Container Spotting: JBHU217416

This is a typical "faketainer" of the kind used extensively by J.B. Hunt, an LTL shipper that does a lot of trucking on the U.S. West Coast. It's riding on a J.B. Hunt chassis.

It's a "Duraplate" model, made by Wabash, a major North American semi-trailer manufacturer.

The serial number is not recognized as a valid container number.

In the Court of the King In Yellow

Or, The Crawling Chaos

Names have been changed to preserve anonymity. I assure you, however, that as fantastical and maddening as the following tale may seem, it is entirely true.

One of our clients is Leng Telecom. For the last three or four weeks, they've been unable to download Necrotelecomnnicon updates from our system. So they open a ticket. Everything looks good on our end, but we start troubleshooting anyway. About a week later, we've done an exhaustive analysis of our system. The verdict: Not our problem.

Our Necrotelecomnnicon servers are good. Our client interface is good. Our network is good. We even set up a test network, and downloaded their Necrotelecomnnicon updates, using their account, from our system to our test network. Everything works. From the inner depths of our network all the way out to our border routers, everything checks out. Our servers are good. Our network devices are good. The Necrotelecomnnicon download is good.

Naturally, this leads us to one conclusion: It's their problem. So we spend a second week trying to find someone at LT that can actually troubleshoot their network. It's like pulling teeth. Nobody we talk to seems to understand or care. Nobody is a netadmin or knows how to get us in touch with a netadmin.

Meanwhile, their management continues to complain that the problem isn't solved yet, and to insist that we arrive at a timely resolution of their ticket, which has already been open for two weeks, which is at least one week too long, in their opinion. So we go into another week of trying to explain to them that it's their network, and trying to track down an LT netadmin we can talk to about troubleshooting. We finally get in touch with someone who appears to be a netadmin. But he doesn't seem to be able to engage in any actual troubleshooting activities. And he won't let us troubleshoot his network for him, for obvious security reasons. By the end of the third week, our progress consists entirely of this guy telling us there's a rumor that one of the network devices at LT might be having some kind of problem.

Meanwhile, LT management is getting quite angry that their ticket has been open with us for three weeks now, and they still can't download Necrotelecomnnicon updates. So we go into a fourth week of trying to solve this problem. As of today, at the end of the fourth week, here's how things stand: One of their border routers seems to be having some issues, and needs to be power cycled. But they won't do this, because it's a front-end device, and taking it down would disrupt service to LT's paying customers.

Our Leng engineering liason pointed out to them that Necrotelecomnnicon downloads are a back-end service, and in a good network design the same device wouldn't handle both FE and BE traffic (and would also be suitably redundant in any case). Today, their netadmin admitted the wisdom of this design principle, and petitioned his superiors to either bounce the router anyway, or improve their network design. It's not clear which, because our engineering liason is Lengese and has a somewhat unorthodox grasp of the English language.

Meanwhile, says their netadmin, could we please double-check our system, to make sure the problem isn't on our side?

Home Is Where The Stimulus Is

Part One: Wherein a Dilemma is Perceived
We do most of our shopping outside of our hometown. Part of it is that we only recently moved here, so we're more familiar with the retail opportunities in the neighboring town we recently moved out of.

Another part of it is that the neighboring town on the other side of us is the one with all the major retail zoning. Which probably explains a lot about why they're doing so well, city budget-wise.

So when our own city council sent out a newsletter encouraging residents (like ourselves) to "buy local", it caused some distress at Chez Container. You see, explained the newsletter, our hometown budget depends a lot on sales tax revenue. And times being what they are, that revenue is more important to the city's fiscal health than ever.

In principle, Mrs. Container and I are all in favor of buying local--especially if it helps our community and our city stay in the black. As new homeowners, we were really excited about the opportunity to put our money where our mouths were, and vote in favor of a property tax increase to fund the local firefighting infrastructure. We figure, we want to live here, it's our responsibility to take care of ourselves. You'd be surprised how unpopular that sentiment seems to be--the region has a history of underfunding its fire departments.

Anyway, that's the principle. But in practice, our hometown doesn't really offer a lot of retail value to us. Not only that, but as children of the automobile, we often find ourselves in neighboring towns anyway. But we do have expenses. We do have a certain minimum consumption level to maintain. So how can we throw some of our business our own way, so to speak?

Her: Well, we buy our groceries here in town...

Me: That's true. And we buy our pizza here in town.

Her: We buy our gas here in town.

Me: Right, right. This is great. What else?

Her: ...

Me: ...


Part Two: Wherein One Hand Washes The Other
Meanwhile, we've been thinking very hard about buying a real camera. It's very hard to take good pictures of crows and containers when you don't have a good camera.

The first thing we did was consult with an amateur photograhper we know through a mutual friend. He'd recently consulted with us about shopping for a new computer, so we figured it was time to return the favor. "We're total camera noobs," we said. "We want a robot that takes awsome pictures for us," we said. "Help us, Obi-Wan," we said. "You are our only hope!"

So our friend looked carefully into the matter, gave it a lot of thought, and after several weeks of research, poured out a Santa Claus-sized goodie sack of advice for us. Included among the many gems were some thoughts about finding a good camera store to do business with. He really likes a store in New York, that's always done right by him. ("It's a Jewish establishment, so you can't place orders on Saturday." "What about Sunday? Are they open on Sunday?" "Yep, Sunday's fine.")

So that got us thinking. Turns out, there's a branch office of a reputable photography chain right here in our hometown. So, after a little bit of discussion, Mrs. Container and I agreed that for all our photography needs, we would "adopt" this store as our Official Buy Local Retailer.

Later, when the City Council finally gets around to fixing those potholes on Main Street, we'll drive by, point, look at each other, and say "see? We did that!"

There But For The Grace Of God...

Or, Other People's Misfortune I Didn't Wish For

One of my co-workers is engaged in a major verbal brawl right now, on the phone, in his office. Even with the door closed I can hear everything he's saying. He is very very angry right now. I'm not sure what about, though. At first I thought he was mad at the payroll department about his latest paycheck. But as the level of discourse got more angry and intense, and the language got more and more... expressive... I've come to the conclusion that he's probably arguing with his ex-wife. Probably about alimony payments.

I know, I know. It's bad to eavesdrop. A classy Edwardian gentleman (fig. 1) would no doubt pretend to have heard nothing at all. But this is the Future! Privacy is obsolete! Blogging is a Gibson! The Internet means your business on other people's computers! Besides, a classy Edwardian gentleman would probably know how to smack people with his cane (fig. 2). I don't even own a cane...

...

Hrm.

Actually, I do own a cane. Maybe I should consider becoming a classy Edwardian gentleman, instead of an inconsiderate and narcissistic postmodern blogger.

But that's not the point.

The point is, I can only imagine the kind of hell this guy must be going through. Sitting in the ER yesterday, I theorized to Mrs. Container that my chest pain was Time-Traveling Heartbreak. You know how it is. At some point in the future, your True Love runs off with a murder of crows, and it breaks your heart, which then travels back in time, so you feel the pain in the past. Not the kind of thing that shows up on X-rays or blood tests. But it does show up in ER waiting rooms when you're really really bored and none of your symptoms match anything Mrs. Container can find by searching the Internet from her cell phone (it's the Future, I tell you! Gibsons!).

But hilarious as such a diagnosis is, the reality is far from it. I'm just really really glad that my True Love is the way she is, and is such a good teammate. I'm glad I can look forward to a future free of the kinds of conversations--the kinds of horrible, awful, no good very bad feelings--my co-worker is having right now.

Hrm.

I wonder what a classy Edwardian gentleman would have for lunch...

(Figures omitted on account of my Google-fu is weak. Weak! Instead, I offer Amazon's search results for "the modern gentleman".)

All's Well That Ends Well

It all started with a mild chest pain.

Seriously. Mild. On the industry-standard pain scale of 1 to 10, it rated a 1. Like, if it were any less painful, it wouldn't be a pain at all. It'd be, I dunno, like a mild curiosity about what I might have for dinner.

(Turkey and cheese sandwich? Soup? Sushi? The possibilities are endless... and painless!)

Anyway. Mild or not, demographics being what they are, I call the Advice Nurse. She asks me all sorts of questions:

Nurse: Are you experiencing shortness of breath?
Me: No.
Nurse: Dizziness? Nausea? Vomiting?
Me: No.
Nurse: Any previous history of heart trouble?
Me: No.
Nurse: Can you describe the pain on a scale of One to Ten, with Ten being the worst?
Me: Two. No, One.

By the time she was done, I was pretty much expecting "take two aspirin and call in the morning".

But no.

"Well, demographics being what they are, you should go ahead and come in to the ER, just in case."

So into the ER I go. Check in. Sit down. Observe all the people around me, all with their various troubles. My name gets called. Nurse sits me down. Asks me the same questions. No. No. No. Still just a mild pain. They hook me up to a couple robots. Take my blood pressure, heartbeat, and an EKG. The usual. Everything looks pretty good, but they make me wait some more.

Call me back in. This time, it's chest x-rays.

Then more waiting.

Then they call me in again, for blood tests. Six vials' worth. This time, I got up the courage to actually look at the procedure, and discovered I had all sorts of questions. "Why doesn't my blood spray out when you remove the vial?" "What's that yellow plug at the bottom of the vial?" Etc. Incidentally, I love people who like to explain their work. Fascinating stuff.

Then more waiting.

Then even more waiting.

Then even more waiting.

It gets to the point where I'm starting to wonder how cool it would be if paramedics raced up in an ambulance, with some guy on a gurney, all like "stat!" and "fifty cc's!". Just to liven things up a little bit.

Then it gets to the point where I'm feeling guilty for wishing things would liven up a bit, on account of this lady starts seizing (seizuring?) right there in the ER waiting room. (Note to self, don't wish for other people's misfortune, unless you're willing to man up when your wishes come true.)

Actually, it was pretty interesting. Everybody sitting near the seizing lady freaked out. Started calling to the desk nurse for help, etc. After a moment or two, one of the duty nurses wandered out into the waiting room, glanced at the seizing lady (by this time supported by three other patients), and wandered back into the ER. After another moment or two, the nurse and a doctor wandered back out, strolled over to the poor lady, got her up onto a gurney, and rolled her casually back into the ER.

The whole thing seemed really casual, but it all took less than a minute. At first I was a little peeved that the medical staff seemed so nonchalant and unmotivated about this. Then I got to thinking...

They must see all kinds of crises all the time. Seizing ladies? At least one a day. So they probably know what's up, what to do, how to handle it. It all began to make sense. The duty nurse came out, evaluated the situation, and reported back to the doctor. The doctor came out, took charge. And nobody ran, nobody shouted. None of the hospital staff caused any more commotion than necessary--which turned out to be none at all.

Anyway.

More waiting.

And then more waiting.

And then even more waiting.

It got to the point where I'm wrestling with myself: Do I want to be one of those jerks who pesters an overworked duty nurse about "when's gonna be my time!" and whatnot, stuff she can't possibly have any control over? Or do I suck it up, and wait for however much longer it's gonna take? (Seriously, by this time it's been three hours since they drew my blood and sent it over to the lab for testing.)

Finally I get up and go to the duty nurse. She sees me coming, and immediately apologizes for my wait. She goes and gets my chart, lets me know it's going to be about another 20 minutes, and then I'll get to see a doctor about this mild chest pain.

Forty minutes later, I get called again.

Back we go. Off with the clothes, on with the gown. Nurse comes by and hooks me up to another robot, for more EKG readings. Puts oxygen up my nose. Preps an IV (more questions and answers there). Leaves the curtains open so I can see out of the bay, into the main work area, all the stuff that's going on. My wait time starts to make sense--it's busy back here!

The doctor shows up. Again with the questions. No. No. No. What about blood tests? Got the blood tests already. Good, good. What about X-rays? Got the X-rays already. Good, good. I have to take this page, then I'm going to look at your X-rays, then I'll be right back.

She goes off to return the call from her pager. "Yes, we're really busy. No, really busy. Yes, you can do that, but I can't guarantee they'll be seen right away. Yes, we're really busy."

Doctor comes back. Demographics being what they are, they have to check to see if I've had a heart attack. But... nothing in my description of the pain is consistent with a heart attack. My X-rays came back pristine. "You have a very attractive chest cavity," she tells me. Blood work? Also clean.

Which leaves, as pretty much the only reasonable diagnosis, lupus.

No, wait. It's never lupus.

What it is, says the doctor, is probably minor inflammation of the joints in the chest wall. And the fix for that is... extra-strength Ibuprofen for a few weeks, and follow up with my primary care physician.

The End.

I'm Suspicious

So yestreday on the drive home, I hear an ad for some kind of sales lead service.

Quicker than you can say, "Glengarry, Glenross", I'm spinning my little brain-gears, trying to figure out exactly what kind of shenanigans these people are up to.

In summary, their pitch is, if you're in sales, call their toll-free number, and they'll give you a hundred high-quality leads for free. You'll be so impressed by the quality of these leads, that you'll happily pay them for more of the same.

I'm suspicious.

The way I figure, here's what they're doing:

1. A sucker calls them.

2. They take down the sucker's contact info and business description, and add it to their database.

3. They look through their database of suckers who had called in previously, and give the hundred best matches to the sucker who just called in.

4. Lather, rinse, repeat, until the wheels come off.

Anyway, I'm so glad I'm not in sales.