For months, the Foo household has been receiving from Time-Warner Cable a mind-numbing barrage of propaganda regarding their impending ownership of our business. There are the postcards, the pamphlets, the e-mails, and the extremely annoying TV ads that gleefully remind us twice at every commercial break how they're "fine tuning" our cable service.
If throwing a spanner in the works can be considered fine tuning, I suppose that's a true statement. Turtle called this morning to tell me she'd received an e-mail instructing her to convert her Comcast e-mail account(s) over to the new, exciting Road Runner accounts. I hadn't received any such notifications, so I asked her to hold up and forward a copy of the e-mail to me.
According to the e-mail, "all you have to do" is run their handy wizard, which downloads and installs some sort of ActiveX control and modifies your Internet Explorer browser with neato Road Runner stuff. This malware activates your Road Runner service, "optimizes" your computer to run with it, and then goes through every e-mail client it can find on your system and modifies your e-mail configurations. "Never mind the details," it seems to say. "I know what I'm doing."
In other words, it's time to make a full system backup and dust off the OS reinstallation disks.
Meanwhile, I noticed this morning that I haven't received any e-mail to one of the public comcast.net addresses I use for mailing lists and other correspondence that might attract spam. It's a forwarding address that I've set up to pass everything along to my primary comcast.net mailbox, but it turns out that Time-Warner went ahead and switched it to forward to some new tx.rr.com address that doesn't exist because I haven't created it yet!
They're fine-tuning my internet experience, you know.
It gets better. I visited the Time-Warner web page that provides migration information for the North Dallas victims. Yes, Road Runner will still be providing free anti-virus and firewall software, as Comcast did, but instead of McAfee, we get some half-arsed junk put out by Computer Associates. I've used Computer Associates' stuff before, and it was crap; but I thought maybe things had improved, so I went a-Googling for reviews. Words like "ineffective" and "system crash" kept cropping up in the user reviews. PC Magazine's review was more diplomatic but said essentially the same thing. Looks like I'll be shelling out some bucks for ZoneAlarm's security suite.
Thanks for letting me vent.
31 October, 2006
29 October, 2006
Timeless
As I was working on the image, I was reminded of a comment one of our friends made at dinner the other evening.
"Hey, you're the big clock expert," she began somewhat ominously. "How come clocks with Roman numerals always use 'IIII' instead of 'IV'?"
I prefaced my answer by saying that I'd never really given it any thought and then admitted that I didn't know the answer—though I suspected it had to do with aesthetics and balance. One look at my little collage above should be enough to convince anyone that my grasp of compositional balance is tenuous at best, but there you have it.
Since then, I took 15 seconds out of my busy schedule to Google for the answer and was surprised that this is a topic of some lukewarm debate. If you're interested in how that all shakes out, Cecil Adams, in his typically entertaining fashion, covers it pretty well in this article.
Now playing: Inspiral Carpets, Revenge Of The Goldfish
23 October, 2006
Pedaling hard
It is as the title suggests, but only in a figurative sense of being very busy (without, some might argue, getting anywhere fast). In fact, I haven't been on the bike for over a week.
While the blogging and biking world passes me by, I've been feverishing picking up the slack left at work since four of my fellow cube dwellers recently got sacked. At home, I've been almost as feverishly ("Hmm. You're a little warm...") working on putting together a reasonably bulletproof Dreamweaver template for Turtle's side business. As a consequence of the latter, I've finally spent the time to really understand the CSS box model and—more to the point—the mis-implementation of it by various versions of Internet Explorer.
I took the time to attend an 80th birthday party with Turtle this past weekend (when I usually would have been riding my bike), but aside from that I've been a very non-social holed-up-in-my-office little W3C nerd.
While the blogging and biking world passes me by, I've been feverishing picking up the slack left at work since four of my fellow cube dwellers recently got sacked. At home, I've been almost as feverishly ("Hmm. You're a little warm...") working on putting together a reasonably bulletproof Dreamweaver template for Turtle's side business. As a consequence of the latter, I've finally spent the time to really understand the CSS box model and—more to the point—the mis-implementation of it by various versions of Internet Explorer.
I took the time to attend an 80th birthday party with Turtle this past weekend (when I usually would have been riding my bike), but aside from that I've been a very non-social holed-up-in-my-office little W3C nerd.
18 October, 2006
Jesus, His arms wide
Turtle and I were in the car—she driving and me doing my part by looking around and howling along with the radio. As we passed a semi with a 2/3-scale portrait of Christ painted on the side of the cab, my first thought was There's something you don't see every day.
Even Jesus' posture seemed to say, "Hey... it beats the heck out of me. It's not my truck."
My second thought was Jesus, His arms wide—a reference to the metaphorical language central to the "Darmok" episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I didn't realize it until I went to hunt down a Wikipedia link for this post, but in the Tamarians' language "arms wide" meant "gift" or "to give".
And suddenly it all made sense to me.
Even Jesus' posture seemed to say, "Hey... it beats the heck out of me. It's not my truck."
My second thought was Jesus, His arms wide—a reference to the metaphorical language central to the "Darmok" episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I didn't realize it until I went to hunt down a Wikipedia link for this post, but in the Tamarians' language "arms wide" meant "gift" or "to give".
And suddenly it all made sense to me.
16 October, 2006
Slacker with a capital slack
Yes, that's right. I have nothing to report about Saturday's PBA Fall Century ride. It's not that I'm too lazy to type it up, as believable as that might be. It's because I didn't go.
As of Friday afternoon, I was still waffling. With my confidence shaken by a couple sub-par (in my opinion) performances in the preceding weeks, and considering my general malaise, I came up with a short list of reasons why giving it a miss would be the smart and responsible thing to do:
If you want to know how the Fall Century went, you'll have to wait and see if rcarlino (who probably didn't wimp out) posts a comment about it.
As of Friday afternoon, I was still waffling. With my confidence shaken by a couple sub-par (in my opinion) performances in the preceding weeks, and considering my general malaise, I came up with a short list of reasons why giving it a miss would be the smart and responsible thing to do:
- I had missed church the previous two weekends, first because Turtle and I were in San Antonio, and then last weekend because the Bonham ride and trip home took me longer than I had estimated. And then on Sunday evening, when I had intended to go, I fell into my usual Sunday routine and forgot. If I did the century, I wouldn't make it home in time to go again this week—and would be too exhausted to go, in any case.
- Time. At a 15 mph pace, I estimated that it would take in excess of 9 hours to complete the ride. Figure about 6½ hours of actual riding and at least another 2 or 3 hours for a lunch break and other stops.
- Turtle had been patiently waiting for a block of my time so that we could put together the initial design template for her business web site. If I did the century, I'd be gone all day Saturday (see #2) and most likely wiped out for a lot of Sunday.
- The weather forecast called for 20% chance of thunderstorms starting Saturday afternoon. The prospect of riding the latter portion of a 100-mile ride in the rain and having to dodge lightning bolts didn't thrill me.
- Finally, if it turned out that I'm just not strong enough to go the distance, Turtle would already be a good hour and a half away (at church) when I discovered it. There'd be no one to come and retrieve my capital-L-on-the-forehead-wearing butt.
If you want to know how the Fall Century went, you'll have to wait and see if rcarlino (who probably didn't wimp out) posts a comment about it.
08 October, 2006
Ride Report: Autumn In Bonham (Bonham, TX)
I didn't do the Autumn in Bonham ride last year, because of some sort of schedule conflict. This year, I wasn't planning on it just because I felt I'd maxed out my 2006 entry fee budget. However, word on the street is that it's a really nice ride, and I felt an obligation to take a crack at the Leonard Leviathans—three very large (for Texas) hills—after missing them during the Cotton Patch Classic, so I signed up anyway.
The drive up ended up taking less time than I expected, so I parked up close, picked up my ride number and t-shirt (my second favorite design of this season, by the way), and set about unloading and assembling my bike. The guy parked next to me turned out to be Blanca from over on BikeJournal.com, so we chatted with each other for a while and then with various other acquaintances as they arrived.
It continues to amaze me that I go to these rallies with hundreds of other riders and always seem to run into at least a dozen people I know (including Lance, Lance's son, Allez, and Allez's husband). I think that's kind of neat.
Shortly before 9 am, everyone lined up and we got under way. I started off riding with John, local legend and webmaster of the popular bicycle-stuff.com, but we got separated early, at an intersection where a police officer had his SUV parked right in the middle of the intersection and gave confusing instructions about which groups were supposed to go which way. I went left; John went straight, never to be seen (by me) again.
Almost immediately, we came to a long climb. And then another. And another. Cool, I thought. We're getting this all out of the way early, while our legs are still fresh.
But they kept coming... and coming... and by my first stop at the second rest stop, my quads were already grousing at me. I'd maintained a 16.3 mph average to that point, but I knew that I was going to have to back off my assaults on the climbs if I was going to survive the rest of the 64-mile route (which, in typical bike rally fashion, was actually .1 mile short of 67 miles).
While I was eating a banana and chatting up one of the grandmotherly volunteers, a couple of those acquaintances I mentioned before rolled up at the rest stop: Steve (who rides a fire engine red Bacchetta Café recumbent) and Peggy (who looks and sounds enough like our blog buddy, Allez, that they could be sisters) from Frisco. Knowing that I ride a more sane pace when socializing, I joined up with them and their friend for the rest of the hilly, energy-sucking-chip-seal-plagued, beautiful-scenery-having ride.
This was one of those routes that really made me wish that my digital camera weren't quite so bulky. There were surreal fields of some sort of golden-flowered weed clumps. There were barns and cows. There were interesting little near-ghost towns that just begged to have their weathered facades and peeling columns photographed. Everywhere we went, people smiled, yelled, and waved from porches and front yards.
I was impressed, overall, with how the drivers in the area didn't feel compelled to threaten us with their vehicles. In fact, the only close calls I had all day were near Leonard. In one case, I had come to a full stop at a four way intersection and awaited my turn to go. As I did, the elderly woman in the PT Cruiser decided she wanted to go. So I stopped. She waved for me to go, and as I did, she started to pull out again. So I stopped. She waved me on. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
The other was a police officer, who came within a foot of clipping me with his passenger side mirror as I balanced precariously on the white line along one of the few stretches of road that didn't have a nice, wide shoulder to retreat to. At the next rest stop, I mentioned this to one of the volunteers. When I described the guy to her, she told me that this was "the Leonard cop", that he was a jerk, and that he'd been buzzing the rally participants all day.
Way to serve and protect, Barney.
Finally, we came to the Leviathans, and I remembered what I'd been told by others who had ridden them. The first two were steep but made manageable by the fact that they were prefaced by nice descents. When I saw the big hills ahead, I shifted to the biggest gear I had and gave gravity a hand. I reminded myself not to overdo it on the way down because I'd need my quads and hamstrings for the climb, but I needn't have bothered. At 37 mph, I spun out (i.e., ran out of top end gears) and had to coast until I reached the point of resistance on the climb.
Two down, no problem.
But the third hill... that one was every bit as nasty as I'd heard. It wasn't preceded by as much of a downhill, leeched away all your momentum, and then got steeper as it turned. And all on that momentum-robbing chip seal. When I was already into my small ring by the halfway point, I knew I was in trouble, but I kept churning away. Two thirds of the way up, I'd run out of gears on the low end. With my mucles wrung out by all the day's previous climbs, I could no longer spin and was reduced to mashing on the pedals. Twenty yards from the top, I was down to about 5 mph and nearing my stall speed—you can't really track stand a recumbent—but my guts were telling my brain to tell my legs that we were almost there and to stop being such wussies.
That's when my right quad flew all of us the bird and threw a cramp.
Rather than risk the embarrassment of falling over or the embarrassment of tearing something and having to ride the SAG wagon (although, now that I think of it, I can't recall seeing one all day), I put my feet down and walked the short distance to the top. Meanwhile, Steve veered around me and cleared the top. I could attribute his success to slightly lower gearing or to slightly wider tires that roll better on the chip seal. I may have used up too much of my legs earlier in the ride, or it may go back to the hammerfest I did with a couple friends after work, two days earlier. The bottom line is that I didn't beat the hill, and that's a bitter pill for me to swallow.
The rest of the ride was no sweat. Once it had made its point, my right quad behaved itself. We had an enjoyable, uneventful ride back to the starting point, where we discovered that most of the cars were gone and the organizers had pretty much folded up their tent. We must have dawdled at a couple rest stops longer than I'd realized, because even with all the climbing I still ended the day with a 16 mph rolling average.
Bonham was certainly one of the most challenging rides I've done this season, but I enjoyed the route, the scenery, and the company. I'm just thinking maybe I need to find a leg press to work out on before I consider going back for seconds.
The drive up ended up taking less time than I expected, so I parked up close, picked up my ride number and t-shirt (my second favorite design of this season, by the way), and set about unloading and assembling my bike. The guy parked next to me turned out to be Blanca from over on BikeJournal.com, so we chatted with each other for a while and then with various other acquaintances as they arrived.
It continues to amaze me that I go to these rallies with hundreds of other riders and always seem to run into at least a dozen people I know (including Lance, Lance's son, Allez, and Allez's husband). I think that's kind of neat.
Shortly before 9 am, everyone lined up and we got under way. I started off riding with John, local legend and webmaster of the popular bicycle-stuff.com, but we got separated early, at an intersection where a police officer had his SUV parked right in the middle of the intersection and gave confusing instructions about which groups were supposed to go which way. I went left; John went straight, never to be seen (by me) again.
Almost immediately, we came to a long climb. And then another. And another. Cool, I thought. We're getting this all out of the way early, while our legs are still fresh.
But they kept coming... and coming... and by my first stop at the second rest stop, my quads were already grousing at me. I'd maintained a 16.3 mph average to that point, but I knew that I was going to have to back off my assaults on the climbs if I was going to survive the rest of the 64-mile route (which, in typical bike rally fashion, was actually .1 mile short of 67 miles).
While I was eating a banana and chatting up one of the grandmotherly volunteers, a couple of those acquaintances I mentioned before rolled up at the rest stop: Steve (who rides a fire engine red Bacchetta Café recumbent) and Peggy (who looks and sounds enough like our blog buddy, Allez, that they could be sisters) from Frisco. Knowing that I ride a more sane pace when socializing, I joined up with them and their friend for the rest of the hilly, energy-sucking-chip-seal-plagued, beautiful-scenery-having ride.
This was one of those routes that really made me wish that my digital camera weren't quite so bulky. There were surreal fields of some sort of golden-flowered weed clumps. There were barns and cows. There were interesting little near-ghost towns that just begged to have their weathered facades and peeling columns photographed. Everywhere we went, people smiled, yelled, and waved from porches and front yards.
I was impressed, overall, with how the drivers in the area didn't feel compelled to threaten us with their vehicles. In fact, the only close calls I had all day were near Leonard. In one case, I had come to a full stop at a four way intersection and awaited my turn to go. As I did, the elderly woman in the PT Cruiser decided she wanted to go. So I stopped. She waved for me to go, and as I did, she started to pull out again. So I stopped. She waved me on. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
The other was a police officer, who came within a foot of clipping me with his passenger side mirror as I balanced precariously on the white line along one of the few stretches of road that didn't have a nice, wide shoulder to retreat to. At the next rest stop, I mentioned this to one of the volunteers. When I described the guy to her, she told me that this was "the Leonard cop", that he was a jerk, and that he'd been buzzing the rally participants all day.
Way to serve and protect, Barney.
Finally, we came to the Leviathans, and I remembered what I'd been told by others who had ridden them. The first two were steep but made manageable by the fact that they were prefaced by nice descents. When I saw the big hills ahead, I shifted to the biggest gear I had and gave gravity a hand. I reminded myself not to overdo it on the way down because I'd need my quads and hamstrings for the climb, but I needn't have bothered. At 37 mph, I spun out (i.e., ran out of top end gears) and had to coast until I reached the point of resistance on the climb.
Two down, no problem.
But the third hill... that one was every bit as nasty as I'd heard. It wasn't preceded by as much of a downhill, leeched away all your momentum, and then got steeper as it turned. And all on that momentum-robbing chip seal. When I was already into my small ring by the halfway point, I knew I was in trouble, but I kept churning away. Two thirds of the way up, I'd run out of gears on the low end. With my mucles wrung out by all the day's previous climbs, I could no longer spin and was reduced to mashing on the pedals. Twenty yards from the top, I was down to about 5 mph and nearing my stall speed—you can't really track stand a recumbent—but my guts were telling my brain to tell my legs that we were almost there and to stop being such wussies.
That's when my right quad flew all of us the bird and threw a cramp.
Rather than risk the embarrassment of falling over or the embarrassment of tearing something and having to ride the SAG wagon (although, now that I think of it, I can't recall seeing one all day), I put my feet down and walked the short distance to the top. Meanwhile, Steve veered around me and cleared the top. I could attribute his success to slightly lower gearing or to slightly wider tires that roll better on the chip seal. I may have used up too much of my legs earlier in the ride, or it may go back to the hammerfest I did with a couple friends after work, two days earlier. The bottom line is that I didn't beat the hill, and that's a bitter pill for me to swallow.
The rest of the ride was no sweat. Once it had made its point, my right quad behaved itself. We had an enjoyable, uneventful ride back to the starting point, where we discovered that most of the cars were gone and the organizers had pretty much folded up their tent. We must have dawdled at a couple rest stops longer than I'd realized, because even with all the climbing I still ended the day with a 16 mph rolling average.
Bonham was certainly one of the most challenging rides I've done this season, but I enjoyed the route, the scenery, and the company. I'm just thinking maybe I need to find a leg press to work out on before I consider going back for seconds.
05 October, 2006
Lorem ipsum
www.lipsum.comLorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Curabitur nunc erat, mattis id, semper at, pulvinar non, magna. Maecenas at lacus porta nibh lacinia rutrum. Nulla facilisi. Quisque in nunc porttitor sem rhoncus eleifend.
Vestibulum suscipit sodales dui. Ut a nunc. Morbi ac mauris id sapien varius elementum. Sed gravida lacus at eros. Proin ac tortor at turpis sagittis consectetuer. Nunc blandit. Sed mi ante, malesuada vel, ullamcorper ac, aliquet ac, lectus. Nam rutrum pede quis erat. Pellentesque est urna, cursus quis, egestas ut, accumsan ut, lorem. Suspendisse rhoncus nisi in ligula. Et eros, vulvinae.
Those of you who know what to do with this sort of thing will find this sort of thing sort of useful.
He so horny
This is a short week for me (praise the Lord!) because I took a vacation day Monday. Originally, the thought was that Turtle and I might spend an extra day bumming around the New Braunfels area after attending a family gathering over the weekend, but events didn't play out that way. Instead, I had the luxury of a whole day during which I could whittle away at my endless list of Things That Need Done during the middle of the day—that magical time when crowds are thin and I haven't just spent an hour battling every Tomas, Rick, and Herold intent on fraying my last good nerve.
One of these tasks was the dreaded (by me, at least) trip to Costco for the next two months' supply of beer and wine, toilet paper, frozen boneless skinless chicken breasts and ground beef patties, fresh pineapple, anda half dozen bagels1. Turtle, ever the compassionate one, offered to go with, but I turned her down. This was going to be a surgical strike. I planned to be in and out within half an hour, and I already had my path through the store mapped out in my head.
Into the parking lot, dodge the departing shoppers with their walkers and oxygen tanks, grab a cart (one with four round wheels, this time), flash the membership card. Hard left, down the aisle at a lope, weaving around the vacant-eyed, slack-jawed woman in curlers, executing a perfect bump and roll around the Korean national jabbering on a cell phone. Grab the beer and wine, and heave the cart toward the fruits and veggies. Grab a package of pineapple on the fly, swing right toward the freezer section.
Blast. What size bag of chicken breasts? Quick phone call to the missus.
Grab my breasts and my meat (Stop. It.). Hard right at the end of the aisle, and I had the skids of soft drinks in my si—ABORT! ABORT! Hauling hard on my cart, I screeched to a cartoon halt to narrowly avoid colliding with a cart that had appeared from a side aisle, followed closely by an elderly man.
Crisis averted. The old duffer shuffled his way slowly down the aisle in front of me and, with time on my hands, I found myself wondering... what the hell is he wearing on his head?
I dismissed my conclusion twice before accepting what my eyes told me, but perched on this adult's head was a child's toy viking helmet, complete with eight-inch horns.
I worked my way past him, ostensibly to get to the Diet Coke. In reality, I just wanted to get a better look at this guy. I expected to see him smirking, like he was just goofing. Or scowling like he'd lost a bet. Maybe drooling a bit. What I saw was a neatly-dressed man of about 70 years, with his spectacles perched on his nose and their case clipped in his breast pocket. His expression was neutral and—notwithstanding his unsignaled merge into my lane—alert. Wearing a viking helmet cocked at a jaunty angle.
As far as I could see, his cart was conspicuously bereft of SPAM.
1 This didn't quite work out according to my plan. Turtle and I don't eat a lot of bagels at home, so I only needed a half dozen. Unfortunately, when I went to pay for all my stuff, the cashier informed me that they were "a dozen for [some amount of legal tender]" and didn't I want a full dozen? I told him no, thinking that I'd get my half dozen for half the price of a full dozen. Instead, he tossed my bagels to an assistant, who whisked them away somewhere. I asked what he was doing and only then did he bother to explain that it was a dozen or nothing. Not that I actually would have left my cart and all the people lined up behind me to go to the back of the store and grab six more bagels, but the whole business kind of left a bad, bagel-less taste in my mouth.
Now playing: Queensrÿche, Operation Mindcrime
One of these tasks was the dreaded (by me, at least) trip to Costco for the next two months' supply of beer and wine, toilet paper, frozen boneless skinless chicken breasts and ground beef patties, fresh pineapple, and
Into the parking lot, dodge the departing shoppers with their walkers and oxygen tanks, grab a cart (one with four round wheels, this time), flash the membership card. Hard left, down the aisle at a lope, weaving around the vacant-eyed, slack-jawed woman in curlers, executing a perfect bump and roll around the Korean national jabbering on a cell phone. Grab the beer and wine, and heave the cart toward the fruits and veggies. Grab a package of pineapple on the fly, swing right toward the freezer section.
Blast. What size bag of chicken breasts? Quick phone call to the missus.
Grab my breasts and my meat (Stop. It.). Hard right at the end of the aisle, and I had the skids of soft drinks in my si—ABORT! ABORT! Hauling hard on my cart, I screeched to a cartoon halt to narrowly avoid colliding with a cart that had appeared from a side aisle, followed closely by an elderly man.
Crisis averted. The old duffer shuffled his way slowly down the aisle in front of me and, with time on my hands, I found myself wondering... what the hell is he wearing on his head?
I dismissed my conclusion twice before accepting what my eyes told me, but perched on this adult's head was a child's toy viking helmet, complete with eight-inch horns.
I worked my way past him, ostensibly to get to the Diet Coke. In reality, I just wanted to get a better look at this guy. I expected to see him smirking, like he was just goofing. Or scowling like he'd lost a bet. Maybe drooling a bit. What I saw was a neatly-dressed man of about 70 years, with his spectacles perched on his nose and their case clipped in his breast pocket. His expression was neutral and—notwithstanding his unsignaled merge into my lane—alert. Wearing a viking helmet cocked at a jaunty angle.
As far as I could see, his cart was conspicuously bereft of SPAM.
1 This didn't quite work out according to my plan. Turtle and I don't eat a lot of bagels at home, so I only needed a half dozen. Unfortunately, when I went to pay for all my stuff, the cashier informed me that they were "a dozen for [some amount of legal tender]" and didn't I want a full dozen? I told him no, thinking that I'd get my half dozen for half the price of a full dozen. Instead, he tossed my bagels to an assistant, who whisked them away somewhere. I asked what he was doing and only then did he bother to explain that it was a dozen or nothing. Not that I actually would have left my cart and all the people lined up behind me to go to the back of the store and grab six more bagels, but the whole business kind of left a bad, bagel-less taste in my mouth.
Now playing: Queensrÿche, Operation Mindcrime
Catty chat
Turtle sent me a link to this from another site, but it cracked me up so much that I went and hunted down a copy on Youtube.com to save here for posterity.
Watch it, but not with a mouth full of coffee or yogurt.
Watch it, but not with a mouth full of coffee or yogurt.
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