Tales From The Server Room

There are strange things done amid the grinding hum of the machines in the server room.

There are many a fright on a sleepless night in that land of doom and gloom.

The unlabeled cables, those disarming alarms, red lights are blinking and no time for thinking,

Oh the troubles you’ll shoot amid the endless reboots, in the shadow of the server room.

In order to properly appreciate the complexities of the activities that take place in the server room we must first set the stage so people who have never been there can get the right feel for the atmosphere in such a place.

The server room is noisy. The noise is bad enough to consider using ear protection but that would imply a commitment to staying for a long time and it's always better to get in and out as fast as possible. There are big headphone style noise-suppressors that feel heavy and clumsy and make it even harder for a big guy to slither around behind the racks. There are little foam-rubber ear-pugs that are irritating and unsanitary. In all cases the little relief from too much noise does not justify the loss of actual hearing for the sounds you do want to hear; the cell phone (notwithstanding vibrate mode), the rare visitor (usually site manager) trying to get your attention, or any of the many equipment alarms that might go off.

The server room is cold. I have a sweater on the back of the tall tan rolling swivel chair but I don't always put in on as the first order of business for the same reason as the noise suppression; I don't want to be in there that long. On a hot summer day it is nice to go there just for a blast of cold air. I tend to sweat like a dog with just the slightest amount of effort so I end up in there to cool off all year long.

The server room is scary. That's where all the bad things happen. All the scariest things are in there. There have been hours with the sweater and earplugs left in even when I leave the server room because I know I am going right back in there very soon. There are dangerous electrical circuit panels and distribution cabinets. Two HVAC units the size of $29 U-haul truck and one transformer that raises your hair in the air in a 20 foot radius. The HVAC units take turns vibrating the floor like a constant 2.0- earthquake.

Going into the server room is like going under water. The temptation to hold my breath is soon replaced by an urge to get out again. Sometimes it feels like a full blown panic attack and it is small wonder that some people can't handle it. My best defence is to use my old railroad tactics to tolerate this fear. What is the worse that can happen? What will we do then? Just having a plan is a big part of the relief and just knowing we've survived similar things helps a lot too but the single best tension reducer is using the word "we" instead of "I" even though you are still alone in the server room.

Some people like to call their server room the Data Center, but it’s still just a server room. You can call it a closet or a gymnasium but if there are servers in there it can only be a server room.

No Better than a Boxcar

Whenever a train falls off the tracks, there's always plenty of blame.

The trainman always blames the track, and the trackman blames the train.

"There's a broken rail, plain as day." the Trainman will observe.

"It's that broken wheel caused this mess." says the Trackman with a curse.

Every train wreck has broken rails and broken wheels as well.

So it's hard to prove which came first and who should catch the hell.

But in the end there is only one, train and track combined,

and they both work for the same team, at least until next time.

In the winter of 1988 I was working out of Fields Oregon for the Southern Pacific Railroad. We were flagging for the Surfacing Gang doing the final cleanup of the mess the other gangs had left after coming through our McCredie Springs section of the Oakridge district between Eugene and Klamath Falls. The Surface Gang follows the Tie Gang which in turn follows the Steel Gang in our annual maintenance cycle before the snow falls in the Central Oregon Cascades. The dispatcher called to make us get in the clear early to let the Amtrak passenger train meet a freight train so we hurried the big machines back to the spur track off the siding at Frazier between the remote stations of Abernethy and Wicopee. We were enjoying our lunch time meal of sandwiches and tacos when the train Conductor climbed off his caboose to join us at our warming fire.

Our conversation soon turned to the Company’s obvious lack of concern for the employees and even though we eagerly agreed with his overall premise we inadvertently made remarks to the effect that we were happy just to have our jobs. At this the old man was clearly disturbed and was dead set against letting us get away without a little schooling regarding the misuse we were receiving at the hands of our oppressive employer. At last, in exasperation over our lack of reason he blurted out, “Boys, this Company don’t care about you any more than they care for that boxcar right there.” At this he pointed out the nearest boxcar in his manifest and looked back at us for a change in our countenance but finding none he added even louder: “And they don’t care much for that boxcar!”

Apparently we gave the impression of being perfectly pleased to be held in the same high regard as a boxcar so he went on with an even graver tone of voice for a final dose of convincing. “Why don’t you know that if that boxcar derails the company would just as soon bulldoze it over the side of the bank as keep it just to save a damn dime.” At this he stopped in an air of triumph sure he had swayed even the strongest willed among us. It was true enough, we all agreed that such mistreatment of boxcars had taken place in front of our very eyes and often with our assistance but none of that could reduce his displeasure with our overall response and he soon turned away in disgust to return to his train.

As he was leaving we tried in vain to convince him with tales of our many injuries at the hand of our common enemy and how we shared a mutual bond but it was clear that he had given up on us. All our claims fell on deaf ears and his expression clearly showed his disappointment that we had missed the point. Soon enough the passenger train went by, everyone went back to work and we never met again. I often think back on that old Conductor and wonder what ever may have happened with him, but never with as much fondness as I look back on that old boxcar.

Pickers and Peckers

I was amazed the first time I saw a famous writer on TV typing with just the two forefingers…tipping and tapping away like a real beginner. I could not believe they could finish their book let alone be productive with such primitive typing skills. Then I saw a well known Journalist on TV showing the same technique, then I saw it again and again and it finally dawned on me that this is the secret to their success in literary endeavor.

If it was just Andy Rooney and Studds Terkel then it might be on account of eccentricity but this phenomenon includes all the great masters, Pearl S. Buck, James A. Michener and even the venerable Walter Cronkite, why I bet Shakespeare would’ve done it if he could’ve got his hands on a typewriter. At first I thought maybe it is just a few Genius that benefit from this oddity but then I started seeing it in the hi-tech world where I know that person did get a good education and keyboard skills had to be included.

I remember learning to type the proper way back in the 10^th grade and looking down on anyone who couldn’t keep up with 35 words per minute, or even find the home row. Now that very same snooty skill set seems more of a hindrance than help. No wonder I can’t get ahead; I never learned to pick and peck.

Could it be these people do know how to type with all fingers but are deliberately going with just two on purpose? Do they somehow benefit from the loss of speed that better matches the speed of their thoughts? Maybe those two fingers are directly connected to a special part of the brain that connects straight to the memory banks while the other fingers have to stand in line to send or receive data. Ten finger typing is great for secretaries and stenographers but great writers can’t be creative 10 ways at time. They need to channel down to the core of one thought rather than trying manage 10 trains of thought down 10 different tracks to the roundhouse.

In the computer world data can be sent using Serial data ( one bit at a time) or parallel ( 4, 8, 16… bits at a time) which in theory means more throughput but in the end the data still has to go back to the one bit at a time mode for processing so in some scenarios it is faster to stick with serial. And because we type so much slower than we think maybe it does make sense that we should slow down to increase quality.

So I tried to pick and peck but it wouldn’t work. I have already been programmed the wrong way and it is too late to break the mold and get anything useful in the end. So I will have to stick it out with my old fashioned methodologies, and suffer the possibility that I am too good a typist to be any good at writing.