I got off on a tangent, thinking about thinking, and I added a design element from a sadly dated look I wanted for a motorcycle team. Then I got to wondering about doing my weekly audio update as a podcast. Format’s there, already, as an mp3.
Tweak up something new for a weekly audio-cast? I spent a portion of the morning “point-and-click” coding. Which is tedious, but it’s a lot less tedious than coding by hand. Just another quick-and-dirty website, this one for the family. What was I thinking? Who knew there would be that many images that had to be cropped, resized and optimized for the web?
From the “Only in Texas” files:
Internet hunting? Seriously?
Reinventing musical files:
I was ripping a few CDs I’d missed, or misplaced the files, or whatever, just replicating some files for play lists, and the last two items I had out, Garth Brooks and Frank Zappa. I’m just wondering, is there some kind of hell I can be put in, for having those two items next to each other?
Unrelated (astrology) notation:
D&D as a Pluto/Uranus in Virgo generation?
Reinvention: wires & tech support:
I’d really like my wireless to stretch down to the water’s edge. I repositioned the Airport Extreme router, and I added a longer bit of Ethernet cable, so I could get the wireless, down by the lake. Or so I had hoped. Maybe it’s just a pipe dream, but sitting at the edge of the lake, wired up to the web-inter-thing?
The cable, the subsequent power off and power by on, plus a software update wiped out the settings. So I was plunged into SBC Tech Support Hell. The first person was no use, whatsoever. Useless. Less than useless, she couldn’t understand a word I said, didn’t grasp the problem or the simple question I had. I just needed DNS numbers. English was certainly not her first language. From the sound of it, it wasn’t her second language, either. While I admire that linguistic ability, trying to solve a technical problem? That sucked big time.
A second call, after I’d gathered my wits again, and the first person sounded like English was a native tongue, and as an asset, that person grasped the concept of the script she was reading. Still took a good deal of interpretation on my part, but I was wired again. Finally. But the SBC help line really sucks. A two-minute phone call took an hour.
I had a sick and twisted thought, during the conversation, “So how’s the weather? Terrorism doing okay? At least the religious zealots in my land only barricade themselves with lots of arms, our zealots don’t blow anything up but themselves.” But that’s not true. Some of our zealots get elected.
Unrelated photo from Wednesday:
(via the cam-phone)
Reinventing that warm, fuzzy feeling:
E-mail cycled through last night, kind of late, a substantial Amazon Honor system amount.
When that popped through, I mean, to get to the donation page on the site, one has to dig through several layers of crap. Damn thing’s anonymous, too. Ain’t that wondrous?
So, I looked it up on Amazon, and plugged it into the front page of the site, too.
The Libra scope.
I was reminded about this little tale, and I was going to work it into the scopes, but then, I thought about it, and I figure it would severely irritate some folks, so I’ll just tag the few extra lines here. Statute of limitations is up on this one, I think.
I dated this girl one time, one of the reasons I live like a monk, and she was “spirited.” Perhaps it had something to do with upbringing or issues, or that astrology part of her chart. I’m not sure. Well, I am sure, but I’m not going to say. For the record, I do know the warning signs, and I chose, at that time, to ignore my own, good advice – which was to leave her alone.
So what happened, once upon a time, we had a quarrel. About something I did? No, about something I didn’t do, but never let the facts interfere with a woman’s ire and scorn. I just kept making matters worse by refusing to engage in the good fight. Eventually, she popped me one. It was a glancing blow, and I just gathered myself up and left the premises. I do believe that a piece of furniture, or hardware, followed me out. She was, at least at that time, what us guys call a “thrower.” In fact, she used to shop Salvation Army and Goodwill for ammunition – normally, plates and flatware.
So that was like, on a Thursday night. Like last weekend, and the weekend before that, and the weekend before that, I was on the road, and out of town for work. Since I left in huff, she wasn’t about to pick me up the airport on my return.
I didn’t see her again until about Tuesday or Wednesday, almost week after I got pummeled. Her right arm was in sling. We forgave and forgot, at least I did, and she showed up for dinner, after the next local event, with her arm still in a sling. She’d cracked a bone in her hand, from impact with a rock-hard object (my skull). I wasn’t even bruised.
In hindsight, the least I could’ve done was limp, or bruise myself so that there was some kind of show – matching injuries, hers and his?
So it was at dinner, a Saturday night, and we’re all sitting around in a TexMex joint, me and a half-dozen of my psychic friends. One the ladies looked up at my girlfriend, and asks what happened.
“I ran into a door.” Which, the way I wanted to remember what the girlfriend said? “He ran into a door.”
“Look honey,” that matronly friend suggested, “next time you hit him, aim for a soft spot, not his head.”
I got one of those looks, the kind that could kill, as the temperature plummeted in the dining area, an icy blast hissed at me, “You told her?”
Before I could refute anything, the matronly psychic spoke up, “First off, you’re at a table of psychics, no secrets here. And he didn’t say a thing. Not a word. But it’s also logical, see, your hand is broken, and there’s not a scratch on him. Aim for the soft parts next time, dear, not his head.”
True story.
