Magic NAT Incantation

 

How many times am I going to get bit with this?

Rebuilt the system this weekend. In addition to the expected hassles of version upgrades, aging hardware and the peculiarities of my configuration there's always one or two things I forget that cause some unnecessary stress. But this one gets me every single time.

No matter what I did, I couldn't get NAT to work. The machines on the subnet were pingable, had happy network connections. But no outside internet. I could resolve domains using my local internal cacheing nameserver but could not reach those hosts.

I spent hours staring at the iptables file, starting and stopping the network, checking cables, rebooting machines on the subnet. No packets, no joy. Finally I'm sitting at a party on Saturday night, drinking some deadly home-made liqueur (started as vodka, involved lemons) when suddenly I have a flashback to more than ten years ago, sitting in an office trying to get NAT to work. A vision appeared in my mind and a blazing hand descended from heaven to write this message across the sky in burning letters:

echo 1 > /proc/sys/net/ipv4/ip_forward

No, I will never learn. The only hope is write as much stuff down as possible for next time. Or maybe I should just accept the fact that my faculties have deteriorated past the point of being a small-time linux admin. Can I still get an account at AOL?

 

The word you're looking for is "hubris."

 

Christopher Buckley's story about the death of his parents (NY Times Magazine, "Growing Up Buckley," April 26, 2009) was funny and sad but in the end it's just another account of the tragic lives of the rich and famous. It's better written than a typical tabloid piece but fundamentally there's nothing more interesting about this dysfunctional family than a million others. The audience appeal is in the juicy details. Was the service really held at St. Patrick's Cathedral? Where was the reception? Who was there? We want (more) names.

That's not the problem I have with the piece. I don't give a rat's ass whether they spent Christmas in the Caribbean or Atlantic City. The offensive part comes at the end, when we're treated to one more salacious, circulation-boosting detail concerning his father's involvement in Watergate and how deeply it troubled him. Hunt and Nixon were involved in serious crimes, crimes that precipitated a constitutional crisis. If true this story makes William F. Buckley an accessory. Ironic or no, the reference to Gethsemane turned my stomach. Are we supposed to see his father's silence as virtuous? To forgive him because he later became friends with one of the victims? Because he's rich and famous?

It's not hard to see a direct connection between the failure to prosecute Richard Nixon's crimes and our situation today, where the members of the same pundit class of which William Buckley was for many years a leading voice dismiss calls for prosecution of the Bush administration for public violations of domestic and international law (and generally shredding the constitution) on the grounds that it represents an "unworthy desire for vengeance." They reveal an unspoken but widely held belief that men and women of high stature, wealth and power are inherently noble and so above the law. The consequences for the rest of us are severe.

In case Christopher Buckley thinks this is all just petty class resentment, let me call this unspoken belief by another name: hubris. Maybe he'll take it more seriously if I say it in Greek.