This post is unfunny.

November 14th, 2004

I need to find a better way to manage comments. Right now the blog software is set to wait for comments to be approved before they show up.

I wish I could just set it to “approve everyone but the dweebs who dick around with comment spam”. There’s gotta be a checkbox. I might just take the training wheels off of Movable Type’s back tire and see what it’s like.

Apart from that there’s the issue of replying to comments — when it comes to blogging, and this is where the difference of a consonant makes OH so much difference, I’m a noobie. The Movable Type interface needs a “Reply to this comment” button. I’m sure it exists. It has to. I can’t be the first “oh, I’m so smart” technogumby to think this up. I think it’s about time to go spelunking in the innards of Movable Type plugins.

If it comes pre-installed, it’s gotta be right!

November 13th, 2004

First, a disclaimer of mine own: only rarely will I post geek humor; and, even more rarely will I point it at someone’s opinions. It’s lower than sarcasm. Wait… I LIKE sarcasm. Nevermind.

This disclaimer, pulled from a source I won’t mention, makes me giggle, titter, snort, laugh and, well, guffaw:

Firefox 1.0 Users:
[snip] …please use a proper browser like MS Internet Explorer… [snip]

We now return you to your regularly scheduled 30 second blog hopping. :)

Massage therapist…

November 12th, 2004

Just the first in a list of pipe-dream careers that would get me away from technology…

I want to be a massage therapist. I think I’d be good at it. Thanks to the genes, I have strong hands, they’re more like bear paws… they’re rarely cold… they don’t get tired or cramp up.

Now, I’m going to say this… don’t get excited…

I like muscles. Mrowr.

Stay down. Good dawg. Not in a full-fledged mrowr manner… I like watching people… the way they move… the grace and strength that people take for granted… I find the process, how it all fits together and just seems to work, mesmerizing. One of these days I’m going to get pummelled for gawking at someone I shouldn’t. :D

Putting aside all the introspective crap about how I like helping people, the benefits of massage on physiological and emotional levels, the relaxation and healing that comes just from being touched, blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda… which all floats close to the surface of the discussion, of course… I just wanna touch every last one of ‘em. :)

I see people (who I may not necessary include in that blanket statement I just made) all day, every day, slouched over desks and in pain they may not even realize they’re feeling. Spend a minute dealing with their shoulders and they drool on the keyboards.

(An interjection from the IT side of the brain: drooling on keyboards is NOT a good way to promote the long life of your peripheral.)

ANYWAY, today’s “run away screaming from IT” wannabe career path is probably just a reflection of the fact that my upper back is telling me it’s time to get up and not look at a computer screen for a few hours. :)

Where’s my beer.

Computers are for suck!

November 12th, 2004

I’m an IT manager. Regardless of what you see of the glamourous life put forward in IBM commercials and post-post-secondary career school advertisements, it sucks.

Sure, you get to wear your own spandex suit; and, you have your own theme music. I *know* you’re thinking, “How cool is that?!?” It’s not. Even though Edna says that capes are a bad idea, I’m stuck with mine. My theme music, catchy though it may be, comes from a deck that I have to cart around on, well, a cart.

I’m always carrying around a cellphone; reading e-mail and pouring through log files in a manner I’m sure is well documented in the Christmas catalog for Shrinks. I can tell you EXACTLY how those becited little electrons cart your electronic mail around the world; which vowels to leave out of most UNIX commands; and, even better, why the 3D rendering engine in your favourite online fantasy roleplaying game isn’t as good as it could be.

As you can imagine, I’m a hoot at parties.

I’ve been hooring myself out doing IT work since I was 14 in some form or other. I’m good at it but I’m tired. But… there’s always a but… it’s good money. :)

So instead of quitting my job, moving to someplace warm like Upper New York State, and becoming a bum, I’m creating this new category. As waking life gives itself over to zoning out while Microsoft Minutes count down to and away from zero, any time a new career path I’d like to follow pops into my head, here it comes… if for the sole reason that when I forget everything I know about computers, I’ll have a list of things to try out.

Who knows… maybe one day I’ll actually hop tracks. :) Until then, I’ll just flex my addictions and hope time passes more quickly… and that nothing crashes.

A problem

November 12th, 2004

Thanks to y’all that dropped me a note about the page load time (and thanks to BlogExplosion – Thomas who gave me a suggestion on fixing it).

I’ve updated the background image to a 150px x 150px image (vs the 2px x 1px image). Instead of waiting for your computer to draw little 2 pixel squares all over your screen, it’ll tack it up 22500 floozengrats at a time.

PLEASE drop me a note or a comment if you have issues with the page load.

I’m still pre-coffee. I’m definitely pre-beer. It’s too early for really spicey Thai food. I’m not in the mood for donuts. And, I don’t smoke. Any users coming near my desk for technical assistance, or Zucchini help them, emotional support, are in for a bumpy ride.

*cues spooky shark movie music*

I’m addicted to coffee.

November 11th, 2004

Bad coffee. Burnt coffee. Good coffee. Strong coffee. Weak coffee. I’m addicted.

Whenever I try to lay off, my coworkers double the amount of coffee they buy for me. Apparently, I get “snarly”. Bastards.

Decaf? What’s the point.

There are worse addictions, I suppose. I could be addicted to porn.

Oh, wait.

Tomorrow is Remembrance Day

November 10th, 2004

Remembrance Day in Canada is much like Memorial Day is in the US — a day where one reflects on the price of freedom. Usually, most Canadians are pretty quiet about the toll freedom extracts. We’re a hearty, flannel-wearin crowd that drinks a lot of beer to push it to the back of our psyche.

This year, because of the cathartic cleaning, it feels a bit different. One of the things I couldn’t send to the Land of Discarded Stuff was a memorial card for my grandfather. He passed away on November 12, 1990. It’s hard to think that he’s been gone for 14 years.

He was a veteran of the second world war. He served in Europe… never really talked much about his experiences. There were times he tried. When he got home, he stayed in the army for years as a sergeant major, and then worked on the base as a civilian. My grandparents were very involved in the Royal Canadian Legion.

I will always associate Remembrance Day with my grandfather.

I miss him. I need a beer.

In their honour:

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

- Binyon, For the Fallen, 1914

Ok. I’m done being sappy. I need another beer.

Cleaning is cathartic.

November 10th, 2004

And I hate it.

I’m a packrat by nature. Damn, I still have email from 1983.

I need to setup a home office for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that we run two businesses — a theatre company, and an improv club — from the house.

I went out and bought office furniture, brought it home, and then came up with the bright idea of setting up the office in “the spare room”.

Bright idea. I know what you’re thinking. Spare room! Great!

We’ve lived in this house since 1998 and have used the spare room as a big closet, tossing all manner of items as far as we could into the room, and then closing the door.

I’ve been throwing things out for two days. It’s done. I’m drained. I had several “Clean Sweep” moments:

The object is not the person. The object is not the memory. You can throw away the object and keep the memory.

Among the 7 garbage bags of memorabilia I threw out were: my first kilt, the chanter from my much grieved set of uilleann pipes, the head joint of a 230 year old flute (stolen along with the pipes), a bunch of Christmas and birthday cards, and some university notebooks… sigh.

It almost felt therapeutic. I need a beer.

Fessing up to shallow

November 9th, 2004

Sometimes, when you’re sitting at work, bored out of your skull, staring at yet another computer requiring TLC when you haven’t had a shred of TLC for technology in a decade, you have to rouse yourself from a mental slumber to air a confession.

At least, that’s where I am today… right now…

The confession: I have shallow moments. Yes, yes, it’s true. I know you’re sitting there in utter disbelief, bordering on dismay, teetering on disappointment…

Why have I come to this realization? Simply put: Blog Explosion.

When I surf blogs through Blog Explosion, I end up adding people to my list of blogmarks because of *something*. I don’t know what something is; it could be any number of factors — writing style, interesting content, sense of humour, whether the author is “a cutie”.

There it is. That last one. Yes, after going through my list of blogmarks, I find the proof of my shallowness: I have added people because they were cute. Sigh. No more lofting ambitions of mental fortitude. The sense of MROWR has beaten down the IQ. I’m shallow and I love it.

I think an explanation…

November 8th, 2004

…may be in order. Yes, we’re freaks. That should be apparent.

A very long time ago, a religion was born. It grew. It prospered and bore squash. The basic premise of the new faith was (and still is) that the zucchini is a holy gift. While not to be worshipped directly, it is a gift to be seen as divine, and treated as such.

We had a high priestess. Among her duties was defining the Ritual of Desanctification for those Zucchini choosing to impart their divine nature to the epicurious. All in all, it was a hoot.

Before she could divine those rituals through communion with zucchini, she moved to England, embraced a Greekly-inspired lifestyle of womanly sisterhood, and our communication with her slowed to a stop. We assume that she became confused living in the Land of the Courgette.

Over the past decade, the religion has tempered, the domain has become a theatre company, but there is STILL a need, now more than ever, for zucchini desanctification given the rate at which Berkeley-esque adventure cuisine is spreading across North America. Who better to define these rituals?

Well, Mistress of the Holy Zucchini (v2.0), welcome to the family. :)