"You've Got Mail" UNSEND! UNSEND!

In one of my former lives, I was both a White Hat hacker and an Information Systems Security Manager. I lived and breathed Information Security (INFOSEC) my entire government career. I sweet talked, cajoled and sometimes beat my head against the wall, trying to teach folks how to stay secure in the electronic world. Especially as it pertains to E-Mail. At one time or another, we've all wished there was an "unsend" button on the damn computer.

As an ISSM, one of my biggest fears were data spills. A data spill is when someone inadvertently sends information across the wire to another person or persons who have no business or reason to have that information. Trying to "recall" that information after it's been transmitted in nothing but an effort in futility. Attempts are made to have people ignore and delete the message, but in reality there's no way to ensure that happens. One must rely on the ethics and integrity of the recipients. In most cases, I'd say Good Luck with that.

I was sitting at home the other evening when my Blackberry buzzed. I looked at the clock and wondered, who in their right mind would be sending me email at this time of night? Curious, I fired up the email client and discovered I'd been forwarded correspondence from a company that specializes in senior level executive search and assessments. Well this was certainly interesting. There was also an Excel spreadsheet attachment.

Still curious, I expanded the email trail and upon further reading determined that what had come across my inbox was business confidential, rather sensitive and had somehow, mistakenly, been routed to me. Of course the disclaimer "This email may contain confidential information. If you are not the intended recipient, you should notify the sender & delete the email & any attachments." was a dead giveaway too.

I started data mining. In less than fifteen minutes and a handful of keystrokes on a couple of professional websites, I discovered who was who. Interesting. One CEO, one VP, a Managing Partner and one Managing Director.

Never one to pass up a "learning moment" such as this (as well as being the sardonic smart ass that I am), I hit the "reply" button and began to compose my response to the sender.

Upon establishing my bona fides, I advised them their email had most likely been misrouted and quickly summarized what I'd discovered about all of the other addressees; who they were, who they worked for, where they were located and what their positions were.

I closed by assuring them, their confidential documents had not/would not be compromised, had been deleted and asking they take my reply in the humorous vein with which it was intended. Then I sat back.

It didn't take long. A few minutes later the reply arrived. I would have given almost anything to see the look of abject horror on their face and the frantic muttering of "Nonononononono!!!...Please, please, please tell me I didn't really do this...oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!!" as they called up their sent mail file. After all, it's not like I haven't seen or heard it before.

The reply was very nice and the sender appreciative. As they say...All's well that ends well. The email was deleted, never to be opened or compromised and if I'm not mistaken, I heard a huge sigh of relief emanating from up North someplace.

"UNSEND." Now that's a button that could make BILLIONS!

PC Revisionists

For those who don't know, the Battle of Fredericksburg was one of the more bloody conflicts of the American Civil War. From December 11-15, 1862, approximately 170,000 men engaged in a one sided conflict that decimated Union troops and for all intents and purposes halted the Northern campaign against the Confederate capital of Richmond.

Recently Muvico opened a new complex in Fredericksburg. One of the amenities is the Chatterbox lounge; whose theme is centered around the history Fredericksburg, which naturally includes the Civil War. An artist was hired to paint a mural on the outside of the complex. The mural which consists of both the Union and Confederate flags, coupled with an American Eagle and surrounded by ornate laurel, including whiskey barrels, was found to be "offensive" by employee Shawn Vena.

According to Mr. Vena, when he complained to a manager, he was told to "shut up and go back to work." Mr. Vena then promptly called on the trusty NAACP. Never ones to miss an opportunity to cry racism and attempt to rewrite history, a representative was quickly dispatched. Upon gazing upon the image and being interviewed by one of the local TV news outlets, said representative pronounced the mural offensive. To quote: "What would it be like if that was a Nazi flag up there for the Jews who live in this area? Would they permit that to happen? Absolutely not! So then why should we?" By "we" I'm presuming she means folks of African heritage, because this lady and her organization certainly doesn't represent me, although I am a person of color. Oh wait a minute, maybe I'm mistaken and white isn't a color.

I have serious doubts the NAACP bothered to talk to Kris Knox, co-manager of the Chatterbox. However, the TV news team did. Mr. Knox clearly and cogently explained the reason for the choice of the mural, which was to "Represent the ultimate union between North and South" after the war.

None of that appears to have mattered one iota to Mr. Vena, the NAACP representative or the black couple who returned their prepaid tickets because the woman was offended and didn't see where the mural "represented her." Let's see, two flags joined together, representing unity after a bitter Civil War, which was fought to make this lady's ancestors free and she feels it somehow doesn't represent her? Were it not for the ignorant, the world would be a very boring place.

Sadly, Muvico has bowed to the revisionists whose only reason for existing is to spend their lives attempting to wipe away any history that doesn't fit into their neat little world. The mural will, sadly, be replaced with the flag of Virginia which, per Mr. Knox, "still kinds of tells the story a little bit." Sigh!

The Civil War was the most wrenching episode in our nations, to date, short lived history. America, as a nation, walked right up to the precipice of annihilation and came terrifyingly close to stepping off into the abyss. Brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor, it was bloody, it was ugly and the ultimate outcome changed this country for the better by abolishing slavery. What no one can deny, despite their best efforts, is that the Civil War happened.

Had Mr. Vena or the NAACP taken the slightest initiative to remove their blinders, do a little something called research and insert a bit of common sense and logic before succumbing to the automatic knee jerk reaction to use the broad brush of condemnation to anything associated with the Confederate flag; this whole stink could very well have been easily avoided. Instead, they each chose to play the part of the righteous, pious victim, which automatically negated any credibility they may have possessed.

Alright, maybe using common sense and logic is a little to much to ask of them.

Cito fit quod dii volunt

What The Gods Want, Happens Soon

He was delivered into my world, fifteen years ago. At the tender age of 1, he made an entrance into my life. As I opened the door that chilly March morning in 1995, motorcycle gear in hand, preparing to to leave for work; I was minding my own business. There he was. Sitting right outside the door. As I stepped out, I almost stepped on him. I looked down and thought "Who the hell are you and where did you come from?" He wasn't one of the neighborhood critters. He simply looked up at me and without a word, yet with all the familiarity of someone who's been around for years, walked right by me and into the house. Now what? Hands full of jacket, helmet, gloves and briefcase, I quickly tossed it all in, on or around the BMW and hurried back inside. He disappeared around the corner. Casually strolling, occasionally stopping to sniff. I can still picture the day. He'd scoot just out of reach as I bent to gather him, saying "No, you can't live here. I don't have time for animals. I travel far to much and am away from home for weeks/months at a time. There's no one here to take care of you. Come HERE you little bastard!" As if he understood this babbling, bald biped in the first place.

After about 3-4 minutes of wandering, smelling and looking around, he walked back into the front room; promptly sat down in the middle of floor, looked up at me and said "Why yes, I think this will do nicely. I will live here."

"Oh no you don't. I've already told you, I don't have time for you. Now get." I picked him up and unceremoniously dropped him outside on the porch. "Go live someplace else. Shoo...shoo. Go away."

Stupid cat.

Three weeks later, after a visit to the vet and an official okey-dokey bill of health; after much effort by both myself and all of our neighbors to find his owner/find him a home, after a plea from my teenage daughter "Daaaaaad....can't we keep him?", Osh-Kosh became a permanent part of the family.

He was her cat. Cut, dry, pure and simple. Her responsibility. Well, right up to the day she left for college that is. After the first year, despite her visits home, he morfed into being our cat. My wife's and mine. At times he was a pain in the ass. With me, I'd "shusssh" him and he'd never make a sound. Sandy would say "he's scared of you." I'd say "he respects me." The minute Sandy opens her eyes, he's up, loud and obnoxious. She'd try and shusssh him, which would only encourage him to be more vocal. I simply laughed at them both.

For a stray, he was the perfect animal. He never clawed furniture. Never sprayed. Once and ONLY once did he make the mistake of jumping up on the counter. He was a lap cat. Always, always, he had to be between us. On the couch, in bed. If we were sitting alone, up he'd come, purring, head butting a hand or an arm in order to make his presence known. "Scratch me, brush me, pet me you silly human. That's what you're here for."

Over the years, we'd get other visitors. Other strays that somehow found their way to our front door. Sylvia, Lucy, Olivia. Osh would hiss, hide, pout and make his general displeasure with the interloper, quite clear. I'd chastise him for his behavior. "Have you forgotten how YOU came to be in this house you little four legged turd? Stop it!" Nothing doing. It was his domain and he wasn't going to share it with anyone else. No way, no how. We found fantastic homes for all the others, but our place was a one cat house.

We grow catnip. He'd lay in it and get high. Suddenly out of the blue, TURBO KITTY would appear. He'd tear across the house like his tail's on fire. He'd pounce on his toys, batting and chasing them under every piece of furniture and then look around with that "Well?...Are you going to dig them out for me or not? I obviously can't reach under there to get them?" Sigh!

Stupid cat.

Sandy tried to kill him once. We fed him dry food exclusively. Sandy didn't want to mess with wet food. He never was a big drinker of water. He ended up with a major feline urinary tract infection. Sandy felt really guilty. No more dry food. All wet food from now on. We discovered that 98% of the pet food out there is made of crap. We searched and searched. He became a Tiki Cat kitty. All natural/organic. Fit for human consumption food.

He had a routine. Up in the morning. Eat a bit, go outside. Come back in, sit next to the cupboard and vocalize his desire for treats. Feline Greenies were his favorite. He'd scarf a small handful of those and then back outside for the day. In the evenings, more Tiki Cat and then his "evening" treats before settling in.

Now and again, Jungle Kitty would make a kill. He'd hide in the Mondo grass and Liriope, patiently waiting for a bird to land. The remains proudly presented, more often than not, to Sandy as an offering to "The biped that loves me most." I'd get the call. "He killed a bird. It's gross. You HAVE to take care of it when you get home." Yea, yea...ok.

CICADA CAT LIVES!!! I thought he had gone rabid or mad. Sitting there, his mouth started to buzz and twitch uncontrollably. Scared the crap outta me. "What the hell?" It stopped as suddenly as it started. "Wow...that was weird. Must have had too much caffeine this morning." Then it happened again. "WHAT?!!" Finally notice the large bug sticking partway out of his mouth as it begins to buzz again and his whiskers twitching all over the place.

Stupid cat.

Every year, his visit to the vet. Every year, "He's fine. Growing older but not up" as Jimmy Buffet said. A couple of teeth removed three years ago. A bit of a limp. Bought him some kitty steps so he didn't have to jump up/off our king size bed. Cataracts building on his eyes. Still in good health overall. He started to slow down. More naps on the front bed or on his bench in front of the window. Complain loudly when it was cold outside. Bask all day in the sun when it was warm. Terrified of thunderstorms. Loved laying in front of the fireplace.

He ALWAYS has to be touching. Didn't matter that he was right up against you, one paw was out making contact. The claws would extend and retract just enuff to make his presence known. That would drive me nuts. "Can't you just lay there and be happy next to us? MUST you claw?" That "You're kidding, right?" look on his face. He'd claw a bit deeper, causing me to jump and I'd thump him. "Stop it! NOW!" That lasted all of 3 nanoseconds. Sigh!

Stupid cat.

Sandy noticed his breath was really bad. An unscheduled visit to the doctor. He's down 2 lbs. Scrape the built up tarter from his teeth and notice an anomaly with his tongue. "I don't like the look of that. Let's keep him overnight, take a sampling and do a biopsy. Scott, this probably isn't going to be good, but let's wait and see. I'm seeing more and more cancer in cats these days. In the meantime, if it is cancer, here's what we can do...."

Cancer? He can't have cancer. I call Sandy. She asks all the questions of me, that I couldn't or didn't know to ask the doc. I can't answer her. She and the vet talk the next day. We go and pick him up. He's a little out of it from the meds/narcotics. Couple days later he seems to have his kitty back. He's eating pretty good. Having taken part of his tongue though, he's having some difficulty, but it doesn't appear insurmountable.

The call comes. It's Squamous Carcinoma. I've kind of prepared myself for this, but it's still devastating. There's treatment, but it won't do a lot of good. Sandy and I have zero desire to put him through chemo and radiation. They'll most likely have to take even more of his tongue. No, no no. A cat's tongue is their everything! He'll have trouble eating, grooming, etc.

When I chastise Osh, Sandy would say I didn't love him. I'd facetiously tell her she was right, I could take or leave him and we should find him another home. Truth is, he always found a welcome place in my lap or next to me. There was always a hand ready to brush or unconsciously scratch him for hours on end. I called Sandy with the prognosis. I could barely control the tears.

Stupid cat.

We discuss it and decide that as long as he doesn't appear to be having too much trouble eating, isn't in any apparent pain, maintains his weight and has his "kitty," we'll continue to soldier on. In the event he begins to deteriorate, we'll put him to sleep. Neither one of us will prolong his life for our benefit.

That lasted all of about two weeks. We kept a close eye on him for any signs of change. He stopped eating. No matter what we put down for him, hand feed him, chop up into really, really, really small pieces, he can't eat. We are facing the reality that this creature, who decided fifteen years ago that Casa 1310, despite my protests, was going to be his home, is dying.

We put him down yesterday. I held him close, rocking him for the majority of his last minutes. He stopped breathing with my hands stroking the length of his body and tears flowing. He had a good, comfortable, spoiled life. I'm lost. He wasn't between us last night purring and he didn't greet me at the top of the stairs at 5:30 this morning, complaining because his food bowl was somehow, mysteriously empty. A few toys remain out and about. The pot of catnip seems to have grown exponentially overnight as if to say "Osh where are you? Come to me...I am here for you." Reminders that this cat; who gave us unconditional, love and affection, an animal with a brain the size of a pea, had a profound impact on our lives. His absence, has reduced this supposedly rational, intelligent, mature, thinking human biped to a sobbing, sniffling, runny nosed wreck.

Stupid Cat. Damn I miss you.

A Sad State of Affairs

Five students at Live Oak High School in Morgan Hill (California) caused an uproar this past Wednesday, Cinco de Mayo, when they had the audacity to wear T-shirts with the American Flag to school. The students were asked to turn their shirts inside out, so as to not "offend" their fellow Mexican-American students on this, one of their supposed holidays.

There's only one problem. Cinco de Mayo is NOT a Mexican holiday. It is a celebration of the Mexican Army's defeat of the French at the Battle of Puebla on May 5th, 1862; celebrated primarily in the Mexican state of Puebla but is of little importance to the rest of the country. In the United States, it's yet another reason to drink.

Yet, the Mexican-American students felt disrespected and slighted. Biana Coreas, a sophomore, expressed her dismay: "We respect them on Fourth of July. We don't go with our Mexican flags waving it up that day, so why can't they respect us too?" They respect "them?" Why can't "they" respect "us too?" Wait! What??? THEM?!! US?!! Ms. Coreas, young as she is, gives clear voice and definition to the problem before us. She and those of her ilk; those who aren't of the WASP denomination, do not consider themselves "Americans." They only see themselves as Hyphenated-Americans. Still, I have to throw down the Bullshit card here. I posit that Ms. Coreas, and the vast majority of Mexican-Americans are ignorant as to what Cinco de Mayo really represents.

The five students chose to go home rather than submit to the unreasonable, mephitic and intolerant demands of Principal Nick Boden and his racist Vice Principal, Miguel Rodriguez. It should come as no surprise that the parents of the students and many others around the country are incensed at the actions of the school administration; and rightly so.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with being proud of and celebrating your heritage. It's the conglomeration of cultures that makes the United States great. Where else in the world can you go and experience hundreds of different cultures in one country?

This incident however, is simply more evidence of the massive chasm that exists between people and their cultures in this country. Hyphenated-Americanism has taken over and its tentacles of poison have had an almost irreversible, ruinous affect on the the country. The onus to rid ourselves of this curse; to reverse and eradicate the menace falls primarily onto the hyphenated peoples/cultures themselves. Until such time as they make the conscious decision to primarily become an "American" first, the chasm will remain.

There is no room in this country for Hyphenated-Americanism.