Haven’t posted in a while, but today is as good a day as any for an update. What’s been going on with Abom lately? My fellow Professionals are already aware of an ongoing situation at my office, where the IT people have made it known that they are (and likely have been) monitoring network bandwidth.  I’m convinced they’ve also been monitoring for content, which would explain why one day a couple months back I was suddenly unable to access AIBN from work—but could get to any other of my frequently-visited sites.  The Eye in the Sky must have determined that Abom was siphoning a lot of ‘net juice to post his work.

So they shut me down. 

I’m not worried about it, but it’s made me a little paranoid.  I’m well aware that the computer I use is a loaner, property of my employer, as is the bandwidth.  But just because a person or entity has the legal right to spy on you doesn’t mean they should.  It raises a lot of privacy concerns: can the IT people see my bank statement when I check it online?  Do they read the internal emails?  Are they keystroking me?  If so, they’ve theoretically got access to my msn password, my email…Bale knows what else.

Which perturbs me.

So I’m laying low at work now.   Which is sad, given that I did all my AIBN writing and posting from the office.  I could continue writing reviews at home, but this would require a lot of time in front of the PC at night—when I’m busy dealing with the kids and other family matters.  And that’s on those rare days when I’m not working the night job.  In other words, it’s not feasible for me to be an AIBN journalist from home.  So I’m going to have to find another way to work my Professional magic.  I could write my articles in MS Word at the office, then post ‘em from home at night—but I’m not convinced that the IT people aren’t remotely viewing all my applications.

But just because I’m willing to play nice for a while doesn’t mean I have to like it.  Naturally, being the antiauthoritarian type (and the kind of guy who doesn’t like letting the opposition think he’s smarter, even if he is), I’ve been poking around my hard drive in an effort to locate the software the IT guys have been using to babysit our network.  One of the applications is TightVNC, which an employer ostensibly uses to remotely view a computer desktop when a person has a technical problem.  This almost never happens, of course, and the true nature of the software is to just flat-out spy on people.  Regardless, I opened the app and found a way to minimize the rectangle that I discovered giving the IT people a “window” to my desktop.  So the app is still there—but if I did things correctly they’re only looking at a one millimeter square piece of my desktop in the upper right hand corner, where most apps display the “X” button you click to close it up.

I visited our annex last week, where the IT people have their plush little camp.  I felt like I’d walked right into Skynet and had to resist the urge to unplug their machines, feed Pop Tarts into their disc drives, and lubricate their innards with coffee.  I resent them.  I’m highly suspect of IT people as human beings because they tend to think they’re privy to some secret knowledge that we “regular people” aren’t capable of grasping.  That they’re privy to the Oracle of Light while others are excluded.  But what they forget is that the Internet we know it today is relatively new, and that anyone under age 50 pretty much grew up with this technology and is just as capable of mastering and exploiting it as anyone else.  Automobiles are a good analogy; almost everyone drives them, but only select individuals possess sufficient knowledge about what makes them work to be considered “mechanics.” But that doesn’t bar all the other Joe Blow motorists out there from  educating themselves, when after all they’ve been driving around in cars since they were teenagers and as little as they may know about internal combustion, they aren’t exactly unfamiliar with automotive maintenance, either.

If I can learn to locate—and regularly replace—the cabin filter in the glove box of my Toyota Corolla, I can learn to either neutralize or circumvent spyware at the office.

But this notification of scrutiny is a little disheartening, because I derived a unique satisfaction from submitting music and movie reviews to AIBN (along with the occasional news pieces about His Handsome Majesty and semi-frequent celebrity obits).  I’ve seen a slew of films lately, including A-Team, Toy Story, Karate Kid—and would like nothing better than to share my opinion of them.  Instead, I find myself devoting free time at the office to (gasp) reading.  Which is fine, I suppose.  I used to be a hell of a bookworm before law school zapped my affinity for the written word in long-form. 

So I’m trying to kick myself in the ass and get back in the game.  It’s not always easy being a Professional.  Especially when the only compensation is the pure (but orgasmic) satisfaction of submitting an article and Fist-backing it with other Professionals.  Which quite often is its own reward. 

Still, I’d been hoping to hear back from Rotten Tomatoes and the Online Film Critic Society, where I submitted critic applications months ago.  I never heard back from either agency until last week—when both parties send blanket emails announcing that they’d changed their criteria.  Their standards are now stricter.  And while I’ve written enough movie reviews to qualify for both, I’ve not been posting said reviews quite long enough to make them happy (two years).  So, big middle finger to those knobs for depriving the world of my brilliance.

Okay, enough feeling sorry for myself about my problems with Big Brother and net access.

Little Miss Abom and Mini-Abom are out for summer now.  Little Miss will be in the sixth grade next year.  Mini-Abom graduated from kindergarten last week but his behavior suggests his mind is clouded by Satan and requires the services of a good exorcist.

I saw our old friend Colin Hay in concert again last month and gave him our best wishes after the gig.  I did likewise with Brad Roberts and Ellen Reid of Crash Test Dummies three weeks ago, when they appeared at Beachland Ballroom in Cleveland.  I could expound on the virtues of these musicians and others and could sing the praises of their latest efforts, but I’ll save those laudations for another time.

I’m thinking of quitting the night job.  My fellow Professionals are aware that Abom moonlights as a security guard at a Live Nation concert venue in Northeast Ohio.  I took the gig just over two years ago, when Mrs. Abom and I determined it might be a good idea to supplement our income.  If I was going to take on part-time employment, I wanted it to be something I might enjoy.  So there I was, making Gotham safe for live performances by Yes, Type O Negative, GWAR, and Lindsey Buckingham.  Fun times—at least, some of the time. 

The job has a dark and decidedly unglamorous side to it.  For every hour I’m standing around the venue enjoying the show with the audience, I work two hours picking up trash, moving furniture, yelling at drunks, and kicking people out of places where they don’t belong.  Which is the nature of the job.  But after twenty-four months this silliness has taken its toll and I’ve become far less willing to give up my nights at home to supervise a bunch of ornery Snoop Dogg fans—even if those nights at home were to involve being annoyed by the Little Aboms. 

The economy still sucks and my budget is still tight, and while the night job has provided a small financial cushion, I think it’s played out.  I haven’t had a raise yet and won’t be getting one.  Like most employers, House of Blues has frozen its wages.  They’ve even eliminated the comp ticket program, which allowed workers to occasionally attend shows for free.  Which is another way of saying that hypothetically, even though I work at the venue, I’m not allowed to attend a show there unless I work it or buy a ticket for admission like everyone else.  All of which means that the job no longer has any fringe benefits.  It’s just another part-time job.

There are a couple good shows on the calendar, however.  Cyndi Lauper, Steve Hackett, Cheap Trick, Squeeze, Asia, George Lynch, Ted Nugent, and Michael Schenker have shows booked in July and August, and I certainly wouldn’t mind checking out any of those gigs.  Music is my drug.  And my addiction to it may just be strong enough to keep me working for the Man for a pittance for another couple months.  We’ll see.

I attended a cousin’s wedding on Saturday.  Surveying the guests at the reception, it occurred to me that my brothers and cousins are becoming the old guard of our extended family.  This was no sudden epiphany; I’m more keenly aware of the passage of time than others in my brood, given my introspection and prematurely graying hair.  My parents are celebrating their fortieth anniversary this August.  I’m coming up on year thirteen with Mrs. Abom (we’ve known each other for two decades).  My brothers and I have done alright.  We’re good people, relatively good-looking, with wholesome, healthy kids.  I’m glad my maternal grandmother is still around to see yet another grandkid tie the knot, in the same church of her betrothal (and mine), no less.

This weekend I’ll be attending a class reunion.  A grade school class reunion.  Twenty-five years out.  Yeah, we were a special lot.  We had a low-key thirteenth anniversary reunion in 1998, but this one’s a bit more organized.  I’m looking forward to it.  I won’t be half as melancholy or anxious about it as last time—twelve years ago—since I no longer drink.  I can simply be myself, no pretenses, mildly guarded but loose.  I’ll be seeing some formerly close friends I’ve not seen in a decade.  It’ll be nice.  I’m a fool for nostalgia but I’m keeping my perspective this time out.  My best friend has admitted to a case of nerves about the get-together; he wasn’t present at the ’98 function and will be seeing our classmates for the first time in a quarter-century.  Yeah, we were (and continue to be) a unique bunch of kids, that Class of 1985.  Anyone else have grade school reunions? 

Praise Bale.