Internet gnus

Last week, my New York-based ISP changed the telephone company it deals with for its Tennessee POP locations and had us switch to new access numbers. I have been having problems ever since; some web sites, such as the home page for the Blogger Idol competition, I can’t get to at all, and others seem to be loading much slower.

I received my contributing editor’s copies of the new Wittenburg Door today and wanted to post something about the new issue to the Door’s message board. I can’t get through; I’m not sure whether that’s just coincidence or whether it’s related to my ISP problem.

I tried my ISP’s technical support tonight. They’ve been disappointing in the past, and they were just as disappointing tonight. I have decided to try to get Internet service through my telephone company, which will only cost a dollar or two more and which will go on my monthly phone bill. They are supposed to send me my confirmation e-mail in another day or two; if everything works out with the phone company, I will be off my current ISP by the end of the week.

I am not ready for broadband right now, but whenever I do go to broadband it’s likely to be through the phone company rather than the cable company (see below for the reason), so this will just make that eventual transition even more seamless.

Travel: My belated picks

I am still having problems with my internet connection at home. My ISP has switched the telephone company it uses for its Tennessee POP locations, and I have a sneaking suspicion this may be part of the problem.

So I’m stealing a few brief minutes while waiting for a phone call here at work to post my favorite Blogger Idol entries for last week, with the theme “Travel.” Sorry they’re late.

Satellite sky

Why, why, why, I say Why, Mama, Why?
Why can’t I sleep in peace tonight
underneath the satellite sky?

(from “Satellite Sky,” by Mark Heard, with my apologies for using his poetic imagery for such a prosaic purpose)

Some years back, when I was renting a home here in Shelbyville, I decided to replace my cable TV with Dish Network. I ordered a dish online, and it arrived, and I was so excited. But then, when the installer came, it turned out I didn’t have good line of sight. The only way I could have gotten a signal was to have mounted the dish on a post out next to the sidewalk. Plus, by that time, the owners of the house had given me the heads up that they would soon be fixing it up and moving into it themselves.

I now live in an old apartment complex — one of the oldest in Shelbyville, in fact. About a year ago, I looked into getting DirecTV at the apartment — after all, two other apartments in the complex had it. (Today, three other apartments have it.) This time, instead of shopping around for a discount retail deal, I went directly through DirecTV. The installer (who was a contractor, of course, not a DirecTV employee) called me the night before the installation appointment. He hemmed and hawed and talked about how it was usually difficult to put dishes at apartments. I told him there were two dishes already here. He then speculated that they were probably installed without being grounded correctly. My appointment was for the following afternoon, but the reluctant installer said he would swing by the next morning (while I was safely trapped at the office) and look over the situation, then call me at work and tell me whether an installation was even possible. To this day, I have no idea whether he actually stopped by the apartment or not. He called me the next morning, claimed to have seen the apartment first-hand, and told me there was no safe way to install a satellite dish because it could not be grounded. It was clear he really wasn’t interested in working that afternoon.

I later discovered that the two existing satellite dishes at the apartments (now, there are three of them) are grounded at a telephone junction box around on the side of the building.

I tried complaining to DirecTV about the reluctant, resentful installer, but they really didn’t seem interested in second-guessing him. All they did was confirm that dishes need to be grounded, which I was already willing to accept.

I would still like to get satellite TV; I could get the channels most important to me for less than I am paying now for cable. I only have one TV set, so the multiple-receiver issue is no hindrance to me at all. But after being burned twice, I want to get confirmation from an installer before I place my order. A few weeks ago, I saw a Dish Network van parked in front of a furniture store near the newspaper. I swung around the block and decided I would try to corral the installer. But he got in the van and pulled away before I could get to him.

BellSouth, my telephone company, now lets you bundle DirecTV with your telephone service, at an even greater savings. But I really don’t want to go that route until I can get someone to tell me for certain that I can get a dish installed.

Checking in

I hope all of you had a pleasant holiday. I certainly did. It was good to see my brother, sister-in-law and nephew for the first time in a year and a half. As I write this, they and my parents are on their way to Gatlinburg for a couple of nights. My brother will leave from there (well, from Knoxville) to return to Southern California; my sister-in-law and nephew will stay a day or two longer, so I’ll get to see them again before they return.

I had a strange little episode on Christmas Eve — someone who wasn’t feeling well snapped at me about something, and I got inexplicably emotional about it. I cried (not sobbing crying, just eyes-red crying) for more than an hour afterward. I’ve been under a lot of stress at work lately, and maybe I just needed a good cry. I just hope the rest of the family doesn’t think I’m nuts.

Among my Christmas gifts was something called a Sonica — a voice-activated universal remote. I’ve already programmed it with the names of several of my favorite cable channels. I can’t seem to get it to work with my DVD player yet. There are four different codes listed for my brand of DVD in the Sonica instruction manual; three of them won’t work, so it must be the fourth one. But the remote won’t take the fourth one, for some odd reason. I can punch in the numbers but the remote will not let me do the last step or confirm that the code was entered. Strange.

The Blogger Idol web site seems to be down, and has been for several days. That’s why I haven’t posted any links yet for my favorite blog entries from this week.

CORRECTION: The Blogger Idol site has apparently been up the whole time. Darren Rowse and I are having some e-mail conversations about why I keep having time-outs when I try to access it.


Once we had the paper to bed, and once the salt on the streets hand the chance to do that voodoo that it do, I drove my car to Gary’s Wholesale Tire. Gary took one look at my tire and pronounced it OK, with a tone of voice that implied I was a little silly for braving the ugly weather to bring it by.

So, I’m relieved about the tire, in any case.

My brother has probably left for John Wayne Airport already, and won’t see this post — but it is, in fact, now snowing here. I don’t think any real accumulation is expected, but the light dusting shows up better than normal because of the primer coat of ice.

Should have stayed in bed

The day is not off to a promising start.

The T-G will not publish tomorrow, so today we are all supposed to bring finger foods to munch on at midday, after we’ve put today’s edition to bed. I made some of my homemade onion dip, which is quite good if I do say so myself. But it’s somewhat involved, and I don’t make it often.

Overnight, we got precipitation — not the snow my brother was hoping for (he, my sister-in-law and my nephew arrive tonight from California) but a thick sheet of ice. My car door was frozen shut, and I set the container of dip on top of my car while I tried to unstick it. The dip fell off, burst open and spilled into the apartment parking lot.

Then, on my drive in to work, I skidded, and scraped against the curb. I made it to work OK, but the rim of my tire looks as if it has been badly scraped, and I am not at all sure that the tire will have air in it when I go back out to the parking lot later.

Tracking Santa

This is the 50th year for NORAD, the North American military radar tracking system, to track the whereabouts of a certain red-suited stranger as he makes his holiday rounds. Please visit their web site for more information, and come back on Christmas Eve for live video and other features. You need RealPlayer to see all the site’s features, so you might want to go there in advance and make sure you’re set up before Christmas.

The best show you’re not watching (apologies to TV Guide)

I posted here a few weeks ago about the TV series “House M.D.”, and the show has only gotten better and better. I forgot to tape it last week, while I was at my Mountain T.O.P. board meeting, but tonight’s episode was the best yet. See this show, and please give it more than one try (you sort of have to get to know the main character, who can be a little off-putting at first).

In my original review, I marveled at the fact that Hugh Laurie — who once played Bertie Wooster in a series of Wodehouse adaptations — does such a convincing American accent. Amusingly, tonight he tries calling several other doctors and has trouble getting them to speak with him — because it’s the middle of the night. So, he “fakes” a British accent and apologizes for forgetting the time difference when calling from London!


This week’s topic in the non-competitive “Blogger Idol” showcase is “Travel.” Anyone who knows me has gotten an earful about my travel experiences over the past couple of years. Some of the following will be old hat to my regular readers — after all, my first blog, which morphed into this one, was originally intended as a place to tell some of my mission trip stories. But I’ll at least try to approach this from a new angle.

I will probably ramble. Feel free to skip ahead.

Prior to 2003, the sum total of my international travel had been a couple of hours in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, a tourist trap just across the border from Laredo, Texas. But in the past two years I’ve taken missions trips to Nicaragua and Kenya, and I’m now trying to raise funds for a return trip to Kenya in August 2005.

It was in 1993 when I first became involved in domestic missions, through Mountain T.O.P., which places volunteers into the Cumberland Mountains of Tennessee. I learned a lot from Mountain T.O.P. about flexibility, and about how God can use you when you get out of your comfort zone. But even so, I told myself and others that I would never be any good at foreign missions. I never thought I’d be able to spend a week in a dirt-floor shack or eat strange foods cooked over a fire. After all, I’m the type of guy who prefers concrete swimming pools to lakes or ponds.

But in August 2002, one of my Mountain T.O.P. friends, Gail Drake, invited me on a Nicaragua trip through LEAMIS International Ministries, the interdenominational missions group Gail founded with the Rev. Debra Snellen. I agreed — and I’ve never looked back.

Because our topic here is “travel,” I’ll set aside for purposes of this post the theological reasons for, and implications of, foreign mission trips. I will instead talk about what foreign travel has meant to me.

LEAMIS strongly believes in placing its short-term volunteers in private homes. In Kenya, our host pastor, the Rev. Paul Mbithi, said that made us different from other short-term teams he’d dealt with before founding New Life Restoration Centre. Those teams stayed in hotels. They came to the church or other work site during the day, and then they went back to a western-style environment at night.

LEAMIS believes that staying with families yields an entirely different attitude and a different type of experience. In Kenya, staying in homes didn’t involve much sacrifice. Pastor Paul had placed us at his own townhouse and at the homes of two of his other members from outside the Kibera slums. Even when some of our team members asked about spending a night in the slums, Pastor Paul would not allow it. He said it would be a security concern not only for the team members but for the family with which we stayed — the neighbors might assume that the western visitors had left gifts or money and might try to rob our hosts after we had departed.

So we were crowded, but in conditions that approached western-style comfort, somewhere between Nairobi and the slums.

Even so, there were reminders that we were in the developing world. Our clothes were washed by hand, just as they had been in rural Nicaragua a year and a half earlier. Our hot showers, at least for those of us downstairs, came courtesy of a scary-looking electric “widowmaker” shower head. And the gray water as the shower warmed up was saved.

In Nicaragua, even when we were holding our debrief at a nice, western-style hotel, we were told not to flush the toilet paper. The septic system could not handle toilet paper, so it was placed in a little waste basket next to the toilet. (Talk about a hard habit to break!)

That’s a lesson I keep trying to teach myself. Resources are precious. Here in the states — especially this week, the ground zero of American commercialism — resources like water and electricity and sewer service seem unlimited. I hope that my foreign trips are helping to teach me otherwise, although I’ve got a lot of unlearning to do, and I may not get there in this lifetime.

Of course, Pastor Paul’s townhouse seemed like the Ritz-Carlton when compared with Teresa Sanchez’ home in El Triunfo, Nicaragua, where I had spent a week a year and a half earlier. Frank Schroer and I lived in one end of a rickety dirt-floor shed while Teresa and her family crowded into the other end. We had no hot showers or indoor plumbing in El Triunfo. “Showering” meant standing on a couple of boards over a mud puddle in a little enclosure on the back of the house. (It wasn’t a complete enclosure; if someone had been standing in one particular corner of the back lot, the bather would have been in full view.) You dipped out some chilly rainwater and poured it over yourself, lathered, and then rinsed again. Of course, all this rinsing caused mud to spatter onto your shins, and so you had to rinse them separately when you were through.

And let’s not talk about the outhouse. I’m still trying to forget the outhouse.

In Nicaragua, there was a definite language barrier. No one at the church, not even Pastor Luis Gutierrez, spoke English, so most of our conversations had to go through translators — our resident missionary, Amanda Van Deman, or one of our team members, Michelle Schussler. But in the evening, when Frank and I were at home with the Sanchez family, there was no translator. We got by on pidgin Spanish, teaching the Sanchez family how to play Uno and Jenga and trying to be as polite and observant as possible.

In Kenya, a former British colony, almost everyone we dealt with on a regular basis (and all of our hosts) spoke the King’s English. Our worship services were translated into Swahili, so there must have been some people in the congregation with limited English. But at no point did I ever have trouble communicating in English — except for two days when I was working with a group of teenagers from a school for the hearing-impaired!

When I talk about my mission trip experiences, I often run into what seems like a contradiction, and I’m often afraid that I fail to do it justice. The contradiction is that people living in dire poverty — whether rural Nicaragua or the crowded Kibera slums — show an amazing positive attitude. It’s easy to take a condescending attitude towards this (“They don’t know any better”) or use it as an excuse not to help (“They’re happy the way they are.”) But that’s wrong. The people in both places have television; they can see what the rest of the world is like. And their poverty has heart-breaking consequences for health, education, hunger and security. They are not happy because they “don’t know any better.” They are happy in spite of their situation, not because of it. And we still bear our full responsibility to help improve their situation when we can.

But the contentment I saw in El Triunfo and Kibera is a humbling thing for an American to take. We are — I am — perpetually discontented.

That’s part of what travel does to you. You think you’re going to learn about other places and people, but you end up learning things about yourself. I learned that, with God’s help, I was capable of getting out of my comfort zone. But I also learned about how very far I have left to go to become a citizen of God’s world.