Specifications:

Case:
Corsair 800D
CPU:
Core 2 Quad Q6600 2.4GHz OC'd to 3.4GHz
Motherboard:
EVGA 141-BL-E757-TR LGA 1366 Intel X58 ATX X58 SLI LE Intel
Memory:
6GB
CORSAIR DOMINATOR 6GB (3 x 2GB) 240-Pin DDR3 SDRAM DDR3 1600 (PC3 12800) Triple Channel
Graphics Card:
XFX HD-485X-ZDFC Radeon HD 4850 1GB 256-bit GDDR3 PCI-E 2.0 x16 HDCP Ready CrossFire Supported
Power Supply:
CORSAIR CMPSU-850HX 850W ATX12V 2.3 / EPS12V 2.91 80 PLUS SILVER Certified Modular Active PFC Power Supply
Sound Card:
HT | OMEGA STRIKER 7.1 Channels 24-bit 96KHz PCI Interface
Additional Fans:
3x COOLER MASTER R4-L2R-20AC-GP 120mm Blue LED Case Fans
CPU Cooler:
Tuniq Tower 120 Universal CPU Cooler 120mm Cooling Fan and Fan Controller/Heatsink
OS Hard Drive:
300GB
Western Digital VelociRaptor WD3000HLFS 300GB 10000 RPM 16MB Cache SATA 3.0Gb/s
Storage Drives:
3TB
Seagate Barracuda 7200.12 ST31000528AS 1TB 7200 RPM 32MB Cache SATA 3.0Gb/s




Corsair 800D

Purchase case
HT/Omega Striker Soundcard

EVGA Motherboard

Graphics Card

Corsair 850w Power Supply

Core 2 Quad Q6600

3x Coolermaster 120mm Fans

Tuniq Tower 120

Corsair Dominator

Velociraptor 300GB Hard Drive

3x Seagate 1T Hard Drives


Before you put important data on every new drive you buy (even if it's going to be a part of a redundant RAID array), you must test thoroughly every single sector for read/write, using manufacturer's tools. I use WD Diag Tools that work for all hard drive brands I have by running an extended test. It will take 3-4 hours for 1TB drive, but it's worth it.

For more important data, put the drive under continuous 24 hour read/write workload, and run the full media test again.

Though it may be hard to believe, in some of today's classrooms children are coping with life situations that would make many adults sick to their stomachs. Various scenarios of child abuse and neglect, environmental stressors, and other traumatic experiences qualify many of our children as suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome.

Many teachers who witness the effects of this affliction (PTSD) may not recognize it for what it is or know how to appropriately deal with it, and in their humanitarian impulse to "fix" the problem may in fact do more harm than good.

(For more information on PTSD, go here, here, and here.)


Take the case of an eleven year old girl who, at school, is focused, hard working, still struggles here and there but for the most part is a good student with no major behavior problems. Though the girl shows no physical signs of abuse and has made no mention to anyone at the school that she is a victim of sexual abuse, the keen eye of her teacher suspects as much. For the sake of argument, let's assume that the teacher is correct - that the girl is a victim of sexual abuse.

Understandably the teacher wants to save the child from this terrible situation. The teacher exhausts all legal channels to address the situation to no avail and decides to take it upon herself to "mentor" the little girl with the hope that the girl will confide in her and open a door of opportunity for something to be done. For all intent and purpose, the teacher is operating out of a good heart; however, it is more probable that the teacher will do more harm than good. Let's examine why.

The student is a survivor - having created and implemented coping mechanisms which allow her to function successfully in both environments. If the teacher attempts to "fix" the situation without fully understanding it, the teacher runs the risk of dismantling a structure essential for the student to function in her world, potentially disarming the student of her vital safety armor - rendering the student vulnerable to serious if not irreparable psycho-social-emotional damage.

It is not unlike the soldier caught in the blast of an explosion and survives, though shrapnel is embedded in his chest, dangerously near his heart. A fellow soldier with no experience may see the shrapnel and wish to remove it, thinking it the logical thing to do. By doing so, however, the goodwill of the inexperienced soldier may complicate the injury and in fact lead to the death of his comrade. Without expert knowledge of how to deal with the injury, any assistance may do more harm than good.

Another analogy considers the effect of psychological trauma to a person, where a memory is suppressed to preserve sanity. If someone begins tinkering with the mind of the affected, attempting to recover the memory of a traumatic experience before the affected is ready to deal with it, the damage could be devastating and irreparable.

Should the teacher persuade and convince the student to believe in a solution that does not address all factors at play, and the student lays aside those coping mechanisms vital to her survival in favor of some flimsy construction which only addresses those concerns the teacher is aware of, the teacher has in effect set the student up for failure.

The tools the teacher has taught the student to use are ineffective outside the artificial environment created by the teacher. Within the reality of the student's world outside of school, those tools serve no purpose. The child has been told to believe in a magic that does not work in the real world. She is defenseless. It isn't long before she pays the price for believing in a teacher's fairy tales.

If the student makes it through that hell of a night, she comes back angry at the teacher, for making her believe in a reality that had nothing to do with her own. That child has lost whatever hope she had of life beyond survival, twice traumatized by a situation she had learned to deal with and hardened to distrust any optimism she may encounter in the future. The last of her innocence is destroyed.

Sometimes it is best to leave stuff alone especially if you do not know what it is you are messing with. We can think we know but oftentimes we really do not have a clue. The path to hell is paved with good intentions.

Off the coast of Somalia, former fishermen, robbed of their livelihood by commercial trawlers operating illegally in their waters, have banded with ex-militia and tech-geeks, and taken to acts dubbed by the world media as "piracy."

International cargo ships traveling off the Somali coast are often intercepted and hijacked by small boats and held for ransom.

The hijacked crews are usually well taken care of for the duration of their capture until an agreement can be reached between the so-called pirates and the shipping companies.

While the general media refer to the small bands of Somalis as "pirates," they refer to themselves as "Coast Guards."

The capital city of Mogadishu is practically a ghost town - devastated by war. The population is all but starving. There has been no stable government in almost 17 years. In the presence of this kind of despair, the international community has taken advantage of this country's inability to protect its maritime boundaries.

Enter the fishermen.

In the absence of formal authority and diplomatic power, the fishermen have taken matters into their own hands, using what is available to them to eek out a living. While affected companies and interested media may catalog Somali acts as criminal, advocates for national sovereignty might consider such acts justified and within the context of the defense of Somali national security.

In-fighting has been replaced with co-operation between clans. The "ransoms" they excise from various governments aren't much different than tariffs other countries impose (usually associated with protectionism), its just that there is no formal authority to regulate the amount.

In an era of malfeasance and greed dominating corporate interests, to the tune of exploiting those who cannot or do not know how to protect themselves, it is refreshing to see African patriots putting their foot down and calling the giants of global commerce to task.

Some may refer to them as "pirates" but they sound like Coast Guards to me.

My dad asked what the other parent had done. When I answered that he had called his ex to keep her appraised of what was going on, my Dad asked what I thought I should do. Reluctantly I picked up the phone with the eight year old boy sitting on my left and my daughter sitting on my right.

I was sitting on the couch, on the phone with my ex, explaining that one of the boys in my charge had just lost family members to a tragedy and that I didn't know what my immediate plans would be with our daughter who was with me. She asked if I knew about the Jennifer Hudson killings and I said that they were related to the boy I was referring to. She asked if I had learned that the grandmother had a stroke. I did but asked the boy if he had heard about his grandmother. He started crying assuming the worst and fell over onto my lap sobbing while I patted his back.

We went to church and my dad sat in a pew with one seat available, my daughter sat in a pew with one seat available a little further up, and I sat in a pew with many seats available a few rows back. I felt uncomfortable sitting away from my family but understood this to be a house of the Lord and that each of us has a unique relationship with God.

When it was time for alter call, the woman in front of me stood up - in the visage of an old principal, but in the spirit of my best friend's mother. She stood and walked to the front and turned to instruct me to follow her. I had already been baptized but she insisted. The minister mentioned another reason to come forward and so I acquiesced.

As I rose I felt the eyes of the church asking why I had risen from my seat because many of them had known me as having been baptized. I was worried that they thought I was doing it for attention.

When we got to the front of the church, we had to shake the hands of the deacons we passed. Many of them looked at me with surprise - as if I were picking the wrong time to be joking - as if I were being irreverent.

When we got to the stage, "my mother" stood at the pulpit to speak while the choir sang. I stood behind her underneath a beam that was hiding my face from most of the congregation. I remember my Dad still being in the congregation.

I resolved to tell the congregation that "my mother" had made me come up and initially felt the need to explain why she was "my mother." I decided against it so as not to exploit the name of my best friend, who belonged to the church and who was, by the way, deceased.

One of the ushers was upset with an officer in the church because she was so long in dismissing people from the restroom. I smiled and thought I should write down a prepared statement for the congregation - something about me being "thrice a grinch" and "a lewd adulterer." I also wanted to remind the church that none of us is perfect - how quickly we grow impatient with others and criticize them for their human frailties as if we have none ourselves.

I wish I could remember what the choir was singing.

Is it just me or does the world look a lot like an Ayn Rand novel (i.e., Atlas Shrugged)?

Blinded by the dim light, I sniffle and watch the curtain move. The flowers are dead, their petals mostly on the floor. Even if the most beautiful women in the world walked through my bedroom door wanting to do anything I had on my mind, I'd just roll over and go to sleep, hoping I wouldn't have to tell them to leave - that they would figure it out on their own.

I'd be happy I cleaned the room and maybe wonder as they left if one would stay behind, part of me wanting to be tempted. But I've been sick before. I know how useless it is to want with no energy to enjoy. It makes being sick even sicker.

Maybe the phone would ring and the love of my life would be on the other end. She'd tell me that she misses me and quiz me about what I've been up to. I'd almost tell her that I wish she was here, but realize there'd be nothing good in that. I think we've gotten stuck in what we're used to from each other, so I've grown comfortable fantasizing about things I'm resigned I'll never have.

Sometimes it sucks being in love. Like laying in bed at the hospital - and finding out they're going to have to take your big toe, or your foot, or even your leg. Life won't be the same, but it's better than dying. Life won't be the same - and sometimes living feels like too much trying.

So the bedroom door is closed, and its only me in here. The sun is playing hide and seek and I'll fall asleep before I count twelve hours worth of numbers. And somewhere in a bed I've laid in before, my lover is drowning in her dreams, no different than she'd do if she were here.

It's midnight now. There's some humming somewhere outside. There's some creaking in the walls and in the attic. The computer fan is the closest sound to me. The heat just came on and the curtain's moving again. Tomorrow's not so far away - I should close my eyes soon.