Cross Nebraska off list of vacation destinations

An article found in The Seattle Times

... The two-day event, which drew about 100,000 people last year, features live music, an art-car show, skateboard demonstrations and the famous Solstice Parade, with dozens of naked bicyclists leading the way.

It is a carnival of creative expression, with humans dressing up as animals, and animals dressing up as humans. Shortly after 11 a.m., a naked man jogged through the art-car show, his fake tail flapping in the wind. A few minutes later, a dachshund wandered down that same path in pink chaps and a pink cowboy hat.

Chris Gilbert, 20, stood by the sidelines of the parade route in a tuxedo-styled thong, the tails covering his rear end. He had flames painted all over his body. He only recently moved to the state, and it was his first time at the Fremont Fair.

"Just had to get out of Nebraska," he said. ...

I wonder how the dachshund would go over in Nebraska.

I could have bought a goat instead

A funny thing happened while I was making numerous trips around the yard, meandering behind my smart-bomb-proof lawnmower...

In my effort to be a good neighbor to both the people around me and the planet, I bought a reel lawnmower. You know, one of those featureless gadgets that will keep the socially acceptable weeds known as "grass" cut to a reasonable height. Using this mower is my somewhat muted statement against the vicious cycle of suburbia wherein the players try to keep up with each other. The second reason is that there are only so many decayed dinosaurs to go around and why should I burn a few just to keep a lawn I don't really care about looking good for people whose opinion about my yard I really don't want? This thing does a fine job and nothing I've run over yet has stopped it from working.

So there I was, iPod on, sunglasses on, reel mower only on when moving when Ima Budinski comes strolling over. This woman is a true gem. She complains about everyone else's business on the block to the city so much they know her voice at the other end of the phone. Oh, joy. What does she want?

While checking out my yard under the guise of being friendly, she offered me the use of her electric mower until I could get a real one. I said I had a reel one and then realized that homophones don't make good audio jokes.

Well, pushing this mower keeps me from having to find additional time for exercise so I'd better get to it. Last time I checked, mowing the lawn burns more calories than typing about mowing the lawn.

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Addendum to this post: Aaron McGruder, the brains behind Boondocks, said it best when he put these words in Huey's mouth: Plus lawnmowing feels like one of those pointless societal distractions that keep us from focusing on matters of actual importance.

Don't Let Me Touch That, Part I

Just when you thought this space had become a bit static, I've returned. All I can say regarding my hiatus from my digital duties is: did I just sleep through July?

The thought for today is : Don't let me touch that.
You see, I seem to have gained a certain talent for component deconstruction and the randomization of digital bits. In an effort to keep you coming back for more, this drama shall be presented in numerous parts. Now that I've returned, I want you to keep coming back, 'k?

Scenario: there are four computers in the house all trying to print via two printers, neither of which is networkable. The fact that three of the four computers are Macs makes this process easy. The fact that the remaining computer is a PC is something I don't like to admit. My only excuse is that I do not have to soil myself by touching it very often. In fact, I only had to touch it in order to figure out how to get it to print via the network. In order for the PC interloper to play nice on the network, all the Macs must be running Tiger, the latest OS. This was not a problem for the G5, named Nirvana, or the G3 laptop, named Whitey. However, the G3 iMac, named Fruitcup, resisted accepting Tiger with every little silicon chip on its motherboard. Stop shaking your head; you know you name your stuff.

To get the Tiger OS on Fruitcup proved to be a bit of a challenge, since the OS comes on DVDs and not on CDs and Fruitcup can only read CDs. Many methods did not work. I began to think that Fruitcup had to be, er, cored and the hardrive erased back to what it was like when it rolled out of the assembly womb. In an attempt to avoid this time-consuming task, I ran a third-party application which I shall not name because it is not the creators' fault that I am an idiot.

Using this software required linking Fruitcup to Nirvana and running the program on Nirvana to tweak the innards of Fruitcup. When I restarted Nirvana like I thought I was supposed to, I saw the Mac equivalent of hari kari: the system folder with a flashing question mark. As if that was not bad enough, the beautiful blue background then went to black and green letters appeared as Nirvana's alter-ego came to the surface and asked "Do you want to play a game?" ala the WOPR computer in Wargames (1983, Matthew Broderick). Actually, what flashed on the screen was:

Still waiting for root device...

Oh, I had pulled a whopper, alright. I felt my skeletal system begin to fail. My understanding of programming does not compare to my skillz in navigating a GUI interface and I knew that questions about the root are not ones I want to ask. I had done something very very very bad to Nirvana and I wasn't sure if we would ever be on speaking terms again. While I rebooted and disconnected and wiped the sweat from my brow, I began to compose the script I would use with the helpful AppleCare customer service person whose lunch of naan and rice I would be interrupting with a panicked phone call. "What was I doing? Well, that's kind of a funny question. See, I was trying to install a second copy of the OS for which I only have one user license onto a computer that Apple does not support installing it on by using a third-party shareware program I didn't pay for. Yeah, it's a real side-splitter, ain't it?"

Needless to say, I was putting off the phonecall while I tinkered around a bit. As bad as things seemed it's still a Mac, right? Right! A few days later, all is well. Like all good Mac-doobies eventually do, I zapped the PRAM (I don't know what that means but I can do it) and trashed all the files associated with the Application of Doom. A little more first aid on Nirvana and we're humming along again.

Pun, with fruit

Have you had enough?!? Can't take it anymore?!? Well I for one am right behind these guys ... The Grapes of Wrath




Check out more photos. These guys can be found under the Challenges: Literary Adventure category.

Check out the art

Hey Amelia! This guy works in DC. You ever see his outdoor art in your big city wanderings? Check out his site for more cool photos from around Virginia and Baltimore, as well as DC. I particularly like the one below—which is made from packing tape—and the walker locked to the street sign like a bike. That's hilarious!

If this is a joke, where's the punchline?

It is rare that fiction becomes real. For instance, please enjoy the following joke and then compare it to the bit of reality it aligns with:

A man standing in line at a check out counter of a grocery store was very surprised when a very attractive woman behind him said, "Hello!" Her face was beaming. He gave her that "who are you look," and couldn't remember ever having seen her before. Then, noticing his look, she figured she had made a mistake and apologized. "Look," she said, "I'm really sorry but when I first saw you, I thought you were the father of one of my children," and walked out of the store.

The guy was dumbfounded and thought to himself, "What the hell is the world coming to? Here is an attractive woman who can't keep track of who fathers her children!"

Then he got a little panicky. "I don't remember her," he thought but, maybe ... during one of the wild parties in college, perhaps he did father her child!

He ran from the store and caught her in the parking lot and asked, "Are you the girl I met at a party in college and we got really drunk and had wild crazy sex on the pool table in front of everyone?"

"No," she said with a horrified look on her face. "I'm your son's second grade teacher."

And now for a dose of reality. While reading a recent edition of the paper, I was skimming the pages to see if the stories might actually be interesting even though the headlines were not. Near the end of one story, a paragraph began with:

"The fathers of a lot of my children are in Iraq," she said. "So it's especially nice to have Mister Rogers."

I just about bust a gut and then I read the paragraph above that quote: " ... and C____ , a first-grade teacher at Fort L_____ , watches [Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood] with her students."

A tale of two service automotons

What follows is true, only the names have been changed to protect the identities of the victims and their families, even though we laughed with them long after the events occurred and the frustration dissipated.

In this age of circuitous touch-tone phone options all designed to keep consumers from talking to a real live carbon-unit and humanoid-type automotons trained to keep you talking in circles until you surrender your dignity and hang up the phone, we bring you these stories of success!! Not tall tales of Davids slaying Goliaths but real accounts of John and Jane Does going toe-to-toe with The Man and emerging victorious. For those of you just looking to avoid corporate phone mazes, check out the Gethuman Database.


Account One: Keep asking the question

While planning a trip to Europe for two adults and their two children, our heroine whom we'll call Heroine, bought the airline tickets online. The price included a $50 discount per child. However, when the bill arrived, the discount was not there. A phone call to the airline ensued. Because ticket prices change more often than some people's socks, the airline drone was unable to find the online deal that matched the discounted price. A battle of wills ensued. Heroine was not going away until the $50 x 2 was refunded and the drone had entered the default programming loop that would normally wear down the ripped-off customer until he or she hangs up.

Heroine handed the phone off to Mr. Heroine who had a very simple and affective strategy: ask one question over and over.
Mr. H: I would like to speak to your supervisor.
Drone: That's not possible.
Mr. H: Oh, are you the CEO?

As Mr. Heroine slowly navigated his way up the food chain, Heroine went online and found the Board of Directors for the airline. She then whipped off an email to one of the board members explaining very calmly and completely the situation and still-ongoing lack of resolution. Before the electrons from the message had even cooled, Heroine's cell phone rang. The board member on the other end of the line said she would take care of the problem and the discounted prices would be honored.

Take that, customer service drone!


Account Two: Dial 'S' for Someone Important

Our heroine, whom we'll call College Mom, purchased a small fridge for her college-bound offspring's dorm room. It was a well-known name brand and included the feature that the door could be hinged on either side to open from either left-to-right or right-to-left. This design hinges on, no pun intended, a small plastic piece that was missing from the box or broken (the author apologizes for blurry facts). A call to the fridge manufacturer ensued, as you knew it would.

Pseudo-resolution: "We'll take care of that right away," said the drone. After sending in copies of the receipt, the UPC from the box, the serial number of the fridge, and tidal charts from the day it was purchased, a replacement part was sent—for a different model! When College Mom called the company again, she was told a part could not be sent out because a part was already sent once before.

Because a fridge to match the part was not forthcoming, College Mom decided to talk to someone who actually had some power: the president of the company. Now, his number was not out there for just any joe-schmoe to call but she realized it had to be in the company phone maze somewhere, right? So, she called the company back and when the computer suggested that she could type in the letters of the name of whom she wanted to reach, she started spelling out common names. After a few tries of Jones and White and Smith, a very helpful voice responded...

Helpful Voice: Yes, this is _________ .
College Mom: Oh, I'm sorry. I was trying to reach the president.
HV: Oh, just a moment. I'll put you right through.
pause
pause
President: This is Bob. (not really named Bob)
CM: Are you really the president?
Bob: Yes, ma'am.

She then told her whole story and concluded with something along the lines of: The part must only cost like 25-cents.
Bob: Actually, it only costs 2-cents.

Needless to say, she got her part.

It should not have to be so hard.

Two categories

All the objects in the entire world can be divided into two distinct categories. You doubt me? I'm not talking about people and will therefore avoid political (liberal vs conservative), racial (white versus everybody else) and social (men vs women, rich vs poor) discussions. No, my division is practical. Let me begin again...

The entire world can be divided into two categories:
1) Things that CAN contain the used kitty litter for transport to the curb, and
2) Things that definitely can NOT

Used milk cartons: Can
Shoeboxes: Can, but not without the accompanying guilt over not recycling the cardboard
The ubiquitous plastic grocery bag: Can
Weekly postcard of pizza coupons: Not
Dirty laundry: Can, but do you ever want to wear the clothes again? If so, Not
Newspaper: Can, with or without creative origamical folding
Dirty dishes: Not, not, not, not, not
Cereal boxes: see shoeboxes above

You may be wondering how this question even came to be asked. Well, as you can imagine, when you have four indoor feline furballs who spend most of their time converting food into used food, the question is bound to come up sooner or later. Not long ago, the house was awash in plastic grocery bags, the default collection device. They were everywhere: in the cupboards, in the pantry, under the furniture, on top of the fridge, in the closets, on the bookshelves (behind both the comic books and the graduate school math texts), and—last but not least—spilling out of their special cloth holding tube hanging on the wall above Used Food Depository #1.

As it happens, time passes. During said time, my shopping habits changed. I began to buy less at the grocery and more at the farmer's market and organic/health food store. Neither of these places readily hands out plastic bags, they use paper instead. These bags leave the house as fast as they come in, albeit stuffed to bursting with newspapers. Since the food conversion habits of the furballs did not change, the plastic bag population slowly decreased until they were completely eradicated. I was finally forced to ask the question and get creative. Disaster was averted with some clever topological solutions. That is, I found containers where none were seen before and I got through until the supply of bags could be replenished.

Bikes, Birds, and (silent) Beeps

Finally got off my tukus today and did something that did not involve cleaning out either the fridge or a litterbox. I pumped up the bike tires and hit the trail for a little exercise. It was a fantastic follow-up to a leisurely morning spent over coffee and the Sunday paper. It was great to be outside in the sun, listening to the surf, feeling the breeze.

By golly, being outside almost killed me.

I swear the eagle that was cruising directly overhead for a bit was eyeing me up as a snack for its young. Your thighs, madam homo sapien, are an excellent source of the RDA for proteins and fats—particularly the fats. I am thankful that I could keep the bike moving briskly enough that the bird moved on to another item on the buffet.

This is the first time I have ever seen an eagle. It was quite amazing. I am a bit distressed that I am nearing 40 trips around the sun and this was the first time I'd ever seen one. On the other hand, let's hear it for environmental legislation that seems to have worked; the birds survived decades of poison in the food chain and soft shells.

A somewhat amusing sidelight to the exercise event: I was on a well-marked, often paved, constantly maintained path—and I took my GPS unit with me! What is it about this gadget that is so enthralling? I was never more than 5 miles from home and yet I needed to have satellites incessantly confirm my location. Somehow being able to say "I trekked from N48° W123° to some other equally obscure location" sounds more impressive than "I rode my bike for an hour and almost passed out from the exertion."

Sunday Morning CEO

Sunday's paper had an interesting article on the only two CEOs of major U.S. public companies who also happened to be married to each other. Stephen Reynolds is the head of the utility holding company Puget Energy. Paula Reynolds is the head poobah at Safeco. After reading the article, I still am not entirely sure what it is that Safeco does—manufacturing? insurance? investing? publishing? nothing?—but I do know that it is one of only eight of the nation's 500 largest companies with a woman at the helm.

Ms. Reynolds is not yet 50 and this is at least the second CEO position she's held. As I was reading the story, Tom Lehrer's voice was loud in my head: "It's people like [her] that make you realize how little you've accomplished. It is a sobering thought," Lehrer continues, "that when Mozart was my age, he'd been dead for two years."

Ms. Reynolds made, possibly even earned, a salary of $2 x 10^6 last year. Her work hours do not follow the clock so much as they ignore the calendar. There are evening and weekend commitments. Meetings ad infinitum. Stadiums whose naming rights need to be bought. Deals to be done and decisions to be made and the position of the hands on the chronograph are irrelevant. These things need to be done when they need to be done. Since the article was spun from the angle of the married couple, the focus was on how they make the relationship work. I got tired just reading the article.

And I thought about my own schedule. It is Sunday and today began as it does every week: with a conscious disregard for all timepieces. When I finally decided to open my eyes, I read my sci-fi book. I then moved with the swiftness of a sloth to shower, reclaim the countertop from the ever-growing collection of dirty dishes, fetch coffee and juice and a NY Times and plant my bottom in the sunniest room in the house to read about other people who do more in a day than I plan to accomplish in a year. Monday through Friday, my days are not my own, seeing as I have a job. When the weekend rolls around, I am dizzy with the freedom from any dictated requirements. I have wasted more Saturdays thinking about how I could possible put the time to use rather than actually using the time to do something enjoyable, creative, relaxing, world-changing, etc.

She is a driven CEO and I am so clearly not. Needless to say, while I was deepening the pattern of the butt-groove in my comfie chair, I was feeling somehow less worthy and wondering what I should change in order to make more of my day—short of getting up from the chair, of course. Ms. Reynolds deals with a different issue altogether: she has tasks into her day that serve to keep her grounded. She does all the housework, cooking and grocery shopping herself!! To stay grounded!

Well, comparatively speaking, since I had already done the dishes, made myself a bowl of cereal and bought bananas this morning, our To-Do Lists were virtually the same. It turns out we're not so different after all.