And I didn't even do all that much! I had to discontinue the anti-inflammatory, which was doing terrible, terrible things to my digestion, so I get pretty creaky.
Nevertheless, I had some heavy trash to dispose of, then worked with local ham radio guys, changing out the repeater that lives up at the North Campus -- and then home, to clean half the gutters and reseat the X-frame support that carries part of my ham radio antenna over the peak of the roof of my house. The thing has become lighter over the years, and some combination of wind and fallen branch caught it and turned it through 90 degrees! (It's due for a replacement and possible upgrade later this year, as is the "LineDragon" that carries the open-wire feedline up and over the gutter.)
Roof work at Roseholme Cottage is demanding, as the roof has a very steep pitch. Working right at the edge is slightly dangerous, a constant trade between sufficient friction to not slide off and getting a good angle to dig wet leaves from the guttering. I can still do the job but I can see that in a few years, I'll need to either get a tall stepladder to work from or hire others to clean the gutters. Maybe this should be the summer I install leaf screens.
With the worst gutter mostly clear and the X-frame back in place, I climbed down off the roof, put away the ladder, went inside, took off my Carolina Pole Climbers (calf-length lace-up linesman's boots, which need toeroom-stretching), sat down to watch a movie and kept dozing off. Roused myself to make a little supper and realized I was all rubber-legged and out of it, and still sleepy.
I finished dinner, started the dishwasher and staggered off to bed at 8:00 p.m. Ten hours later, the alarm went off and it felt like fifteen minutes.
I'm back to "camping in the back yard" with my Surface Pro again.
My "new" (refurbished) desktop Windows 10 computer is acting up, reporting "low memory" with only one app running, slow, crashing Firefox and the new Microsoft browser, etc. So it's hosed in some way, maybe just cheap RAM, maybe it needs reseated. I'm finding out.
--Make that, "I thought I was finding out." Letting Windows check itself via Microsoft's suggested procedures is like shouting down a well: you don't get much back. Resource Monitor sees rather a lot of "hard faults/sec," which points back to some kind of hardware unhappiness. Huck, fetch me a screwdriver!
Trump Derangement Syndrome hit The New Yorker magazine early and hard; they coasted into the election confident that adopted New Yorker Hilary Clinton was going to grab the White House, a comfortably old-school feminist explanation point to the Dem's Long March through the fed.gov, and instead they got a different New Yorker, crass and loud and clearly Not Their Sort.
The election knocked them off their center and the magazine still hasn't recovered. This makes me sad; the level of writing to be found in The New Yorker is refreshingly high, at least in general, and anyone who aspires to tell stories well benefits from reading the good stuff. I enjoy Lester Dent but he'd be the first to tell you that he wrote as quickly as possible, with little attention to style or, sometimes, even grammar. He told wonderful stories -- even within painfully formulaic plots, Dent maintains consistency and keeps the action going in a manner few other writers manage -- but he never told them quite as well as he would have liked. Late in his life, he turned out a detective novel that reads like proto-John D. MacDonald, but he was never satisfied with it, feeling his ability to write really good prose had been impaired by a career-long habit of speed.
The New Yorker has a different problem these days: they tell -- in the finest of style -- dismal, paranoid stories fixated in horror on President Trump, stories that jar with one another, in which the President is a moron on one page and a scheming, unpredictable madman on the next, and elsewhere, he's plotting to loot the nation's coffers, as sure as sunset. Apparently, one of the effects of Trump Derangement Syndrome is to render the victim unable to grasp contradiction, leaving the magazine tottering along in a kind of senile concern about what that loud fellow in Washington (or Florida) is really up to while unable to discern any of the reality at the heart of the shouting.
It's sad, really, but perhaps it only reveals a lack of perspective that had been in place for years. Alas, the magazine that introduced the work of Charles Addams to the world isn't at all what it used to be.
Tam and I have started watching The Expanse together. It's a second time through for me and I'm still enjoying it. Oh, it's space-opera; travel times are laughably condensed, radio conversations don't have any speed-of-light lag, and so on; but it's good space-opera, engaging tales well-told within a larger story arc that unfolds slowly.
There was something familiar about the general outline: the big threat, the cliffhanger endings, the matter-of-fact treatment of space travel and associated tech--
In Robert A. Heinlein's juvenile The Rolling Stones -- one of his best, despite just about every part of it having been swept away by subsequent developments in the real world -- Roger Stone and, later, Hazel Stone finance the family's haring off into the far reaches of inhabited space by writing an ongoing science fiction drama (probably radio, possibly some form of TV). Science and sociology howlers in the series-within-the-book come in for occasional criticism among the characters, as does the melodramatic nature of it, but the series is obviously popular among the public and sounds like great fun if you don't get too picky about plausibility.
And that's The Expanse in a nutshell. There's way too much unused volume in the cabins of those spaceships; they haven't got room for the amount of reaction mass they must use, and so on and on. Nevertheless, it's great fun, and does the best job of building a lived-in future seen on television since Firefly.
A local TV reporter lead the 6:00 a.m. news today, standing in front of a not-yet-opened Dollar General store, covering, well-- That's the problem. She was reporting on something which clearly involved police, one of whom had, at some point during the night, discharged his sidearm, possibly in the general direction of a suspiciously-lurking man, about whom it appeared there had been a 911 call, for reasons that were not made clear but presumably having to do with the lurking and the suspiciousness. No one, it seemed, had been shot or hurt, but "the caller had given a detailed description of the suspect, which the officer matched," which was about the point at which I lost the thread entirely.
It was word salad. Mind you, the reporter had strung together all the usual words -- indeed, most of the usual phrases -- but not in a way that made coherent sense. I'm fond of relating thoughts in an unusual manner, filled with allusions and complex sentences, and I know when I'm in over my head. This reporter had drowned several times over and gave no sign of grasping her lapse into nonsense. I fulled expected to see a police spokesperson with doors or windows, or an elephant-giraffe stilting by in the background, on legs slender as threads.
Not quite. After a year (a year!) or tarping-over the raised bed in front of the house, I laid down permeable barrier cloth and began to commence to start over -- about two bags of topsoil short of the mark! There was enough to start the solitary herb that will live among the flowers (rosemary) and to cover most of the barrier.
Tamara, who already provided the rosemary, will pick up a couple more bags of topsoil today and with any luck, I'll be planting mixed-wildflower seeds this evening.
Meanwhile, the hostas and ditch-lilies flourish, the stonecrop is doing well (and I'd like to add to it, more stonecrop and possibly tall yarrow at the back) and the wild violets are running wild and the little white flowers that carpet the front yard have passed their peak. The little patch of mint is doing all right but might like a bit of the topsoil to help out. This is gardening-by-default: I'm growing what grows mostly on its own. The stonecrop and mint are additions that have worked out; the rest was already here.
First mowing of most of the front yard was last week and the rest of it it will have to be tonight or tomorrow night, ahead of predicted rain Wednesday. I'm always reluctant to get too aggressive as long as the little wildflowers are blooming; grass and weeds are one thing but it seems wrong to be buzz-cutting flowers.
To the Peru Hamfest, that is -- it's an amateur radio swapmeet, officially the North Central Indiana Hamfest, organized by ham radio clubs in Cass, Maimi and Grant Counties and the city of Kokomo, which includes a lot of my "old neighborhood," neighborhoods being kind of large in rural Indiana.
It's always a good one, not huge but full of interesting items. I passed up a few I probably shouldn't, like big variable capacitors and roller inductors, but I came away with several vacuum tubes (6BG6s, a kind of 6L6 with a plate cap or an 807 with an octal base, a "sleeper" beam power tube that is often overlooked) and a wooden-boxed Western Union-tagged AC voltmeter built by Daven, with a nice Weston meter. If the meter itself is still good, it may be a useful item. If not, it'll at least be decorative.
Here's the meter.
One the way back, Tam and I stopped off at the Grissom museum. Grissom AFB (formerely Bunker Hill) was a big SAC base, now AF Reserve, and the little museum there has a nice assortment of unusual aircraft -- including one of the odd-looking drones intended for the SR-71! Tamara got a lot of photographs before we proceeded onward to Kokomo and dinner at a chain steak joint,* and the on to a good-sized antique mall on the south side of Kokomo.
I found an interesting device -- while the little buzzer/light/code key toys aren't uncommon, this one is, an "Official Scout Signaler," with a wrinkle-finished metal case.
Good luck trying to signal a Scout with it: Boy Scouts haven't been required to lean the code in decades and from my experience, Girl Scouts never were. The water-slide decal is starting to curl and I'm not sure what to do about it.
Tamara Keel photo
I also bought a set of full-sized "gas burner pliers" in good shape. Small ones are still made and either size has two or three sets of jaws milled into the gripping end, intended to grip round surfaces. They're pretty handy. The same seller had nice small green-shaded hanging lights, fully restored. I bought one for my hamshack and it looks like it will be a better fit than some of the ones I have looked at in the past.
A fun day! We got home around 4:00 p.m. and I laid down and promptly fell asleep for four hours: quite a lot of driving, and it does wear me out. _______________________ * The Amish place across from the museum looked pretty darned busy. Plus I think Tam harbors a secret fear they'll kidnap her to a life of children, kitchen work and the church.
Adam Gopnik at the venerable old New Yorker magazine can, on a really bright day, almost see himself in a mirror -- but he still can't see what's over his shoulder. In this regard, he has less vision than the late Pauline Kael, who was self-aware enough to muse, “I live in a rather special world. I only know one person who voted for Nixon. Where they are I don’t know. They’re outside my ken. But sometimes when I’m in a theater I can feel them.”
I was hoping for balance and what I got was a screed; I'm no fan of Mr. Trump (and was far less a fan of his opponent) but like Mr. Obama, he did indeed win. Screaming and whining, especially under the headline, "The Persistence of Trump Derangement Syndrome," communicates only one thing: TDS is here to stay. I already knew that.
On the wider stage, Presidential Derangement Syndrome has been with us for at least decades and probably longer; it is easier for most people on the losing side of an election to believe the current President is a scheming thug than admit that, state by state, a majority of their fellow citizens* made a choice they dislike. Yeah, well, they do. They have been doing so all my life. Get over it and move on, or continue to be led by addled commentators. Commentators like...ahem. Oh, hi, Adam. ______________________________ * "...state by state, a majority..." This is how the Electoral College works. It's how it has always worked. And it's okay to dislike the outcome; you are not also obliged to disparage the process simply because you don't like the current results.
Yes, I'm up at oh-dark-thirty because I'm due -- overdue! -- for a cleaning and exam. I try to schedule these things outside of work hours, helped by the fact that I start my work day after the bankers (but it ends well after the cows have come home). All the dentist had available was the very first appointment of the day, and her day starts before the rooster crows.
Which is why I'm up so early, and perhaps explains why this odd mix of livestock and bankers are milling around in front of my mind's eye.
- - -
On another medical note, maybe the prescription anti-inflammatory is doing something. It had better; since all I can take is acetaminophen and I'm trying to stay at 50% of the maximum dose so I have some reserve capacity if things get bad, I'm out of OTC painkiller options.
They say, "Locks only stop an honest man," but down at Bradis Guns, on the southwest side of Indianapolis, locks, block walls and a stout door stymied would-be thieves, who tried to use a couple of stolen cars to ram their way into the building and then tried to shoot the lock off the front door.
It didn't work. They drove away empty-handed. Police are looking for a black Hyundai Accent, presumably a bit dented.
So I went and saw the doctor yesterday; she added an anti-inflammatory to the witch's brew of colorful candies I'm taking and told me to stop taking ibuprofen, as the two work in similar ways and taking them together is too darned much. (Tylenol is still on the menu, as is a baby aspirin per day.) So, fine, fine, in and out with minimum damage and something new to try--
And then, after a perfectly lovely day working in the construction zone at work, barely ahead of the carpeting crew and getting in the way (a little) of the electricians hanging lights and the ceiling-tile guys (a lot) on their tall stilts, I get back to my desk and my cell phone, which has the message light blinking: Nurse Adam, calling to tell me that the doctor meant to send me over for labs, and could I please drop by at my convenience?
Yeah, sure. But not this morning, because it was more convenient to make a mushroom, mozzarella and bacon omelette, in compensation for my English muffin and coffee breakfasts the past two days and the "probably none at all" I will enjoy (?) on Friday before heading up to see the dentist before dawn is hardly broken.
- - -
By the way, it works perfectly well to microwave the mushrooms (2 - 3 minutes) instead of taking the time to pan-fry them, and it's probably better for you. Portobello, oyster and shiitake mushrooms, a nice combination and sold in about the right amount for a three-egg omelette. I added exactly one (1) crumbled Ritz cracker to the egg mix, which worked fine, cooking just a bit fluffy and quite sturdy enough to fold over.
Eye doctor yesterday, regular doctor today. I feel like I should start a long, pointless and vaguely horrifying story about lumbago or psoriasis or possibly geloso,* but I won't. That medical stuff is pretty dull or pretty dire and either way, best not explored in detail. No, I don't have any of those ailments.
Spent some extra time at work last evening, running last-minute wires. The network cable we ordered showed up. The carpet guys showed up, unloaded half their stuff, left "to pick up the rest" and flaked off for the day instead of returning. A win for my side, not so great for the contractor's project manager. Flooring crews tend to be sensitive, artistic types, or perhaps just finicky because the other trades literally walk all over them. Good to get done but it takes its toll -- got home way late, did laundry while eating pizza Tam had ordered, and went to bed. ____________________________ * The latter actually a brand of amateur radio equipment by Italian-American John Geloso, who went back to the Old Country after WW II to build it, doing well while doing good. But I wanted to throw in a ringer and it seemed to fit.
(Title with a tip of the ol' poetic license to Vincent Furnier, who knows how to hang a lantern on a lack of inspiration.*)
Had a lovely shopping trip yesterday afternoon and picked up some of the materiel needed to get the raised flowerbed out front going. It was a weed-filled disaster last year; I finally put a tarp over it and gave up. This week, as time permits, the worst weeds under the tarp will get dug out, I'll lay down a barrier cloth (which I have), secure it with landscape pins (which I don't have), cover it with decent topsoil and sow with assorted wildflowers, plus a few taller ones at the center.
It's also time to get some more stonecrop for the formerly bare spot next to the steps. I like the look of the plant and it does all right on that patch or ground; I have been filling it in with more and more of them for the last few years. The mint and hosta bed wants raked out, too, and I spent a little while sorting out the "Creeping Charlie" (a pervasive though harmless and somewhat decorative edible weed with purple flowers) from the mint -- it likes to sneak in among the fragrant herb and the leaves of the two plant resemble one another, especially early on.
My front yard is once again overrun with with small white flowers and wild violets, which I am reluctant to mow. The strip between the sidewalk and street must get mowed this week and sooner rather than later. In the back yard, the battle between me and the Winter Creeper continues -- I keep pulling it up but it's determined stuff, nowhere near as friendly as the Creeping Charlie. Winter Creeper attacks trees and will kill them if not kept in check; it grows on fences and gets into the wood of them, too. There are still plenty of violets out back and --despite my best efforts -- no shortage of dandelions. I spent some time Sunday evening on a "lion hunt" in the near section of the back yard and out front. Can't get them all but they can be kept in check -- and I don't really mind one or two, just don't let them know that! __________________________________ * As in "We can't even think of a word that rhymes," one of the most recursive lyrics ever, found in the song School's Out. Yes, thatVincent Furnier. And now that I have written my piece, I could easily find a title, but I think I'll leave the one I started with for the sake of this footnote.
I started yesterday at about 10:30 a.m. I ended about 3:30 a.m.
See, we have this big construction project at work. An entire department -- a big department -- has been moved out, their old space stripped to the bare walls, floor slab and the bottom of the floor above, and then rebuilt. Most of the work is being done by a general contractor -- fixed price, firm timeline, penalties for not meeting milestones; it's nothing to do with me or my peers.
But we have a little techy infrastructure to put back in, and we're adding a bit more and-- "firm timeline, penalties..." means the contractor has only barely left time for our stuff in their schedule, and even at that, we're dodging electricians on ladders and in the halls, trying not to get tromped on by suspended-ceiling guys on drywaller's stilts, having to untangle fat multicables the elevated-floor crew has trapped around supports, and so on. There's an immovable event starting Monday: carpet is being laid over the elevated floor. Once it is down, we will have only limited access to underneath at preplanned (and possibly awkward) places. There were a bunch of wires and cables still to run at the end of the day Thursday and so I got my routine stuff out of the way first thing Friday and then started in as the construction crews faded away early, this being a holiday weekend and all.
It never goes as you planned. Some time after starting, I looked up and realized it had gotten dark outside and I was hungry. Went and had a vending machine burger and went back to it, my dark-brown work dungarees* paled to taupe by the dust, and didn't see the end of it until three, when, a bit punchy and clumsy, I cleared away tools and remaining materiel, put them in their storage locations,† and headed for home.
At one time, I made that trip at about that time in the other direction twice every three weeks; the drunks aren't any less worrisome when you are headed north instead of south.
But I think -- I hope! -- that I have enough done that we'll be able to work with it and perhaps add a few extras next week right under the feet of the carpet-layers, without their even noticing.
I have also once again proven that when you have to pre-measure and cut cables before installing, you need to leave plenty extra: pulling 50-foot-plus cables into a dead-straight "as the crow flies" run that measured 41 feet left me two feet to connect to at each end. Where's the extra thirty inches? It's a mystery! ____________________________________ * Carhartt Double-Fronts. I swear by 'em. They are sturdy, comfortable, and have lots of pockets. Sizing has become kind of variable after they moved production offshore, or maybe just from one offshore location to an even cheaper one, but so far the material and workmanship are still excellent.
† Sadly, not everyone does this. You want to leave your own stuff out? Fine. But shared resources are another thing -- put that stuff back, so the next poor fool can find it!
You know what the first rule of Police Fight Club is? You don't want to join it. Yes, even in this day and age of The Distributed Panopticon and multimillion-dollar lawsuits, there is no amount of money that will bring back the teeth you grew yourself, or make a broken bone heal any faster. If you want to fight 'em, hold your tongue, hold your temper, bide your time and hire a lawyer. You won't make as much money, but you'll still be alive to count it. Remember the maxim popularized by Chris Rock, among others: "If the police have to come after you, they're bringing a beating."
It would be nice if this weren't so. It'd be nice if government and civil service jobs were entirely filled by cool, wise philosopher-kings,* too, and while we're at it, how about a cookie? But that's not how it works. In the real world, these jobs are filled by the same range of slobs you find in any other line of work. Most are okay. A few are jerks. However -- and here's the critical distinction -- while most everyday encounters are on or very nearly the same level and a determined (or at least stubborn) person can expect to prevail much of the time, this does not hold when you interact with police. One of you has "sovereign immunity;" one of you has a radio to summon lots of armed help, backed by the full force and might of city, county or state government. It's not you.
Does anyone "have a beating coming?" Under our legal system, no; under the common custom and morality or our time and place, no. Not ever. If they do have "something coming," that's for the courts to decide, not the cops. But alas, Johnny Law has a limited range of options, all of which he is allowed to use if circumstances merit, and only one of them is "gentle persuasion;" every one of the remainder involve some level of force.
After the fact, it may not be justified; or it may be a lawful use of force that still rankles the popular perception. Maybe it's an outrage to be followed up by a week of riots. But someone has, nevertheless, suffered a beating. You don't want to be that guy.
Want to stop this? Get more cameras on more officers, in every sense of the phrase. Write your legislators. Boycott airlines that offend you. Wave signs, raise hell! --Just don't argue it out in the heat of the moment, because in that situation, there is no strategy that can result in you winning. Remember there is one human constant: Police will respond to force with force and it is inherently disproportionate. You can whup 'em in the courts; you can beat 'em in the media; you can run 'em ragged in City Council or the legislature. By the side of the road, in an airliner seat, on a sidewalk...? Not so much. ______________________________ * Based on experience, I'm starting to think these Platonic creatures are like unicorns and the Easter Bunny. Never met one. Don't believe I ever will.
N.B.: I'm going to get some pushback in the form of people accusing me of saying folks ought to knuckle under to jackbooted thugs. No. Wrong. What I'm saying is choose your ground; fight in venues where you've got a fair chance of winning.
So, they wrapped it up, and almost -- almost! -- redeemed the series in the final scene.
There's too much "stuff" there and not enough narrative glue to hold it all together; the story is too hastily told. The anachronisms and science blunders are thick and fast in the final episode, but if you're willing to go along, the cast does their best to sell 'em and it's a fun ride.
It's only later, when you step back, that it starts to get disturbing. While the cast is even more diverse than a 1970s cola commercial trying to teach the world to sing, in the end only amoral, heterosexual, blue-eyed blondes of steely determination win out; anyone who doesn't fit that mold is swept aside as casually as a child spits off of a bridge. Total surveillance of people is questioned -- but never seriously challenged. A corporation -- government contractor? -- that kills off no-longer-wanted employees is accepted matter-of-factly and absolute control is presented as being vindicated by the results it produces.
In short, it's as if the Nazis were making SF films.
This could have been a good mini-series; it could have been the beginning of a series. But it went off the rails in details, in story, in loose ends and in overall tone. It's still lushly set and well acted; the cast really puts you on the huge starship even though the scale is inconsistent. This miniseries makes me itch for a video editor and a lot of free time -- you could probably make a decent hour-long drama out of it, or even two hours. I'm just not sure you wouldn't still be stuck with a Leni Riefenstahl film when you were done.
His name was Paul Revere Williams and you've probably never heard of him. But that wonderful, sweeping, "Hollywood" style, Mediterranean-meets-futuristic, was something he did better than anyone else. He designed in many other styles, too, everything from a YMCA in a struggling neighborhood to a bachelor pad for Frank Sinatra. That swoopy, still-futuristic tower at LAX? That's his work.
He was one of the most successful architects in the area. Orphaned in childhood and of modest means, he worked his way up to the top of his profession before WW II. He reminds me of the characters you meet in a Robert A. Heinlein story. And, oh, yes, there's one more thing.
The story-- It could have been so good. A locked-room mystery within a larger "locked room" in the form of a multigenerational starship? I'm there! And all that wrapped in a vast conspiracy? Even better! --Had they stopped there. They didn't. Nope. Having noticed that the label said "SCIENCE FICTION!11!!one!!!" the writers threw whatever they could think of at the wall, including 2-generation genetic drift, psionic powers and some "bureaucratic SF" in the manner of The X-Files. And then had the gall to hinge some critical developments on a Idiot Plot of the worst sort, a child frightened to take her yearly immunization booster shot, which no one in the entire medical facility aboard the starship can figure out how to give to her. Yep, not main force, not a tranquilizer, not general anesthesia, the doctors and nurses try none of those....
It's worth watching for the sets. It's worth watching for the characters and their various plots. But if it was my project, there's a whole thread that would get edited out.
Interestingly, the writers don't quite get JFK's United States, which is when the generation ship was launched. As a result, there are social elements that ring false, or could at least use more explanation. The writers also don't have a good handle on the kind of infrastructure that it takes to develop and build handheld electronics and small removable digital memory devices. Large-scale integrated circuits are not trivial; neither are medium-resolution LCD displays.
Still more fun than not, but it could have been great with slightly fewer ingredients.
Let's start with the dinner. Yesterday evening, the weather turned a little nasty. About five p.m., heavy rain and light thunderstorm cried and grumbled their way through town. I decided colcannon would be good for supper* on a day like that.
Colcannon's an Irish treat and not too difficult to make -- good mashed potatoes mixed with cooked greens, typically cabbage or kale, and a little bacon or ham, served with melted butter and parsley. I found a recipe that looked interesting, with the butter just browned and scallions (I used most of a large white onion left over from grilled hamburgers on Saturday) cooked with the cabbage, and made a nice big pot of the stuff. You fry the cabbage and onion separately (in the same pan used to brown the butter) and deglaze with a little chicken broth, adding it to the mashed potatoes before serving. I put most of a couple of diced slices of "country ham" in with the potatoes and a little with the cabbage, and skipped adding salt since the ham's got plenty. A bit of fresh-ground black pepper was all the seasoning it needed.
It turned out nicely. Tam had two bowls! And then I was left with a big pot holding a small amount of a mashed potatoes and greens mix that can turn to concrete if left for later, so I turned to loading the dishwasher after my TV show.† It's easy enough to clean up before it sets and I soon had the machine hissing and chuckling away under the counter.
We use a dry-erase board to keep track of dishwasher status. With two people in the house and loading and unloading being catch-as-can, you have to do something. But "dirty," "clean" and "empty" get boring.
So I came up with another way to say it. _______________________________ * I habitually call the evening meal "dinner," which may be a Hoosierism or Midwesternism. That was the term used when and where I grew up. The odd thing is, the big mid-day meal eaten after church on Sunday was referred to as "Sunday dinner," too. Breakfasts and regular lunches tended to be small and simple, so perhaps in my dialect, "dinner" means a large sit-down meal.
† Ascension, which is kind of interesting, though full of anachronisms. Perhaps they will be explained; at present, I am wondering if the writers just don't remember what the world was like before handheld devices.
Decided to give the nice, big Unicomp keyboard (an IBM Model M in all but name -- and maybe that as well, since the bottom is still marked "MODEL M" from the mold) a try, after a disassembly and cleaning so thorough that I wasn't entirely sure it would still work after I got it back together.
It does. I'm using it.
There's a little bit of desk-cleaning yet to do, and I don't have the computer back in the usual location, but when it's done (or sufficiently cleared -- an open workspace is a process, not an end-state), I'll take a picture to share. I'm unlikely to ever achieve 5S levels of orderliness but it's better to make the attempt than to wallow in bad habits.
So... it took most of two days to excavate my desk sufficiently to get the peripherals of the old computer out -- the physical desktop was, literally, three years deep in paperwork. I am hoping to not restart that very bad habit; I have a filing system, I just wasn't making much use of it.
As I write, I'm getting the new computer up and running. Wish me luck!
--I did find the photograph that proves I have ridden an elephant, for whatever that's worth. And I found several items I'd forgotten about, including a $25 gift card for Macy's.
UPS supposedly tried to deliver my new computer yesterday, signature-required for some idiotic reason (it's a hundred-dollar refurb job; they've dumped plenty of boxes worth way more on the porch without so much as honking the truck's horn.) Tam was home and in the office (just off the porch) all afternoon, so as near as we can tell, the driver parked a half block away, put on toe shoes, tiptoed down the walk, up the steps, and left a sticker on the front door as gently as a butterfly lands on a tiny violet, then turned and tiptoed away, pushing his truck a half-block further away before starting it and driving off, grinning and chortling like a Gibraltar ape at his great cleverness.
Why? I don't know why. Perhaps he has been driven mad by the demands of his trade, the constant push for greater speed and volume. They get dressed-down if they're seen so much as sauntering instead of scurrying or trotting. But compassion doesn't make me any less disappointed or Tam any less annoyed.
She is hoping to go pick it up for me today. We'll see how that goes.
Edited to add: the autocorrection feature in this version of Exploder is driving me as mad as the hypothetical UPS driver. It's got about a thousand-word vocabulary and "sauntering" ain't on the list.
Here it is, as I understand it: until late yesterday, the debate was over if it was good or bad if Oceania was run by a ruler suspected of favoring Eurasia instead of Eastasia, but as of today, both factions firmly despise Eurasia while suspecting the motives of the opposing faction for so doing.
And Great Leader is still a hapless, crude mastermind, as well as being a puppet and a loose cannon. And perhaps a square circle, cold heat and a skinny fat man.
I'm supposed to care deeply about all this but somehow, I just don't. World War Three? Total yawner. Pax Americana? Dull as ditchwater. Proxy wars fought anywhere too broke or torn-up to matter to the civilized world? An old, boring meat-grinder.* No matter who does what, the barbarians keep building themselves thrones on the bloody bones of mothers and children, just as they always have. It's not safe to leave them to it and you can't stop 'em without adding to the death-toll.
It is snicker-worthy watching Uncle Vlad get all huffy about the "violation of international law" in the U. S. sending a missile salvo on a badwill tour of a Syrian air force base. Tell it to the Ukrainians, you scheming weasel, and then yank the veto chain from your comfy seat on the UN Security Council just like all the other Great Powers do after they've beat up some two-bit country that doesn't have that option. __________________________________ * The day I see a significant minority of maimed veterans in the U.S. Congress will be the day I start to think we might get a generation's relief from that wretched game. It took a Civil War to buy that much peace last time, 1865 -1898, and amateur historians are probably going to cite examples showing even that hindsight is overly rose-colored, probably from all the Army and Native American blood spilled.
To give Senator Schumer his due (and let me be quite clear, I regard public sanitation workers as an inherently more honorable class of civil servants than U. S. Senators, since when the garbageman or sewer tech has done their work, the world is inarguably bettered), he wasn't in favor of the "nuclear option" when his fellow Democrats pushed it through for Cabinet nominees in 2013. On the other hand, I don't recall him showing Majority Leader Harry Reid any dramatic opposition at the time; even sympathetic accounts have Mr. Schumer "working quietly behind the scenes" to forestall what eventually happened, on a party-line vote in favor. Including his vote.
And yet there he was on the evening news last night, cheaters sternly low on his nose, as serious as a boiled owl, intoning, "...Democrats have never believed in changing the rules...." No, dammit, no. Maybe you do not, sir, and if so it's one of your few admirable positions, but your Party fellows have an irrefutable history of changing the rules of the Senate when it suits them, and most of the Democrats who voted to yank the ol' filibuster when it was in the way of their President four years ago are still around to vote to preserve that hallowed tradition now. Go be a good soldier for your side, but don't stand there and lie to people with access to search engines like you were acting in a summer-stock production of 1984.
There's something wrong with my Windows 7 desktop computer -- and it is almost certainly a virus. I thought it was just an iTunes update goes wrong; removing iTunes fixed it... for one boot-up. Next time I started the machine, the same symptoms as before: it won't run any of the installed software but the Web browser, my antivirus is off and can't be started, Task Manager comes up but stalls with a (not responding) tag.
She went in Friday morning with suspected pneumonia, but the doctors decided maybe not and are working on figuring out just what is going on. I visited her last evening and she's alert, lucid -- and about as happy anyone having to remember to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth ever is. Supplemental oxygen is a wonderful thing but it's awkward, especially when you doze off.
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Ego vadum perussi vestri prandium
"I saw to what extent the people among whom I lived could be trusted as good neighbors and friends; that their friendship was for summer weather only; that they did not greatly propose to do right; that they were a distinct race from me by their prejudices and superstitions."
Henry David Thoreau
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