are doing today. As the major hurricane churns out at sea, having intensified to a category four storm, the computer models HWRF and GFDL twitch and shift by hundreds of miles as they reevaluate eddy currents and the steering forces created by upper level lows. The evacuations began even now, long before the lines will begin to converge. Contraflow will commence. Tampa overcast skies above make the labor day weekend a sleepy, relaxed one. Will the game be rained out?

The stops and starts, the on and off terror of Atlantic conveyor belt continue and will through November.

It is so strange, living on the coast, during hurricane season.

Oh, joy, it's that time of year again.

Fay fay!

Tracing Lines

After a co-worker and I got into a long conversation about just how interesting family can be, I realized just how much information I'm missing about my own. So, Mia and I are starting to poke into the whole genealogy thing.

Our findings, here, as we make discoveries.

Day In, Day Out

The Sunshine State, we are not. The state nickname proclaiming such? A lie.

...which makes this time of year really frustrating, since the frequent storms often do not permit any outdoor activity beyond 10:30am. Uninformed tourists tend to somehow equate the months from May to October with fun at the beach in the peninsular state, but this could not be more distant from reality -- a fact which those visitors quickly discover after having deplaned and step outside and into an atmosphere which one can practically swim through. Thick, topical air brews cloud tops to the limits of the stratosphere moments after the sun peeks above the horizon and the lines of rain quickly march inland to destroy any hopes of recreation. Kayaking, bicycling, outdoor games, and even those brisk walks through the neighborhood are genuinely made much more exhilarating when that unexpected moment of purple light and searing heat from the heavens violently explodes a tree as a bolt of lightning finds that the pine just sixty feet away from you was a choice ground. Stomping through an inch of standing water as the ground shakes after each strike, swatting at ravenous mosquitoes as one pushes aside thick vegetation feels more akin to being immersed into a Vietnam combat simulator than an afternoon grocery store errand run. Trapped in this repeating pattern for days, weeks, months, and you begin to wonder if your conscripted tour will ever end. One begins to go stir crazy, clinging to the life support system that is central air conditioning, praying the the power holds through the afternoon bombardment on the city's infrastructure.

That being held prisoner indoors is what proves the most difficult to cope with. Shopping malls, bookstores, and cafes turn into emergency areas of refuge -- shelter with climate control that one can resort to and not continue to be stuck at home. It is only a temporary solution, as window shopping or sipping tea while reading a magazine with no intent to purchase can only go so far, though. It isn't long before the afflicted contemplate escaping into the heavy weather...

Dammit, rain! I can't get anything done!

No, really. A lot of my projects are on hold due to weather. It is eroding my sanity!

Going into Labor

Find a corporation with a solid foundation, be loyal, and stick with them. Dedication of this level will be noted and pay off in the end.

My working for [Company X] affords me some wonderful benefits not found at smaller corporations or start-ups. There's the insurance coverage (when it isn't being reduced each year), there's job security (when they aren't laying off to recover their bottom line) and, of course, there's the induced creative spark and energy to work hard that can only be fostered by that rare form of cooperative leadership and business-driven decisions. That well chosen path, coupled with investor-backed funding and a large workforce, makes for an agile industrial machine that can adapt and respond instantly to the changing environment. So, when the contract was up for northern workers at [Company X] and a potential strike loomed on the approaching horizon, the swift and decisive action of the powers that be provided an efficient and healthy solution that fit the market:

All workers in non-essential positions that didn't check the box marked "afraid of heights or confined spaces" on their application get shipped off to fill in on physical labor after reviewing a helpful pamphlet on how to cope with lobbed insults/bricks. Everyone else gets to stay behind and work 72 hour weeks.

Due to the nature of my work, I fall into the latter collection and cannot speculate on what it is like to be a member of the former. So, while we haven't actually been put into the position of going into "emergency mode" just yet, the reasoning behind this particular strategy isn't immediately obvious to myself. One would suspect that shifting a workforce accustomed to a standard 8 hour/5 day workweek to 12 hour/6 day workweeks (with coverage 24 hours a day) implies that there is a mountain of work to overcome due to the situation. But no, nothing tangible has changed in the departments and a large portion of the unpaid time over the normal eight hours would be spent with twiddling thumbs as work waits on the inverted schedule of the other half of the department. This detrimental change actually costs the company quite a lot of money and seems to be a knee jerk solution to a problem that doesn't exist. When objections were raised, the logical response was given on why we could not be exempt: "It wouldn't be fair."

So, what's the point? What's [Company X] up to? Like an elementary school teacher revoking recess for an entire class based on the misbehavior of a single student, are people taking punishment to influence negotiations through developed resentment? It is not as if denial of vacation one month in advance of the event actually accomplishes anything productive in this mess. Is this a message sent saying, in blurred but with obvious force, that no one else better think of trying something similar?

Man, I hate big business.