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Why I’m Not Enjoying the Ashley Madison Hack

Because I have a happy marriage and am not the cheating type, I thought I’d enjoy the fallout over the Ashley Madison hack, in which millions of people using the adultery site were outed. One of the outed individuals was reality TV star Josh Duggar, a self-proclaimed devout Christian who preaches the virtues of family values. Everyone likes to see hypocrites fall, right?

Mood music:

https://youtu.be/OZZ9bm_qe9w

I spent a lot of time pondering what I could write in my information security blogs. I could have harped about all the old lessons people failed to learn about how to behave in cyberspace. In the case of Ashley Madison, the lesson is that there’s no such thing as true privacy, that if you use sites like this, a determined hacker will figure out how to break in and expose you.

Then I started to feel dirty about it all.

I had been feeling morally superior to all the apparent cheaters. Once I realized where my head was going, it freaked me out a little and I felt ashamed. Why? Because I’ve done a lot of dumb things in my life, too.

Go through this blog and you’ll find plenty of examples. I’ve lied to my wife. I’ve talked crap about others behind their backs. I’ve done a lot of selfish things and hurt people along the way. I’ve been guilty of thinking I’m better than others.

With these truths in mind, I found it hard to share in the online feeding frenzy.

The Ashley Madison story is replete with casualties. Significant others are learning that they were cheated on, and site users now have to deal with their demons in a very public way. I’m not going to tell people how they should think about this story. I only know how I feel.

Ashley Madison’s slogan is “Life is short. Have an affair.” Life is short. I want to learn some things and be a better person along the way. Not engaging in hypocrisy is a step in the journey.

Ashley Madison Home Page

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Skinny Like A Fool

At dinner with friends one night, a conversation about weight control got started. It reminded me of how hard I used to work to stay thin, and how dangerous some of my methods were.

Examples:

–In my late teens, I got the bright idea that I could party and drink all I wanted on the weekends with no danger of weight gain if I starved myself during the week, often living on one cheese sandwich a day. As a little treat to make it bearable, I chain smoked in the storage room next to my bedroom.

–My senior year in high school I wanted to drop a lot of weight fast. So for two weeks straight, I ate nothing but Raisin Bran from a mug two times a day and nothing else. I also ran laps around the basement for two hours a day. It worked so well that I adopted it as my post binge regimen every few weeks. It lasted into my early 20s.

–In my late 20s, after years of vicious binge eating sent my weight to nearly 300 pounds, I lost more than a hundred pounds through some healthy means and some fairly stupid tactics, like fasting for half of Tuesday and most of Wednesday. On Wednesdays, I would also triple my workout time on the elliptical cross-training machine at the gym. All this so I would be happy with the number on the scale come Thursday morning, my weekly weigh-in time. Thursday through Saturday, I would eat like a pig, then severely pull back on the eating by Sunday. Call it the 3-4 program (binge three days, starve four days, repeat).

–In my early-to-mid 30s, some of my most vicious binge eating happened. For a while, though, I kept the weight down my walking 3.5 miles every day, no matter the weather. I also never ate dinner, but would eat like a pig earlier in the day. This was while I was working a night job, which allowed me to get away with the dinner-skipping part. That worked great for a couple years, but then the dam broke and I binged my way to a 65-pound weight gain by the end.

Today I put almost everything I eat on a little scale and I avoid flour and sugar. I don’t exercise as much as I should, I’m not idle, either.

I don’t always get it perfect. I’m also nowhere close to skinny.

But I’m a lot healthier — and probably a little smarter — than I used to be.

RUDOLPH THE RED-NOSED REINDEER

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This #BSidesLV 2015 Panel Captures How I Feel

While I was away on vacation last week, some of my good friends in the InfoSec community did this panel at BSidesLV 2015. They discussed the importance of doing over talking, and captured the problem of trash talking in the community more eloquently than I have up to this point. The problems they touched upon are some of the things I found in myself when I wrote this post about the “InfoSec Rock Star” complex.

Please watch the whole thing:

Thanks, friends.

t-shirt

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Cut Mary Ann Davidson Some Slack

These last two days the infosec community has been consumed by a blog post Oracle CSO Mary Ann Davidson wrote. In that post she railed against security researchers who reverse-engineer Oracle’s code and nudge the database giant with their vulnerability findings. (Oracle removed the post, but The Wayback Machine captured it and it’s been distributed far and wide anyway.)

Mood music:

Davidson argued that Oracle does just fine finding and fixing its vulnerabilities and that outsiders who butt in are messing with end-user license agreements and overall company sovereignty.

Having reported on Oracle vulnerabilities for years, I found her position flawed. I’ve seen time and again how researchers find flaws and Oracle leaves them unfixed, sometimes for years. That tells me the company doesn’t have a handle on its security problems. I also think it’s important that companies welcome the help of outside researchers. In the fight against the bad guys, companies can use all the help they can get. Google and Microsoft understand this, and their bug bounty programs enhance their overall security.

Oracle took the post down, saying it doesn’t accurately reflect the company’s view of customers. If you’re Davidson, that’s gotta sting. Her not responding to the criticism makes the situation worse. I suspect Oracle has muzzled her, and the company itself isn’t returning reporters’ calls. Not that the company has ever been good at returning calls. It was a closed-off culture when I was reporting on its security flaws a decade ago.

We can disagree with Davidson, but we should remain professional rather than stoop to childish taunts.

She forcefully argued her position, and the relationship between security researchers and tech companies is an important, ongoing topic. I’ve seen a lot of people criticizing her position respectfully, which is good. But I’ve also seen the usual vitriol-laced pile-on. Hundreds of people are ripping her to shreds, often doing so with the same amount of snark they criticized her for using in her post. With these debates people can get mean, and that’s too bad.

I’ve known Davidson for a long time. We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but she’s a good, intelligent person and I respect her a lot. It’s sad to see her character unnecessarily killed in an online, public execution.

I hope she gets through this. I suspect she will.

Finally, it’s worth noting that those of us who write are always going to get it wrong from time to time. I’ve had my share of stinkers. We’re all human and emotion does funny things to the brain. That’s what I’m trying to keep in mind during this latest infosec firestorm.

Disagreement is good. But when you remove kindness, it turns to poison.

MARY ANN DAVIDSON

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Emily Dickinson: Proof You Can Be a Happy Recluse?

Much has been written about the reclusive later years of poet Emily Dickinson. Eventually she rarely left her room, where she sat and wrote thousands of poems that didn’t see publication until years after her death.

Mood music:

https://youtu.be/bV-dWhYklqE

During a tour of her house last week, people in the group speculated on why she wouldn’t leave the house in those years. Did she suffer a mental affliction or phobia? Probably.

But whenever I look at her life, I’m struck by the fact that, despite the likelihood of mental illness, she stayed sharp, stayed creative and seemed happy.

No one will ever be able to tell us what went through her mind in those years. She shared herself in her poetry, to be sure. She wrote a lot about death, no doubt about that. One of her most famous lines was, after all, “Because I could not stop for Death — / He kindly stopped for me.”

But by most accounts, she wasn’t depressed or crazed. She didn’t live in darkness. The first thing that strikes you when seeing her room is that she had huge windows that bathe the room in light and offer spectacular views. In her day, before all the structures and foliage that’s there now, she had a view that likely stretched for miles.

She reveled in the nature right outside her windows. She wrote about adventures had by animals, birds and insects. Each blade of grass was a wilderness:

Fame is a bee.
It has a song—
It has a sting—
Ah, too, it has a wing.

I don’t profess to have any definitive answers on her state of mind. How would I know, anyway?

Reclusiveness is rarely seen as healthy. I know that if I don’t frequently see something of the world, I start to go bananas. I also know that there were times in my teens and 20s when I’d retreat to my room for long periods, and I was not in a good mental state.

But if the stuff that came off of Emily’s pen was any indication, home was all she needed.

Portrait of Emily Dickinson

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The Sea Will Save You

During vacation last week, Erin and I visited Arrowhead, the home of author Herman Melville. I bought an illustrated copy of his most famous work, Moby-Dick and got a whole new appreciation for the opening paragraphs, which I hadn’t read since college. It’s where the character Ishmael says:

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off — then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.

I relate, because when I’m depressed, the sea helps me. Always.

Mood music:

During moments of unhappiness in my younger years, the ocean was an escape route within feet of my front steps in Revere. I would sit on the rocks and think things through. I would walk from the Point of Pines all the way to the other end of the beach and back.

The process would usually take about 90 minutes — enough time to process what I was feeling. It didn’t necessarily make me happier, and much of the time thoughts just swirled around uselessly in my head. But I always came back from the beach a little calmer, a little stronger and ready to deal with whatever I had to face.

You could say the ocean would speak to me, talking me off the ledge.

I live away from the coast now, in a city sliced in half by the Merrimack River. The river has an equally calming effect on me, and I walk along it every chance I get. But every once in a while I go back to Revere or a closer place like Newburyport or Salisbury to get my pep talk from the sea.

To be fair, Ishmael’s adventure in Moby-Dick turned out to be anything but pleasant, and growing up by the beach wasn’t always sublime. The Blizzard of 1978 and the Perfect Storm of 1991 were destructive, and seeing the ocean rage as it did scared the hell out of me.

But those experiences are far outweighed by the many gifts the sea has given me.

Revere Beach Gazebo at Sunrise

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I Was Like the Car at the End of “The Blues Brothers”

On a recent Saturday, I slept a ton. It was all I could do to get up and use the bathroom or wash some dishes. It’s happened before, and the circumstances are always the same: For a couple months, I run hard with work projects and personal tasks. Then I arrive at the start of a vacation, and my body completely craps out.

The other day it dawned on me that I’m a lot like Jake and Elwood’s car, the Bluesmobile, at the end of The Blues Brothers.

Elwood drives that car hard throughout the two-hour movie, especially during the mega police chase from their gig to downtown Chicago. They go 102 mph for most of the ride and the car keeps moving, even after the engine takes a bullet and throws a rod.

They finally stop when they reach their destination, then this happens:

Unlike the Bluesmobile, I was able to pick myself up after collapsing. Erin and I had a great vacation, traveling around Concord, Amherst, Northampton, and the Berkshires while the kids spent the week at Boy Scouts camp. I’m all better now.

the blues brothers movie poster

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The Manson Obsession: An Anthology

I’ve written a ridiculous number of posts about Charles Manson. What can I say? I’m a guy given to obsessions, and the Manson case is a big one. Today — the 46th anniversary of the Tate-LaBianca murders — seems like as good a time as any to share an anthology…

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/5fvJEpdq8a8

“Vincent Bugliosi Inspired My Work in Journalism, InfoSec“: Vincent Bugliosi, the man who prosecuted Charles Manson and his family and then detailed the case in his book Helter Skelter, has died at age 80. Indirectly, I owe some of my career trajectory to him.

“The Beatles’ White Album and Charles Manson“: A post about the album Charlie made such a big deal about.

“Dennis Wilson and the Manson Family“: The sad tale of Dennis Wilson, drummer of The Beach Boys and one-time friend of Charles Manson.

“I Regret Wearing That Charles Manson T-Shirt“: In the early 1990s, Patti Tate, sister of Sharon Tate, was on a public tirade against Guns ‘N’ Roses frontman Axl Rose for going on stage every night wearing a Charles Manson T-Shirt. Around the same time, I had my own Manson shirt, worn regularly to freak people out.

“Slaying Old Fears in the Hollywood Hills“: This one is about the week I went to Los Angeles on business and killed some old demons while there.

“Telling the Tate-LaBianca Story: Truth and Embellishment“: A while back I had written a post about how, in my opinion, Restless Souls: The Sharon Tate Family’s Account of Stardom, the Manson Murders, and a Crusade for Justice by Alisa Statmen and Brie Tate, was the most important book ever written about the Manson murders (see below). Then the book’s accuracy was thrown into question. Here I talk about that accuracy.

“Tate-LaBianca, 43 Years Later: A Strange Society of Manson Watchers“: I’ve met some interesting people as a result of this Manson obsession.

“The Most Important Book Ever Written About Sharon Tate and the Manson Murders“: Restless Souls: The Sharon Tate Family’s Account of Stardom, the Manson Murders, and a Crusade for Justice, written by Tate family friend Alisa Statman and Brie Tate, niece of Sharon Tate, may well be the most important book written on the Manson case.

“Helter Skelter“: Wherein the author first admits his OCD behavior includes an obsession with the Manson Case.

Hleter Skelter text over LA night skyline

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So You Think You Need a Psychotherapist

People frequently ask  me about psychotherapists. They think they might need one and want to know if I see one. If so, am I getting results?

Here’s my attempt at an answer.

Mood music:

https://youtu.be/34wASuHRuRo

I currently see a therapist. I like him and usually feel better after spending an hour spilling my guts in his office. He’s my sixth therapist in 10 years.

My first therapist helped me unlock a lot of buried emotions that were tearing me apart. The second therapist was a jackass who was clueless about the mind of an addict. (I didn’t stick with him long.)

The third one was only OK, and I left after a couple of years.

I saw my fourth therapist for five years, and he taught me a ton about how the brain works, how different disorders hamper the mind, and how different medications are designed to treat those problems. He also taught me a lot about mindfulness-based stress reduction — the practice of keeping one’s thoughts in the moment.

When he retired, I got a new therapist who was 45 minutes away. That didn’t last long.

Now I’m on therapist number six, who is right in town and flexible with his schedule.

I’ve gone months between therapists because I felt I didn’t need one anymore. But after a while I always remember that there’s no cure for my OCD and related mental health challenges. It’s all about learning to manage it all, and that’s where a good therapist can make a world of difference.

I can’t answer the question people usually put to me, which is whether I think they should see a therapist. That’s a personal decision and I’m not a doctor. I also can’t tell people what they should look for in a therapist. It helps if the therapist has experience dealing with your particular problem. In my case, that means someone who knows about OCD and addiction. It also helps if you like your therapist

I can tell you what I look for, though. Specifically, I need a therapist who:

  • Doesn’t lecture me and tell me how I should do things. To me, that’s not what a therapist should do.  That’s more the domain of a drill instructor.
  • Asks a lot of questions. Therapists who ask a lot of questions force the patient to scour their feelings and get closer to the truth.
  • Is willing to express their own feelings. This is a slippery slope, because a therapist is supposed to focus squarely on the patient. But when therapists respond to my experiences by sharing their similar experiences, they are showing me that they get it. The current therapist does that, and it’s refreshing. It makes me more willing to be honest. A therapist who shows no empathy makes me less willing to deliver my unvarnished truth.

If you are asking yourself if you need to talk to a professional, chances are you’ve exhausted a lot of other options. You have nothing to lose if you give it a try.

silhouette of psychotherapist with patient lying on the couch

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A 6-Step Grief Survival Guide

Written in 2015, at the death of my father and aunt a week apart. The hard lessons started when I lost my brother in 1984 and my best friend in 1996. 

Having lost more friends and family than I care to count, I’ve tried writing posts over the years that make sense of grief. Or, at least, how I’ve worked through mine.

Mood music:

With the loss of my aunt and my father in the past month, I find myself thinking about those older writings. So I assembled this list. Its first purpose is to help me keep my perspective and regain my equilibrium. The second purpose, I hope, is to help others work through their own stages of grief.

  1. Let it suck. Don’t be a hero. If you’re feeling pain, let it out. You don’t have to do it in front of people. Go in a room by yourself and let the waterworks flow if you have to. Don’t worry about trying to keep a manly face around people. You don’t have to pretend you’re A-OK for the sake of others in the room. In my case, when people ask how I’m doing, I just tell them I’m working through it. It’s more honest than saying I’m doing great, and I avoid language that takes me into pity-party territory.
  2. Don’t forget the gratitude. When someone dies, it’s easy to get lost in your own grief. There’s even a self-pity reflex that kicks in. Try to take the time to remember how awesome your loved one was. Share the most amusing memories and have some laughs. The deceased would love that. And you’ll feel more at peace when you remember a life that was lived well.
  3. Take a moment to appreciate what’s still around you. Your girlfriend. Your friends. If the death you just suffered should teach you anything, it’s that you never know how long the other loves of your life will be around. Don’t waste the time you have with them.
  4. Don’t sit around looking at people you love and worrying yourself into an anxiety attack over the fact that God could take them from you at any moment. God holds all the cards, so it’s pointless to even think about it. Just be there for people, and let them be there for you.
  5. Take care of yourself. You can comfort yourself with all the drugs, alcohol, sex, and food there are to have. But take it from me, giving in to addictions is nothing but slow suicide. You can’t move past grief and see the beauty of what’s left if you’re too busy trying to kill yourself. True, I learned a ton about the beauty of life from being an addict, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever wish that experience on others. If there’s a better way to cope, do it.
  6. Embrace things that are bigger than you. Nothing has helped me get past grief more than doing service to others. It sounds like so much bullshit, but it’s not. Whether I’m helping out friends in need or doing last month’s Out of Darkness walk to raise money for suicide-prevention programs, I’m reminded that my own life could be much worse. Or, to put it another way, I’m reminded of how blessed I am.

This isn’t a science. It’s just what I’ve learned from my own walk through the valley of darkness. I’ve learned that life is a gift to be cherished and used wisely. I’ve also learned that it hurts sometimes. That’s OK.

battle_scars_by_eddietheyeti
“Battle Scars” by EddieTheYeti