Update: I did not maim and/or kill myself fixing my dishwasher and now I wander around the house telling my wife about the other things in the house that I could probably fix. Of course, I have no intention of actually doing any of those things, and my success with stunningly simple dishwasher was followed almost immediately by almost setting the house on fire with the toaster.
No, this self-congratulatory preening is simply the price my family must pay in the rare occasions that I fix something correctly, and will soon fade as I fail spectacularly at trying to clear a drain clog or something similarly humiliating.
Also, karma reared its ugly head soon after my dishwasher success and the alternator in my car died. Conveniently, this occurred when both my wife and daughter were in the car and we were a good 60 miles from home. And indeed, the car completely died when were about halfway home in backed-up traffic on Highway 1, that scenic highway favored by car ads, where one might drive along breathtaking ocean vistas when one is not aware that their car might die at any second.
As it happened, the systems in the car started to fail as I approached a huge backup of cars and, knowing the feeling from years of driving shitty cars, I pulled onto the shoulder and willed the car to make it to that turn-off about 500 yards ahead. Somehow it did make it, just as all the power failed, and I pulled the non-powered, quickly locking steering to a remarkably safe spot on the side of a side road.
The rest of the story involves tow trucks, battery-packs, and 800 dollars.*
*And of course, when I told my coworker my tale of alternator woe, he was kind enough to listen politely until the end of the story before pointing out that I could have merely opened up the alternator and replaced the "brushes" for about 50 dollars.
So now my coworker is dead.
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Thursday, February 09, 2017
Expert Plans
I just want to warn you, I may be attempting to fix my dishwasher this weekend. It is easy. I have watched one video on YouTube and if a guy who had his thumb over the camera a good 60% of the video's runtime can do it, I can do it, by god!
What's wrong with the dishwasher is that a whole lot of water comes out of the airgap. I only know it is called an airgap because my sister told me about a dishwasher repair guy who wants to make money selling seasonal airgap covers, like for instance a Santa airgap cover. That, frankly, sounds a little disturbing because if your airgap is leaking like mine is, you're going to see a tiny Santa basically urinating all over your countertop.
Our airgap has been leaking for approximately 7 years. The bottom of our under-sink cabinet and the floor under that cabinet are water-damaged and buckling. It is a good thing I have sprung into action so quickly. The damage is at that level where I am somewhere between "we should probably have a look at how bad that is" and "I really don't want to know how bad that is because it is probably really expensive to fix and will make me have to face some harsh truths about myself." I was washing dishes the other day and idly wondered if I would just fall through the floor into our garage (which would not have been terrible because I was eyeing a Le Creuset thing with baked on meat stuff on it and I really did not want to clean it.)
So I watched a video which, as I mentioned, was very professionally shot, and in which a friendly person shows how to take your dishwasher apart and clean the filters. (Also, guy making video, why did you wait to do your dishwasher repair video until both racks were full of dirty dishes?)
My thought process as I watch a video like this is "ok... ok... I can do that... I uh.... maybe I can do that?" and kind of mentally picturing how I will screw it up. Losing all the screws, that's one thing. Bending and/or breaking sensitive parts, that's another. Electrocution? Doesn't seem likely, but would not be surprising given my past home repair efforts. Fingers/hair/entire head/genitals caught in food grinder thing? Again, unlikely, but still possible.
But I am going to do this. And if I do not return, know that I loved you.
What's wrong with the dishwasher is that a whole lot of water comes out of the airgap. I only know it is called an airgap because my sister told me about a dishwasher repair guy who wants to make money selling seasonal airgap covers, like for instance a Santa airgap cover. That, frankly, sounds a little disturbing because if your airgap is leaking like mine is, you're going to see a tiny Santa basically urinating all over your countertop.
Our airgap has been leaking for approximately 7 years. The bottom of our under-sink cabinet and the floor under that cabinet are water-damaged and buckling. It is a good thing I have sprung into action so quickly. The damage is at that level where I am somewhere between "we should probably have a look at how bad that is" and "I really don't want to know how bad that is because it is probably really expensive to fix and will make me have to face some harsh truths about myself." I was washing dishes the other day and idly wondered if I would just fall through the floor into our garage (which would not have been terrible because I was eyeing a Le Creuset thing with baked on meat stuff on it and I really did not want to clean it.)
So I watched a video which, as I mentioned, was very professionally shot, and in which a friendly person shows how to take your dishwasher apart and clean the filters. (Also, guy making video, why did you wait to do your dishwasher repair video until both racks were full of dirty dishes?)
My thought process as I watch a video like this is "ok... ok... I can do that... I uh.... maybe I can do that?" and kind of mentally picturing how I will screw it up. Losing all the screws, that's one thing. Bending and/or breaking sensitive parts, that's another. Electrocution? Doesn't seem likely, but would not be surprising given my past home repair efforts. Fingers/hair/entire head/genitals caught in food grinder thing? Again, unlikely, but still possible.
But I am going to do this. And if I do not return, know that I loved you.
Wednesday, February 01, 2017
Professionalism
Sometimes I question my career choice.
Then, of course, I remember I didn't really choose it at all. It just kind of happened. When you have a degree in something spectacularly useful, like my Modern Literature degree, you can pretty much pick your path to financial success--it's true. But somehow I just found myself as a technical writer some twenty-five years ago, despite the fact that I didn't know much about computers really at all. But I knew some engineer types, I could fog a mirror, and I could use Microsoft Word to edit some hardware specifications, so I was in. I think they also asked me if I was proficient in AutoCAD 10, a query to which I nodded and smiled knowingly, despite a sneaking suspicion that AutoCAD was one of those robot taxis from Total Recall.
And then I was off and running. Filing things. Folding D-size papers origami-like into something that would fit in a letter-size drawer. Distributing Engineering Change Orders in bulging manila folders that the responsible parties would ignore. I was happy there in my first office job, taking innumerable cigarette breaks and playing minesweeper while no-one was watching. Hanging out with my Bulgarian co-workers who also seemed never to do any work. And then one day the place went under. Possibly due to some shady goings-on with the CEO. Or possibly because no-one did any work. Never was quite sure.
And somehow, all these years later, my skills are a rainbow of XML, structured authoring, training video creation, Git source management. The Cloud. I find myself reading discussion boards about serif vs sans serif fonts in user manuals. Two spaces or one after a full stop. I have opinions about those things, which no-one should really care about.
Did I have a point here? Not sure. Maybe a cautionary tale.
I do miss the Minesweeper though.
Then, of course, I remember I didn't really choose it at all. It just kind of happened. When you have a degree in something spectacularly useful, like my Modern Literature degree, you can pretty much pick your path to financial success--it's true. But somehow I just found myself as a technical writer some twenty-five years ago, despite the fact that I didn't know much about computers really at all. But I knew some engineer types, I could fog a mirror, and I could use Microsoft Word to edit some hardware specifications, so I was in. I think they also asked me if I was proficient in AutoCAD 10, a query to which I nodded and smiled knowingly, despite a sneaking suspicion that AutoCAD was one of those robot taxis from Total Recall.
And then I was off and running. Filing things. Folding D-size papers origami-like into something that would fit in a letter-size drawer. Distributing Engineering Change Orders in bulging manila folders that the responsible parties would ignore. I was happy there in my first office job, taking innumerable cigarette breaks and playing minesweeper while no-one was watching. Hanging out with my Bulgarian co-workers who also seemed never to do any work. And then one day the place went under. Possibly due to some shady goings-on with the CEO. Or possibly because no-one did any work. Never was quite sure.
And somehow, all these years later, my skills are a rainbow of XML, structured authoring, training video creation, Git source management. The Cloud. I find myself reading discussion boards about serif vs sans serif fonts in user manuals. Two spaces or one after a full stop. I have opinions about those things, which no-one should really care about.
Did I have a point here? Not sure. Maybe a cautionary tale.
I do miss the Minesweeper though.
Monday, January 23, 2017
Terrible Food Day
So, I thought it would be a good idea to have Terrible Food Day for my daughter (and, by extension, me). My wife is always buying these healthy things with buckwheat and chia and tiny rocks, and while I appreciate her earnest healthward leanings, I recognize that when you are seven years old, tofu and gravelly grain is not the most appealing.
I started talking about TV dinners to my daughter. The cobbler! You put a TV dinner in the oven and if you wanted the (arguable) meat to be hot, that cobbler was going to be fused like magma. Pirate Picnic--that was my favorite when I was a kid. Games on the box! Nestle's Quik mix included! This is what life was like before Atari.
The excitement was palpable.
So we ventured forth to our local grocery store. I was anticipating a rich array of choices. But the only real TV dinners I could find were Hungry Mans. And I don't think a 50 pound person needs 2 pounds of food. (Incidentally, while we were discussing what terrible food choice we would make, a hungry man approached the Hungry Mans and changed his mind when he heard us. Sorry, Swanson.)
Apart from that there were some Banquet choices, only one of which had a dessert in it, and that one looked pretty terrible. In the end she opted for a kind-of TV dinner featuring chicken nuggets and some macaroni and cheese that was frankly unholy and did not taste even a little like cheese.
I myself opted for the Stouffer's turkey tetrazzini, a foodstuff I consumed throughout high school and college at a truly alarming rate. And I tell you it hasn't changed. In fact the particular box I purchased may have been from 1992--how could you tell?
I also tried to flesh out Terrible Food Day with Chikn-in-a-Biskit crackers. My daughter ate one and sputtered "aaaagh! salty!" I assured her that the chemical reaction taking place in her insides was not just salt--it was Nature's Perfect Food: MSG! And lots of it! But no matter how I tried to explain the wonders of Flavor Enhancer, she would not be swayed.
So anyway, I may have affected her eating habits in a good way by making her eat stuff that tastes even worse than quinoa. She liked the orange soda though.
I started talking about TV dinners to my daughter. The cobbler! You put a TV dinner in the oven and if you wanted the (arguable) meat to be hot, that cobbler was going to be fused like magma. Pirate Picnic--that was my favorite when I was a kid. Games on the box! Nestle's Quik mix included! This is what life was like before Atari.
The excitement was palpable.
So we ventured forth to our local grocery store. I was anticipating a rich array of choices. But the only real TV dinners I could find were Hungry Mans. And I don't think a 50 pound person needs 2 pounds of food. (Incidentally, while we were discussing what terrible food choice we would make, a hungry man approached the Hungry Mans and changed his mind when he heard us. Sorry, Swanson.)
Apart from that there were some Banquet choices, only one of which had a dessert in it, and that one looked pretty terrible. In the end she opted for a kind-of TV dinner featuring chicken nuggets and some macaroni and cheese that was frankly unholy and did not taste even a little like cheese.
I myself opted for the Stouffer's turkey tetrazzini, a foodstuff I consumed throughout high school and college at a truly alarming rate. And I tell you it hasn't changed. In fact the particular box I purchased may have been from 1992--how could you tell?
I also tried to flesh out Terrible Food Day with Chikn-in-a-Biskit crackers. My daughter ate one and sputtered "aaaagh! salty!" I assured her that the chemical reaction taking place in her insides was not just salt--it was Nature's Perfect Food: MSG! And lots of it! But no matter how I tried to explain the wonders of Flavor Enhancer, she would not be swayed.
So anyway, I may have affected her eating habits in a good way by making her eat stuff that tastes even worse than quinoa. She liked the orange soda though.
Monday, January 09, 2017
Is IoT the Next Game Changer?
Will your game change when your toothbrush is talking to your toaster? I'm here to tell you it will.
And the best thing is that dudes in Latvia will be able to listen to your toothbrush too! It may end up like that Gilligan's Island episode where Gilligan was receiving radio signals through his teeth, except this will be a guy named Gregor slowly reciting strings of random numbers into your molars as you massage your gums in the morning. A new world of openness and possibility!
And are you tired of having to manually upgrade your waffle iron to install the newest patch, adding full Netflix capability to what is ostensibly a way to make breakfast? Now you don't have to! Your waffle iron will automatically download the latest kicky apps to keep you entertained!
We must never rest until every single device can stream everything all the time. Until the glorious moment when everything everywhere is released in a half-assed version that we can upgrade remotely to a new version that is deeply insecure and broken in new and exciting ways.
Save your credit card information to your doorbell! It will be fine!
Your medical records should be stored on your connected fridge, which can also generate a playlist based on your fiber intake. Listen to it as you lie immobile on the floor, waiting for the paramedics!
This is the future!
And the best thing is that dudes in Latvia will be able to listen to your toothbrush too! It may end up like that Gilligan's Island episode where Gilligan was receiving radio signals through his teeth, except this will be a guy named Gregor slowly reciting strings of random numbers into your molars as you massage your gums in the morning. A new world of openness and possibility!
And are you tired of having to manually upgrade your waffle iron to install the newest patch, adding full Netflix capability to what is ostensibly a way to make breakfast? Now you don't have to! Your waffle iron will automatically download the latest kicky apps to keep you entertained!
We must never rest until every single device can stream everything all the time. Until the glorious moment when everything everywhere is released in a half-assed version that we can upgrade remotely to a new version that is deeply insecure and broken in new and exciting ways.
Save your credit card information to your doorbell! It will be fine!
Your medical records should be stored on your connected fridge, which can also generate a playlist based on your fiber intake. Listen to it as you lie immobile on the floor, waiting for the paramedics!
This is the future!
Thursday, January 05, 2017
An Arguably Bad Idea: Monkey Ownership
The surprisingly not awful but still kind of awful tale of people who ordered squirrel monkeys from comic book ads in the 60s and 70s:
It was also capable of riding on the back of the family’s Sheltie collie like a horse. Although the dog didn’t enjoy it, he learned to deal with Chipper.
I am troubled there is no mention of the late 70s scheme wherein a company would begin sending you small dangerous animals every month until you paid them to stop sending you small dangerous animals. A particularly inspired wrinkle of the scheme was that if you gave the company the names and addresses of three of your friends, you could get them to stop sending the small dangerous animals for an unknowable amount of time. Of course, the scheme was doomed from the outset because once the recipient was killed by the small dangerous animals (and they inevitably were, if not killed, really badly damaged both physically and emotionally) the small dangerous animals tended to pile up at the recipient's address, and you wound up with flocks of small dangerous animals roaming the streets, brandishing their flick-knives at old ladies and generally threatening a god-fearing populace.
Note that this story is like eight years old. I know that. Don't get all huffy with me, sir.
via metafilter
It was also capable of riding on the back of the family’s Sheltie collie like a horse. Although the dog didn’t enjoy it, he learned to deal with Chipper.
I am troubled there is no mention of the late 70s scheme wherein a company would begin sending you small dangerous animals every month until you paid them to stop sending you small dangerous animals. A particularly inspired wrinkle of the scheme was that if you gave the company the names and addresses of three of your friends, you could get them to stop sending the small dangerous animals for an unknowable amount of time. Of course, the scheme was doomed from the outset because once the recipient was killed by the small dangerous animals (and they inevitably were, if not killed, really badly damaged both physically and emotionally) the small dangerous animals tended to pile up at the recipient's address, and you wound up with flocks of small dangerous animals roaming the streets, brandishing their flick-knives at old ladies and generally threatening a god-fearing populace.
Note that this story is like eight years old. I know that. Don't get all huffy with me, sir.
via metafilter
Tuesday, January 03, 2017
The Daddest of the Dads
As one gets older, one realizes certain things about oneself.
Just after Christmas (and I hope you had a good one), I finally gave in to 2009 and picked up a Blu-Ray player. This had been on my mind for some years, since I upgraded my amp (or is a tuner? God knows) and discovered my DVD player would no longer connect to it in any useful way. Because the crushing march of technology dictates that everything must be HDMI now. And that's good--don't get me wrong...when I am watching my tedious art films I want to see angst and despair at the highest possible resolution. So for several years I have had a basically useless DVD player sitting underneath my TiVo, and I have been watching movies on the Xbox. That's fine as well, as long as you don't mind occasionally being unable to hear anything the actors are saying over the droning whirr.
So anyway, my little Blu-Ray player arrived from Amazon (refurbished! 47 dollars!) and I eyed my component console thing warily. This is a unit with two side-by-side drawers on the bottom for storing media (read: absolutely full drawer of DVDs you look at wistfully from time to time and drawer full of video game peripherals that you're not sure if they still work but figure you had better keep, just in case you ever want to play a Gamecube pinball game where you speak into the controller and control Japanese feudal-age armies again.) Above the drawers, the unit has two side-by-side shelves where you store your components, and tiny little holes through which you feed a vast array of cables. I have wisely broadened those cable-holes over time, ensuring no resale value remains for the unit itself. The shelves are covered by those lift-and-slide cabinet doors that are exactly the height of my amp thing. So every time I slide the amp out to see what the hell is going on back there, the amp grates against the bottom of the cabinet door, leaving gouges and grooves that make it look like it has been the victim of a werewolf attack. Also, all the cables are just exactly the right length so that when you slide the amp out, half of them detach and you have to guess where they previously connected. Or, as I did, you kind of rotate the amp just enough to where the cables don't pop out and you can kind of see the markings on the 27 Ins and Outs, as you shine your iPhone in there, making sure to shine it directly into your eyes a couple of times and panicking you into thinking a migraine is inevitable.
So I am in there messing around with cords and cables and trying to remember if I have another HDMI cable in the garage (spoiler: I do not) and thinking I should really do something about this nest of cables under my component amp tuner console furniture thing because other people seem to have figured this out but I somehow have not, and what if I somehow used zip-ties and hooked all these cables to the back of the unit?
And it hits me: I love doing this. I love assing around with cables that connect various electronic things, and reassuring my family that I know exactly what I am doing, nodding to myself sagely before optimistically pressing several remote buttons, only to find out I have screwed up one of the 27 connections in some unknowable way. And swearing, of course.
The daddest of the dads.
Monday, December 19, 2016
Mouse stuff
There is a mouse on the loose in our office. It is so much more pleasurable to think about this little guy motoring around the carpet, maybe wearing a little tee shirt, than it is to think about terrorist attacks and Trump. Go little guy! GO!
It is extremely important that I focus on this mouse. Maybe I'll build a series of tunnels for him. Or her. I don't know which. I don't know how the mouse identifies. Maybe I'll do a study on gender identification among rodents. Explore the subculture. Like that Runaway Ralph with the motorcycle. What was he into?
I could set up webcams and document my time among the mice. Or my time with the mouse really. Unless there are more. A whole society. And when we leave here they're rubbing their little mouse butts all over our phones and office chairs. Or maybe they're helpful, like fairy tale elves, although I have never returned to work in the morning to find all my spreadsheets perfectly formatted or anything like that. I think mouse talents lie more in the clothing arena is what I'm saying. Your shoes, your Disney princess ballgown. That kind of thing.
Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll be savagely mauled by the mouse, and Werner Herzog will make a touching documentary about me despite my misguided attempts.
If I can just really, really focus on this for, say, the next four years? That sounds like a really good idea.
*cries*
It is extremely important that I focus on this mouse. Maybe I'll build a series of tunnels for him. Or her. I don't know which. I don't know how the mouse identifies. Maybe I'll do a study on gender identification among rodents. Explore the subculture. Like that Runaway Ralph with the motorcycle. What was he into?
I could set up webcams and document my time among the mice. Or my time with the mouse really. Unless there are more. A whole society. And when we leave here they're rubbing their little mouse butts all over our phones and office chairs. Or maybe they're helpful, like fairy tale elves, although I have never returned to work in the morning to find all my spreadsheets perfectly formatted or anything like that. I think mouse talents lie more in the clothing arena is what I'm saying. Your shoes, your Disney princess ballgown. That kind of thing.
Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll be savagely mauled by the mouse, and Werner Herzog will make a touching documentary about me despite my misguided attempts.
If I can just really, really focus on this for, say, the next four years? That sounds like a really good idea.
*cries*
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Get Thee Behind Me, Sofa
Look man. All I want to do is get rid of a sofa. That's it.
I know it is clawed up. I know. My cats are not to be trusted. They see a sofa and they think "Sure, kafkaesque, friend to all animals, has lovingly and thoughtfully provided us with many scratching options for claw management, including but not limited to a 6 foot tall Cat Metropolis cat condo thing that was over 100 American dollars, but we prefer to destroy this couch instead, because we are cat clichés. Also do you have some yarn I could eat?"
It may have been peed on by an infant or two, this sofa. Maybe some childbarf when I was not quick enough with the bowl. Yeah, that bowl. The metal one that we use for salad sometimes. The dishwasher has removed all trace of childbarf from that bowl I swear to god. And from the sofa. That you should take.
And the time the poop actually came out of the top of the onesie like a chocolate fondue fountain at a wedding? I think that was not on the sofa, but frankly it may have been. I have wiped it from my mind. Even though I sometimes wake in cold terror thinking of elevator doors opening in the Overlook lobby and poo pouring out.
Listen, I can't even park my car in the garage because of this sofa. I loved it, it is true, when I was napping of a Saturday afternoon, a soccer game playing away on the television. But no more.
Now I hate it purely and perfectly and want it gone.
Do I have to carve this thing up with a reciprocating saw and place it daintily in the garbage can for a series of weeks? Because I will totally do that. Do I have to push it out to sea and then fire a flaming arrow at it? That sounds kind of fun but my aim is not that good so I would want to ensure the surf was completely empty, and that sounds like a logistical nightmare. And maybe my arrow hits a sea lion or something and I don't want that on my conscience.
Just take my sofa.
I know it is clawed up. I know. My cats are not to be trusted. They see a sofa and they think "Sure, kafkaesque, friend to all animals, has lovingly and thoughtfully provided us with many scratching options for claw management, including but not limited to a 6 foot tall Cat Metropolis cat condo thing that was over 100 American dollars, but we prefer to destroy this couch instead, because we are cat clichés. Also do you have some yarn I could eat?"
It may have been peed on by an infant or two, this sofa. Maybe some childbarf when I was not quick enough with the bowl. Yeah, that bowl. The metal one that we use for salad sometimes. The dishwasher has removed all trace of childbarf from that bowl I swear to god. And from the sofa. That you should take.
And the time the poop actually came out of the top of the onesie like a chocolate fondue fountain at a wedding? I think that was not on the sofa, but frankly it may have been. I have wiped it from my mind. Even though I sometimes wake in cold terror thinking of elevator doors opening in the Overlook lobby and poo pouring out.
Listen, I can't even park my car in the garage because of this sofa. I loved it, it is true, when I was napping of a Saturday afternoon, a soccer game playing away on the television. But no more.
Now I hate it purely and perfectly and want it gone.
Do I have to carve this thing up with a reciprocating saw and place it daintily in the garbage can for a series of weeks? Because I will totally do that. Do I have to push it out to sea and then fire a flaming arrow at it? That sounds kind of fun but my aim is not that good so I would want to ensure the surf was completely empty, and that sounds like a logistical nightmare. And maybe my arrow hits a sea lion or something and I don't want that on my conscience.
Just take my sofa.
Wednesday, December 07, 2016
Legend of Zelda Update
I may have mentioned here that I downloaded the original Legend of Zelda to my daughter's 3DS recently. This was done with the wide-eyed optimism that she and I would play it together, and I would regale her with tales of that guy on the commercial saying "Octoroks!" who I kind of want to say was Howie Mandel but surely wasn't*. And she'd look up at me, as she vanquished a full screen of Peahats, knowing in her heart of hearts that she had worth as a human, that her self-esteem had been bolstered not only by this bonding with her dad, but by the clear realization that anything is possible if you just really believe. Yes, she'd look up at me, moist-eyed and say "You are the best dad."
Of course, what really happened is that she is not really even remotely interested in playing Legend of Zelda because she is seven years old and it is really unreasonably difficult. She sits next to me on the couch watching Teen Titans Go! and I run Link around like a total dickhead because I lack the sensory skills necessary to remember where the Level 1 dungeon is. And, if I make it to the dungeon, to have more than half a heart left, so I can be easily dispatched by bats. The whole thing is really an exercise in not swearing really loud in front of your kid.
And I forgot the quiet majesty of the little POOT sound every time Link gets hit.**
And how he charmingly is pushed back, possibly into another of those dog things with the bow and arrows. And that square thing that pops up in the water? You know, the one that seems to hit me every single time despite the fact that its shots don't travel all that fast? Not my favorite foe is what I'm saying.
Anyway, so far I have cleared the Level 1 dungeon and the Level 2 dungeon. Nothing in the dungeons so far is really all that difficult, except those blue guys that had the magic boomerang.
I will keep you updated.
*
** If you listen to me playing this game it would sound like this: OK, here we go... OK Octoroks, that's easy... Oh wait these guys with the POOT Ah damn, now I can't throw my POOT POOT Really? You're going to POOT POOT POOT Aaaa! BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
Of course, what really happened is that she is not really even remotely interested in playing Legend of Zelda because she is seven years old and it is really unreasonably difficult. She sits next to me on the couch watching Teen Titans Go! and I run Link around like a total dickhead because I lack the sensory skills necessary to remember where the Level 1 dungeon is. And, if I make it to the dungeon, to have more than half a heart left, so I can be easily dispatched by bats. The whole thing is really an exercise in not swearing really loud in front of your kid.
And I forgot the quiet majesty of the little POOT sound every time Link gets hit.**
And how he charmingly is pushed back, possibly into another of those dog things with the bow and arrows. And that square thing that pops up in the water? You know, the one that seems to hit me every single time despite the fact that its shots don't travel all that fast? Not my favorite foe is what I'm saying.
Anyway, so far I have cleared the Level 1 dungeon and the Level 2 dungeon. Nothing in the dungeons so far is really all that difficult, except those blue guys that had the magic boomerang.
I will keep you updated.
*
** If you listen to me playing this game it would sound like this: OK, here we go... OK Octoroks, that's easy... Oh wait these guys with the POOT Ah damn, now I can't throw my POOT POOT Really? You're going to POOT POOT POOT Aaaa! BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
Monday, December 05, 2016
Puddle of Santa
Flat and empty
Belly bereft of jelly
Collapsed like a narcoleptic
Run over by a mattress truck
In some terrible coincidence
At night will you rise
Majestic
Lit from within?
Animatronic reindeer
Shaking their heads
Slowly slowly
Back and forth
Disapproving
Of your midnight
Lawn party
Belly bereft of jelly
Collapsed like a narcoleptic
Run over by a mattress truck
In some terrible coincidence
At night will you rise
Majestic
Lit from within?
Animatronic reindeer
Shaking their heads
Slowly slowly
Back and forth
Disapproving
Of your midnight
Lawn party
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
The Game Is Up, Kringle
My seven year-old daughter does not believe in Santa Claus anymore, apparently. It happened naturally I guess, though I suspect it may be because I listen to Father Christmas by The Kinks pretty regularly this time of year and the line "When I was small I believed in Santa Claus/Though I knew it was my dad".
There are of course two schools of thought on the Santa/No Santa LYING/NO LYING question. I struggled with the LYING aspect of the decision for a long time (because it is my jam to struggle with/worry about everything) and finally settled with my wife on the MAGIC argument. The LYING problem is that your kid of course believes everything you say with perfect, unquestioning faith, and when they find out Santa isn't real, they fall from innocence, much like that Michael J Fox movie where he was in a war or something and you had to pretend you weren't thinking "Looka that--it's Alex P Keaton in Vietnam" the whole time. That, of course, presupposes that your kid actually believes everything you say, whereas I have been telling my daughter made-up stuff pretty much since she was born. It's one of the reasons I had a kid in the first place.
The MAGIC argument is that there is very little magic left in the world. All the answers to everything are at our fingertips all time--even if we choose not to look up those answers, like what the name of that Michael J Fox movie was--so having some inexplicable things is no bad thing. Don't get me wrong; one can go too far and end up putzing around the woods at all hours looking for bigfoots.
But my daughter doesn't really seem to care if Santa is not real, and having Ray Davies break it to you is not the worst.
My daughter seems to be a very truth-oriented kid and always wants to know the real story behind things, a quality I admire. When I was a kid I had a real love for legend and the mystical, even though my parents were godless rationalists, so maybe it is the same for her.
She certainly seems to enjoy stories about mice solving crimes, so there's that.
There are of course two schools of thought on the Santa/No Santa LYING/NO LYING question. I struggled with the LYING aspect of the decision for a long time (because it is my jam to struggle with/worry about everything) and finally settled with my wife on the MAGIC argument. The LYING problem is that your kid of course believes everything you say with perfect, unquestioning faith, and when they find out Santa isn't real, they fall from innocence, much like that Michael J Fox movie where he was in a war or something and you had to pretend you weren't thinking "Looka that--it's Alex P Keaton in Vietnam" the whole time. That, of course, presupposes that your kid actually believes everything you say, whereas I have been telling my daughter made-up stuff pretty much since she was born. It's one of the reasons I had a kid in the first place.
The MAGIC argument is that there is very little magic left in the world. All the answers to everything are at our fingertips all time--even if we choose not to look up those answers, like what the name of that Michael J Fox movie was--so having some inexplicable things is no bad thing. Don't get me wrong; one can go too far and end up putzing around the woods at all hours looking for bigfoots.
But my daughter doesn't really seem to care if Santa is not real, and having Ray Davies break it to you is not the worst.
My daughter seems to be a very truth-oriented kid and always wants to know the real story behind things, a quality I admire. When I was a kid I had a real love for legend and the mystical, even though my parents were godless rationalists, so maybe it is the same for her.
She certainly seems to enjoy stories about mice solving crimes, so there's that.
Monday, November 21, 2016
Trust Your Mechanic
I was driving to work today and suddenly, every time I put the clutch in, the car was instantly losing power, like it was slowly braking, as opposed to going into neutral.
I instantly envisioned terrible outcomes--towing it to the Wacky German Guys that service my car, and who call me "The Computer Guy" because I once advised them that a blue screen was probably not a good sign. Like, every time I engaged the clutch I was kind of jerked forward as the car slowed unnaturally. I knew this was going to be a more-than-a-thousand dollar fix. And my car has 165,000 miles on it--it's at the stage where one huge repair bill means "let's get a new car" and not "let's fix this one". The same thing as when you have an eleven year old cat and it needs open heart surgery. You have to know when to say when is what I'm saying.
So I thought of all the good times I had had with my sport wagon. Driving to Joshua Tree. Driving to Utah. Going on rollercoasters together. Having our first smoke. That time we danced to Against All Odds at the junior high dance.
With a tear in my eye I pulled into a gas station, knowing that I may have had that last drive with my old friend. In my head, I was already assembling a car-based playlist to help me through these tough times. I won't go into too many details about it, but you know there wouldn't be a dry eye in the house when I effortlessly moved from Jonathan Richman's Roadrunner to Springsteen's Thunder Road.
Or maybe I could learn to fix this old friend myself, despite the fact that the system is all computer controlled, and even though I may be known by my mechanic as The Computer Guy, chances of me fixing anything correctly approach zero pretty rapidly.
Then I noticed a tiny light on the digital display. I didn't even want to know what it meant: HDC. Here Die Cars, most likely. Or Heaven Don't Care? That seemed to match my mood.
HDC: Hill Descent Control. I had somehow pressed the Hill Descent Control button, a button which I have never pressed even once in the ten years I have owned the car.
I restarted the car, made sure HDC was no longer showing up, and drove into the midmorning sun, feeling free and alive for the first time.
Still, I have that playlist ready.
I instantly envisioned terrible outcomes--towing it to the Wacky German Guys that service my car, and who call me "The Computer Guy" because I once advised them that a blue screen was probably not a good sign. Like, every time I engaged the clutch I was kind of jerked forward as the car slowed unnaturally. I knew this was going to be a more-than-a-thousand dollar fix. And my car has 165,000 miles on it--it's at the stage where one huge repair bill means "let's get a new car" and not "let's fix this one". The same thing as when you have an eleven year old cat and it needs open heart surgery. You have to know when to say when is what I'm saying.
So I thought of all the good times I had had with my sport wagon. Driving to Joshua Tree. Driving to Utah. Going on rollercoasters together. Having our first smoke. That time we danced to Against All Odds at the junior high dance.
With a tear in my eye I pulled into a gas station, knowing that I may have had that last drive with my old friend. In my head, I was already assembling a car-based playlist to help me through these tough times. I won't go into too many details about it, but you know there wouldn't be a dry eye in the house when I effortlessly moved from Jonathan Richman's Roadrunner to Springsteen's Thunder Road.
Or maybe I could learn to fix this old friend myself, despite the fact that the system is all computer controlled, and even though I may be known by my mechanic as The Computer Guy, chances of me fixing anything correctly approach zero pretty rapidly.
Then I noticed a tiny light on the digital display. I didn't even want to know what it meant: HDC. Here Die Cars, most likely. Or Heaven Don't Care? That seemed to match my mood.
HDC: Hill Descent Control. I had somehow pressed the Hill Descent Control button, a button which I have never pressed even once in the ten years I have owned the car.
I restarted the car, made sure HDC was no longer showing up, and drove into the midmorning sun, feeling free and alive for the first time.
Still, I have that playlist ready.
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
The Others
The other people are spoken of in hushed murmurs. We see them going up, going down. There is no evidence they see us. They have ice cream on the lawn sometimes. They stand by their cars and smoke cigarettes. Once they had a food truck come, but we were not invited. Probably fusion tacos. I wonder, do they sense us as we brush past?
We have labored here for so long, alone. Always edging toward release. And when that release came, we were again there in the valley, looking up, and we touched our arms to be sure we were real, and started the ascent once more.
You see, my company was in an otherwise empty building for over a year. Not just empty as in unfurnished. Empty as in unfinished suites and entirely empty floors of the building. I thought idly sometimes that there could have been squatters in here somewhere, or some Hellraiser type with crickets in his beard, waiting only for me to stumble off the elevator onto the wrong floor and hiss "What is your pleasure, sir?"
But now another business is here, doing something that seems frankly a lot more exciting than the software we create (or, in my case, document). Being interesting. Taking the good parking spaces.
And I wonder what they think of us, the old ones? The ones who came before. Will they look to us for wisdom, asking where are the dependable but honestly not great sandwich shops? Or are we but a chill whisper of the past to them?
They seem to be having so much fun.
We have labored here for so long, alone. Always edging toward release. And when that release came, we were again there in the valley, looking up, and we touched our arms to be sure we were real, and started the ascent once more.
You see, my company was in an otherwise empty building for over a year. Not just empty as in unfurnished. Empty as in unfinished suites and entirely empty floors of the building. I thought idly sometimes that there could have been squatters in here somewhere, or some Hellraiser type with crickets in his beard, waiting only for me to stumble off the elevator onto the wrong floor and hiss "What is your pleasure, sir?"
But now another business is here, doing something that seems frankly a lot more exciting than the software we create (or, in my case, document). Being interesting. Taking the good parking spaces.
And I wonder what they think of us, the old ones? The ones who came before. Will they look to us for wisdom, asking where are the dependable but honestly not great sandwich shops? Or are we but a chill whisper of the past to them?
They seem to be having so much fun.
Monday, November 14, 2016
It Is the Prophecy
Somehow I find myself to be 45 years old. The occasion was marked this weekend in a small ceremony featuring only a few heads of state, some hermit crabs, and the original touring cast of Hair. While I have always been a friend to the majestic hermit crab, and it is always an honor to have King Harald V of Norway stop by for a visit, I was a little confused since I don't like musicals at all.
But there you go. 45. Brimful of Asha and all that.
I can't say I look forward to the coming year with any great sense of optimism. More of a "hunker down and survive" strategy is what I am envisioning at this point. Just stay cool. Protest. Donate. Hope the idiots in charge realize that actual destruction of the human race would result in them having markedly less money.
But there you go. 45. Brimful of Asha and all that.
I can't say I look forward to the coming year with any great sense of optimism. More of a "hunker down and survive" strategy is what I am envisioning at this point. Just stay cool. Protest. Donate. Hope the idiots in charge realize that actual destruction of the human race would result in them having markedly less money.
Wednesday, November 09, 2016
Help Me I Am in Hell
We will get through this. There will be punk rock and fantastic art created.
But to paraphrase Barry Crimmins, we get done in sometimes by the secret goodness of the American people, the unwillingness to believe the hideous nature of their candidate. They choose to look away because if the truth about Trump (which is so self-evident) is true, then maybe it's true a little bit about everyone. Maybe we as a nation are morally depraved. All those millions who voted for Trump are absolute suckers and we are all going to suffer for it, because I don't think they believed it could be this bad.
Well, it is going to be bad. And Trump will not be running this country. They might pass him the remote every now and then, but it will be the evil Wormtongues slithering in the background who will be running the show. And the Sarumans who speak through them.
And if you are not a white man, the terror in your heart today must be ten times what it is in mine, a white man in California.
I am so deeply sorry. For all of us.
But to paraphrase Barry Crimmins, we get done in sometimes by the secret goodness of the American people, the unwillingness to believe the hideous nature of their candidate. They choose to look away because if the truth about Trump (which is so self-evident) is true, then maybe it's true a little bit about everyone. Maybe we as a nation are morally depraved. All those millions who voted for Trump are absolute suckers and we are all going to suffer for it, because I don't think they believed it could be this bad.
Well, it is going to be bad. And Trump will not be running this country. They might pass him the remote every now and then, but it will be the evil Wormtongues slithering in the background who will be running the show. And the Sarumans who speak through them.
And if you are not a white man, the terror in your heart today must be ten times what it is in mine, a white man in California.
I am so deeply sorry. For all of us.
Thursday, November 03, 2016
Seems Reasonable
I was behind a Toyota Venza this morning with the license plate NU SHUUZ.
I imagined a beautiful retirement community where 80s bands are put out to pasture in midpriced cars. Timbuk 3 would be roaming the streets in a Chevy Malibu. Toto Coella stopping by the donut shop in a Hyundai Sonata. Kajagoogoo might glance over at Haircut 100 as they come to a stop sign at the same time. You first, Limahl would signal with a respectful nod from the driver's seat of his Kia Optima. Thanks, Nik Kershaw would respond with a small waggle of his fingers, appreciating the smooth ride of his Nissan Murano.
What's that, boys? Trouble?
That's right--Ric Ocasek has slid off the road in his Altima and Bob Geldof is en route in his Subaru Legacy--call the Communards! They have a Honda Odyssey!
In the end everyone is saved and they do a kind of supergroup thing where that one guy who you're not sure who he is appears in the video flanked by Howard Jones and the singer from Naked Eyes, his fingers to one ear as he shares the mic.
But this happens every few days, and the songs are never released.
Still, the cars--very reasonable.
I imagined a beautiful retirement community where 80s bands are put out to pasture in midpriced cars. Timbuk 3 would be roaming the streets in a Chevy Malibu. Toto Coella stopping by the donut shop in a Hyundai Sonata. Kajagoogoo might glance over at Haircut 100 as they come to a stop sign at the same time. You first, Limahl would signal with a respectful nod from the driver's seat of his Kia Optima. Thanks, Nik Kershaw would respond with a small waggle of his fingers, appreciating the smooth ride of his Nissan Murano.
What's that, boys? Trouble?
That's right--Ric Ocasek has slid off the road in his Altima and Bob Geldof is en route in his Subaru Legacy--call the Communards! They have a Honda Odyssey!
In the end everyone is saved and they do a kind of supergroup thing where that one guy who you're not sure who he is appears in the video flanked by Howard Jones and the singer from Naked Eyes, his fingers to one ear as he shares the mic.
But this happens every few days, and the songs are never released.
Still, the cars--very reasonable.
Wednesday, November 02, 2016
I Can't Even
We have made it through Halloween and now we revolve lazily toward Election Day here in the United States.
My seven year-old daughter was The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl for Halloween.
I am so stressed out about this election my eyes pop open in the middle of the night for no reason.
She collected candy in a small cloth pumpkin bag, returning to us every now and then to dump out the Snickers and Skittles, ready for another round.
I reassure myself that really--I mean come on... there is no way on god's green earth that Hillary loses this election.
An inflatable tail really made the costume, though I would guess not too many people knew who she was supposed to be.
I mean, it is obvious that the FBI director knows there is nothing in those emails.
Around 8pm, she gave up on trick or treating and retired to the house, where she sorted and traded candy with her cousins and their friends.
I was waiting to see what came out in that press conference today--a woman who said Trump repeatedly raped her when she was thirteen years old. Thirteen!
She favored Dum-Dums, which I thought was a wise choice (I myself was a devotee of the root beer flavor as a kid.)
Now I see the press conference was cancelled because the woman was getting death threats.
What do we do? Is everything this broken? Is it not that close, and the news networks are trying to keep interest in the face of a Democrat landslide? Or am I in a Bay Area bubble--will there be a rude awakening next Tuesday, when I take my daughter to the polls to see what's great about America?
*twitch*
My seven year-old daughter was The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl for Halloween.
I am so stressed out about this election my eyes pop open in the middle of the night for no reason.
She collected candy in a small cloth pumpkin bag, returning to us every now and then to dump out the Snickers and Skittles, ready for another round.
I reassure myself that really--I mean come on... there is no way on god's green earth that Hillary loses this election.
An inflatable tail really made the costume, though I would guess not too many people knew who she was supposed to be.
I mean, it is obvious that the FBI director knows there is nothing in those emails.
Around 8pm, she gave up on trick or treating and retired to the house, where she sorted and traded candy with her cousins and their friends.
I was waiting to see what came out in that press conference today--a woman who said Trump repeatedly raped her when she was thirteen years old. Thirteen!
She favored Dum-Dums, which I thought was a wise choice (I myself was a devotee of the root beer flavor as a kid.)
Now I see the press conference was cancelled because the woman was getting death threats.
What do we do? Is everything this broken? Is it not that close, and the news networks are trying to keep interest in the face of a Democrat landslide? Or am I in a Bay Area bubble--will there be a rude awakening next Tuesday, when I take my daughter to the polls to see what's great about America?
*twitch*
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Go to Bed Old New Age Man
I am listening to the latest Vangelis album, Rosetta. Some people put entire albums up on YouTube, or so I hear.
I had a vision of my sixteen year-old self realizing that some thirty years on, he would be listening to Vangelis and Tangerine Dream a lot and what would he think? That fresh-faced Cure fan in 1987?
I like to think he'd whisper softly "Awesome!"
I had a vision of my sixteen year-old self realizing that some thirty years on, he would be listening to Vangelis and Tangerine Dream a lot and what would he think? That fresh-faced Cure fan in 1987?
I like to think he'd whisper softly "Awesome!"
Monday, October 24, 2016
Saw II
I cut down a tree in our backyard this weekend. Or, more accurately, I cut lots of gigantic heavy branches off a tree armed only with a woodsaw (not unlike the ones you get for precocious toddlers), and dodged quickly out of the way as the limbs crashed earthward. Somehow, I managed to avoid crippling injury.
This is a black pine that a landscaper planted about ten years ago, when we had our back yard redone, taking it from a nightmarish jungle that probably housed at least one tribe of tiny devil-men into an alarmingly well-groomed paradise. (It has since reverted to just kind of unkempt and dead, but I took lots of pictures of it when it was just done so I have the proof.) He planted the tree and assured us that it would get to be "no more than ten or twelve feet". Of course it is now closer to twenty feet and now represents everything our neighbor resents about us, as it stretches into their yard, threatening their electrical wires and casting a lightless pallor over their once-beautiful hydrangea.
What I want to say is that I have grown as a person, because even though I formed a cunning plan for how to fell a twenty-foot tall pine tree without maiming myself, I recognized that it was fairly likely I would end up maimed in this scenario and chose not to do it.
This represents a significant step forward.
This is a black pine that a landscaper planted about ten years ago, when we had our back yard redone, taking it from a nightmarish jungle that probably housed at least one tribe of tiny devil-men into an alarmingly well-groomed paradise. (It has since reverted to just kind of unkempt and dead, but I took lots of pictures of it when it was just done so I have the proof.) He planted the tree and assured us that it would get to be "no more than ten or twelve feet". Of course it is now closer to twenty feet and now represents everything our neighbor resents about us, as it stretches into their yard, threatening their electrical wires and casting a lightless pallor over their once-beautiful hydrangea.
What I want to say is that I have grown as a person, because even though I formed a cunning plan for how to fell a twenty-foot tall pine tree without maiming myself, I recognized that it was fairly likely I would end up maimed in this scenario and chose not to do it.
This represents a significant step forward.
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