Musings on computer stuff, and things... and other stuff.
Public Service Announcement of the day: I’ve long believed that the Trunk Monkey security system should be available in a network monkey form. Many layer‑8 problems could be solved before the need for escalation to the network team arises. Sadly, Suburban Auto Group has not licensed this model to any large network vendors, so for now please do what I do and enjoy their videos instead.
I access various Unix and Unix-like systems all the time. In most cases I don’t ever use any of the GUI tools or applications they may provide. I’ve been using Linux since before Slackware was even a distribution, and Unix longer than that, so I generally find GUIs get in my way more often than not. That said, sometimes a GUI tool is the best way to do something.
Some people like VNC, but I’ve always been an SSH man myself. And, I’ve always used SSH X11 tunneling when I need it. That means that on my Windows machine I have the Exceed suite installed, which includes a nice X11 installation for Windows. Everywhere else, however–including on my Macbook Pro–I’ve always just used the native X11 windows managers. Until recently.
I hadn’t noticed that X11 tunneling wasn’t working from my Mac until recently and found out that the X11 window manager has been gone from Mac since Mountain Lion–which tells you how often I use GUI apps in this way. It’s not a big deal to fix, but I figured there are probably some people out there who don’t know how to make it all work, so I’d type up this quick blurble.
Essentially, you just need to download XQuartz and install it. XQuartz is the new version of what used to be the X11.app that came by default in OSX versions prior to Mountain Lion. Or, it’s the same project. Or something. You can read the Apple blurb here.
If you don’t have X11 forwarding turned on, just edit your /etc/sshd file and change the X11 Forwarding line to be like so:
Be sure to restart any ssh sessions you have open, and then connect using the ‑X flag in ssh. Something like “ssh ‑X [email protected]” should work. Read the man page on ssh if you have any questions, but it’s pretty straight forward overall. Once logged into your remote machine you can verify if things are working by running any kind of X11 app (xclock or xeyes are my usual test subjects). If not, start by echoing your local display variable (echo $DISPLAY) and see if you have anything there. If it’s empty, then your local ssh client isn’t forwarding the X11 information and you might try using ‑vvv when you log in (lot’s of information).
Like I said, easy-peasy. Now I can go back to not using any GUI apps for a few more years when, I’m sure, something else will be broken or changed.
I’ve never considered myself—strictly speaking—a network engineer, or anything in particular like that. It’s helpful for job descriptions, or hiring, but not as a means of self-identification. I started my career as a programmer—and had been programming as an amateur for years before that—then moved into systems (Unix, early DOS, then Novell, Windows, etc.), networks, and now into an amalgamation of all of those disciplines under the auspices of strategy and management.
I don’t understand people who don’t want to learn to program, or about storage, or virtualization. I don’t understand programmers who don’t want to know about networks. This “hyer-silo-ization” that’s happened in the last 15 years or so is something I’m still not used to, even though I ostensibly have to deal with it on a daily basis to make hiring decisions, task tracking, etc.
This stems back to my roots in the computer world. I started out as a young kid back in 1980 or so, teaching myself to program LOGO and Basic on an Apple IIc. As time went on I picked up more languages, moving on to Pascal and C, but also expanding into setting up BBS systems, toying with modems and communications technology, and getting time with mainframes and the old big-iron at local universities whenever I could get a teacher who knew someone to slip me in under the radar. I was fascinated by the technology and all it allowed for me to do creatively. Fundamentally, however, I had no concept that I was anything other than really into computers and systems.
Fast-forward a few years, and at some point—and I blame the HR folks for this, mostly—people started to describe themselves in terms of job functions. It wasn’t good enough to be someone who knew computers, or could learn new technology quickly, or could program in a certain language or whatever. Now you had to “be” something. You had to be a software engineer, or a network administrator, or some other thing. Then it further broke down by OS, and the certifications came.
Now we have people who are the gatekeepers, and if you don’t have a certain certification, or a certain set of very specific job titles, or haven’t banged out a minimum acceptable number of Binford-6100 installs, you’re not qualified to do <insert job title here>. So people pursue titles, and certifications, and experience with whatever they think the recruiters are looking for—but nothing more.
The software folks claim no knowledge about networks, network folks claim no knowledge of systems, systems claim no knowledge of databases. On and on the story rolls, creating a giant ball of not-my-problem as it goes. Further technology developments continue the cycle; things like SDN create even more friction and separation… one more thing to not know anything about.
The first job I ever had as a professional in the computer world was to build out a network and develop some software for a company. These were the heady days of technologies with names like vampire-taps, before everything turned into a “dongle-gate” fiasco to be avoided at all costs. But I digress.
I can imagine the horror some of you are now feeling; wondering what’s wrong with a world where you’d hire someone to build a network and develop software for it. Can you imagine the further horror of telling you that I later on—at that same company—developed a web page for them, back before most people even had AOL or CompuServe, let alone the “real” Internet?
I don’t tell you this to tout my own background or make myself feel old. I tell you this because the key difference between then and now—at least in my mind—is that we in the industry used to be problem solvers. Used to.
I don’t know if it’s the influx of money—people in college deciding that law school is too hard but this computer gig is paying well—or some other factor, but somewhere along the way we became obstacles to problem solving. We became entrenched in an us vs. them mentality, and we stopped thinking of how to say “yes”. How to say “yes” to solving a problem using any technology available. How to say “yes” to learning to program or script if that’s what is necessary. We stopped being willing to use any and all tools to get the job done and instead we became divas, only willing to use the technology that we decided was worthy of our time, or we decided was useful to our careers.
I’m here to tell you that the industry is changing again. It doesn’t matter what silo you think you’re in, the industry is changing for all of us. Specialties will still exist—things we’re “better” at than others—but silos will not persist as they are today for very much longer. You are either going to be one of the people willing to learn, adapt, and say “yes” to business-enablement, or you’ll be the part of the industry we don’t acknowledge—the crusty relic in the back room that nobody wants to talk to and is eventually, and unceremoniously, replaced.
Software Defined Networking Explained:
typedef struct network {
void * stuff
void * moreStuff
}; SDN
So, you want to be a writer?
Writing is a lonely, dirty, self-deprecating affair. And that’s if you’re good at it. Robert Heinlein said that “writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterward.” That feels just about spot-on to me these days, as I fight the blank screen to see who is going to win on any given day. Usually it’s the screen.
When you feel so passionately about anything that you want to take the time and effort to write it down, there is an inevitable comedown. Ostensibly the writing is a cathartic experience and when you’re done, it should be over. You’ve said your piece, made your peace, and should let it rest in peace.
But we’re all just a little narcissistic—writers more so than everyone else—and we crave feedback, validation, if not of our writing skills or our ideas, then at least that we exist somewhere outside of the vacuum of our own thoughts. We want someone to notice and care, even if it is simply to pick a fight or claim that we have no business writing. Writers are used to rejection, so that’s not really a problem. What we’re not used to is silence—at least not at first.
As writers, we spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing over our words—the way they flow on the page, or the symmetry of the sentences—and when we’re done we expect a similar level of feedback from whatever audience we may have. Whatever the size of our platform, we expect some level of acknowledgement commensurate with the level of effort we put into the writing, and the fact is that in most cases what we get is the proverbial silence and crickets.
Virginia Woolf said that, “writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.” Once you start selling your soul, you’ve fallen off the precipice into a truly dark place, a place where the explosive mix of creativity and editorial demands collide and ignite like the improbable mix of drunk rodeo clowns and Pamplona—comedic tragedy writ large.
We naturally think our writing is perfect when it’s done, and we expect that at least the one person committed to reading what we write—our erstwhile editor—will see our brilliance and praise us for it. That does happen, but often that very thing we crave comes saddled with requests for changes ranging from small bits of grammar to complete wholesale rewrites. We sacrifice our creativity to feed the beast.
Self-doubt begins to creep into the mix, and the writing becomes harder and more painful, the page more menacing, and the anxiety of deadlines more prescient—creeping in even before we’ve accepted a new assignment. The work we do submit can take weeks or months to get published, and just as long to be paid for. And if you dabble in the dirty art of essay writing, you begin to find that your opinion has oftentimes radically changed by the time your words show up to be read, and you find yourself arguing on behalf of a point you no longer agree with.
Yes, writing is a dirty, sordid affair. It’s a back-alley rendezvous with something or someone you shouldn’t be involved with. But for those of us who write, it’s also unavoidable. It becomes something we absolutely have to do to feel alive—something we can’t stop doing any more than willing ourselves not to breathe.
If you want to be a writer, then write. Just don’t expect it to offer anything to you but therapy—an outlet for your own needs that likely will grow more desperate as a result. Writing makes no promises, and delivers no boons. But even after all of that, for me, I will always be a writer. But I will do it in private, and I will wash my hands afterward.
A few people you might recognize, including yours truly, are featured here in a video for Cisco Live. This was shot at Cisco Live in Orlando back in June. I’ll see you all next year in San Francisco!