Less than two months ago, my father was diagnosed with colon cancer. Today, I got the phone call that he had checked out as cancer free and was looking at a long life phoning me up to ask questions about his computer.
Less than two months.
I know cancer is the biggest, scariest word any family can hear these days. But it doesn't have to be. My father lives an active life that includes a good diet. He knows his body pretty well. And as soon as he detected something unusual in his day to day life, he went and got himself checked up. That's despite being completely scoped out not that long ago. When he got the diagnosis just before Christmas, various family members reacted various ways. The least concerned amongst us was Dad, himself, and me. I KNEW he had had the ugly growth detected early. And colon cancer is a very survivable cancer for those that get it.
So unconcerned about the whole thing was Pops, that he slept in on the day of his operation. If he was unconcerned, I wasn't going to go against his confidence.
He had good doctors, both diagnosing and operating. The best in the province in the latter case. As I understand it, two growths were removed. MRI's and other tests done last Thursday showed a complete lack of cancer cells. The doctors tell him there is better than an 85 per cent chance the particular cancer will not come back.
My mother is now free to kick him in the butt for just cause. Won't be long before he affords her with the cause. In other words, things will be back to normal down at the lake where the Eastern branch of the Clan Mugford resides.
All because Dad got checked out. I truly appreciate his efforts in doing so. It saved the whole family from so much pain and remorse. I hope you and your family never even have to go through even two months of uncertainty. All your loved ones of an advancing age should get colonoscopies. They are life and lifestyle saving.
NOTE: Yes, my flu's gone and the doctor is setting up a second shot at my own. In March, as I understand it. It's to be done around the March Madness schedule that has me glued to the tube anyway.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
COMPUTERS: Zoho, Google Alternatives to Office
Just before Christmas, my parents' computer crashed. Thanks to CrossLoop, I managed to get them up and running rather quickly. The one casualty of the whole affair was a trashed copy of Microsoft Office on their computer. And they couldn't find the install disk.
So, I installed Open Office and weathered the complaints that it was different. And slower. And, did I mention, it was different. Though I've had the time, and discovered the missing disk, the fact is that they are still using Open Office. Just for writing documents. Nothing else. And it suffices for that.
If Mom and Pops were just a LITTLE more ambitious, I think I might have gone down a different route. Open Office is perfectly fine for a power user who needs just short of actual Microsoft Office power. There's also some formatting issues if you share your files with an actual MS Office user. But it's mature enough to meet a solo worker's office needs now.
On the other hand, both MS Office and Open Office are complex behemoths at this point in their development cycle. Sometimes simpler is better. Readers, I present you with Google Docs and Zoho.
Google Docs has a couple of things going for it. It's free. Google itself is a pretty nice parent to have, and it's been out there being beta-tested for a long time. For what it's supposed to do, word processing, spreadsheeting and making presentations, it does pretty well. The downside is that you have to have an existing gmail account to get access. Those aren't exactly as rare as Toronto Maple Leaf wins, but a bit nettlesome to get. If you DO have one, click on the More|Documents choices from the top menu and you are in.
The new fair-haired child on the market can be found at www.zoho.com.
I like Zoho's ability to be simple enough for senior citizens. How does Jerry Pournelle put it? 'Aunt Minnie's Office.' The full panoply of potential jobs you might want from an Office app is right there on the opening page. You do have to set up an account, WITH a password, but it's free for the most part. And that password thing lets other collaborate with you in a more interactive way than just passing email or instant messages back and forth. I could really see two writers writing a book, much like Pournelle does with Larry Niven, using a Zoho account. (Hear that Brian Jamieson?)
Frankly, Zoho limits choices and features and that is probably exactly what 75 per cent of Word users need. A lesser amount need spreadsheet limitations, but it's still a sizable lot. Not the least of these limitations, is a reduced font list to pick from. That's a wonderful thing.
Do I use Zoho for anything myself. Nope. I have the experience and a variety of publishing needs that prevent me from limiting myself. But if the parental units had NOT taken the time to learn a little bit about Word, Zoho would have been a good alternative. Maybe even a better alternative.
There are, of course, some flies in the ointment. It's a web service, so it isn't blazing quick all the time. Reasonable, though. And, if your internet is down (happens to Bell Sympatico more often than I would like, but Mom and Dad can't get cable internet just now), you can't write that grocery list, other than by hand. Perish the thought! Security is not much of an issue, but it's an issue to some people. Obviously, sharing material back and forth with desktops works less well than the Zoho people would like you to believe it does. But it's not much different than the interplay between Open Office and MS Office.
On the other hand, it's free and accessible any time you can get onto the internet from a computer. Doesn't have to be your own computer.
Give it a look.
So, I installed Open Office and weathered the complaints that it was different. And slower. And, did I mention, it was different. Though I've had the time, and discovered the missing disk, the fact is that they are still using Open Office. Just for writing documents. Nothing else. And it suffices for that.
If Mom and Pops were just a LITTLE more ambitious, I think I might have gone down a different route. Open Office is perfectly fine for a power user who needs just short of actual Microsoft Office power. There's also some formatting issues if you share your files with an actual MS Office user. But it's mature enough to meet a solo worker's office needs now.
On the other hand, both MS Office and Open Office are complex behemoths at this point in their development cycle. Sometimes simpler is better. Readers, I present you with Google Docs and Zoho.
Google Docs has a couple of things going for it. It's free. Google itself is a pretty nice parent to have, and it's been out there being beta-tested for a long time. For what it's supposed to do, word processing, spreadsheeting and making presentations, it does pretty well. The downside is that you have to have an existing gmail account to get access. Those aren't exactly as rare as Toronto Maple Leaf wins, but a bit nettlesome to get. If you DO have one, click on the More|Documents choices from the top menu and you are in.
The new fair-haired child on the market can be found at www.zoho.com.
I like Zoho's ability to be simple enough for senior citizens. How does Jerry Pournelle put it? 'Aunt Minnie's Office.' The full panoply of potential jobs you might want from an Office app is right there on the opening page. You do have to set up an account, WITH a password, but it's free for the most part. And that password thing lets other collaborate with you in a more interactive way than just passing email or instant messages back and forth. I could really see two writers writing a book, much like Pournelle does with Larry Niven, using a Zoho account. (Hear that Brian Jamieson?)
Frankly, Zoho limits choices and features and that is probably exactly what 75 per cent of Word users need. A lesser amount need spreadsheet limitations, but it's still a sizable lot. Not the least of these limitations, is a reduced font list to pick from. That's a wonderful thing.
Do I use Zoho for anything myself. Nope. I have the experience and a variety of publishing needs that prevent me from limiting myself. But if the parental units had NOT taken the time to learn a little bit about Word, Zoho would have been a good alternative. Maybe even a better alternative.
There are, of course, some flies in the ointment. It's a web service, so it isn't blazing quick all the time. Reasonable, though. And, if your internet is down (happens to Bell Sympatico more often than I would like, but Mom and Dad can't get cable internet just now), you can't write that grocery list, other than by hand. Perish the thought! Security is not much of an issue, but it's an issue to some people. Obviously, sharing material back and forth with desktops works less well than the Zoho people would like you to believe it does. But it's not much different than the interplay between Open Office and MS Office.
On the other hand, it's free and accessible any time you can get onto the internet from a computer. Doesn't have to be your own computer.
Give it a look.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
TV: Friday Night Lights Finale?
If Friday night's episode of Friday Night Lights is the last we will ever see, thanks to the writers' work stoppage, then it ended peacefully. But it would be disappointing if NBC didn't give the sophomore drama another chance.
It's a sports-related drama and that's poison for the folks who see a pigskin and immediately switch to ... well whatever. It's a high school drama and that sends a whole different segment of viewers scrambling for the remote control. And there's no laugh track, which means other potential watchers can't follow the action.
But it does have a really believable family dynamic in the Taylor family, with Kyle Chandler as the Coach and Connie Britton as his wife, Tammi. Britton is aging just fine thank you very much. She's the new Suzanne Pleshette, sexy until the day she passed last month. The putative sex object in the family is the daughter, Julie, played with pout-lipped bitchiness by Aimee Teegarden. Personally, she comes off more like a petulant whiner to me, but that's fitting with several of the teen-age girls in my extended family.
SIDEBAR HERE: I have a lot of faults, many of which have been described in earlier posts. Let me add a new one. I don't think babies are beautiful. Since I've never had one of my own, I can still think and see clearly. Most babies are merely okay. Some are butt ugly. I apologize to the real family of the little baby that plays Gracie Bell on this show. But that is an ugly baby. She'll probably grow up into a beautiful lady, but right now, UGLEEEE! I am sorry I have offended you, but it needed saying. END OF SIDEBAR.
The other family dynamic in the show is the football team. This year, the focus has been split four ways, with Landry Clarke (Jesse Plemons), Tim Riggins (Taylor Kitsch), Matt Saracen (Zach Gilford) and Brian 'Smash' Williams (Gaius Charles) all getting spotlight time.
Clarke's story is the most unbelievable of the bunch, what with him killing a (bad) man in the defence of the fair Tyra (Adrianne Palicki). He eventually ends up with Tyra, and geeks everywhere rejoice. Clarke's transformation from football-hating sideliner to touchdown-scoring hero doesn't ring true, nor does Tyra's seeing the light that it's what's on the inside that counts. But any screen time for Palicki is time well spent. She actually has facial expressions, exceptional in a young actress.
Riggins was last year's screw-up, who bedded every available woman in Dillon, Texas. And he proved a key component in the teams' success. This year, he's still a screw-up, but has kept the catting around to small numbers in an attempt to win back the heart of a last year conquest, the uber-religious Lyla Garrity (Minka Kelly). Don't know how Riggins can booze, drive a pickup and attend school on a whim ... and stay active on the football team, but he does. This is the most uninteresting story in the lot.
Saracen was the focus last year. The seldom-used, shy backup with familial problems, Saracen blossomed like a peacock at the right time and quarterbacked the Dillon Panthers to a state title. Fame and fortune should have ensued. The nice little relationship with Julie Taylor should have become a life-long love story. None of that happened and Saracen ended up with the Riggins role of last year, scoring more chicks than touchdowns. Basically, a throwaway story this year.
The Smash Williams story is the arc that finished the season, and maybe the series. Charles' powerful performance for the self-involved Williams was the most watchable thing in the end. Brought back to earth doing the 'Right' thing while doing the wrong thing, Williams keeps on falling right into a dark hole. His sense of invulnerability is obliterated, leaving him crying on his bed. You feel for the guy.
Friday Night Lights was good TV, better last year than this. It deserves renewal. It's doubtful that it will get it. Co-creator Peter Berg was on this show. It was almost a tacit admission that this was it. Several threads were left open, not the least of which was paraplegic Jason Street (Scott Porter) and his possible impending fatherhood. But the rest of the stories were all at a point where regular viewers could create their own story continuations. It was a good stopping point.
It's a sports-related drama and that's poison for the folks who see a pigskin and immediately switch to ... well whatever. It's a high school drama and that sends a whole different segment of viewers scrambling for the remote control. And there's no laugh track, which means other potential watchers can't follow the action.
But it does have a really believable family dynamic in the Taylor family, with Kyle Chandler as the Coach and Connie Britton as his wife, Tammi. Britton is aging just fine thank you very much. She's the new Suzanne Pleshette, sexy until the day she passed last month. The putative sex object in the family is the daughter, Julie, played with pout-lipped bitchiness by Aimee Teegarden. Personally, she comes off more like a petulant whiner to me, but that's fitting with several of the teen-age girls in my extended family.
SIDEBAR HERE: I have a lot of faults, many of which have been described in earlier posts. Let me add a new one. I don't think babies are beautiful. Since I've never had one of my own, I can still think and see clearly. Most babies are merely okay. Some are butt ugly. I apologize to the real family of the little baby that plays Gracie Bell on this show. But that is an ugly baby. She'll probably grow up into a beautiful lady, but right now, UGLEEEE! I am sorry I have offended you, but it needed saying. END OF SIDEBAR.
The other family dynamic in the show is the football team. This year, the focus has been split four ways, with Landry Clarke (Jesse Plemons), Tim Riggins (Taylor Kitsch), Matt Saracen (Zach Gilford) and Brian 'Smash' Williams (Gaius Charles) all getting spotlight time.
Clarke's story is the most unbelievable of the bunch, what with him killing a (bad) man in the defence of the fair Tyra (Adrianne Palicki). He eventually ends up with Tyra, and geeks everywhere rejoice. Clarke's transformation from football-hating sideliner to touchdown-scoring hero doesn't ring true, nor does Tyra's seeing the light that it's what's on the inside that counts. But any screen time for Palicki is time well spent. She actually has facial expressions, exceptional in a young actress.
Riggins was last year's screw-up, who bedded every available woman in Dillon, Texas. And he proved a key component in the teams' success. This year, he's still a screw-up, but has kept the catting around to small numbers in an attempt to win back the heart of a last year conquest, the uber-religious Lyla Garrity (Minka Kelly). Don't know how Riggins can booze, drive a pickup and attend school on a whim ... and stay active on the football team, but he does. This is the most uninteresting story in the lot.
Saracen was the focus last year. The seldom-used, shy backup with familial problems, Saracen blossomed like a peacock at the right time and quarterbacked the Dillon Panthers to a state title. Fame and fortune should have ensued. The nice little relationship with Julie Taylor should have become a life-long love story. None of that happened and Saracen ended up with the Riggins role of last year, scoring more chicks than touchdowns. Basically, a throwaway story this year.
The Smash Williams story is the arc that finished the season, and maybe the series. Charles' powerful performance for the self-involved Williams was the most watchable thing in the end. Brought back to earth doing the 'Right' thing while doing the wrong thing, Williams keeps on falling right into a dark hole. His sense of invulnerability is obliterated, leaving him crying on his bed. You feel for the guy.
Friday Night Lights was good TV, better last year than this. It deserves renewal. It's doubtful that it will get it. Co-creator Peter Berg was on this show. It was almost a tacit admission that this was it. Several threads were left open, not the least of which was paraplegic Jason Street (Scott Porter) and his possible impending fatherhood. But the rest of the stories were all at a point where regular viewers could create their own story continuations. It was a good stopping point.
Friday, February 08, 2008
FOOD: Ceramic Knives Worth the Money
Yesterday (well actually today, but the clock just struck twelve) I had to use a stainless steel paring knife to core and slice up my daily apple. It was like hacking apart a cord of wood with a piece of fishing line.
I normally use a ceramic knife to do the job. It does the job with aplomb, something I didn't realize when I failed to get the dishwasher loaded and turned on before the meal started. The ceramic knife was in the dishwasher and hadn't been cleaned yet. So I pulled out the paring knife and went to work.
The normally simple task with the ceramic knife took me twice as long. I had to be exceeding careful, since I wasn't used to exerting that much pressure to cut things. Twice, I pushed hard enough to lose control of the blade.
It was a reminder at how thoroughly the ceramic knife I bought at Golda's Kitchen had taken over the culinary work here in the Castle of Confusion. It's a 4-inch long ebony blade that set me back $120 on sale. And it's been worth every penny. It's razor sharp, as sharp today as when I got it. It's normally a rinse and wipe off cleaning implement, but I got sticky sauce on the handle, and that's plain plastic.
The knife has a lightweight feel, but is well balanced. And I use it to cut EVERYTHING. Minimal pressure is required. And because it's ceramic, you can cut lettuce without staining it or leaving behind a steely taste. You can cut green onions, rinse it through some hot water and then immediately slice up an apple WITHOUT transferring any tastes. Like I said, worth every penny.
But it IS sharp. First day I had it, I was skinning the top part of a cucumber. I have no idea how people can eat a cucumber rind, but enough of you do it that I AM considered the odd one. That said, I held the cucumber pointed towards myself and peeled towards me. This is, of course, wrong. But it's the way I did it for the better part of 40 years.
The problem was that this wasn't a little plastic-handled paring knife with a two-inch blade. This blade had a small handle on it, intended for a slicing down method. The edge of the blade came at my own thumb with very little resistance from the cucumber. It sliced into my thumb. And the blade was so sharp, I didn't even notice it!!!!
I did eventually notice the blood dripping from the half-inch cut and effected immediate repairs, but I never sliced a cucumber like that again. Now, I lop off the desired amount, put it on a cutting board and shave down the sides until there is no green showing. Like I am supposed to.
Good knives are expensive. Good steel ones are into triple figures. I'd say ceramic knives run about twice the price of an equivalent quality steel knife and are on par price-wise with high-end cutlery. If you are an adult, with no clumsy kids around to test the validity of my cucumber story, then really consider a ceramic knife. No sharpening ever again. One knife can do just about ANY cutting work short of what a hack saw would have to do.
And you know, it's just plain sexy to look at.
I normally use a ceramic knife to do the job. It does the job with aplomb, something I didn't realize when I failed to get the dishwasher loaded and turned on before the meal started. The ceramic knife was in the dishwasher and hadn't been cleaned yet. So I pulled out the paring knife and went to work.
The normally simple task with the ceramic knife took me twice as long. I had to be exceeding careful, since I wasn't used to exerting that much pressure to cut things. Twice, I pushed hard enough to lose control of the blade.
It was a reminder at how thoroughly the ceramic knife I bought at Golda's Kitchen had taken over the culinary work here in the Castle of Confusion. It's a 4-inch long ebony blade that set me back $120 on sale. And it's been worth every penny. It's razor sharp, as sharp today as when I got it. It's normally a rinse and wipe off cleaning implement, but I got sticky sauce on the handle, and that's plain plastic.
The knife has a lightweight feel, but is well balanced. And I use it to cut EVERYTHING. Minimal pressure is required. And because it's ceramic, you can cut lettuce without staining it or leaving behind a steely taste. You can cut green onions, rinse it through some hot water and then immediately slice up an apple WITHOUT transferring any tastes. Like I said, worth every penny.
But it IS sharp. First day I had it, I was skinning the top part of a cucumber. I have no idea how people can eat a cucumber rind, but enough of you do it that I AM considered the odd one. That said, I held the cucumber pointed towards myself and peeled towards me. This is, of course, wrong. But it's the way I did it for the better part of 40 years.
The problem was that this wasn't a little plastic-handled paring knife with a two-inch blade. This blade had a small handle on it, intended for a slicing down method. The edge of the blade came at my own thumb with very little resistance from the cucumber. It sliced into my thumb. And the blade was so sharp, I didn't even notice it!!!!
I did eventually notice the blood dripping from the half-inch cut and effected immediate repairs, but I never sliced a cucumber like that again. Now, I lop off the desired amount, put it on a cutting board and shave down the sides until there is no green showing. Like I am supposed to.
Good knives are expensive. Good steel ones are into triple figures. I'd say ceramic knives run about twice the price of an equivalent quality steel knife and are on par price-wise with high-end cutlery. If you are an adult, with no clumsy kids around to test the validity of my cucumber story, then really consider a ceramic knife. No sharpening ever again. One knife can do just about ANY cutting work short of what a hack saw would have to do.
And you know, it's just plain sexy to look at.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
LIFE: School Board Stupidity
One advantage I have when writing this blog is that there is no rule that I post on any given day. I'm trying to write one piece a day, catching up whenever I miss a day (or 11) with multiple postings. I have no deadline save that that I impose on myself.
According to a column I read in the Toronto Star on Monday (note, this is still late Thursday when I am getting around to venting), the Halton Board of Education has decided to do away with deadlines for assignments given to their students each term.
That ONE moron came up with this idea is to make me despair about the future of civilization. That a board of morons voted to ratify this policy makes me wonder about the future of humanity. I'm guessing the voting board members have progeny. I shudder at the concept spreading.
The education process in school is [A] socialization skills before [B] information acquisition. Somehow, kids prodded through pre-kindergarten, K-6, senior public, high school and eventually post-secondary school education are supposed to grow up into contributory citizens with a modicum of general knowledge and enough specialized knowledge to earn a living.
There are subjects I have never broached in life once out of the school system. I have not spoken German in more than 30 years (despite it being the first language I ever spoke). Haven't said a word of Latin in a longer span. But have dabbled a bit in French. I DO use my math and writing backgrounds professionally, although you readers occasionally doubt the latter. I haven't conducted a science experiment since lighting some phosphorous and dropping the ignited strip on the formica counter in the kitchen. The typing I took in high school and for one class in university has come in handy. And so it goes.
What I learned in school was how to interact with humanity. To deal with them, both on their terms and on my own. One of the things I managed to figure out is that deadlines are there for a reason. They can't be ignored willy nilly.
I'm not talking about late fines at the library or video store (I buy now, having experienced fines). I'm talking about losing a friend and a job opportunity because I thought a deadline was just a suggestion. I found out too late that the legal system doesn't like its information workers to be late providing key paperwork for ongoing cases before the court. When I left MY part til too late, and couldn't pull off an all-nighter, the friend that sublet the job to me lost his. Several guilty people skated. I lost the potential income. And I lost a friend.
I am a deadline worker. Have been all of my life. Under pressure, I'm pretty good at producing results. Tell me you need it today, and most times, today is when you will get it. Tell me a week Tuesday and you'll get the product of my work next Monday ... on Tuesday. Tis a sad fact, but I am a procrastinator. A very experienced, dedicated procrastinator. Occasionally, it results in me working myself sick, but it is who I am.
IF I didn't have deadlines, I would be unemployable. I'd be a bum living on the streets. Given the choice between putting something off and doing it right now, it's EXTREMELY likely I will find a book or a TV show to watch instead.
As a result, I love deadlines.
Guess it comes partly from earning my first pay cheques in life as a newspaper reporter. It emphasized to me that what I learned in school, due dates, was one of those few things from school that would translate into adult life. Later, I became a programmer. I've been working on one un-ending project now for more than a decade. But individual parts of that program, when required, are done in a time frame my employer needs to have me work inside of. We just had an inventory and I had to expand the analysis of the inventory to include departmental cost breakdowns, drawing from several data sources to decide what department to put what value into. He asked for me to complete the project before the inventory was taken. I succeeded. Without the deadline, IBM (it's an acronym for an Arabic phrase that means: God be willing, maybe tomorrow!).
The morons who voted in this policy must be politicians who have never worked a meaningful day in their individual lives. Regular productive life in this world is full of deadlines. People succeed and fail based on their abilities to do quality work within those deadlines.
If it stresses out little Johnny and Jill that they have some assignments due tomorrow (or today, it happens), that's too bad. That's real life in a microcosm. If they fail to meet deadlines when they travel through the Halton birth canal to adulthood, they will emerge unprepared to take on real life. They will have the kind of laizzez-faire attitude to getting work done that's gotten current society into the lazy shape we are in. In fact it will be worse. They will know they are lazy and will expect no one to care.
I hope the cold sober kick in the pants these board members must be getting from multiple parents who LOVE their kids enough to ask for deadlines, gets them to reverse their decision. Otherwise, I'd have to say that if a resume from any potential employee crossed my desk with a Halton education, I'd immediately round-file it. I wouldn't, could't trust the person to do their work on time.
According to a column I read in the Toronto Star on Monday (note, this is still late Thursday when I am getting around to venting), the Halton Board of Education has decided to do away with deadlines for assignments given to their students each term.
That ONE moron came up with this idea is to make me despair about the future of civilization. That a board of morons voted to ratify this policy makes me wonder about the future of humanity. I'm guessing the voting board members have progeny. I shudder at the concept spreading.
The education process in school is [A] socialization skills before [B] information acquisition. Somehow, kids prodded through pre-kindergarten, K-6, senior public, high school and eventually post-secondary school education are supposed to grow up into contributory citizens with a modicum of general knowledge and enough specialized knowledge to earn a living.
There are subjects I have never broached in life once out of the school system. I have not spoken German in more than 30 years (despite it being the first language I ever spoke). Haven't said a word of Latin in a longer span. But have dabbled a bit in French. I DO use my math and writing backgrounds professionally, although you readers occasionally doubt the latter. I haven't conducted a science experiment since lighting some phosphorous and dropping the ignited strip on the formica counter in the kitchen. The typing I took in high school and for one class in university has come in handy. And so it goes.
What I learned in school was how to interact with humanity. To deal with them, both on their terms and on my own. One of the things I managed to figure out is that deadlines are there for a reason. They can't be ignored willy nilly.
I'm not talking about late fines at the library or video store (I buy now, having experienced fines). I'm talking about losing a friend and a job opportunity because I thought a deadline was just a suggestion. I found out too late that the legal system doesn't like its information workers to be late providing key paperwork for ongoing cases before the court. When I left MY part til too late, and couldn't pull off an all-nighter, the friend that sublet the job to me lost his. Several guilty people skated. I lost the potential income. And I lost a friend.
I am a deadline worker. Have been all of my life. Under pressure, I'm pretty good at producing results. Tell me you need it today, and most times, today is when you will get it. Tell me a week Tuesday and you'll get the product of my work next Monday ... on Tuesday. Tis a sad fact, but I am a procrastinator. A very experienced, dedicated procrastinator. Occasionally, it results in me working myself sick, but it is who I am.
IF I didn't have deadlines, I would be unemployable. I'd be a bum living on the streets. Given the choice between putting something off and doing it right now, it's EXTREMELY likely I will find a book or a TV show to watch instead.
As a result, I love deadlines.
Guess it comes partly from earning my first pay cheques in life as a newspaper reporter. It emphasized to me that what I learned in school, due dates, was one of those few things from school that would translate into adult life. Later, I became a programmer. I've been working on one un-ending project now for more than a decade. But individual parts of that program, when required, are done in a time frame my employer needs to have me work inside of. We just had an inventory and I had to expand the analysis of the inventory to include departmental cost breakdowns, drawing from several data sources to decide what department to put what value into. He asked for me to complete the project before the inventory was taken. I succeeded. Without the deadline, IBM (it's an acronym for an Arabic phrase that means: God be willing, maybe tomorrow!).
The morons who voted in this policy must be politicians who have never worked a meaningful day in their individual lives. Regular productive life in this world is full of deadlines. People succeed and fail based on their abilities to do quality work within those deadlines.
If it stresses out little Johnny and Jill that they have some assignments due tomorrow (or today, it happens), that's too bad. That's real life in a microcosm. If they fail to meet deadlines when they travel through the Halton birth canal to adulthood, they will emerge unprepared to take on real life. They will have the kind of laizzez-faire attitude to getting work done that's gotten current society into the lazy shape we are in. In fact it will be worse. They will know they are lazy and will expect no one to care.
I hope the cold sober kick in the pants these board members must be getting from multiple parents who LOVE their kids enough to ask for deadlines, gets them to reverse their decision. Otherwise, I'd have to say that if a resume from any potential employee crossed my desk with a Halton education, I'd immediately round-file it. I wouldn't, could't trust the person to do their work on time.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
TV: Best This Year is 2003 Show
You. YOU hate shows about writers. Especially newspapermen. I know You gave Jessica Fletcher some love on Murder She Wrote and let Lou Grant into Your house on occasion. But generally, the only people who love shows about writers, are writers.
I'm a writer.
Ergo, I loved State of Play, the 2003 mini-series that ran in England on the BBC. It's going to make a Canadian appearance sometime on TVO or BBC Canada. Or you'll see it on DVD in a store. Whatever the circumstances, you simply must watch it.
London, not long after 9/11, is the setting for a double-murder that initially appears to be two unconnected deaths. That connection emerges in the first of the six-hour mini-series, thanks to the work of Cal McCaffrey (played by John Simm) and his team of intrepid reporters. The murders entwine an old friend of Cal's, government minister-to-be Stephen Collins (played by David Morrissey). The first hour ends with a third casualty, one that shocked me immensely, since I'd actually gotten rather attached to the character before the killing. Ahhh, the joys of mini-series.
In short order, lies start piling up. Truth becomes increasing elusive until literally the last scenes of the last show. Friends lie to each other with a facility seen in real life. That they lie to themselves is so much more fascinating. It's hard to miss the final clue to the final mystery, it's the only thing telegraphed in the whole series. Regardless, when the final blow to Cal's world-perception is brought to light, you feel so very sorry for him.
Simm and the copper played by Philip Glenister will register with any fan of Life on Mars, where they played detective and head cop butting heads. Not so much interplay here, but you can see the chemistry. Cal and Collins' wife (played by Polly Walker of Rome fame), end up in a messy, all over the floor, no-hope affair, while Collins goes through PR hell thanks to his affair with one of the murder victims. Speaking of messy, Marc Warren was on a break from starring in Hustle, and plays a hustler here that's all Rizzo with no soul.
For me, the character that really fascinated was the publisher Cameron Foster, played by Bill Nighy. The guy's brilliant in the role. He's the real hero of the story, as far as I'm concerned. He's smart, political and anarchistic all at the same time. He delivers bon mots with a straight face all of the time, all the while moving and shaking the story of the year out of his reporters.
When I worked for the Brampton Guardian (the Bramalea Guardian for most of my employ), I worked for two publishers, Bob Maxwell and Robert King. Maxwell was a newspaperman elevated to the publisher role. He thought like one and he was proud to deliver a big-time product on a small weekly budget. Whatever pre-conceived notions you have of old-time newspapermen, he fulfilled your predictions. His replacement came from the sales side. I locked horns with him frequently in my quest for the largest sports section I could grab.
And yet Robert King is the man I associate with Nighy's role here. Robert was always charming, even when saying no. He fought FOR his reporters, but only behind closed doors. He had an image as a bottom-liner to live up to, but it was all flash. Watching Nighy's Foster through the six episodes, I just saw Robert King making every joke and every hard decision. I miss the journalism of the day.
But enough inside paper stuff. This is a crackling mystery with an ill-fated love story or two. There's betrayal on so many levels as to astound you, and heroism in many places. There's humour and thrilling action. Good guys and bad guys die and infamy lives on.
It's the best thing I've seen this year.
I'm a writer.
Ergo, I loved State of Play, the 2003 mini-series that ran in England on the BBC. It's going to make a Canadian appearance sometime on TVO or BBC Canada. Or you'll see it on DVD in a store. Whatever the circumstances, you simply must watch it.
London, not long after 9/11, is the setting for a double-murder that initially appears to be two unconnected deaths. That connection emerges in the first of the six-hour mini-series, thanks to the work of Cal McCaffrey (played by John Simm) and his team of intrepid reporters. The murders entwine an old friend of Cal's, government minister-to-be Stephen Collins (played by David Morrissey). The first hour ends with a third casualty, one that shocked me immensely, since I'd actually gotten rather attached to the character before the killing. Ahhh, the joys of mini-series.
In short order, lies start piling up. Truth becomes increasing elusive until literally the last scenes of the last show. Friends lie to each other with a facility seen in real life. That they lie to themselves is so much more fascinating. It's hard to miss the final clue to the final mystery, it's the only thing telegraphed in the whole series. Regardless, when the final blow to Cal's world-perception is brought to light, you feel so very sorry for him.
Simm and the copper played by Philip Glenister will register with any fan of Life on Mars, where they played detective and head cop butting heads. Not so much interplay here, but you can see the chemistry. Cal and Collins' wife (played by Polly Walker of Rome fame), end up in a messy, all over the floor, no-hope affair, while Collins goes through PR hell thanks to his affair with one of the murder victims. Speaking of messy, Marc Warren was on a break from starring in Hustle, and plays a hustler here that's all Rizzo with no soul.
For me, the character that really fascinated was the publisher Cameron Foster, played by Bill Nighy. The guy's brilliant in the role. He's the real hero of the story, as far as I'm concerned. He's smart, political and anarchistic all at the same time. He delivers bon mots with a straight face all of the time, all the while moving and shaking the story of the year out of his reporters.
When I worked for the Brampton Guardian (the Bramalea Guardian for most of my employ), I worked for two publishers, Bob Maxwell and Robert King. Maxwell was a newspaperman elevated to the publisher role. He thought like one and he was proud to deliver a big-time product on a small weekly budget. Whatever pre-conceived notions you have of old-time newspapermen, he fulfilled your predictions. His replacement came from the sales side. I locked horns with him frequently in my quest for the largest sports section I could grab.
And yet Robert King is the man I associate with Nighy's role here. Robert was always charming, even when saying no. He fought FOR his reporters, but only behind closed doors. He had an image as a bottom-liner to live up to, but it was all flash. Watching Nighy's Foster through the six episodes, I just saw Robert King making every joke and every hard decision. I miss the journalism of the day.
But enough inside paper stuff. This is a crackling mystery with an ill-fated love story or two. There's betrayal on so many levels as to astound you, and heroism in many places. There's humour and thrilling action. Good guys and bad guys die and infamy lives on.
It's the best thing I've seen this year.
TV: Over To You Ron .. Ron ... Ron .. RON!!!!
Surely you've seen it, if you watch any televised team sports these days. The half-time/intermission shows that used to feature studio sets with 'experts' talking to each other, analyzing the game, have moved into the stands and onto the field/floor/whatever. The experts are all bundled up against the cold, wearing fur hats big enough to cover J-Lo's butt.
You get a lot of leaning in to try and make sense of the lips moving on one of their co-workers' faces. They can't hear what is being said/asked because the morons in the background are hootin' and hollerin' for their mamas to come to the TV and see them making horse's patooties of themselves. Or maybe it's just the fur ear mufflers. In either case it makes for some occasionally funny pictures, but DREADFUL infotainment.
This phenomena is like a plague on those of us who actually WANT to hear what these experts (including some, who clearly are not) have to say. Instead of insightful analysis, we get answers to questions never posed and no answers to asked questions.
And for what? Atmosphere? Ladies and gentlemen (and I AM talking to YOU John Shannon), the atmosphere here at the Castle of Confusion is quiet and around 72 degrees Fahrenheit. A little cooler than your studio. THAT'S the atmosphere I want to share. I don't want to stand amongst the mentally-deranged and prove it. I see no reason to stand there listening to the mass gestalt of stupidity chant, curse and make strange noises. I am not drunk and have no desire to see drunks on the way to their cars to endanger people's lives.
Besides, your experts have been there before!! Most of them. Let them sit in the stands while the game is on, before hurrying down/up to the nice, quiet, temperate studio to give us the benefit of their hard-earned expertise. Inform me. It's hard deciphering Terry Bradshaw and Don Cherry at the best of times. There's a reason why Terry comes across as a goof on the field, while Cherry is held in check in a little studio by Ron McLean. It's when Cherry escapes that he sounds too much like Bradshaw.
So, unless you promised your next door neighbour's kid that he/she will get their mug on TV for the expected 15 minutes, stuff the on-field/floor/whatever sets in mothballs and get your commentators back to where they belong. In studio, predicting a big Patriot victory.
You get a lot of leaning in to try and make sense of the lips moving on one of their co-workers' faces. They can't hear what is being said/asked because the morons in the background are hootin' and hollerin' for their mamas to come to the TV and see them making horse's patooties of themselves. Or maybe it's just the fur ear mufflers. In either case it makes for some occasionally funny pictures, but DREADFUL infotainment.
This phenomena is like a plague on those of us who actually WANT to hear what these experts (including some, who clearly are not) have to say. Instead of insightful analysis, we get answers to questions never posed and no answers to asked questions.
And for what? Atmosphere? Ladies and gentlemen (and I AM talking to YOU John Shannon), the atmosphere here at the Castle of Confusion is quiet and around 72 degrees Fahrenheit. A little cooler than your studio. THAT'S the atmosphere I want to share. I don't want to stand amongst the mentally-deranged and prove it. I see no reason to stand there listening to the mass gestalt of stupidity chant, curse and make strange noises. I am not drunk and have no desire to see drunks on the way to their cars to endanger people's lives.
Besides, your experts have been there before!! Most of them. Let them sit in the stands while the game is on, before hurrying down/up to the nice, quiet, temperate studio to give us the benefit of their hard-earned expertise. Inform me. It's hard deciphering Terry Bradshaw and Don Cherry at the best of times. There's a reason why Terry comes across as a goof on the field, while Cherry is held in check in a little studio by Ron McLean. It's when Cherry escapes that he sounds too much like Bradshaw.
So, unless you promised your next door neighbour's kid that he/she will get their mug on TV for the expected 15 minutes, stuff the on-field/floor/whatever sets in mothballs and get your commentators back to where they belong. In studio, predicting a big Patriot victory.
Monday, February 04, 2008
TV: Primeval Hope
After six steps back through three episodes, Primeval took a gigantic step forward with the fourth episode. Guns, support teams, Lucy Brown letting her hair down as Jenny Lewis. There was a certain logic to this episode that worked.
Sure, Lucien's being dragged underwater by the baddies in the opening scene, with nary a reaction from his mates while tracking down the basketball they ALL were playing with, seemed strained. So was the night-time search of the canal, without the use of the underwater sub, that was there for day-time viewing. And the Hidden Agenda team once again gets sloppy, which IS complained about by the revealed head of the plot in the late-show 'shock' ending.
But the rest was pretty good. Connor and Abby actually made some progress. The scissor kick setup and payoff actually worked. And I think one of the secrets to a good Primeval show is a liberal dose of Ben Miller as the sarcastic head bureaucrat Lester. His cynical snarkiness makes for a good counterpoint to Cutter's optimism.
Next week, we'll see a take on Tremors by way of Pitch Black. If it's as good as this week's updo on the Creature from the Black Lagoon, then the season might be saved yet.
Sure, Lucien's being dragged underwater by the baddies in the opening scene, with nary a reaction from his mates while tracking down the basketball they ALL were playing with, seemed strained. So was the night-time search of the canal, without the use of the underwater sub, that was there for day-time viewing. And the Hidden Agenda team once again gets sloppy, which IS complained about by the revealed head of the plot in the late-show 'shock' ending.
But the rest was pretty good. Connor and Abby actually made some progress. The scissor kick setup and payoff actually worked. And I think one of the secrets to a good Primeval show is a liberal dose of Ben Miller as the sarcastic head bureaucrat Lester. His cynical snarkiness makes for a good counterpoint to Cutter's optimism.
Next week, we'll see a take on Tremors by way of Pitch Black. If it's as good as this week's updo on the Creature from the Black Lagoon, then the season might be saved yet.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
FOOTBALL: A Giant-sized Sigh of Relief
This spot was going to be a rant about idiot networks putting their studio show out in the stands, on the playing floor or in the lobby at sporting events. Something else came up.
I had the Giants plus the ridiculous point spread in the Super Bowl tonight but thought the chances of the Giants actually winning were slim and none. Wasn't sure what kind of game it would be, low or high scoring. But I knew the Patriots weren't close to two touchdown favourites. As Bob McCown had pointed out, three New England Super Bowls all had a winning margin of three points, so 17-14, 24-21, 31-28. They all had possibilities.
Turns out, the late season recipe for giving New England headaches stayed true to form. Rush the passer hard and make the Patriots beat you medium range passing. Philadelphia and Baltimore each demonstrated that in the regular season before bad breaks and bad officiating handed the game back to the Patriots. New York showed the formula worked for three quarters in the season-ender. Oh, and the offence had to score a few points and run the ball enough to give the defence rest.
After one half, New England led 7-3, but the game was the Giants' for the most part. A badly-timed penalty hurt the good guys' cause and a deflection off a rookie's hands hurt more. Otherwise, the margin might have been reversed or worse at the half. I naturally avoided wasting my time with the half-time show of oldies that were no longer goodies. I managed to get in the pilot episode of Californication. Fit perfectly.
The first supposed turning point in the game came in the third quarter when Bill "The Brain" Belichek called for a replay on what would have been a turnover on downs. His staff caught a Giant still on the field when the ball was snapped. That man was the literal twelfth man, rather than the figurative one dominating the stands. Thought to myself that it was a guarantee that the Pats would take the ball, ram it into the end zone and decide the game. The Giants held. And Destiny peeked around the corner and said, "Let's play some football!"
Once the Giants survived the third quarter with the score unchanged, it was now a cinch my bet would cover. And when Eli Manning (Super Manning II) threw a strike to David Tyree for the go-ahead score, the possibility became concrete. The Perfect Season might not be.
Just a few minutes later, the Giants were once more in possession of the ball. Manning, like Peyton, hardly a gazelle, evaded the rush and lofted a pass to a wide open Plaxico Burress. A first down and more time off the clock was assured. Announcer Troy Aikman showed the replay, suggesting a touchdown had been possible. All for naught as the ball fluttered to the ground. The Giants had to kick away. I went to the kitchen and cleaned up the dinner plates. It was queasy time.
Down the field marched the Patriots. The fairy tale had been told, and the wicked, nasty Patriots were not going to let a happy ending end their Perfect Season. Tom Brady, the man both Mannings are told is the best quarterback in football, passed this way and that way, mostly to Wes Welker. And every now and then, he'd throw it to Randy Moss, the sublimely talented, yet ill-thought of wide receiver. A man who once intentionally drove his car at a female police officer, a quitter on every team he's played for, before coming to New England, caught the would-be winning score with little more than two minutes left on the clock.
The thud you heard were the hearts and hopes of every football fan outside of Boston in the whole world. A valiant try had come up just short. I turned out the lights and sat in the dark to watch the last few minutes of shattering hope.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the credits for The Perfect Season. Super Manning II kept evading the grasp of the tiring Patriot rushers. He kept throwing the ball up for grabs. And when Tyree managed a one-headed, eventually two-handed catch deep in Patriot territory, the rush for the exits reversed. And a half-minute before the game's proverbial midnight hour, the Patriots were struck down. Manning to Burress, wide open a second time, became the touchdown that ended it all.
This fairy tale had a happy ending after all.
It turns out you can't cheat and win them all. Running up the score eventually comes back to haunt you. Acting like the world and the media are beneath you costs you karma points just when you need them the most.
Congratulations Miami Dolphins, you of the ONLY Perfect Season. And congratulations to the New York Giants, who slew the giant foe and made the land feel all is right again. Sigh.
I had the Giants plus the ridiculous point spread in the Super Bowl tonight but thought the chances of the Giants actually winning were slim and none. Wasn't sure what kind of game it would be, low or high scoring. But I knew the Patriots weren't close to two touchdown favourites. As Bob McCown had pointed out, three New England Super Bowls all had a winning margin of three points, so 17-14, 24-21, 31-28. They all had possibilities.
Turns out, the late season recipe for giving New England headaches stayed true to form. Rush the passer hard and make the Patriots beat you medium range passing. Philadelphia and Baltimore each demonstrated that in the regular season before bad breaks and bad officiating handed the game back to the Patriots. New York showed the formula worked for three quarters in the season-ender. Oh, and the offence had to score a few points and run the ball enough to give the defence rest.
After one half, New England led 7-3, but the game was the Giants' for the most part. A badly-timed penalty hurt the good guys' cause and a deflection off a rookie's hands hurt more. Otherwise, the margin might have been reversed or worse at the half. I naturally avoided wasting my time with the half-time show of oldies that were no longer goodies. I managed to get in the pilot episode of Californication. Fit perfectly.
The first supposed turning point in the game came in the third quarter when Bill "The Brain" Belichek called for a replay on what would have been a turnover on downs. His staff caught a Giant still on the field when the ball was snapped. That man was the literal twelfth man, rather than the figurative one dominating the stands. Thought to myself that it was a guarantee that the Pats would take the ball, ram it into the end zone and decide the game. The Giants held. And Destiny peeked around the corner and said, "Let's play some football!"
Once the Giants survived the third quarter with the score unchanged, it was now a cinch my bet would cover. And when Eli Manning (Super Manning II) threw a strike to David Tyree for the go-ahead score, the possibility became concrete. The Perfect Season might not be.
Just a few minutes later, the Giants were once more in possession of the ball. Manning, like Peyton, hardly a gazelle, evaded the rush and lofted a pass to a wide open Plaxico Burress. A first down and more time off the clock was assured. Announcer Troy Aikman showed the replay, suggesting a touchdown had been possible. All for naught as the ball fluttered to the ground. The Giants had to kick away. I went to the kitchen and cleaned up the dinner plates. It was queasy time.
Down the field marched the Patriots. The fairy tale had been told, and the wicked, nasty Patriots were not going to let a happy ending end their Perfect Season. Tom Brady, the man both Mannings are told is the best quarterback in football, passed this way and that way, mostly to Wes Welker. And every now and then, he'd throw it to Randy Moss, the sublimely talented, yet ill-thought of wide receiver. A man who once intentionally drove his car at a female police officer, a quitter on every team he's played for, before coming to New England, caught the would-be winning score with little more than two minutes left on the clock.
The thud you heard were the hearts and hopes of every football fan outside of Boston in the whole world. A valiant try had come up just short. I turned out the lights and sat in the dark to watch the last few minutes of shattering hope.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the credits for The Perfect Season. Super Manning II kept evading the grasp of the tiring Patriot rushers. He kept throwing the ball up for grabs. And when Tyree managed a one-headed, eventually two-handed catch deep in Patriot territory, the rush for the exits reversed. And a half-minute before the game's proverbial midnight hour, the Patriots were struck down. Manning to Burress, wide open a second time, became the touchdown that ended it all.
This fairy tale had a happy ending after all.
It turns out you can't cheat and win them all. Running up the score eventually comes back to haunt you. Acting like the world and the media are beneath you costs you karma points just when you need them the most.
Congratulations Miami Dolphins, you of the ONLY Perfect Season. And congratulations to the New York Giants, who slew the giant foe and made the land feel all is right again. Sigh.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
SOFTWARE: Crossloop Rules!
For years, I have been stymied in helping my father with his computer problems by distance and a difference in knowledge. That, and Bell Sympatico's ability to make installing remote control packages very, very difficult.
Dad lives two hours away (52 minutes if my brother Wayne is driving, closer to three hours if I drive). It's really not convenient for him to unplug the gazillion cables connected to his computer and lug it up here to Brampton. He's done it, but with increasing rarity. And I've been unable to talk him through installing various remote control packages, from free to commercial. He needed to be able to give me back information, such as IP addresses, that were transitory in the Bell system. It was often like trying to describe red to a person blind all their life.
What I needed was the proverbial oxymoron, a zero-configuration remote control package. The ones out there that SAID they were zero-config weren't. Unfortunately, I ran out of time. I got a phone call one day that Dad's computer had crashed. And when it finally DID reboot, all of his settings and programs were gone.
Panic time. I looked around the internet for solutions. There was this interesting new one from Europe called Crossloop. I tried it out with Patrick. It took a little experimentation, since there wasn't much in the way of documentation. And, of course, we didn't read what little there was of it. Finally, we figured out that after installing the program and typing in a secret access code, we BOTH had to click the big green CONNECT button. It JUST PLAIN WORKED.
Got on the phone with Pops and told him to go to www.crossloop.com and download the program and install it. Told him to just answer next and finish when given the opportunity. He read off the secret access numbers that came up and seconds later, I was looking at his computer.
Suddenly, those difficult conversations that had me asking him to read whatever menu he was looking at weren't required. When I told him to click on something, I could move the mouse to the general area and SHOW him what I was talking about. And what was better, I could SEE what HE was talking about! The awkward task of translating what he saw to what I needed him to see became unnecessary. The task of helping him became EASY.
And, while I have no idea why his computer crashed, and there were no backups to help, we were able to re-input most of the settings we needed and he and Mom were both up and running within two or three days. I was probably on his computer a half-dozen times during that time-frame. All, while never leaving the house.
Since then, instead of curing problems, I've spent more time showing him new features of his computer. There's the occasional conundrum, such as why he was getting lousy photo prints (it was the paper! Trying solving THAT one sight unseen!) or why videos were not showing up on Firefox (CTV AM had changed servers and even an upgrade to the latest Firefox couldn't solve that. So I set up Internet Explorer for that task). On the flipside, I spent one afternoon just showing Dad how to change fonts and colours in Word. All thanks to this free little gem.
Crossloop is not perfect. Even with the higher speed connections I enjoy, the redrawing of the remote screen occasionally gets hung up. ZoneAlarm gets in the way, so the hosting end of the session has to click the buttons ZoneAlarm throws up themselves. I actually like that as a security feature. By the way, the secret access code changes every time you run CrossLoop, so that increases the security level immensely, and lessens the worry about using the product. The viewer occasionally runs in a smaller window than it should on my big two-monitor system. And the mouse movement is a tad behind my movements. But that's a trait of all VNC-based remote clients, which CrossLoop is built on.
Small quibbles with a simple product that just does the joh its creators intended it to do. I've remoted on a half-dozen computers to this point, even doing it for the house across the street. Now that would normally cement my reputation as the laziest man in the world, but did you SEE the snowfall in our area over the last couple of days? It's COLD out there too.
It's warm, comfy and helpful here in the cave.
Dad lives two hours away (52 minutes if my brother Wayne is driving, closer to three hours if I drive). It's really not convenient for him to unplug the gazillion cables connected to his computer and lug it up here to Brampton. He's done it, but with increasing rarity. And I've been unable to talk him through installing various remote control packages, from free to commercial. He needed to be able to give me back information, such as IP addresses, that were transitory in the Bell system. It was often like trying to describe red to a person blind all their life.
What I needed was the proverbial oxymoron, a zero-configuration remote control package. The ones out there that SAID they were zero-config weren't. Unfortunately, I ran out of time. I got a phone call one day that Dad's computer had crashed. And when it finally DID reboot, all of his settings and programs were gone.
Panic time. I looked around the internet for solutions. There was this interesting new one from Europe called Crossloop. I tried it out with Patrick. It took a little experimentation, since there wasn't much in the way of documentation. And, of course, we didn't read what little there was of it. Finally, we figured out that after installing the program and typing in a secret access code, we BOTH had to click the big green CONNECT button. It JUST PLAIN WORKED.
Got on the phone with Pops and told him to go to www.crossloop.com and download the program and install it. Told him to just answer next and finish when given the opportunity. He read off the secret access numbers that came up and seconds later, I was looking at his computer.
Suddenly, those difficult conversations that had me asking him to read whatever menu he was looking at weren't required. When I told him to click on something, I could move the mouse to the general area and SHOW him what I was talking about. And what was better, I could SEE what HE was talking about! The awkward task of translating what he saw to what I needed him to see became unnecessary. The task of helping him became EASY.
And, while I have no idea why his computer crashed, and there were no backups to help, we were able to re-input most of the settings we needed and he and Mom were both up and running within two or three days. I was probably on his computer a half-dozen times during that time-frame. All, while never leaving the house.
Since then, instead of curing problems, I've spent more time showing him new features of his computer. There's the occasional conundrum, such as why he was getting lousy photo prints (it was the paper! Trying solving THAT one sight unseen!) or why videos were not showing up on Firefox (CTV AM had changed servers and even an upgrade to the latest Firefox couldn't solve that. So I set up Internet Explorer for that task). On the flipside, I spent one afternoon just showing Dad how to change fonts and colours in Word. All thanks to this free little gem.
Crossloop is not perfect. Even with the higher speed connections I enjoy, the redrawing of the remote screen occasionally gets hung up. ZoneAlarm gets in the way, so the hosting end of the session has to click the buttons ZoneAlarm throws up themselves. I actually like that as a security feature. By the way, the secret access code changes every time you run CrossLoop, so that increases the security level immensely, and lessens the worry about using the product. The viewer occasionally runs in a smaller window than it should on my big two-monitor system. And the mouse movement is a tad behind my movements. But that's a trait of all VNC-based remote clients, which CrossLoop is built on.
Small quibbles with a simple product that just does the joh its creators intended it to do. I've remoted on a half-dozen computers to this point, even doing it for the house across the street. Now that would normally cement my reputation as the laziest man in the world, but did you SEE the snowfall in our area over the last couple of days? It's COLD out there too.
It's warm, comfy and helpful here in the cave.
Friday, February 01, 2008
BOOKS: Chapters, the Store
I think I stepped into a Chapters bookstore twice in 2007, once for some magazines in the spring and then again just after my birthday since I got a certificate to Chapters amongst my swag. And there was a book, high on my want list, that I'd missed getting. I didn't want to wait until Christmas.
That visit schedule is probably about average for the last four years.
I used to love going to bookstores. When I was younger, it was all about comics. The pharmacy by Dr. Korntager's office when we lived in Malton. Bram Bram, the little hole in the wall variety store at the Avondale Mall when we moved to Bramalea. I discovered books by discovering the library across from the Avondale Mall. My first of many, many borrowed books was Andre Norton's Time Agent.
Occasionally, when accompanying my family on trips, I ended up somewhere where there were actual bookstores. It was like going to the best place on earth, even better than a candy shop. So many to choose from. Tarzan, the Secret Six and any book on animals. Hardy Boys were still a bit off in the future. But my grandmother sent me a bunch of Franz Striker's original Lone Ranger books. Took forever to read, but I can still remember shining a flashlight at The Lone Ranger and the Haunted Gulch while under the covers hoping desperately not to get caught by my father. I was a real sleepy-head at breakfast for most of that month.
By the time I turned 11, the only store in town was a Cole's in the big mall over on the other side of town. Out of reach. I inveigled a trip to it once or twice a year. But it wasn't until Bramalea City Centre opened up that I had free and unfettered access to bookstores. I was 16 at the time and Cole's had a store in the mall, as did an import from Britain, W.H. Smith.
There was maybe an overlap of 50 per cent between the two stores, but enough variety that you had to traipse from one to other to see if a new book by a favoured author had come in. It was great to see something new from Lin Carter, a reprint of an Edgar Rice Burroughs I hadn't read yet or the newest in the Perry Rhodan translations from Germany. It was just as great to go through the SF section looking at each cover, wondering if this was an author to try out. I bought lots of books on their covers alone. Some were just a pretty picture. Others were good enough to be added to my list of authors to buy.
My comic-buying had dropped off dramatically, but I found W.H. Smith carried British comics. I got caught up in following The Victor. I miss it to this day. It was a weekly, and so were my visits to the bookstore.
Later, as the teen years turned into adulthood, I discovered other book stores. I was very much a magazine collector and when I discovered Lichtmann's in downtown Toronto, I thought I'd died and gone to the great printing press in the sky. YARDS of magazines. It was the heyday of the magazine, just before the invention of the public version of the Internet (it'd been a military/academic tool for years). If I was in Toronto for a bridge tournament, a trip to Lichtmann's was a requirement, even if it was a fair hike from the Royal York Hotel. I later discovered a North York branch of the store. It was a hole in the wall, compared to the original. But it still had all the magazines I couldn't get in Bramalea. British and Australian bridge magazines, comic and SF magazines, National Geographic, book review magazines, Columbia Journalism Review and American Journalism Review, they were all there and nowhere else.
As the years went by, my book-buying slowed somewhat. I took up the comics hobby again. And I worked out arrangements to get magazines delivered to my door, sometimes by subscription, other times by working for companies that sold magazines. Instead of weekly visits, I tended to only go when the supply of reading material dwindled to less than knee-high.
Then Chapters arrived in Mississauga, shortly after the World's Biggest Bookstore opened in downtown Toronto. I like the WBB, but it never earned dedicated visits to just go there. I couldn't combine it with a bridge tournament, is was too far uptown. The Chapters branch, on the other hand, was several times larger than anything else within driving distance. It was worth the visit.
For awhile, I went monthly. Once again, I was able to get magazines out of reach elsewhere. Found some new ones. Going through the shelves was a return to the wonder years of yore.
And then the effect wore off. In just a year or two, I stopped going monthly and returned to the game of waiting until I only had a few reading options before jumping in the car. The cause, undoubtedly, was the arrival of the internet as my main reading source for non-books. Suddenly, the magazines, the real raison d'etre for going to Chapters weren't so important.
Chapters opened up in Brampton. It was less than important to me, since it opened all the way in the Northwest corner, almost as far as my Southeast Bramalea location was away from the Mississauga store. But I dutifully went and signed up for the discount card. For me, the discount card wasn't so great. They changed the rules several times, including making magazines exempt from discounts. I was already disliking this huge corporation. And it didn't help when it consumed (or was consumed by) its only real competitor, Indigo Books. Chapters had long ago bought out Coles and W.H. Smith/Smithbooks. The Bramalea City Centre Mall offered a Coles store that was (and is) a pale shadow of what IT was once. Don't even know if they sell their Coles Notes (analogous to Cliff Notes in the States) anymore. I don't go in.
I don't like Chapters. I don't have to go there much anymore. I get about 40 books a year from my family and friends, split between my birthday and Christmas. That's basically enough to keep me busy, when added to the electronic books I download to read on my PDA. I don't even have a Chapters patronage card anymore. No need to waste the 15 bucks or whatever it is these days.
And how do I know what books to ask my family for at gift-giving time? Amazon of course. I check out my favourite authors and then look at the suggestions of reviewers throughout the year. It combines into a twice-yearly published tome I like to call My Wishbook.
It's sad that a long love affair has come to such an end. I wonder if I will step inside a bookstore at all this year. If I do, it won't be a Chapters.
That chapter in my life is now closed.
That visit schedule is probably about average for the last four years.
I used to love going to bookstores. When I was younger, it was all about comics. The pharmacy by Dr. Korntager's office when we lived in Malton. Bram Bram, the little hole in the wall variety store at the Avondale Mall when we moved to Bramalea. I discovered books by discovering the library across from the Avondale Mall. My first of many, many borrowed books was Andre Norton's Time Agent.
Occasionally, when accompanying my family on trips, I ended up somewhere where there were actual bookstores. It was like going to the best place on earth, even better than a candy shop. So many to choose from. Tarzan, the Secret Six and any book on animals. Hardy Boys were still a bit off in the future. But my grandmother sent me a bunch of Franz Striker's original Lone Ranger books. Took forever to read, but I can still remember shining a flashlight at The Lone Ranger and the Haunted Gulch while under the covers hoping desperately not to get caught by my father. I was a real sleepy-head at breakfast for most of that month.
By the time I turned 11, the only store in town was a Cole's in the big mall over on the other side of town. Out of reach. I inveigled a trip to it once or twice a year. But it wasn't until Bramalea City Centre opened up that I had free and unfettered access to bookstores. I was 16 at the time and Cole's had a store in the mall, as did an import from Britain, W.H. Smith.
There was maybe an overlap of 50 per cent between the two stores, but enough variety that you had to traipse from one to other to see if a new book by a favoured author had come in. It was great to see something new from Lin Carter, a reprint of an Edgar Rice Burroughs I hadn't read yet or the newest in the Perry Rhodan translations from Germany. It was just as great to go through the SF section looking at each cover, wondering if this was an author to try out. I bought lots of books on their covers alone. Some were just a pretty picture. Others were good enough to be added to my list of authors to buy.
My comic-buying had dropped off dramatically, but I found W.H. Smith carried British comics. I got caught up in following The Victor. I miss it to this day. It was a weekly, and so were my visits to the bookstore.
Later, as the teen years turned into adulthood, I discovered other book stores. I was very much a magazine collector and when I discovered Lichtmann's in downtown Toronto, I thought I'd died and gone to the great printing press in the sky. YARDS of magazines. It was the heyday of the magazine, just before the invention of the public version of the Internet (it'd been a military/academic tool for years). If I was in Toronto for a bridge tournament, a trip to Lichtmann's was a requirement, even if it was a fair hike from the Royal York Hotel. I later discovered a North York branch of the store. It was a hole in the wall, compared to the original. But it still had all the magazines I couldn't get in Bramalea. British and Australian bridge magazines, comic and SF magazines, National Geographic, book review magazines, Columbia Journalism Review and American Journalism Review, they were all there and nowhere else.
As the years went by, my book-buying slowed somewhat. I took up the comics hobby again. And I worked out arrangements to get magazines delivered to my door, sometimes by subscription, other times by working for companies that sold magazines. Instead of weekly visits, I tended to only go when the supply of reading material dwindled to less than knee-high.
Then Chapters arrived in Mississauga, shortly after the World's Biggest Bookstore opened in downtown Toronto. I like the WBB, but it never earned dedicated visits to just go there. I couldn't combine it with a bridge tournament, is was too far uptown. The Chapters branch, on the other hand, was several times larger than anything else within driving distance. It was worth the visit.
For awhile, I went monthly. Once again, I was able to get magazines out of reach elsewhere. Found some new ones. Going through the shelves was a return to the wonder years of yore.
And then the effect wore off. In just a year or two, I stopped going monthly and returned to the game of waiting until I only had a few reading options before jumping in the car. The cause, undoubtedly, was the arrival of the internet as my main reading source for non-books. Suddenly, the magazines, the real raison d'etre for going to Chapters weren't so important.
Chapters opened up in Brampton. It was less than important to me, since it opened all the way in the Northwest corner, almost as far as my Southeast Bramalea location was away from the Mississauga store. But I dutifully went and signed up for the discount card. For me, the discount card wasn't so great. They changed the rules several times, including making magazines exempt from discounts. I was already disliking this huge corporation. And it didn't help when it consumed (or was consumed by) its only real competitor, Indigo Books. Chapters had long ago bought out Coles and W.H. Smith/Smithbooks. The Bramalea City Centre Mall offered a Coles store that was (and is) a pale shadow of what IT was once. Don't even know if they sell their Coles Notes (analogous to Cliff Notes in the States) anymore. I don't go in.
I don't like Chapters. I don't have to go there much anymore. I get about 40 books a year from my family and friends, split between my birthday and Christmas. That's basically enough to keep me busy, when added to the electronic books I download to read on my PDA. I don't even have a Chapters patronage card anymore. No need to waste the 15 bucks or whatever it is these days.
And how do I know what books to ask my family for at gift-giving time? Amazon of course. I check out my favourite authors and then look at the suggestions of reviewers throughout the year. It combines into a twice-yearly published tome I like to call My Wishbook.
It's sad that a long love affair has come to such an end. I wonder if I will step inside a bookstore at all this year. If I do, it won't be a Chapters.
That chapter in my life is now closed.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
BOOKS: Chapters in books
I'm finishing off my stash of Lee Goldberg novel tie-ins right now, having read the last Diagnosis Murder novel during Christmas and working my way through the Monk novels from my last birthday. Goldberg also wrote television episodes for the two series, and his knowledge and ease with the characters shines through. If you like the shows, the books are actually better.
One aspect of Goldberg's writing that I really, really like is his decision to write in short chapters, rather than combining many scenes into one long chapter. It matches my reading needs perfectly. I read, mostly in bed, just before turning out the lights and calling it a night. (when the power doesn't do that for me, see below)
Depending on the book, when I started reading and how tired I am, I can get in 10 minutes to six hours of reading. I like to start and end on a chapter, so that the bookmark I use, doesn't have to be carefully arranged not to take off any ink. I use the Post-It Markers, the little inch-long tabs. They don't fall out of the book no matter how hard you shake them, and go onto the back cover to show I've read the book when finished. Yes, occasionally I forgot I read a particular book, if it has been awhile. Checking the back cover eliminates wasted starts.
Goldberg writes chapters as short as two pages, and I don't think I've seen one longer than ten pages at this point. Which means, I can 'read just one more chapter,' as I tell myself during particularly interesting passages. And when I get really tired or my interest wanes a bit, then I'm really just a page or two from a good stopping point.
One of the reasons I developed an affinity for Jeffrey Deaver's works, especially the Lincoln Rhymes and Rune series, is he uses shorter than average chapters. Not as short as Goldberg, but quite reasonable. Deaver's The Empty Chair was the first book I ever read entirely on my hand-held computer (a palm pilot at the time). It was read in Bank lines, waiting to check out at the grocer's and while the kids were whiling away my life at the McDonald's Funland. Every time I was stuck in some nowhere place, including at clients' locations installing software, I'd pull out the PDA and get in another chapter or two. Waiting around can be fun if you have a good book to read.
The antithesis of short chapters are the books where the author wants desperately to set some sort of record in chapter length. I remember slaving away through the first Weapons of Choice book by John Birmingham wondering WHEN the chapter I was reading would end and I could go to sleep. I still wonder at how I worked my way through the first third of the book to discover a great book did, indeed, hide between the covers. That said, there was an even worse experience just ahead for me.
I had waited for the publication of We Few by David Weber and John Ringo for a long time. It was the fourth book in the Prince Roger series that had started so brilliantly with the threesome of March books. I had read them during the great Blackout we had a few years back. I pre-ordered the book for electronic delivery, not wanting to waste even the time to go to the store to buy a hard copy version. I got the email the book was ready for downloading late one night.
As the book unfolded, I found to my horror that this was not much like the preceding books in the series, but more in the lines of Robert Asprin's Phule's Company books. I was devastated. But I read on, thinking I would just get to the end of the first chapter and put it aside to finish another time. As you've probably guessed, the chapter's end NEVER came. I read for about an hour, surprised I could even keep my eyes open. I finally gave into sleep and turned the computer off.
I did finish the book a day or two later. Weber and Ringo are good writers and I got around to accepting that they were writing a new series with old characters, rather than the long-wanted (by me) fourth book in the original trilogy. Once I accepted that and recognized that there were not going to be any chapter breaks, I sailed through the book.
Sure would have been easier with short chapters, though.
One aspect of Goldberg's writing that I really, really like is his decision to write in short chapters, rather than combining many scenes into one long chapter. It matches my reading needs perfectly. I read, mostly in bed, just before turning out the lights and calling it a night. (when the power doesn't do that for me, see below)
Depending on the book, when I started reading and how tired I am, I can get in 10 minutes to six hours of reading. I like to start and end on a chapter, so that the bookmark I use, doesn't have to be carefully arranged not to take off any ink. I use the Post-It Markers, the little inch-long tabs. They don't fall out of the book no matter how hard you shake them, and go onto the back cover to show I've read the book when finished. Yes, occasionally I forgot I read a particular book, if it has been awhile. Checking the back cover eliminates wasted starts.
Goldberg writes chapters as short as two pages, and I don't think I've seen one longer than ten pages at this point. Which means, I can 'read just one more chapter,' as I tell myself during particularly interesting passages. And when I get really tired or my interest wanes a bit, then I'm really just a page or two from a good stopping point.
One of the reasons I developed an affinity for Jeffrey Deaver's works, especially the Lincoln Rhymes and Rune series, is he uses shorter than average chapters. Not as short as Goldberg, but quite reasonable. Deaver's The Empty Chair was the first book I ever read entirely on my hand-held computer (a palm pilot at the time). It was read in Bank lines, waiting to check out at the grocer's and while the kids were whiling away my life at the McDonald's Funland. Every time I was stuck in some nowhere place, including at clients' locations installing software, I'd pull out the PDA and get in another chapter or two. Waiting around can be fun if you have a good book to read.
The antithesis of short chapters are the books where the author wants desperately to set some sort of record in chapter length. I remember slaving away through the first Weapons of Choice book by John Birmingham wondering WHEN the chapter I was reading would end and I could go to sleep. I still wonder at how I worked my way through the first third of the book to discover a great book did, indeed, hide between the covers. That said, there was an even worse experience just ahead for me.
I had waited for the publication of We Few by David Weber and John Ringo for a long time. It was the fourth book in the Prince Roger series that had started so brilliantly with the threesome of March books. I had read them during the great Blackout we had a few years back. I pre-ordered the book for electronic delivery, not wanting to waste even the time to go to the store to buy a hard copy version. I got the email the book was ready for downloading late one night.
As the book unfolded, I found to my horror that this was not much like the preceding books in the series, but more in the lines of Robert Asprin's Phule's Company books. I was devastated. But I read on, thinking I would just get to the end of the first chapter and put it aside to finish another time. As you've probably guessed, the chapter's end NEVER came. I read for about an hour, surprised I could even keep my eyes open. I finally gave into sleep and turned the computer off.
I did finish the book a day or two later. Weber and Ringo are good writers and I got around to accepting that they were writing a new series with old characters, rather than the long-wanted (by me) fourth book in the original trilogy. Once I accepted that and recognized that there were not going to be any chapter breaks, I sailed through the book.
Sure would have been easier with short chapters, though.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
LIFE: Beep, Beep, Beep
I was planning an early turn-in this morning and had basically left the office to do some reading before finally turning off the lights. It was 4:03 AM when I reached for the lamp to turn it off and call it a night. Before I could turn the light switch, the light went off. And so did everything else in the house. The power was off. And the UPS's around the house were beeping up a storm.
All eight of them.
I have two in my room, one for a computer, the other for the TV and video playback systems. There are four in the office, with each computer getting its own, plus the video recording systems. And there are two downstairs, one on the TV and video system and the other with the main telephone answering system. All beep, all on different schedules. It gets noisy. And, although I've been known to nod off in the middle of a raucous party next door, I can't do it with those infernal beeps.
After waiting a minute or two for the power to come back on, I roused myself to make the grand tour. I deep-sixed the UPS's in my room. But I couldn't touch the ones in the office next door, since the main computer and the DVD recorder were both doing some work, and the second computer was backing up to the third computer. No touching allowed. Down the stairs I stumbled. The phone UPS was already dead at this point, holding up for barely five minutes. It is a cheap battery box, basically designed to get past brownouts and quickie power outages. I turned off the video systems UPS and considered my options. I can't sleep with beeps, and the office beeps would drive me to extraction. I was sleepy. The couch in the living room beckoned. So I went to sleep there. For about three hours.
It was also the coldest night of the year, probably being the reason I was sans power. I got cold on the couch. Back to my bed, I went, hoping for some residual heat to be congregating up there on the second floor. The beeping in the office had stopped hours ago. But it was cold. So, I reached for the thin baby blanket I keep in the closet for this kind of emergency.
I normally can't sleep with any sheets or blankets on the bed. Stacks of books, piles of clothes? Yes. But anything to wrap myself up in? No. Can't handle it. Feels like I'm strangling. And perish the thought if my feet slip out and into the cold. Drives me crazy to have different parts of my body with different temperatures. But it was too cold to go sans SOME sort of blanket. At least the baby blanket is about as thin as a regular sheet. It's the closest to a passable cocoon as I can take. I managed to get a couple more hours of sleep in before the power finally came back on around 10 AM.
So, what have I learned? I'm thinking of buying a power generator. Something under a grand. Just to power me through these mini-ice ages. Somebody will have to help me, since this is one of those mechanical things. I don't think it will be "plug in and play" technology. I'm also going to find UPS that allow you to disengage the beep either permanently or with the push of a button.
Otherwise, I'll have to get cranky again some day. Beep, Beep, Beep!
All eight of them.
I have two in my room, one for a computer, the other for the TV and video playback systems. There are four in the office, with each computer getting its own, plus the video recording systems. And there are two downstairs, one on the TV and video system and the other with the main telephone answering system. All beep, all on different schedules. It gets noisy. And, although I've been known to nod off in the middle of a raucous party next door, I can't do it with those infernal beeps.
After waiting a minute or two for the power to come back on, I roused myself to make the grand tour. I deep-sixed the UPS's in my room. But I couldn't touch the ones in the office next door, since the main computer and the DVD recorder were both doing some work, and the second computer was backing up to the third computer. No touching allowed. Down the stairs I stumbled. The phone UPS was already dead at this point, holding up for barely five minutes. It is a cheap battery box, basically designed to get past brownouts and quickie power outages. I turned off the video systems UPS and considered my options. I can't sleep with beeps, and the office beeps would drive me to extraction. I was sleepy. The couch in the living room beckoned. So I went to sleep there. For about three hours.
It was also the coldest night of the year, probably being the reason I was sans power. I got cold on the couch. Back to my bed, I went, hoping for some residual heat to be congregating up there on the second floor. The beeping in the office had stopped hours ago. But it was cold. So, I reached for the thin baby blanket I keep in the closet for this kind of emergency.
I normally can't sleep with any sheets or blankets on the bed. Stacks of books, piles of clothes? Yes. But anything to wrap myself up in? No. Can't handle it. Feels like I'm strangling. And perish the thought if my feet slip out and into the cold. Drives me crazy to have different parts of my body with different temperatures. But it was too cold to go sans SOME sort of blanket. At least the baby blanket is about as thin as a regular sheet. It's the closest to a passable cocoon as I can take. I managed to get a couple more hours of sleep in before the power finally came back on around 10 AM.
So, what have I learned? I'm thinking of buying a power generator. Something under a grand. Just to power me through these mini-ice ages. Somebody will have to help me, since this is one of those mechanical things. I don't think it will be "plug in and play" technology. I'm also going to find UPS that allow you to disengage the beep either permanently or with the push of a button.
Otherwise, I'll have to get cranky again some day. Beep, Beep, Beep!
Monday, January 28, 2008
FOOD: You Get What You Paid For
Many a moon ago, my brother was with Giorgio Armani's Canadian operations. He was at the time, probably the best window-dresser for the chain, amongst the various things he did for Armani. As a counterpoint, I wear schlumpy jeans, sneakers, white socks, a T-Shirt and a dilapadated ball cap almost all of the time. Different worlds.
Well, Rick gave me an Armani T-Shirt. A $120 T-Shirt. My T-Shirts, at the time, probably were worth five bucks apiece, on average. This was basically a month's worth of clothing in one small birthday present box.
And by gawd, the shirt was worth every penny. It was big, roomy and weighed a little less than air. It became my favourite bridge tournament shirt for big events because it was literally like wearing nothing at all, but yet being able to claim I was dressed in Armani for the event. Perfect. I still have it and I trot it out on nights where I can't be fidgeting with my clothes.
Which brings me to what triggered the memory today. Whilst out shopping, I ended up stopping in two grocery stores, since the first didn't have the lactose-free milk I drink. (Great invention, lactose-free milk. Weeks-long shelf-life and doesn't trigger the milk allergy I developed late in life).
At any rate, I got some Fuji Apples at the first store, buying organic ones for $2.59 a pound. I bought eight. Earlier this month, I had bought them at a third grocer for $1.49 a pound. That was a 20 cent premium per pound over the other apples for sale there, but I thought it was worth it.
After finding the milk missing, I had to stop at the local grocer, which occupied the far end of the mall from the drug store where I was picking up my pills. They had Fuji's on for 59 CENTS a pound!!! "How could that be?" I asked the Oriental chap who owns the place. "We got a deal," he said.
So, I bought four. My disbelief wouldn't let me buy more.
Snack time tonight and I first tried one of the organic beauties. Rapture. The taste was otherworldly. You simply MUST avail yourself of these heavenly treats. Then I tried a cut-rate Fuji from the nearby grocer. I imagine there must be some boxed wine-Lafitte Rothschild comparison you'd understand here. But there is one even better evaluative statement.
You get what you paid for.
Well, Rick gave me an Armani T-Shirt. A $120 T-Shirt. My T-Shirts, at the time, probably were worth five bucks apiece, on average. This was basically a month's worth of clothing in one small birthday present box.
And by gawd, the shirt was worth every penny. It was big, roomy and weighed a little less than air. It became my favourite bridge tournament shirt for big events because it was literally like wearing nothing at all, but yet being able to claim I was dressed in Armani for the event. Perfect. I still have it and I trot it out on nights where I can't be fidgeting with my clothes.
Which brings me to what triggered the memory today. Whilst out shopping, I ended up stopping in two grocery stores, since the first didn't have the lactose-free milk I drink. (Great invention, lactose-free milk. Weeks-long shelf-life and doesn't trigger the milk allergy I developed late in life).
At any rate, I got some Fuji Apples at the first store, buying organic ones for $2.59 a pound. I bought eight. Earlier this month, I had bought them at a third grocer for $1.49 a pound. That was a 20 cent premium per pound over the other apples for sale there, but I thought it was worth it.
After finding the milk missing, I had to stop at the local grocer, which occupied the far end of the mall from the drug store where I was picking up my pills. They had Fuji's on for 59 CENTS a pound!!! "How could that be?" I asked the Oriental chap who owns the place. "We got a deal," he said.
So, I bought four. My disbelief wouldn't let me buy more.
Snack time tonight and I first tried one of the organic beauties. Rapture. The taste was otherworldly. You simply MUST avail yourself of these heavenly treats. Then I tried a cut-rate Fuji from the nearby grocer. I imagine there must be some boxed wine-Lafitte Rothschild comparison you'd understand here. But there is one even better evaluative statement.
You get what you paid for.
LIFE: The New Teller
I actually like my bank. But no bank is perfect.
Left the cave today due to a need to fill some prescriptions, collect some cheques and deposit said cheques into my account to pay some forthcoming bills. I wondered into the bank mid to late afternoon to see a moderately-sized line and only one familiar teller doing business. Unfortunately, the vagaries of chance denied me the familiar, as one of the newbies further on down the row beckoned me over.
I had two cheques totaling a few thousand dollars. I wanted to deposit most of the money, keeping out a few hundred for February operating expenses. I was headed from the bank to pay my communications bills, pick up the medicine I needed and to restock the larder. "I want to deposit all of this but for XXXX dollars."
Like all nice new tellers, she then took forever to process this complicated request. I had to even tell her that I needed to sign the cheques since I would be receiving money back from them. She smiled, probably thanking whoever she thanks, that she had a nice patient customer who actually knew more about her job than she did. I watched her poke at the keyboard. At one point, she took the cheques and the money-back slip over to the experienced teller. She pointed at me and I grinned back as she got affirmation from her fellow worker that I indeed, banked here and frequently deposited and took back sizable sums of money. She came back and then asked me a disappointing question.
"How much did you want to take out?"
Internally, the pressure sensor hit explode. But I quickly realized I had forgotten to be VERY explicit with the young lady. "No, you were supposed to make one transaction, just the amount I wanted deposited from the cheques. If you do it the way you obviously have, then it's two transactions and I get charged a buck per transaction."
The look of panic on her face was quite real. Looking for experienced help was fruitless. The experienced one was in the vault. She leaned over and asked another pup for some help (pup-perpetually uninformed personnel). He looked and acted about two days more experienced. I silently laughed as he 'took over,' and informed me that it was too late to do what I wanted now, but that he would "personally" see to it that the service charge would be reversed in two days time, when the month-end charges would be applied. "Automatically or manually?" I asked, knowing the answer.
He didn't. Off he went to find out. "Next time you're in, just see me or the lady here and we will take care of it." Sure. By the time I come in next, there will be two more pups awaiting me.
I'll throw away a hundred bucks on bridge books at a tournament and not think twice about it. My bank, already one of the half-dozen richest corporations in the country, tries to stiff me for a buck, I take umbrage. I will lose sleep on the night of January 31/February 1. Bright and early on Friday morning, I will be calling the bank demanding the charge be reversed. It's the principle of the thing.
And the next time I see pups at the teller window, I'll START with the education. And probably a smile.
Left the cave today due to a need to fill some prescriptions, collect some cheques and deposit said cheques into my account to pay some forthcoming bills. I wondered into the bank mid to late afternoon to see a moderately-sized line and only one familiar teller doing business. Unfortunately, the vagaries of chance denied me the familiar, as one of the newbies further on down the row beckoned me over.
I had two cheques totaling a few thousand dollars. I wanted to deposit most of the money, keeping out a few hundred for February operating expenses. I was headed from the bank to pay my communications bills, pick up the medicine I needed and to restock the larder. "I want to deposit all of this but for XXXX dollars."
Like all nice new tellers, she then took forever to process this complicated request. I had to even tell her that I needed to sign the cheques since I would be receiving money back from them. She smiled, probably thanking whoever she thanks, that she had a nice patient customer who actually knew more about her job than she did. I watched her poke at the keyboard. At one point, she took the cheques and the money-back slip over to the experienced teller. She pointed at me and I grinned back as she got affirmation from her fellow worker that I indeed, banked here and frequently deposited and took back sizable sums of money. She came back and then asked me a disappointing question.
"How much did you want to take out?"
Internally, the pressure sensor hit explode. But I quickly realized I had forgotten to be VERY explicit with the young lady. "No, you were supposed to make one transaction, just the amount I wanted deposited from the cheques. If you do it the way you obviously have, then it's two transactions and I get charged a buck per transaction."
The look of panic on her face was quite real. Looking for experienced help was fruitless. The experienced one was in the vault. She leaned over and asked another pup for some help (pup-perpetually uninformed personnel). He looked and acted about two days more experienced. I silently laughed as he 'took over,' and informed me that it was too late to do what I wanted now, but that he would "personally" see to it that the service charge would be reversed in two days time, when the month-end charges would be applied. "Automatically or manually?" I asked, knowing the answer.
He didn't. Off he went to find out. "Next time you're in, just see me or the lady here and we will take care of it." Sure. By the time I come in next, there will be two more pups awaiting me.
I'll throw away a hundred bucks on bridge books at a tournament and not think twice about it. My bank, already one of the half-dozen richest corporations in the country, tries to stiff me for a buck, I take umbrage. I will lose sleep on the night of January 31/February 1. Bright and early on Friday morning, I will be calling the bank demanding the charge be reversed. It's the principle of the thing.
And the next time I see pups at the teller window, I'll START with the education. And probably a smile.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
BOOKS: Retrieval Artist vs Recovery Man
One of the other Christmas reads was the latest Retrieval Artist book by K.K. Rusch. The RA books are science fiction mysteries, centering around the talents of Miles Flint, a computer expert and one-time cop, who suffered the tragic loss of a daughter at the hands of a children's worker. That led to a divorce and his eventual movement from police work into private practice as a Retrieval Artist.
Explaining what a Retrieval Artist is would take several books to do properly. Say the prior volumes in this series. All are uniformly high in quality, that rare series that maintains a top level of quality even after the initial idea has petered out. Flint finds (and occasionally loses) people for a living, in a future where various laws from various species make staying strictly legal at times close to impossible.
The latest, Recovery Man, brings in a new level of a private detective. Recovery men are like Remora, useful to some degree, but basically ineffectual without a big bad shark around. They pick up the work RA's won't or can't. The Recovery Man in this book gets involved with Flint's ex-wife and her daughter.
Yep, her daughter. And maybe Flint's too. Well, at least a clone, it appears. The book eventually becomes young Talia Shindo's tale, and it's a harrowingly interesting one. BUT, and there had to be a but, it's a book you can't enjoy without reading the earlier books in the series. There's no understanding Miles' actions at the end unless you do.
So read the five other books in order before taking in this one. You'll enjoy the experience and be ready for the next book in the series, which undoubtedly will see Talia become a major part of Miles' life.
Explaining what a Retrieval Artist is would take several books to do properly. Say the prior volumes in this series. All are uniformly high in quality, that rare series that maintains a top level of quality even after the initial idea has petered out. Flint finds (and occasionally loses) people for a living, in a future where various laws from various species make staying strictly legal at times close to impossible.
The latest, Recovery Man, brings in a new level of a private detective. Recovery men are like Remora, useful to some degree, but basically ineffectual without a big bad shark around. They pick up the work RA's won't or can't. The Recovery Man in this book gets involved with Flint's ex-wife and her daughter.
Yep, her daughter. And maybe Flint's too. Well, at least a clone, it appears. The book eventually becomes young Talia Shindo's tale, and it's a harrowingly interesting one. BUT, and there had to be a but, it's a book you can't enjoy without reading the earlier books in the series. There's no understanding Miles' actions at the end unless you do.
So read the five other books in order before taking in this one. You'll enjoy the experience and be ready for the next book in the series, which undoubtedly will see Talia become a major part of Miles' life.
TV: There's Hope After Primeval 3
A bad-ass animal from the past shows up near an amusement park. Professor Cutter and the crew are off to check it out. Even cut-up Connor is given keys to the gun case. Naturally, he ends up with a REAL gun while the rest are carrying dart guns. But it's a step up. I'll let it pass that Connor loses said gun privileges in a 'Jaws' scene rip-off.
There are fewer logical inconsistencies in this episode, although the animal's protector should have been obvious long before it occurred to the team. And having Cutter leave HIS gun behind while investigating the lair, so that it could be used against him is once again, three stooges level stupidity. Having him outwit the beast twice in a head-to-head showdown was simply unbelievable.
The new tactic of having a shock twist, revealing a hidden threat at the end, has worn out its welcome after back-to-back weeks.
But at least there's been enough improvement to keep on viewing. I hope the Creature from the Black Lagoon homage next week is yet another step up the intelligence ladder.
There are fewer logical inconsistencies in this episode, although the animal's protector should have been obvious long before it occurred to the team. And having Cutter leave HIS gun behind while investigating the lair, so that it could be used against him is once again, three stooges level stupidity. Having him outwit the beast twice in a head-to-head showdown was simply unbelievable.
The new tactic of having a shock twist, revealing a hidden threat at the end, has worn out its welcome after back-to-back weeks.
But at least there's been enough improvement to keep on viewing. I hope the Creature from the Black Lagoon homage next week is yet another step up the intelligence ladder.
HOCKEY: Much Ado About Less Than Nothing
Well, THAT was a letdown. Better the NHL play tapes of the Steve Stamkos/John Tavares Major Junior showdown than let six major NHL stars let the steam completely out of the All-Star Skills Competition finale.
It was awful, with only Alexander Ovechkin (my pre-comp prediction to win) and Ryan Getzlaf making much of a real effort to win the thing. Ovechkin wanted to do the Crosby elevate and swing maneuver, but that only after bookending his two attempts to do so with relatively run of the mill scoring moves. Getzlaf tried a skate pass move first and then admitted to having "run out of ideas." Given the two finalists were going to take four shots apiece, having ONE move might be seen as not giving a hoot about the event.
Pavel Datsyuk, the favourite in some eyes, simply skated in and made a deke and shot. Pitiful entertainment value. Ilya Kovalchuk was just as bad and should have been embarrassed to have former teammate Scott Mellanby boost his scores in as obvious a case of home-town scoring as is possible.
An obvious deterrent to the event's success was letting the goalies come out and poke check the attacker while he was setting up for something. In the future, if they do this again, goalies have to keep a foot in the crease. Nobody's going to shoot from 25 feet away. There's no need for them to be out cutting down the angles ... and the action.
And lastly, John Shannon and the poobahs at the NHL network division, continue to believe that having a camera follow a skater in on a shootout attempt is good TV. It's NOT, you morons. The best principal shot is from behind the goalie. The high centre shot is certainly adequate too. No matter the quality of the steadi-cam nor the abilities of the cameraman, the traveling shot is close to useless. New isn't better. It's just friggin' new.
So much for any goodwill.
It was awful, with only Alexander Ovechkin (my pre-comp prediction to win) and Ryan Getzlaf making much of a real effort to win the thing. Ovechkin wanted to do the Crosby elevate and swing maneuver, but that only after bookending his two attempts to do so with relatively run of the mill scoring moves. Getzlaf tried a skate pass move first and then admitted to having "run out of ideas." Given the two finalists were going to take four shots apiece, having ONE move might be seen as not giving a hoot about the event.
Pavel Datsyuk, the favourite in some eyes, simply skated in and made a deke and shot. Pitiful entertainment value. Ilya Kovalchuk was just as bad and should have been embarrassed to have former teammate Scott Mellanby boost his scores in as obvious a case of home-town scoring as is possible.
An obvious deterrent to the event's success was letting the goalies come out and poke check the attacker while he was setting up for something. In the future, if they do this again, goalies have to keep a foot in the crease. Nobody's going to shoot from 25 feet away. There's no need for them to be out cutting down the angles ... and the action.
And lastly, John Shannon and the poobahs at the NHL network division, continue to believe that having a camera follow a skater in on a shootout attempt is good TV. It's NOT, you morons. The best principal shot is from behind the goalie. The high centre shot is certainly adequate too. No matter the quality of the steadi-cam nor the abilities of the cameraman, the traveling shot is close to useless. New isn't better. It's just friggin' new.
So much for any goodwill.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
HOCKEY: Artistry on Display
Having been out of action, writing-wise, for the past 11 days for reasons discussed in the last post of the day (technically the first, but you will get there last), I decided to sit down and write 11 entries in the blog today. Feel free to skip. Not everything will interest you. As Linda Ellerbee says, "And so it goes."
The NHL wants desperately to be loved by Americans. We Canadians would like that too, but I've come to the conclusion that it's just not possible. Still, the NHL is to be applauded for trying tonight's tricks-inspired shootout. The goalies will hate it (Luongo and Brodeur being smart enough to demur from attending). But the skaters will have the chance to show their mad stick skills. And that can't be bad.
I know Pavel Datsyuk is the favourite now that Sidney Crosby can't participate. But my pick here is Alexander Ovechkin. Whatever the outcome, there will be many new YouTube videos by this time Sunday.
Now on with the rest of the day's verbiage.
The NHL wants desperately to be loved by Americans. We Canadians would like that too, but I've come to the conclusion that it's just not possible. Still, the NHL is to be applauded for trying tonight's tricks-inspired shootout. The goalies will hate it (Luongo and Brodeur being smart enough to demur from attending). But the skaters will have the chance to show their mad stick skills. And that can't be bad.
I know Pavel Datsyuk is the favourite now that Sidney Crosby can't participate. But my pick here is Alexander Ovechkin. Whatever the outcome, there will be many new YouTube videos by this time Sunday.
Now on with the rest of the day's verbiage.
BOOKS: A Ringworld Successor
Larry Niven's Ringworld is a science fiction classic. It's generated two sequels over the last two decades and each has been fine in an of themselves. Good writing around a great concept. Ringworld is a construct. It's many thousands of worlds smashed together until they form a colossal ring around some far-off sun. The sheer enormity of the land mass allows for many civilizations and races to inhabit the same spatial body, but be completely unaware of each other. Or in some cases, be all TOO aware of each other. Crash-land a Terran or two on it, and Ringworld offers an exciting milieu for a travel adventure. Three times.
So, how do you play Top That! with Ringworld. There's the myriad of shell world stories with the sun contained in the middle. Dime a dozen. Hmmmm, any other ideas?
Eric Brown has one. It's called Helix. As a character demonstrates in the book, you take a glass lamp and a long beaded necklace. You coil the necklace around the lamp, starting at the bottom until you reach the top. And you have a helix shape.
Helix, the novel, features a set of Builders who take the Ringworld idea and expand on it, in many strands. Each little worldlet rotates on its helical centre, giving the worldlet a night and day. Each worldlet is separated from its neighbour by an ocean. Difficult, but not impossible to cross. Then the builders went out and populated the worldlets with as many samples of various races and species as they could find. Aliens from cold-weather worlds were put on worldlets at the top or the bottom of the helix. Hot-weather folk ended up on the central strands, nearest the sun centre. Some of the worldlets got specialized climates, such as the grey overcast that permeates over the world where Ehrin Telsa lives under Church tyranny.
Ehrin's not human. He's sort of a sentient rat/weasel/lemur. He's a non-believer and seeks proof the organized religion in his world is wrong and outdated. He hooks up with some Humans who have fled Earth in a cryo-ship, anxious to leave a worn-torn, material-sapped home planet behind and start anew somewhere else in the galaxy. A thousand years of cold-sleep has set the humans down on Helix. Four intrepid Terrans start exploring this wondrous world and finally happen upon Ehrin.
While plenty happens before Ehrin and the humans meet up, enough to really come to like all of the characters, the book really heats up from that point on. Helix is explored by a multi-species exploratory force as various worldlets are found and searched as a potential new home for humanity. Good and bad beings are met. The good ones are genuinely altruistic. The bad ones evil to the core. It's tiresome to present a Church as a bad thing these days, but Brown makes it work.
And when we get to the conclusion 500 some pages later, we are happy. I hope there are going to be sequels to Helix. But I implore Mr. Brown to do it a little faster than did Mr. Niven. I'm not sure I can wait 20 more years!
So, how do you play Top That! with Ringworld. There's the myriad of shell world stories with the sun contained in the middle. Dime a dozen. Hmmmm, any other ideas?
Eric Brown has one. It's called Helix. As a character demonstrates in the book, you take a glass lamp and a long beaded necklace. You coil the necklace around the lamp, starting at the bottom until you reach the top. And you have a helix shape.
Helix, the novel, features a set of Builders who take the Ringworld idea and expand on it, in many strands. Each little worldlet rotates on its helical centre, giving the worldlet a night and day. Each worldlet is separated from its neighbour by an ocean. Difficult, but not impossible to cross. Then the builders went out and populated the worldlets with as many samples of various races and species as they could find. Aliens from cold-weather worlds were put on worldlets at the top or the bottom of the helix. Hot-weather folk ended up on the central strands, nearest the sun centre. Some of the worldlets got specialized climates, such as the grey overcast that permeates over the world where Ehrin Telsa lives under Church tyranny.
Ehrin's not human. He's sort of a sentient rat/weasel/lemur. He's a non-believer and seeks proof the organized religion in his world is wrong and outdated. He hooks up with some Humans who have fled Earth in a cryo-ship, anxious to leave a worn-torn, material-sapped home planet behind and start anew somewhere else in the galaxy. A thousand years of cold-sleep has set the humans down on Helix. Four intrepid Terrans start exploring this wondrous world and finally happen upon Ehrin.
While plenty happens before Ehrin and the humans meet up, enough to really come to like all of the characters, the book really heats up from that point on. Helix is explored by a multi-species exploratory force as various worldlets are found and searched as a potential new home for humanity. Good and bad beings are met. The good ones are genuinely altruistic. The bad ones evil to the core. It's tiresome to present a Church as a bad thing these days, but Brown makes it work.
And when we get to the conclusion 500 some pages later, we are happy. I hope there are going to be sequels to Helix. But I implore Mr. Brown to do it a little faster than did Mr. Niven. I'm not sure I can wait 20 more years!
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