Don’t Panic This is reassuring.

Don’t Panic

This is reassuring. It was posted by my namesake, cryptologist John Young. (other John Youngs).


The “Real” Deal about Nuclear, Bio, and Chem Attacks:

Since the media has decided to scare everyone with predictions of chemical, biological, or nuclear warfare on our turf I decided to write a paper and keep things in their proper perspective. I am a retired military weapons, munitions, and training expert…
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Don’t Panic This is reassuring.

[My employer] had its yearly


[My employer] had its yearly Volunteer Day yesterday; this year, all 350 or so staffers in the New York office piled onto four charter buses and rode two hours to Camp Sussex in northwestern New Jersey. Along with my co-worker Kyle Smith, I captained the scoreboard team. Our mission was to design and construct a two-sided, three-function scoreboard for baseball, basketball, and hockey. Drawing on Kyle’s experience stealing materials from construction sites to build half-pipes in his backyard, and my experience making hellaciously overbuilt “bombproof” lofts in college, we designed a miniature Green Monster that took nine people to lift into position.


My friend Tim Griffin won the laurels for “best gear” — which, in a group full of well-paid geeks, is saying something. The night before volunteer day, Tim visited Home Depot and bought the Cordless Power Tool Uber-Kit, consisting of two cordless drills, a cordless circular saw, a cordless orbital sander, router, planer, flashlight, and rotary grinding tool. He showed up in a hard hat, work belt and suspenders, and kneepads, all shiny and brand-new. Tim is now playing in the big leagues of woodworking, and you can see the adulation he got in the slideshow above.


The best decision I made all day was to put the User Interface Team in charge of painting the white lines and inning numbers. You can see the state of almost mathematical perfection they reached (working at what would have been a combined billing rate of about $1,500.00 per hour!)


If you want to see more pictures, here are some links:

  • Tim Griffin’s pictures
  • Genevieve Futrelle’s pictures

  • [My employer] had its yearly

    Unlike most not-for-profit corporations, the

    Unlike most not-for-profit corporations, the New York Blood Center has a computerized call center, and they know how to use it. I have mixed feelings about this. After giving platelets two weeks ago, I got another call — I was eligible to give again! (Unlike whole blood donation, you can give platelets every 48 hours, up to a maximum of 24 times a year.) I tried once again to get them to demote me to giving whole blood, trotting out my O negative blood type that I used to be so proud of, but they weren’t having any of that — they wanted platelets. So I made an appointment for 7:30 AM this morning — when I made the appointment on Monday, I thought that I might be out of a job at the end of the week, and would need something to get me out of the house.


    The apharesis process was a lot easier this time, mostly because the science-fiction novelty of the two-arm donation machine had worn off and I wanted to have a hand free to read a book, scratch my nose, and talk on the phone. So they hooked me up to the brand-spanking new “Amicus 2000 Plateletpheresis processor”, which takes and returns blood through a single needle plugged into a twining sheaf of tubes and bags. I was having a good time when the needle went in, but then the small collection bags just upstream of the needle in my arm started filling up. One rested on my upturned forearm, and I was startled to feel that it was hot, from the warmth of my fresh blood filling the bag, fresh blood that had just been inside of me! EEEEEwwww!


    So all in all, I feel that the donation was worth it, for that story. I have been Gross-Out King for A Day at work. I can’t wait to go back again. Even if I wanted to.

    Unlike most not-for-profit corporations, the

    [My employer] laid off about 20% of its workforce today.

    [My employer] laid off about 20% of its workforce today. In the New York office, roughly 100 out of 350 people were let go. My particular corner of the [A client] account has been very slow for several weeks, so I’ve been operating under the assumption that I was going to be let go. I’ve been updating my resume, canceling my Netflix account, even picking out new hobbies.


    I was right about one thing — my department couldn’t continue to afford me. However, I got something of a special deal. [CEO NAME], the CEO of [My employer], is an alumnus of Bain & Company, one of the very top-tier consulting firms. He’s involved with a lot of charitable organizations, including the Bridgespan group, an arm of Bain that provides reduced-cost consulting to not-for-profit companies. The deal is that I’ll take a pay cut, then get “donated” to Bridgespan for at least six months. During the six months, I’ll be doing technology consulting for Bridgespan’s not-for-profit clients. At the end of the assignment, I return to my job at [My employer] and full pay.


    I’m really psyched — my freelance work makes the offer easy to accept, I don’t lose career momentum, I get to work in not-for-profit again, and I get to work through a Big Five consulting firm, in a group that Bain consultants clamor to join. This is one hell of an alternative to getting laid off.

    [My employer] laid off about 20% of its workforce today.

    Lasciate Ogne Speranza, Voi Ch’Intrate… Cha Cha Cha

    I’m struggling for the words to describe what I’ve seen this weekend, and I’m coming up short. I guess I’ll have to lead up to it.


    Kate and I have been taking ballroom dance lessons for about a year now, on and off, and we keep telling ourselves that we should really get out and practice. There aren’t that many places to practice, though. There are swing clubs, which is not my thing, and there’s Latin clubs, which are fantastic, but where do you go when you want to practice the waltz?


    On the spur of the moment, then, Kate and I piled into the car and did Google search on my iPaq. Twenty-five minutes later, we pulled off the turnpike into Levittown. Ten minutes after that, we were rolling through a double row of abandoned drive-through liquor stores and pancake houses; we locked the car doors. Five more minutes, and the strip mall parking lots on either side were choked with weeds.


    Five minutes after that, and we had arrived at the Paso Doble Ballroom. We locked the car (the only Ford in a sea of Lincoln Town Cars), and walked through the door, huddled together for protection.


    The room is colossal, enormous, endless, a giant square with a suspended ceiling painted black. Half the room is filled with round tables, seven feet in diameter, eight seats to a table, covered in red tablecloths, forty or fifty tables in all. The floor is carpeted with red nubbly carpeting, in the “wrinkly brain” pattern popular in the late seventies. The carpet is old, ground down, and smells a little mildewy. The carpet extends up the walls all the way to the ceiling, where projectors hang, shining bizarre, unrelated images onto the carpeted wall-panels:


    • An undulating sixties flower pattern
    • A clown with an umbrella, alternating with the cursive motto “Best Wishes!”
    • A rotating scene of a scuba diver tethered to a submarine, the submaring fighting with a giant squid, the squid being attacked by the diver, round and round.

    The entire room is festooned with Christmas garland, wrapped in white Christmas lights, draped with tinsel. There are thousands of feet of garland, hundreds of thousands of lights. Mark Twain, in describing the cathedral of Saint Paul, tells a story about an army regiment of ten thousand men that arrived early for mass. They fit so neatly into one cavernous apse that their commanding officer, arriving late, failed to find his men; he thought they hadn’t arrived!


    That story describes the Paso Doble ballroom’s dance floor, a vast sea of canadian maple, NINE THOUSAND SQUARE FEET in size. Let me say that again: NINE THOUSAND SQUARE FEET. Nine thousand square feet of dance floor, host to twenty or thirty eighty-year-olds dancing the rhumba, shaking their asses in the merengue, wearing matching two-tone ballroom dance uniforms, smiling the unmistakable vaseline smiles of the Professional Ballroom Dancer Wannabe. All this freakiness, all this octegenarian mojo was spread thinly on the colossal polished expanse of this endless wooden acre, surrounded by mildewed carpet, festooned with Christmas garden, decorated with Scuba divers.


    How can I tell you all about it? How can I make sense of the toupees, the comb-overs that started at the base of the neck, the saxophonist on crutches, the toothpicked jalapeno cheese cubes at the snack bar? How can I make you understand my feelings when Headband Man galloped across the floor with his partner in the Meringue, porn-spanking her the entire distance? Or how I felt when I saw them head the other way, except now Headband Man’s partner was porn-spanking him back?


    God help us. God help us all.

    Lasciate Ogne Speranza, Voi Ch’Intrate… Cha Cha Cha