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A Thanksgiving Tale from the Wild Wild East
We careened through streets, shrouded in darkness, packed into a grubby ersatz-Fiat 128, a Soviet-era knockoff. I was compressed, folded, and spindled into the back seat, a human shock absorber, a Dell Optiplex cradled in my arms. With only me between the PC’s steel case and the car’s steel struts, I felt every bump and grind of the ancient city’s streets. I was the car’s only functioning shock absorber. Noticing that it was past midnight, I thought: “Hey, it’s Thanksgiving.”
As we zoomed around yet another roundabout, my friend Tamás shouted over the engine noise: “This is ‘Hero’s Square. You can see the statues of the seven Magyar chieftains who led the Hungarians into the Carpathian basin. You remember, Saint Stephen — he’s there. See.” He gestured with his right hand, his ubiquitous cigarette smoldering in the other. He was a hell of a driver, Tamás. One hand always on the wheel, another manhandling the stick shift, ratcheting through the gears, clutch be damned; another Bogarting a constant cigarette, and another hand to spare, artfully used to point out landmarks and other points of interest along the way. 
I struggled to see out of the side window, smudged and clouded with urban fallout and the night’s reflections. I could see shadows, light and dark, vague objects lit by the cold calculating stare of mercury lights. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I’ll have to come back here sometime during the day.” “Yes,” said Tamás. It’s a beautiful city.” With those words, he lit another cigarette and whipped the car to the right, sliding me away from the window. Like a square, steel security blanket, I cradled the PC. We dove down, down into the dark, diving driving deep into the Budapest night. I was glad he knew where he was going, or at least he seemed to know. I wasn’t going to question. If this worked, it would be he who had saved the day; saved the week, saved my ass — assuming it, and I, survived the ride.
Continue reading Night of the Budapest Bunny
The failure statistic is often cited, usually with a moan and a wail. It goes like this: 30, 40, or 50 percent of all IT projects go bad. The rest — the ones that actually succeed — well, they go “slightly bad too.” At least some of them do. In the end, nobody’s happy. Jobs are lost, heads roll, teeth gnash. The statistics are real enough, by the way, although they are often cited incorrectly. I fault leadership and the incessant mixing up of means and ends.
Here are the facts. The original source of those numbers is a 1994 report by the Standish Group called the CHAOS REPORT. The report said this about IT projects (and I’m paraphrasing not plagiarizing):
- 31% of [IT] projects are cancelled before completion,
- 88% are over deadline or over budget or both,
- The costs of such overruns are usually (at least) double original estimates
If you think those numbers are sort of long in the tooth, how about these from 2004.
- 18 percent of all IT project out and out fail,
- 53 percent are “challenged” (in other words went awry in some way),
- Only 29 percent actually “succeed.”
These were updated in 2004. Unfortunately, the damn researchers rearranged the categories, so it’s actually impossible to compare the numbers. Continue reading A Means to an End
It was perfect, the perfect cup of coffee. I’m not even that fond of coffee, but for that moment, it was eight ounces of heaven in a cup.
Not only was it heaven, it was the last thing I expected. I was not in a terrific mood; unhappy with the world in general, little sleep, and having just come off more than 10-hours of various forms of transportation. Worse, some of my best laid plans — half the reason for the trip — had come a cropper; the last thing I wanted to hear was “your room is not yet ready, terribly sorry.”
Then and there, I was convinced that nothing could improve my disposition. I was wrong. Perhaps sensing my despair and not wanting the lobby littered with corpses, the hotel clerk quietly suggested that, just perhaps, I might want a coffee, all the while ushering me, ever so gently, into the dining room. He was smooth. I was in the dining room and seated even before I noticed.
“No, don’t worry about your bags,” he said, motioning the waiter over to the table. “We’ll take them up to your room. Just relax.” Continue reading Café au Lait
Despite their “American” name, French fries are not French. Most people attribute their origin to Belgium. However, there is a bit of a controversy.
Some think that the “French” in French fries actually comes from the verb “frenched” — meaning to cut into thin strips. Why do I care — well, I like French [...]
People who know me know that I am quite proud of my brother. Frederick is the Chef at the Tenaya Lodge just outside of the gates of Yosemite National Park in California.
I grew up around food. I can’t remember when I didn’t know how to cook and I was a teenager before [...]
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