I have no idea if it'll actually launch in December, but I'm ready if it does:

I'm bummed I missed Eris' presentation at Webzine today, which talked about "Doing Information Architecture On the Cheap," or, "IA or internet architecture is the backbone of any easy to navigate web site. Let Ryan and Eris guide you down the road of DIY IA." I would very much liked to have heard her presentation.

Late night = bad movies

So, one of the disadvantages of staying up late and using the television as background noise when working is that you have to find quality, non-distracting shows in the "vast wasteland."

Woe is the second night in a row when looking for said "quality" television and find not one, but two bad movies you worked on in a previous life, showing at 1:15.

In the morning.

While you're wrastling cross browser CSS.

Tonight's bad movie is Turbulence. Also known as my first screen credit.

Or was it my second?


Ah, hell if I remember. It was one of those better off forgotten. It was a bad movie with crappy acting. But very very good special effects. You can trust me on that one.

You think I'm kidding.

Mike says I'm the only person he knows on IMDB. He's wrong, there are a lot of us. We just normally don't announce it.

Last night's movie was Broken Arrow. Oh, joy on that one, too.

Why can't they just show Shrek? At least that one I can cry out, "Layers!"

"Ogres have layers! Onions have layers!"

"Parfait! Everybody loves parfait! Parfaits have layers."

Backpack look?

Note to self:

The backpack look?

Not so good.

Oh, sure, it's easy on the back when worn over both shoulders.

But the look of it? Oh, the fashion?



Photo by Lloyd, not my photo.

Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!


That was close!

I almost took myself seriously tonight. Like major seriously. Like disappointment seriously.

And that would have sucked.

Monday morning, blah blah blah, up, do work for an hour, take a shower, start packing up everything, Kris rolls out of bed, starts his oatmeal, plops his butt down on the couch with ESPN playing on the television.

I'm gathering all my stuff to head to the office, when Kris comments, "Wait. You're going to work."

"Uh, yeah, I am."

"No, no, no. You're going to work."


"You haven't done that in like, years. I mean, sure you'd work at Greg's, or head over to Mike's to work at his place, or maybe head into Krush. But you're usually at the dining room table right there.

But you're heading into work.

Into. Work."

I burst into tears.

Later, three people, two nominally independent of each other, called me a Flock groupie. Now, if I didn't enjoy hanging out with the Flock people a lot, I think I'd be upset at the potential derogatory implications of the term "groupie." But I was too distracted by Mike's comment, "What? Are you trying for a second childhood?"

Follow that with an afternoon of there's-no-way I-can-get-all of-this-work-done in-this-lifetime amounts of work, and the end of the day could not come soon enough.

Considering last night was a wonderfully productive slice of time working at Flock, being overwhelmed today was a serious downer.

But then I realized that, eh, nah.

No need to take myself so seriously. No need for the drop into a molasses world. No need to lose sight of the fact that there's a lot of fun happening, and being blue only distracts my view of it.

So raspberries to Mike for the groupie/second childhood comment. And "pbth!" to the huge work load (it'll still get done, just not Right. Now).

I'm off to throw the disc, run with the dogs, and eat a piece of chocolate cake.

Oh, and watch tonight's episode of Ultimate Fighter 2, the revenge of the wimps.

Pigeon, chicken, the Bible: a natural progression

I killed a bird today.

Quite by accident and terribly unexpected.

I was driving home along the sidestreet, actually driving the speed limit, as I was listening to something I wanted to be sure to hear all of (I actually think it was someone speaking at the Roberts confirmation hearing, someone being a moron with something like, "You agree Congress has the right to adjust the size of the Supreme Court, that's Congress, because you know that the Constitution gives Congress this power, and Congress has it." Or something annoying like that. Must have been a Congressman.).

As I passed the street three blocks over, I glanced down and to the left, just as a pigeon (stupid bird) started walking out of the path of the car.

This brilliant ("Brilliant!") bird decided to wait until the last possible moment to start moving, then move in the worst possible way: by waddling.


I hit it.

I didn't hear the thump, but I did see the expanse of feathers behind my car, and the rolling body as it tumbled to the other side of the road.

Aw, geez. Bird! WTF!?!

Later that evening, I was thinking about that bird as I made dinner for the Communal Dinner of Wednesday Night™. We hadn't had communal dinner in several weeks, as various other events usurped our normal time. The Chateau's oven was out, so I cooked at home instead of trying to make chicken divan in a toaster over (though the recipe book did include microwave directions, oddly enough).

I was cutting up the chicken for the divan, and pondering: truly what was the difference between the pigeon which I had killed earlier in the day with my car, and the chicken which was killed by proxy for me to eat tonight?

Both were birds. Both were dead. One was providing nutrition, the other a starting point for a philosophical diversion that would probably end in some religious statement I'd regret in twenty years when I decide to run for office.

Point was, there really wasn't much difference. They were both dead.

And while I was pondering the chicken and the pigeon, I couldn't help but wonder what percentage of pro-life people are vegetarian. Because, if I understand the arguments properly, and pro-lifers believe sustainable life begins sometime after DNA merger, and removing a collection of cells that grow from said merger (a collection that cannot exist outside a particular organ of a woman's body) is amoral (regardless of the fact that the removal of any similarly sized collection of cells will result in the same cellular death), and they also believe that such removal of cells is the taking of a life, wouldn't they also believe that the killing of an animal is wrong, too?

And, if that is the case, wouldn't they all be vegetarian?

Which got me to thinking that they might just believe that book that says, in the first subbook, somewhere near the label "1:26"

And God said, Let Us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.

which some interpret to be, "Yo, we can eat them." instead of "Hey, we have stewardship, we should take care of them." And they go about eating these animals.

Ah, the Word of God™.

And at this point, I was wondering why people use that particular collection of children's bedtime stories and collection of historical drival written by man and selected by man (there were many other Biblical writings that didn't make it into the "Official Bible") as a foundation for some belief system and fanatic cult.

And that's sure to rile up the last two members of my readership.

Or maybe they'll realize that I just don't get it. I don't understand why. I don't understand how. I don't get the God religions: Judism, Islam, Christianity (all with the same roots, people, did you forget that part?). There are parts that are, sure, a good blueprint for living well, but there are parts that make zero (negative!) sense.

So, my dead bird lead me to yet another, "I don't get it" moment in the kitchen, pondering the inexplicable moments of life.

How to Kick a Smith in the face

Last year, at an ultimate tournament I didn't go to, there was an incident wherein a woman was body slammed by an opponent and flipped out when the opponent landed on her. According to eye witnesses, the rugby tackling player had been playing the whole day aggressively and the squished, soon to be freaking out woman had been the recipient of the unsportsmanlike conduct for a while.

None-the-less, when the squishee was squished by the squishor, the squishee freaked out, stood up by pushing the squishor off of her and started flailing.

Most flailing involves throwing arms around wildly and kicking.

Ah, the kicking.

The squishee did indeed start kicking the squishor, and had started kicking her in the face. The squishor, according to the reports, curled into a fetal position and attempted to ward off the kicks and the blows, covering her face as best as possible.

While relating this story to my teammates at Sectionals yesterday, I heard Mark mutter, "Fetal position?"

I finished my story, and asked him what was up. We started talking about how, if you're caught unawares, you might not have the presense of mind to move away from the blows, and would instinctively cover your face for protection. But why not just spin away? Or grab the leg? Do something to stop the barrage of blows, instead of trying to absorb them.

"How bad could it be?" Mark wondered out loud.

Somehow, I have no idea how, Mark arranged to have Heidi, while wearing cleats, attempt to kick him in the face after Sectionals were over. Had the team heckled him into it? Had he decided that empirical evidence was necessary and Heidi was of similar size to the kicking squishee?

Unclear, but the experiment was going to happen.

Well, push comes to shove, and at the end of the last game of the day, when we're all getting ready to leave, packing up and such, Wes calls Mark out, "Hey, Mark, aren't you supposed to be kicked by Heidi? Heidi, do you still have your cleats on?"

Heidi had no desire to kick Mark in the face. What a scandal! Deliberately kick someone in the face? That's awful! No, can't do it.

I could.

I immediately volunteered to help Mark in his fetal position, how hard could it be to defend the blows and spin away experiment. I had enough rough-housing with my brothers to swing a good kick without feeling (too) bad about it, and I had heard enough stories of Mark and his brothers (I could get a good kick in for Kyle and Kevin!) to have exactly zero bad feelings about landing one kick.

So, after the reasonable, "I take no responsibility for any damage I may cause you in this attempt. You agree not to hold me liable for any permanent injuries you may sustain." agreements with witnesses, Mark assumed the fetal position. I stood over him, and on the 3, 2, 1 countdown, kicked.

My first swing was with my right foot, which Mark blocked somewhat easily, and I missed his chin. So, I immediately stepped down with that foot, and swung forward with the left foot.

And clocked him right on the nose.

Full squish. Big cheer from the crowd! Contact!

He spun away faster than I could swing again with my right foot.

Upon standing and verifying he was okay, he explained he could defend the blows, but he had mis-estimated the amount of effort needed to stop the kicks. The first one was low on his elbows, the second one higher on his forearms, which is why it connected.

Spinning away as quickly as possible seems the best option.

But I can still say I kicked a Smith in the face.

He's just dumb.

When Sam came to visit, he arrived with a box from Mom and Eric. The box was intended to help Sam transistion into being away from his family (and with his crazy auntie), by distracting him for a little bit.

From that box, came the five dollars that made him the richest man in the world. Also in the box was Six-Wheeler.

Six-Wheeler is a little plastic guy on a motorcycle, who stayed nominally upright at lower speeds, and tumbled at higher speeds.

When Kris came home the evening of Sam's arrival, he heard of all the details of the box and Sam's first day. When the, then unnamed, Six-Wheeler came out, Kris was excited.

"Ooooooo! What's his name? Crazy Motorcycle Mike?"

Sam looked up at Kris like he was retarded.

"Noooo-ooooo-oooo," in the way only a five year old looking at the idiot adult can say no in three syllables. "His name is Four Wheeler."

"Four Wheeler? Why is he Four Wheeler?"

"Because he has four wheels." Sam replied, turning over the toy. "One, two, three, four, ..."

Sam paused.

"... five, six. His name is Six Wheeler."

So now we had a name for the toy. Six Wheeler.

Six Wheeler spent the next several hours zooming all over the house, usually chasing Annie, but mostly tumbling around, not quite riding anywhere. A small bump in the floor, usually between boards of the hardwood slats, would send him flipping end over end.

In exasperation, Sam commented, "Six Wheeler keeps dying."


"He's dumb. He's just dumb."

Which has since become a favorite saying around here. When someone does something idiotic, moronic or even mildly stupid, well, "He's just dumb."

Entertainly enough, there's a lot of "just dumb" around here.

Girl! NOT boy!

Good lord, people! I'm a girl! I am not a boy!

When referring to a woman or an individual within a group of women, the proper pronouns to use are "she," "her," and "hers" (not "they," "their," and "theirs," as so many people like to use).

That means, if you're talking about me specifically, use "she," not "he."

Just because I like web technologies, make a living programming, and enjoy the tech world, doesn't mean I'm automatically a boy.


Maybe I should drop the nickname.

Or give up and let Boris' nickname for me stick.


Cursed vi

Pretty much the only way to switch from one editor to another, or one program to another that does the same job but with different keystrokes, or from one operating system to another, is to go cold turkey.

None of this half-ass, oh I'll just use this for a little while, until I learn all the commands and details I need to know to use it effectively crap.

Which brings me to my current pain point.


Slowly, but surely, I'm learning how to use this editor. Slowly, but surely, I'm discovering, yes, even the great vi has issues, and that, truly, emacs would be reigning king if not for the control key pinky of death.

I'm going to go from the control key pinky of death to the escape key ring finger of death.

I have $80 that says...

Last Friday night, Mischief descended on Wes' house for the inaugral event of the Shirley-Paul-I'm-gonna-kick-your-ass duodecathalon. The first event was, somewhat appropriately, a DDR dance off. Other events include Being Tall (Paul at 6'+ will probably win that one), Being Short (Paul will lose that one to Shirley's 5'5"), and others that, no doubt, include ro-sham-something.

The winner gets breakfast in bed. Said winner does not have to let the loser into the house. Should said loser wake up said winner before serving breakfast, the attempt doesn't count and the loser has to try again.

I arrived a little late, working on various projects. As I arrived, a ro-sham-eat had just finished up. Wes ran out of the kitchen and came back into the room dragging his dog's kennel. I looked at the crate, one made for the big, big dogs, and declared three people could fit in it.

Wes and several others looked at me like I was insane. Three people in that kennel? No way!

I responded, "Not only can three people fit in there, but if one is one of the small Asian women, the other two could be Tyler and I."

No one believed me.

Tyler was game, and, after taking off his shoes, crawled into the crate. He lay on his back, taking up most of the bottom of the crate. No, no, no way could more than two people fit in the crate, the men called out.

I asked Tyler to move to the back of the crate, and I "tried" to climb in next to him. The trick is, of course, to all great cons is to not quite fit.

Well, if I had truly been trying to con these guys.

When I didn't quite fit in the crate with Tyler, everyone started calling me on my "three people" declaration. I responded quickly by pulling out my wad of cash from my pocket. "I have 60, no, 80! Eighty dollars says I can fit in the crate with Tyler and Shirley or Pei. Eighty dollars."

Both Kevin and Paul immediately offered $20. Easy money they joked. Hand over the money, Kitt.

Silly boys.

I could get four people in that crate for $100.

Tyler unfolded himself from the bottom of the crate, I slid in next to him, and Pei zipped in, pulling the cage door closed behind her.

Easiest $40 ever.