December 19, 2003 Archives

Right before I go to bed, after I turn the lights off in my office, I look back into the darkened room - only to see what looks like a miniature airport. Everywhere you look there are tiny lights. Some are steady. Some blink. Some used to be steady but now blink or quiver with age.

Why are they all there? Why does every new piece of electronic equipment seem to need a light?

Most are dumb. They're saying, "Hey, I'm plugged in" and nothing more. Some, like the light connected to the charging circuit on my camcorder, blink according to how close to fully charged the battery is.

My cable modem has five lights. One, the test light, is never on. I don't know how to test the test light. It might be burned out. How would I know? Three others, Power, Cable and PC, remain lit 'round the clock. The data light blinks incessantly as computers from around the world attempt to connect to my computers.

That's not a good thing.

The blinking data light is chronicling the computer equivalent of walking down the block, stopping at every door and jiggling the doorknob to see if it's unlocked.

The router between my cable modem and computer acts as a defacto firewall, keeping the miscreants out, so this blinking doesn't mean someone's hurting me. Still, I know what some of them are trying to accomplish by looking in the log the router keeps.

It used to take a few days to fill the log. Now, it's full in a few hours. Here's a sample:

What does it all mean? Let's take the first entry.
Thursday, December 18, 2003 8:19:35 PM Unrecognized access from 68.163.201.167:3102 to TCP port 17300

It comes from:

Honda Pen Motorcycles
268 Bush St #5000
San Francisco, CA, 94104
US

I have no idea who Honda Pen Motorcycles is, but they're assigned 8 Internet addresses, including 68.163.201.167. The addresses are, in turn, controlled by a subsidiary of their local phone company:

Pac Bell Internet Services
208 Bush St. #5000
San Ramon, CA, 94104
US

When Honda Pen Motorcycles' computer tried to contact mine, they're probing port 17300. That implies that one of the computers at Honda Pen Motorcycles is infected with the Kuang2 virus. In all likelihood, it's wandering around the Internet, checking for other infected machines, or machines susceptible to being infected. The folks at the Honda dealership have no clue this is going on, or if they do, don't know how to stop it.

Thanks guys!

Most of the activity causing my data light to blink doesn't even show up in the log. Little of it is data I asked for. Less is there for my benefit.

There are dozens of little lights in this room. Some, like the blinking light on my desk phone, I disregard. In fact, I disregard most of them. They're mostly telling me that appliances without on/off switches are plugged in.

All of these together probably don't draw as much power as a night light. Still, in the aggregate, all these little lights in homes and offices are causing power plants to burn a little more coal or oil.

However, in their defense, my darkened room look very high tech.

Though Ivy is gone, I stare at her every day. She is on my computer desktop, 1280 by 1024 pixels of her, laying in bed, nose flush on the mattress.

I think of Ivy all the time. Often it's a subconscious connection between what I'm doing and how Ivy would react. Sometimes it's just my reaction to seeing her appear on the monitor as programs close while the computer shuts down.

This time of year, I would often bring Ivy to the TV station. She was a good sport, letting me put antlers or a Santa hat on her head. She would lay down on the anchor desk as I walked off to the weather wall. She was happy. She had no place to go. When I would return, Ivy was right where I left her.

Christmas Night 2002, while on camera finishing the forecast, Ivy decided it was time to lay down. It was so funny to see on live TV. She was oblivious to what was going on around her... or maybe above it all. It was her understated elegance that made her the center of attention.

A dog like Ivy - reserved in nearly every way, was never outwardly affectionate. This wasn't a dog who'd meet you at the door and lick you to death. Still, there was no mistaking Ivy's affection toward our family.

If there was a squabble, Ivy would go away, climbing the stairs then jumping up on our bed and making herself comfortable. She was a non confrontational dog.

People still ask me about Ivy all the time. I don't like to tell them she's passed away, and often I don't. They always marvel at her composure and ask what kind of dog 'he is.' I tell them that Ivy was unlike most other Westies in her demeanor.

There are few photos that capture the essence of someone as well as the picture with this entry captures Ivy. She is calm... She is alert... She is at ease... She is where she wants to be.

She will always be with us. We will never stop missing her.