Long enough that the interesting part isn't the list of things I've used.

Mostly a working sense of what correct looks like. I can usually tell within an hour of looking at a system whether its problems are in the code or in the way the work was divided, and those need completely different interventions. I can tell when an estimate is a guess wearing a suit. I can tell when a team is about to build a beautiful implementation of the wrong thing, because I've been on that team.

None of that came from reading. It came from being wrong in front of users and having to fix it while they watched.

Enterprise systems, mostly, end to end — data model, service contracts, and the interface, which is where a decade of back-end architecture either becomes usable or doesn't. That last part is the one I'm known for and the one I'd defend hardest, because it's where the business case either survives contact with a real user or quietly dies.

Recording-head fabrication tracking at Seagate, moved off Java Swing and onto a single-page Angular application with a team of sixty across two continents. An insurance platform at Tinubu, where the Angular practice didn't exist until I built it. BI Inc and InRhythm — one sentence each, or cut them. Six client names is a résumé; two or three is a career.

Integrity Design LLC has been the entity since 1999. It's how contracts and invoices work; the person is what anyone is actually hiring.

This section is the whole reason the writing works, and it is currently the vaguest part of the site. Needed (Phase 3a): what you played and roughly what years as a working musician; what kind of room and what role in the studio — tracking, mixing, engineering; when and how far the hardware and electronics work went; and one concrete piece of gear that dates it. A named console does more than any adjective.

Software is what I practice daily. It isn't the only thing I know. There's a long stretch of audio work behind it — real studio time, years as a working musician, enough hours around signal chains to know what things sound like when they're wrong. Hardware and electronics before that. That knowledge never left; it just went quiet, the way anything does when you stop using it every week.

Which turned out to matter more than I expected. When I built Memory Thread last summer — a circuit board, firmware, audio processing and a cloud pipeline, alone, in twenty days — almost none of the speed came from software help. It came from being able to reach back into disciplines I already owned but hadn't touched in years. That's what the piece in Writing is about.

I have a full-time architecture job I like. I write here when I've learned something that seems worth the reader's time, which is less often than the internet's publishing cadence would suggest.

Away from the screen there's an RV, a woodshop, and a camera that mostly gets pointed at animals. Some of that lives at randomabstract.com, which has no relationship to any of the above and is better for it.