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Last Updated : Sunday, 20 April, 2003
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| Daynotes On a Budget Hosted By... Last Updated : Sunday, 20 April, 2003 |
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Monday, April 14, 2003 |
Update At 2230
It Never Ceases To Amaze Me...
What passes for dinner conversation around here. Tonight we ate on the deck - well, on a table out on the deck, because we hit ninety (or nearly so) here. Hmmmm... Let's see. Ninety on Monday, what's next?
But I digress. Somehow, we traveled through decomposition, death, reincarnation, and the soul, and somehow, we were stuck trying to relate the soul and reincarnation to ghosts in Harry Potter. I dunno. I just don't know.
Of course, our day was no weirder than elsewhere. In the State Legislature, the fine folks who we've elected to handle the mounting state budget (about a thousand dollars for every man, woman, and child in the state, thank you very much) decided rather than that, they would instead toss caution to the wind and pass a bill repealing the prohibition against circuses during the state fair.
Why is this such a big deal? Well, the fine folks in the State House, a more regressive, messed up, dysfunctional bunch of shits-for-brains than you'll ever find, decided to attach a piece of ... well, one is forced to use the term "fiction" given the wording of the law ... to this bill that says that women who seek to get an abortion must be counseled by the physician on a number of points which lack medical validity, logic, and in fact, a whole heck of a lot of basis in science.
Such is the way of the anti-abortion foe these days. Having lost the scientific and intellectual battles against abortion, they're resorting to attaching 24-hour waiting periods to bills about circuses to get a waiting period enacted into law. And the law is full of such dubious claims (such as life beginning at conception. If this is, indeed, the case, then I possess within me the potential for life, and as a teenager, I must have committed mass murder on a scale which would have made Hitler look like a pathetic weenie).
I have very little respect for the anti-abortion movement any more. Once, I thought they might have been a respectable group. Over the years, they've lost the moral ground, and they seem more satisfied to use any means at all, including murder, to achieve their objectives. Death threats, harassment, murder, deception, lies, and simple parliamentary tricks.
Apparently it's not the road, but the destination for these folks. And I find myself wondering if they're prepared for the Uterus Gestapo to investigate every single miscarriage, every single lost pregnancy, every single stillbirth as a potential murder-by-abortion. I wonder if they're prepared to put their money where their mouths and picket signs are by supporting homes for unwed mothers who would like to give up their children for adoption. I wonder if they'll adopt some of these infants themselves, and work to streamline the adoption system as well as the child welfare laws, to insure that a single woman who is working two jobs hard to try to help her family doesn't end up getting bit from another direction when a child gets sick, and she's got no daycare, no vacation, and no way to help that child.
It's sad, but these people are looking at a single booth by the side of the road. They're ignoring the pavement up to the booth, they're ignoring the road beyond it.
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Tuesday, April 15, 2003 |
Update At 1130
An Ignoble Day...
As I stumbled around the neighborhood this morning, I found myself wondering, and worrying, about nearly everything. There's the people across the street - he's got a jewelry business, she works in reservations for Northwest Airlines. Down the street a little ways there's the fellow who works third shift as a mechanic at Northwest (We see him coming home while we're waiting for the bus), and I worry for him - Northwest announced another 1000 people to be laid off this morning, including some 800+ mechanics.
Then there's the people on the corner, who are immigrants, and seem to be doing OK, but the mother and youngest son can't speak english - the middle child, a girl, translates. There's the people over a street who are home now, most days. She's young, he's about the same age as me, and the happy looks on their faces from last fall have been replaced with the same look I've seen in the mirror - "it'll get better, just not soon enough".
Then there's my neighbor, with his luggage repair business. Converted his entire garage. He was doing very well until September 11th. Then things went into the toilet. They started to climb out, a little, and then dipped right back in with the whole Iraqi war business. He's thinking about throwing in the towel on that, but the tax write-offs are still worth it, he says.
Then there's us. The better part of a grand goes into the mail box this morning as punishment for living here and not paying the appropriate amount of taxes. The mega-multi-billion dollar tax cut the President wants would make exactly zero difference in that, or any other income I get. In fact, after looking around, I've managed to determine that not only will Bush's proposed tax cut not make a single cent of difference to my income, it won't mean a penny for my extended family, either. None of us would see a difference. Ain't that a hoot?
So sure, I suppose it'd be good for the economy - the rich end of things. Apparently, such an economy works wonders in places like Brazil, but here, it could be so much better, if we concentrate more money into the hands that already hold so much.
On the other hand, perhaps that's a good plan. I mean, if you think about it, taking a lot of money, concentrating it in the hands of a few, it certainly makes the targets more obvious, don't you think?
Combine that with the news over the weekend that many firms are putting only some of the requirements for the jobs they have open into the requisitions or want ads. One employer was asked if they're looking for a "ten for ten" match, and they said "Fifteen for ten".
Color me cynical, but I would think that seeking the best possible person for the job would be good. Seeking the best possible person for the job that would intend to stick around for the long term would be better.
I, for example, have a fundamental flaw in my makeup. I'm more loyal than most dogs. You can whip and beat me, and I'll stick by you. I've proved it time and again by taking the worst possible projects for previous employers, and in at least three cases at one employer I was told "we expected you to fail so we could terminate you." I never did. Something about being stubborn, inventive, and persistent - and, apparently, likeable - which kept me there. That, and I liked many of the people there - still miss most of them.
But let's just say you're looking for a maintenance person. Would you hire the engineer who designed the building and it's internal systems, or would you hire the fellow who is least likely to jump ship on you as soon as something better comes along?
I'm the pragmatist, I guess. I'd go with the other fellow, the guy who would stay for fifteen, twenty years. Not because I want to mistreat the engineer, or anything - more because it takes a long time to learn complex jobs. I was still learning when I was laid off from the last job - I'll still be learning when I die.
But (he says, putting on his best "nearly an HR person" hat), there are statistics which I've read that show the average non-assembly-line job requires between 12-18 months before people are fully competent and up-to-speed with the job. Complex jobs require more time, obviously, and less complex jobs are less demanding.
When I worked in Time and Attendance, we judged the first six months of a new employee's tenure was a total loss. They might be effective and contribute from time to time, but for the most part, they would take time from you. The next six months were break-even. They'd do the work, but given the increasing complexity of their customers (we typically started them out easy, and pushed them up the complexity ladder until they fell off, then we found their level), they were still break-even at best - they'd use your time, and they'd be productive, but that was about it.
It was only in the next six months on the job that we could evaluate how effective a hire we had. They knew the job, they were often doing it on their own, and they could be counted on to get the solution from shrink-wrap to desktop without a whole lot of assistance. We always consulted one another on complex issues, and while I was there, we were breaking into the health care market, and along with incredibly complex union contracts, we had twenty-four hour operation, multiple periods within the same organization, and hundreds of other kinks in the system.
I'm proud to say that I kept going up the complexity ladder. I handled hospitals, I handled non-DOS hospitals when that was new, I handled complex manufacturing environments with multiple union contracts on AS/400s, and even situations where people used a Time & Attendance system to generate actual payroll (which we didn't recommend, for many reason I won't bore you with here).
But those days are gone. I've seen four openings at the local firm now implementing a stripped-down version of our old products, and applied for all of them. Not one callback.
It's disturbing, it's depressing, and it's demoralizing. But I don't have time to wallow in that, I've got to get moving forward and make things happen. Clearly, Mr. Bush & Company aren't looking out for the little guy. No one is. No one has, and no one ever does. That's the nature of the little guy. The little guy's got to get out there and fight for himself. So that, my friends, is what I'll be doing.
Math Weenie
I've long been fascinated by numbers and their relationships. That's why this site fascinates me.
Try setting the first Fixed Circle Radius to 64, the Moving circle radius to 8, and the moving circle offset to 32. Then reduce the Revolution in Radians (on the bottom) to zero. Then increase it.
Try messing around with the first three numbers in multiples of 3, 6, 9, and 12.
I'm such a geek.
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Wednesday, April 16, 2003 |
Update At 1030
Best Of Intentions
I had every intention of returning here last night to blather further at you, but clearly, events transpired. I would say "interesting" but I remember little of last evening. I would say "fascinating" but they clearly weren't. I'd call them "normal" but that wouldn't make them events worthy of note here, so I'll just stop now, while I'm seriously behind, and recall the first rule of holes. When you find yourself in one, stop digging. But keep the shovel.
Yesterday afternoon was sucked up, almost completely, with a cable modem bouncing up and down like a yo-yo, and getting the new cell phone to synchronize with the PC. "Piece of Cake" you say. Indeed, says I. But the tale of woe that accompanied that cake might make Marie Antoinette's look ... well, just about the same for you, but for me, I was ready for beheadings, myself.
It goes a little something like this - Yours truly did, initially, manage to install and sync on the first try. Thus, maintaining my credentials in the IDFNTRTFM (I Don't Fairly Need To Read The Fine Manual, or something like that) Club. However, in a complete and utter leave of my senses, I installed the Chappura (appropriately named firm, that - keep reading) PocketMirror software for Outlook.
But wait, you say, I don't use Outlook, I use Outlook Distress - er, EXpress. Indeed. But I had some ... rather faint hopes of going back to Outlook for management around here. And so I fired it up. And learned, right quick, why I didn't really like Outlook for home. The features that make it wonderful when working with Exchange (in a tightly-locked-down installation, I hasten to add) really are not apparent in "me home alone" mode. And I lose the ability to use one client to check two ISP boxes PLUS two Hotmail addresses. Well, that was not what I had in mind.
So, back to the twin-pack of OE and the "Kyocera SmartPhone Desktop Manager" - or, in other words, Palm Desktop. But wait, there's a problem. I can't get into Hotsync manager to configure it!
I'll spare you the blood and gore and other horrid details - as to "suffiecient details" I tell you I installed and reinstalled six times before the "AAAA-HA!" light went on. I also wiped out my address book on the phone, and later on the computer, despite having a backup.
SYMPTOMS: Synchronizing your Palm device doesn't work. Hotsync manager cannot find the port. You can't pull up Hotsync manager either through Palm Desktop nor through the icon on the toolbar. Occasionally (about one in seventy clicks) the toolbar icon will reward you with the menu, but it is non-functional.
SOLUTION: If you know the port your palm device is using (Com1, Com2, Com3), back up your palm data, remove, and reinstall the palm software, including the hotsync manager. DELIBERATELY pick the wrong port. Hotsync will then allow you to change the settings. Once you change to the appropriate port, you'll be able to change the other settings and access the Hotsync settings normally.
Painful, yes, but it's a learning experience. Now I know.
Following that (and a small bout of self-pity), there was the manic dash to the post office after retrieving my lovely bride from the bus stop, as she had not signed the tax paperwork, and I was under the misapprehension that the box at the P.O. would be emptied at 5:30 pm. Fortunately for us (and the two wonking idiots who managed to get into an accident, utterly blocking the only exit out of the post office parking lot at 5:28 PM on tax day), the pickup was 5:45 pm, and so Jack got to hang his head out the window and dump the taxes into the boxes. Somehow, that makes the pain of delivering that much money into the hands of the money wasters ... that much more painful, I suppose.
We came home, had dinner, and I talked a friend through a looming crises. In "crises" terms, for him, it's a big, life-changing deal. In real-world terms, it ain't much. My friend is trying to decide if he wants to change jobs. Problem is, he works for a family-owned firm. He's also a member of the family. Um. Yeah. Trade ya.
Then, when I contemplated coming down here to the computers, I noted a twin threat. First, the children were downstairs with the remote, and second, my wife had a TV show on that looked interesting. Besides, my favorite end of the couch was free. So I sat. Shortly thereafter, I had a large, warm head on my leg. And I napped. She slobbered. It was nice. So I guess it was an event of note. Heck, when I was told to get up and put kids to bed, I didn't want to move. The dog Would Not move. Have you tried standing up from a low couch with a 70-pound dog's head FIRMLY in your lap? I see a few of you nodding (yes, I picked up the magic looking glass at the Romper Room fire sale some years back, and adapted the protocols to the IP, what of it?), and the rest chuckling. That works for me.
This morning, however, dawned as a complete opposite to Monday's weather. Nineties on Monday, and today, we've got a cold, hard rain which has, rumor has it, the potential to turn into that other four-letter word starting in "S" as in Shit and ending in "ow" as in Ouch. Oh, there's also an "n" in there, as in "snit", which is what I shall have if it does. Snow, not shit, I mean.
As I've noted repeatedly to others, I've done my bit for the snow-needy this week - I took out the hoses and turned on the outside water to tempt the Haki Lunda Snow Gods in to one last furious fit of snow-making should they be so inclined. Because we all know what happens if the snow numbers do not balance. Aside from low soil moisture, low lake and river levels, and potential drought, we also have the horrible prospect of a winter like that of just a few years ago - Lots of snow, lots of cold, and a long, long winter.
Who am I kidding. They're all long, any more.
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Thursday, April 17, 2003 |
Update At 1430
Crappy, Thanks
I'm a bit under the weather. The causes vary - primarily, I think, it comes from being stretched in six different directions, then finding out that at least one is snapping. I'm certain it's not SARS, as this particular ailment seems to be confined to the food-processing centers. Yup. I'll spare ya.
Other than that, not much at all to see here. I've got to kick this today, because tomorrow the kids are off, Saturday is a "might go see the folks with the dog" thing, Sunday is, after all, Easter, and Monday the whole lot of 'em will be hanging around the house, confusing our schedules some more.
I'm off to see if another nap will kick this thing. I've got my doubts, of course, but we'll see what we can do.
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Friday, April 18, 2003 |
Update At 1400
And This Time, I Really Mean It...
Clearly, I've been out of it for the last couple days. Got things straightened around, a bit, both financially and health-wise. I'm still woozy, but awake and intelligent enough to remember to post this when I'm done typing it.
Stress and stomach flu make bad partners. Very, very bad partners. Unless, of course, I win the lottery, this ain't gonna change much. So it goes.
The best part of the last three days has been watching Daisy work a rawhide chew - aside, of course, from recovering and seeing more of my home than the bathrooms, the bedroom, and a bit around my desk. She'll hold it between her front paws like it's a lollypop or something, lick it a bit to soften it, then go to town on it. I never really realized until I took a close look at her mouth, but boy, I do not want her pissed at me. She's got big, nasty, pointy teeth</Pythonesque_Comment>.
Oh well. At least my third-grade math teacher would be proud. I finally know which is which when it comes to the "Greater Than" and "Less Than" symbols. I freely admit it comes from working in HTML, but you never can tell where knowledge comes in handy.
Now, as the children are off today, I'd best go see what's happened to the neighborhood. Last I heard they were playing "war". Rhiannon came in looking for something. She was a "communications specialist" because she had a whistle. Jack was a "data specialist". He had some sort of happy-meal-spy-kids toy.
I must have looked askance at "Communications Specialist" Rhiannon, for she said "Don't worry daddy, we don't kill anyone, we just capture them." Oh, I see. Sort of the Gulf War II, the home game, minus the air cover. Let's hope they don't figure the smallest kid in the neighborhood can be lashed to a kite and sent aloft in the 20+ mile-per-hour "breeze" we're getting. I don't want to have to explain a fifty foot fall to a doctor. Nor sponge up Superman from the pavement.
And this is from kids who haven't seen much of CNN. Good grief. Although I guess it makes sense. When I was a kid, none of us wanted to be plain old soldiers, either. We all wanted to be generals.
Update At 1830
For What It's Worth
I know business is difficult these days. It's also rare to find products that people really want. But, folks, I really gotta say, I don't give a flying purple fig for a new deck of cards with the Iraqi most-wanted on them. Heck, I really don't care. I'm not liable to run into any one of these malooks (except, possibly, the unidentified ones, but then, one assumes they'll be going by their "wanted" names, which is a bit niave, really, so there's not liable to be much use for the deck at all), and really don't care to have a deck of cards.
Will this cut down on the ten-an-hour "most wanted card deck" spams I've been getting? Most assuredly not. Too bad I can't make some money off these idiots. Something like "send me another one, and your mother will start putting arsenic in your oatmeal, you little punk."
I can dream, can't I?
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Saturday, April 19, 2003 |
Update At 2200
Houston, We Have A Problem...
Parents of young children will recognize this problem.
1. We have children.
2. We had a garden last year.
3. In the garden, bunnies ate most of the beans.
4. We recently got a dog.
5. Mom is excited, because Dogs will scare away bunnies.
Don't get ahead of me now, here...
6. Children are awaiting the arrival of the Easter Bunny.
7. Easter Bunny is, we have firmly established (by other than I, apparently) a bunny.
8. Bunnies are scared by dogs....
Ergo
9. Houston, we have a problem.
Previously, this issue was resolved through the simple expedient of e-mail. Such as the Tooth Fairy, who was, earlier last month, grounded due to the war in Iraq for a few days. Hey, it worked until she could deliver the Sacajewa dollars that are pre-ordained for teeth in our household.
The Easter Bunny, though, through some weird funky vibe, doesn't like e-mail. I've no idea who established this, but someone said "Easter bunny can't have e-mail. No electricity in the garden!" Right. Logic at work...
This ought to be good. I'm thinking Daisy is old friends with Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and all other good fairies in existence. Could be a heck of a lot cheaper if she wasn't, but I'd really rather not lose a limb when the children gnaw on that instead of ... oh, say, I dunno, chocolate?
Other than that, not a whole heck of a lot to comment on today. Through careful measurement, and the use of the good old Mark Ia Human Eyeball, I managed to get the door "top" done, and done well enough to impress me. Not difficult, I know, but hey, it looked good. Did some cleaning, some planning, and some just plain work.
And, of course, it rained most of the day. As it will tomorrow. Can't really complain, we need the rain, but they could have scheduled it for a shorter weekend than this one... So it goes.
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Sunday, April 20, 2003 |
Update At 1545
The Bunny Survived...
We arose this morning not to a room full of shredded rabbit, but "oh, shit, it's after eight!" Ah. This is the problem with clocks that repeat the numbers, rather than just run from 0 to 23, and then start over again. Leetle tiny dot in the corner of the display notes "alarm on". Other leetle tiny dot notes "Post-Meridian". Guess which one is which? Well, not the order I thought they were.
In my defense, I have no defense. I set the clock at 2:42 am this morning, but that's of little consequence.
Be that as it may, we managed to get to church, into a pew, and within viewing AND hearing distance of my daughter as she whanged the hand bells for the opening tune. Only problem with Easter music (and I need to be careful, because a number of family friends and acquaintances were involved this morning) is that it's rather difficult to "rock out" to church music on Easter.
And then, he said, in full Bill Cosby voice, they went and hosed up yet another church tune. If you've ever heard old Bill Cosby routines (back when Standup comedians did albums, not just HBO specials), there's one where he talks about loving to go to church and throw his head back and get INTO the music. Yes, indeed.
And it only takes once for some frustrated, constipated, irritated, rejected, self-described musical genius to get it into their heads that it would be better if we changed this word from "more" to "now" to make more sense. So you through your head back, and sing "for everrrrrrrr... MORghNooooooowwwwww".
Yup. Except in this case, someone took the long-known text of "Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring" and hosed it up by putting instead in it's place a verse from Corinthians.
The problem with church music isn't that it's crap - the problem is that the melodies are literally a hundred years or more old, and the words change so damned often I don't even bother to sing any more. Aside from the fact that my acquaintance with "key" is but a passing one, and hitting and maintaining sustained notes is something I understand in the abstract, but in practice, I'm much better hitting a basket from half-court (and I've done that once in my life, which should give you an idea of how good I can sing), I could always pride myself on at least knowing the dog-gone lyrics.
Never mor---now, though. Pez-heads.
And before you take me to task regarding my description of the individual who screws with the time-honored lyrics, might I just add as an aside that most of the music in the missalettes my father's employer turned out over the years went through his typewriter (as he owned a real-live honest-to-God "Music Typewriter" for many years), and there would be the occasional mutter as yet another lyric went through the "whack it into the modern language era" methods preferred by the music coordinator for the publication.
Further comment will be withheld, because I'm trying to be a good boy. Which is hard, considering that for about the last week, we've traded in the deep blue springtime skies for the new local standard of flat, dull gray. Last night I stood on the back deck in 50-degree weather, and could still see my breath. I couldn't very well see the street light clearly, but I had a pretty good idea of the general direction, given the big orange blob across the street from us. The weather-folk guess we'll see sunlight about mid-day tomorrow (which translates to "a peek before sunset" and that's about it.
Update At 2315
What Was That I Said About An Early Bedtime?
Yeah.
We talked to some friends this morning after church who said "let's do dessert." Okay. Sounded like a wonderful idea at the time. Then, of course, the "I need a nap" thing kicked in. I crashed on the couch for almost a full half-hour before someone came down, sat on my chest, pried open an eyelid (removing my glasses to do so), and inquired sweetly "Daddy? Why do you sound like a truck?"
Or something like that. I can't quite express it clearly, as I was clearly not clear. Incoherent might be a good description of what I was, but that word would have come out as "Ickmugphnrzxx". Or something like that. My spelling may, obviously, be off.
So, we got up, got moving, and headed over to visit their new German Shepherd (shorthair, and a nice girl, but couldn't hold a candle to our Daisy), and enjoyed adult conversation and dessert. And discovered, much to my very great surprise, that if I had married Girlfriend #3, as I had at one time intended, we may well have been related in some form or other. Whodathunk that one up. Of course, she showed a card showing some other relatives' names, and it so happens that my godmother bears the same last name through marriage that one of our friend's ancestors does.
It's a small world, all right.
Though every time I'm tempted to bemoan that sad fact, along with the fact that I'm from a county that has a higher rate of ... well, inter-relation than anywhere else in the country (above the Mason-Dixon line, that is), I hear about new like that which happened last week in the nearby suburb of Hastings.
Hastings, apparently named for the British town of some reknown for battles fought nearby, is putting their best feet forward in attempt to show that historical blunders aren't limited to English countryside some thousand years ago.
Some years back, a Hastings teen was electrocuted when, if memory serves, someone noted that he had passed out from over-consumption of alcohol, and attempted to revive him. Said revival consisted of connecting the bare portions of two wires to delicate squishy portions of the young man's anatomy, and then flicking a switch, which thus engaged the full voltage of the AC electrical system to this poor fellow's delicates.
Suffice it to say that when the young man was found with a smoking crotch (and not much of that left, at that), the subsequent inquiry showed a fair number of this young man's associates lacked even a limited understanding of basic electrical theory. Basic electrical theory in this particular case being limited to two simple rules - ONE - Electricity Kills, and TWO - The human body makes an excellent conductor.
Not to be outdone, Hastings' more recent prime specimens of intelligence and inspiration took some from an MTV television show called "Jackass". Having, apparently, lived much of my life under an MTV-disabled rock, it now seems that this television show engages in ... well, dumb-shit stunts, which apparently inspires children of low IQ and lower sanity levels than most to replicate. Said stunts, when performed on television, are done by professionals (what a life, eh? "Honey, what did you do today?" "Well, I set myself on fire, leapt over a speeding car, then after lunch, I jumped out of an airplane without a parachute, hoping to land in a vat of water about the size of a twin bed." "Really? How'd it go?" "Well, I'm two out of three..." Right), with full safety precautions taken. Except, of course, for the filming.
Seems the recent claimants to the title of "Hastings Village Idiot" have been setting themselves on fire for a lark. First time (pre-filming) the fellow used lighter fluid, which evaporates quickly. Hmmm. There's a good plan, that. Surviving once, this fellow apparently mistook divine protection and the greatest of miracles for encouragement to continue, and did so... But the second time, the fellow decided that Mineral Spirits were just the ticket.
Yep, that's right. Slower to evaporate, for starters, and that's really about all you need - because this kid managed to really fry.
Apparently, my sheltered rural upbringing has led me to not appreciate the finer points of life, such as the ability to self-barbecue. Gee. I've heard of self-basting turkeys, I just never thought I'd run into a self-lighting one.
And, as per the usual media "restraint" the entire story is told, sans the name of the idiotvictim and his family. Because, of course, the idiotvictim is feeling quite foolish for his mistake.
Yeah, and with 65% of his body burned, I hope he's feeling a lot more than remorse. As usual, what really concerns me is the fundamental issue of intelligence, and my greatest fear - that this nutball will, over time, recover, go on to lead a productive life, and, through some horrible, terrible, misguided accident of genetic freakhood, manage to reproduce. There are cases, like this one, where the doctors should be allowed to perform a few extra steps during surgery, and tell the fellow and his family "in the interests of decreasing everyone's medical costs, this particular genetic line is now a dead end. Trust us on this one, you really don't want to go any further down that road. You think it's bad now, just wait to see what happens next..."
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P. Dominik. All rights reserved. No reproduction without express
written permission. Opinions expressed herein are my own, and my fault. For further information, check out my other home page.