Solomon Burke, R.I.P.

Solomon Burke died yesterday at the age of 70. Or 72. Or 74. He was not always forthcoming about his age. But for perhaps fifty years he was a gospel, soul, and R&B singer.

I first heard his voice in 1966 in Vietnam. It was habit in my outfit to leave (vinyl) albums in the Day Room for anyone to listen to, and one black soldier had left a Solomon Burke LP there. The only song I now remember from that album was a kick ass version of "Down in the Valley," sung much differently than it was sung in grammar school in the 1950's.



It has been mentioned elsewhere on this blog that my friend Jeff and I would head over to the local watering hole on Friday afternoons to warm it up for our friends who would appear after work. During one of these happy occasions, "Down in the Valley" popped into my mind, but I could not for the life of me remember Solomon Burke's name.

I asked Jeff if he'd heard a rock version of "Down in the Valley," but he had not. I set about describing the artist to him - black, tall, heavy set - and solicited his help in identifying him.

Well, we worked on that off and on for a couple of hours with no luck. At one point I said "I think his name begins with an "F." Jeff made several guesses, but . . . .

The crowd descended and we gave up for the time being. Late that night, as we were set to depart for our homes, Jeff pulled me aside and said, "I gotta know Monday. You gotta come up with this name."

"No problem, Jeff. I'll think of it."

Bright and early on Monday morning, Jeff popped into my office.

Jeff: "Well, did you think of it? I worried about it all weekend."

Donnie: "Jeff, if I tell you, I don't want to hear anything about it."

A brief pause.

Jeff: "OK, Donnie, I won't say nuthin'."

Donnie: "Solomon Burke."

After a long, hard look at me, Jeff departed. But an hour so later he stuck his head in the door and said "Donnie, Solomon Burke called. He said to tell you there's no fucking "F" in his name."

The Immaturity of Programming for the Internet

Although we are a couple of decades into the age of the internet, some lessons still have not been learned by some programmers and their management. Some sites, even multi-million and multi-billion dollar sites, occasionally confront disaster when releasing a new version of something that has been working well.

Mainframe processors went through that a lot in the 1970's, a time when applications were getting larger and dealing with higher volumes, and when remote users began to have access to host systems.

The reasons then and now, I suspect, were twofold: an unwarranted confidence in an organization's ability to make system changes and a reluctance to spend money - quality control is expensive.

One way to divide the universe of a data processor's responsibilities to users is:

1. Systems currently in production and *large* systems being developed for production.
   
   
2. Smaller one-time jobs.

It is critical that those in the first category be vetted by someone independent of the development, and in fact independent of the data processing area itself. One organization I worked for had a quality control person who vetted every single change to software used by clients. All proposed releases went through this QC person, and if problems were found the data processing area was notified and the release rejected.

No one in the company had the authority to make him change his mind.

The problems had to be fixed and the release resubmitted to him.

Another company I worked with - not as an employee, but in tandem with - had one person who was paid six figures and whose sole responsibility was to tell the company when to change hardware and when to change operating systems. Under no other circumstances could anyone else in the company - throughout the world - replace a mainframe or an operating system.

Such precautions are expensive but like the mills of the gods they grind exceeding small. In all the years I knew them, neither of these companies ever had a major problem that their controls were designed to prevent.

Contrast that with one large auction site, for example, which several years ago put into production a new billing system. They "tested" it in production by picking half (I think) of their sellers, leaving the others alone. For *months* the site could not bill the half under the new system. What was the cost in lost revenue, lost interest, and perhaps even lost sellers?

Never should have happened.

Never should have happened.

Never should have happened.

Another large site, one that pays people to write articles, is currently approaching the death rattle stage. Whatever possessed management I don't know, but it was decided that the current software be replaced using a new software package. Worse yet, the new software package had not been released commercially. Worse than that, even, was that the package hadn't even been beta tested.

Now when writers try to post an article it comes out garbled. Paragraphs appear in random order, functions that are supposed to work fail miserably, and "hit counts," the basis on which writers are paid, are hopelessly muddled. And readers are staying away in droves. How many will never return, even after things are stabilized?

In addition to a complete lack of quality control, a reason for failure was something that mainframers learned the hard way too, about using new products: Never be first. Never be last.

I commend that to you regarding your PC, your Mac, your laptop, your internet service: Never be first. Never be last.

Now I must confess that when I was a mainframe assembler programmer there were times when I was a cowboy. I did my own testing on programs that I wrote and ultimately pronounced them fit. I must confess also that occasionally, I (and my employer) paid for it. But these were all category two items, one time jobs, quickly fixed, sometimes not even seen in their problem state by the client.

We learned, and they will too.

Parents Need Patience

Parents Need Patience

• I was perhaps five years old and riding in the back seat of our 1939 Chevy, Dad at the wheel.
  
  Donnie: "Daddy, why is this called the twentieth century when it's the nineteen hundreds?"
  
  Dad: "Well, from zero to one hundred was the first century. From 101 to 200 was the second century. From 201 to 300 was the third century . . . ."  (At about the tenth century, he began rolling his eyes, groaning, taking exaggeratedly deep breaths, and mugging at me in the rear view mirror.)   " . . . From 1801 to 1900 was the nineteenth century, and from 1901 to 2000 is the twentieth century."
  
  Now these were the tail end of my pre-logic days, and I was half convinced that he had tricked me somehow. Also, I had greatly enjoyed the faces and groans he had used to spice up his little monologue.
  
  Donnie: "Do it again."
  
  Dad: "Jesus wept!"
  
  
• In Portsmouth, New Hampshire, we lived in the third (from left to right) of four apartments in a row house. There was a cellar with coal bin and furnace, ground floor, and second floor. On the second floor there were three bedrooms. My parents had one, my brother and I had one, and the third was used as a playroom.
  
  One night when I was around seven years old, my brother and I were playing with blocks in the playroom. The light bulb burned out. The light fixture was on the wall, too high for me to reach, so I passed the news to my parents and returned to the playroom and my brother.
  
  A moment later my Dad appeared, light bulb in hand. He replaced the bulb and turned to us.
  
  Dad: "Now you've been sitting in the dark and at first this is going to seem very bright to you. If you look directly at it, it will hurt your eyes. Don't look at the light when I turn it on."
  
  My brother and I dutifully lowered our eyes to the floor, but I was skeptical about the "hurting the eyes" bit, and when Dad turned the light on I immediately looked at it.
  
  Wow! Major squint time.
  
  Dad: "Goddamn kid!"

And Then . . .

This is the aftermath of the preceding post. BTW, the "My head hurts" comment at that post is from the Link Monster himself.

All that happened in the mid-eighties. In 1992 I moved to the east coast for six years, but came back to the Chicago area for a week every year to visit my friends.

It must have been around the 1996 or 1997 vacation that we had our nickel-dime poker game at the Link Monster's apartment. By then the local watering hole had been purchased, razed, and rebuilt as part of a different chain.

On entering the apartment I was shown *the bench* - the wrought iron bench that had provided so little comfort to Link. After the bar had closed for good, but before it was razed, Link and Jeff (R.I.P.) had stopped by one night and wrestled the bench into a vehicle, liberating it, if not from further abuse then at least from abuse by others.

Link's married and a father now, entering middle age and somewhat calmed down, and last I knew the bench had been delivered to his mother, safer with her than at any time I knew it.

Who's Your Daddy Now?

One Friday night at the watering hole there were perhaps fifteen or twenty of us from the junk mail company. Sometime between eight and nine o'clock I became restless and decided to head for home.

Hearing me ask for my tab, the Link Monster got on my case about leaving so early, calling me all kinds of wimp, although in less delicate terms.

He was a beer drinker and I'd been drinking my usual, Bourbon Manhattans. This is high octane stuff. I eyed him for a moment, walked to an empty table, sat down, and motioned him over. He came and sat down opposite me.

Curious as to what was going on, a friend we'll call Bonch came over with his drink and sat down with us. Bonch and Link shared a house, so this was going to work out well. Link had a gleam in his eye, not knowing what was going to happen, but sure it would be fun.

The waitress came over and I ordered two Bourbon Manhattans, straight up. A moment later she brought them and as she set them down Link, who had never tasted one, looked at me and asked "Do we slam these or what?"

Perfecto! "Of course."

As the waitress turned to leave, I touched her arm and indicated that she should stay. Link and I slammed our drinks and I told the waitress "Two more."

She looked at me with some concern, and I reached into my pocket, pulled out the car keys, and gave them to Bonch. I looked expectantly at Link until he did the same. Satisfied, the waitress went to fetch two more. Bonch was grinning from ear to ear.

The drinks arrived, we slammed them, and I said "Two more." The waitress sighed and went off to order them.

While we waited, Link said "I have to go to the men's room." Up he got and off he went.

Bonch: "I think you've got him."

Donnie: "Why do you say that?"

Bonch: "Because he went like this." Bonch picked up a cocktail napkin and dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth.

The drinks arrived, but there was no Link. After a few minutes Bonch and I got up to go check the men's room.

Empty.

We went out the front door and saw Link sitting on a wrought iron bench, head between his knees and a puddle of vomit between his feet.

Bonch: "You alright, Link?"

Link Monster: "Fuckin' Richards."

That finished the night, of course. I went in and finally got to pay my tab, and Bonch drove us home, taking my car, with Link passed out in the back seat. Bonch said he'd pick me up in the morning.

The next morning, at about the appropriate hour, there was no sign of Bonch and Link. I called, got their answering machine, and began shouting "GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!"

Bonch picked up the phone and said he was about to leave, but "I don't think Link is going to make it."

On the way to work he filled me in. He'd had to half carry Link into the house and up to his bed. Having accomplished that, he went downstairs to get a bucket or something for Link in case he had to upchuck, and while he was down there he heard a thump. When he got back upstairs, he found that Link had rolled off the bed.

He then had to go back out to the car and clean up the back seat, where Link had orally disposed of some beer and some bourbon.

Apparently, Link woke up around six P.M. thinking it was six A.M. and called his boss to leave a message. She answered and he told her "I don't think I'll be in today."

"No shit."

Billy Visits Chicago

A year or two after I moved to Chicago, brother Billy came for a visit. I have mentioned that my area consisted of a large number of young women, many single, and a handful of men. When they found out Billy was coming, there was much enthusiasm for meeting him, and a Friday night out was scheduled. In the event, the party consisted of Billy, me, and perhaps ten of the women.

We began with drinks (and introductions) somewhere, then had dinner (in Old Town, I *think*), and moved on to a little dive that was a favorite of ours at the time, a joint with a jukebox full of sixties music, sawdust on the floor, and a bar and high tables with stools.

Billy had some adjusting to do, being absolutely surrounded by young women making a big deal of him. At one point he leaned across the table and in a low voice asked me "How do you stand it?"

At one point, Barry McGuire's Eve of Destruction was played, and Billy and I got into a minor disagreement over a sequel that had been released, a sappy thing called Dawn of Correction that had reached #36 on the pop charts (OK, I just looked it up). He had the title right but I, for some reason, was certain that it was Dawn of Construction. There being no way to settle the matter at the time, we just dropped the subject (or so I thought).

The main event lasted for perhaps six hours, at which point the married women had to head for home, and things slowed down. In conclusion, Billy, three of the women, and I headed back to Old Town to a family restaurant for a final cup of coffee. Billy insisted on paying, the women stepped outside, and I followed a moment later, to find them doing a can-can to improvised lyrics professing undying love for Billy. By any standard, the evening was a success.

Several months later, I hosted our area's Christmas party at the Lakeview Men's Club. There were fifty or sixty attendees, half employees and half spouses and other dates. About halfway through the evening, Nicki, whom you've met before, called for quiet and announced that she wanted to present me with something. There was some grinning and giggling, so apparently they were all in on this. Having achieved the desired quiet, she approached me with a small, gift wrapped item and informed me that it was a gift from all the employees and my brother Billy.

This could not end well for me.

I opened it to find a pristine 45 rpm record in a sleeve, Dawn of Correction, by The Spokesmen. I suppose I looked as if I'd been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, because there was much laughing and pointing. At me.

That's OK, though. As I have said here before, I don't mind going out on a limb, and I also don't mind the occasional times when it gets sawed off behind me.

Nicki was *quite* pleased with herself until . . . until . . . her date - and this was their first date - began to speak. Apparently when he called for Nicki she was still wrapping the record. She explained the situation to him and how much fun it was going to be:

That Donnie Richards. He thinks he's
so smart. Well, we got him this time.

Poor Nicki turned red, scowled at him, and dropped him like a hot potato after that night.

No More Google?

Google has decided to rename itself. No more "Google," but "Topeka" instead.

The folks at Google Topeka are so full of themselves that they have actually created a page instructing us on what new verbs and spellings should replace "google".

Now we are to say "Topeka it" instead of "Google it."

Right. Ah ha ha ha ha ha.

"Topeka it" does not roll trippingly from the tongue, and I suspect that "Google it" will be around for a while yet. When it is replaced, common usage will be something less cumbersome than "Topeka it." Perhaps "Peke it" or something like that.

Studies have shown that the "oo" sound is attractive to the human ear, and I think Google has scrooed up.

As for our new marching orders, how can those people take themselves so seriously?

It is reminiscent of the press conference held a few years ago to announce that there would be no more "Kentucky Fried Chicken," only "KFC."

It's just fast food, guys, and nobody cared but you.

Update, a few minutes later: OK, they got me. It's April Fool's Day, and I'm one of the early fools. Ah ha ha ha ha ha.