Nearly Lifeless

I need to get a life.

When I find myself on some rando's youtube page where they've re-made a video of Robert Smith (The Cure) covering a song made famous almost 30 years ago (holy shit) by Platinum Blonde, it's time to call Time Of Death on any hope of a productive night and admit defeat.

By sleeping.

Or, so it's hoped.

But then, if I sleep all the time, how am I ever going to get a life to where it's worthy of posting on Blogger?  Granted, the bar's set pretty low there, but I'm obviously not hitting even that, right?

I need a half-life, I guess.

Rumour Control

I don't have cancer.

It's a dumb thing to say, but having returned from the clinic, it's a good thing to say.  So here's the story I didn't tell people.

I found a lump.  I was checking because I had an odd pain.  So I went in, sat the clinic waiting room and explained my predicament.  When the doctor uttered that cliche phrase about Early Detection, it was oddly quiet.

Waiting for the ultra-sound appointment was not much fun.  My boss at the sweatshop asked me why I was especially pale. Telling him I could maybe, almost, on a long-shot, have fucking cancer, and that I was scared as shit, well, that wasn't a good few seconds -- it's something you can hide from yourself until you say it too.

At the ultra-sound, I boggled at well-supplied they were, until I understood they go through the gel crap like they got it at fucking costco, and I would say they sent me on my slippery slimy way but there, on the way out, I saw it and shit became a little more real there because it was a fucking spot.  A spot.  Black and gangly on white.  And no rush to blank the screen is going to un-burn that sickening, damning, filthy image from my retina.

Work gets a little more surreal than normal for a bit.  The clucking HR people cluck about the United Way, but there was a spot.  Did you see that TV show last night where .. there was a spot.  Wow, was #8 in a super snit this morning, and really there was a spot.  The policy around the procedure for the process of performing the task really doesn't matter for shit because there.  was.  a.  spot.

And it's been three days that you've been looking ghostly and haunted by the spot.  And they say no news is good news and they say it'll take 2 weeks but it'll also take 2 business days, and it's been three days, so they should know by now, and you phone and you phone and you phone until they suggest maybe you need to find a hobby, sir, and you weren't at work because, really, who the fuck cares about those quacking shit-bubbles and their fucking snow day policy and the geezer's rambling and the bully's empty threats?  Don't they know there was a spot?!?  And now you can't call to see if the results came back?

And then it's the weekend, and there's nothing you can do, and maybe there's some giving up, and you don't do so much, and maybe you just wait, and maybe it's okay, and you're back at work, and it's almost a good day because the geezer is out and the bully's hunched over his computer, typing with his hamfists on the little keyboard, and it's kinda funny because it reminds you of when they make tall adults ride on kids' tricycles, ha ha ha ha, and you float along a bit, but you should call the clinic because you need to move an appointment and oh yeah, they don't have your new cell number and maybe you should update it and we all know why you're calling.  And they open with "we're glad you phoned.  We don't have your new number and we've been trying to reach you since Friday afternoon after you stopped calling, and, well" (and here's the nuke) "the doctor should really explain it."

I actually found myself laughing at me worrying how my hair will look when I'm bald as hell, with all my dents and scars, and what if they have to cut out too much, and really, how little is too much, right?  And I sleep a bit and go into the sweatshop again, and I watch the clock all freakin' day, and I try to look busy, and I don't say much because I can't be sure it's what I know it must be, because they said the magic phrase, and holy fuck am I going to fucking die at this goddamned job after 22 rounds of fucking chemo and them cutting bits and pieces off me, and what if we do have a soul and they cut that part out, and it's only 2:30, dammit, and I should probably be unconcerned, despite the fact that they said the phrase, but I don't want my entire gift to my chosen field of expertise be so insignificant, and why did I have to waste the last few decades, and why did I never go to Coney Island, and what are the clucking shit-bubbles talking about now with a 5-sickday-per-year policy, cuz you're going to crush that like the fist of an angry cancer god, and, and, and ..

And I go into the doctor's office, which is as empty as the Sad Scene in a movie, and I'm into the private office in minutes, and the doc takes forever to come see me, and I've imagined he's steeling himself for the bad news because he's not telling me yes or no but really giving me a number, and that's how much time I have, and I'm waiting, and I'm waiting, and just as I wonder if I could be waiting so long that I could actually have another birthday in this office, and once I've decided that it's a decent enough trade-off, and that I'd like my birthday present, and it's been more than 20 minutes, the doctor comes in and tells me the most wonderful word ever invented:

benign.

And nothing else mattered.

Get yourself checked, kids, and make sure you're with someone who can be brave enough for the two of you when it counts.

Nosecone

I have nothing to say, so I will leave you with a picture

... of a cat with a bottle cap on her nose.

Viva Las Vegas

Back from Vegas, and some of us are freakin' beat.

A quick look at the (now enhanced) Goal List has us scoring very low in terms of Completion, but we still classify this trip as an unmitigated success.

Okay, partially unmitigated.  My feet bailed on day two, and we began to prioritize based on goals, needs and possibilities.  Thank you, LV Regional District for opting into a monorail;  expensive as it was, it proved crucial to a hobbling guy looking twice his (advanced) age.

The Cirque du Soleil's "O" performance was amazing.  The view of the stage from the 17th row was excellent, (giving a field of view eclipsed by four outstretched hands, pinky to thumb, at arm's length) and the divers, the dancers, the clowns and the acrobats performed one astounding feat after another for hours.  And how a guy can be on fire for 5 minutes without horrible burns is unbelievable.

In the end, we left the city having had our fill, having had too much, but also wanting much and more still.

Oh.  And some scotch at the duty-free.

Special thanks for the lovely surprise in our hotel room.  After a very confusing romp through what must have been the entirety of the resort property, and feeling completely puny and insignificant, here we are presented with something that made us feel like freakin' rock stars.  Thanks for that.  And we popped the cork and dined like Caesar himself.

Brüno .

I Tivoed Brüno.  Yeah, right off the TV.

I'm reminded of when we showed Joey the End of the Internet.  I think there should've been a sign at the start saying "There is no movie here.  Turn back.  Turn back."  Maybe like a PSA.

Now I have to see the promo to see whether any of it could be clipped into something coherent and more than 30 seconds worth of film they can broadcast.

(googley googley)

Yeah.  Wasn't possible.

At least I can be sure that no matter what else I see in the coming days and weeks, it will not have been worse than what I've seen in the first 10 minutes of Bruno.

Happy New Year

Hey Kids.

It's another year, I guess; at least according to the current calendar.  Did you know there's Yet Another Attempt to Reform the Calendar?  Yeah, really:

But as Weekend Edition Sunday notes, some researchers at Johns Hopkins University have devised a different way to count our days — with a leap week every few years to keep the calendar on track. Hats off to USA Today for explaining it all in this nifty graphic.
And, Scientific American says, holidays like Christmas and New Year's Day would always fall on a Sunday. It seems neat and streamlined for our modern age — except maybe to those of us who work on Sundays.

Our current calendar is only just over 400 years old, so really it's not all that iron-clad.  And, really, this whole Leap Year Thing is a bit of a hack to keep it drifting too far out.

I'll save you the time reading:  this proposed calendar has every month with 30 days, every third month with 31, and every 5-6 years we take a jump to the left (or was that a step to the right?) and add a week to get the calendar back into synch with the seasons.  This leap-week may not have a month or year to belong to, but man, we could party like it's 1999.

So there's benefits.  And it was designed to begin today in order to reduce clutter with current santa-cults and their ranting, freaking, OCD observers - if you don't have your hands on your hips when you bring your knees in tight, you could go go hell - so let's start now.  ... and ignore how this new arbitrary calendar caters to the faddish pointless santa-cults and ignores the 28-day 13-cycle lunar calendar, because, well, who the hell cares if the moon or any other part of the universe gets upset.  The santa cults appear to believe they control the universe anyway, and the solstice is just a bunch of hottie wiccans dancing naked around a fire (get 'cher tickets now, pay per view sundaySUNdaySUNDAYYY).

But I digress two more times.  Happy new year and happy new calendar.

Oh.  And the Annapolis sparking rosé was freakin' awesome.

You should get some from J's uncle.  

He's a great guy.

Staccato

I like rap.  Some of it, anyway.  If it mentions 'nines', 'tens' or anything about smacking and bitches, I'm out:  that shit is low-brow thuggery and offensive, yo.

But I like this style:  (go to 2:05)

And this style:

Okay, especially the latter style.  And it's funnier.

Fired Again

No, I still work at the sweatshop.  But it's an important point I need to make.

The guy at the right will fix your computer.  He'll come to your home or business, and he'll make things go.  Browser updates, software installs, email configuration?  Sure:  tell him precisely what you need done and he'll do it.  He'll do everything on your list, log his time, submit a bill to be sent in the mail and leave.

And you'll never see him again, and he'll not give your setup another thought until you call him again.

He'll probably not ask whether you're backing up your data, and whether it's done in a manner that doesn't put your banking information in the hands of foreign companies who are beyond prosecution if they lose, leak or sell it.  That is, unless he's selling you a paid backup service.

He'll not ask how your wireless is set up, and probably not warn you that it's not secure - it's known as 'private', which is like a drawn curtain vs the locked door of security - or that the latest version of the privacy is reeeeally close to being completely cracked.  He'll not explain that wireless is less like a telephone and more like a CB radio, and privacy is like speaking piglatin and hoping no one else can understand it.  That is, he'll not ask unless a new wireless unit will help his commission numbers and then it's the most secure thing in the world.

VPNs?  Linking two networks like they're in the same room?  Sharing your family photos safely?  He can't do it.  He works at the big box store, and he's just a tech.  Your backups?  Remote support?  Discussion over where you're at with computers and where you may want to go?  Honest recommendations for new gear?  That's not in his training, his to-do list and his best interest.

And there's the difference.  I don't do computer repair by choice;  it's just that I don't know of someone I can trust not to use a key logger, copy programme or duct tape in the process of fixing your box.  I don't trust they'll not sell you something stupidly outdated and overpriced, and leave you without offsite backups for when lightning hits your place and fries all your stuff at once, and without remote tech support.  I don't trust their goals as being your success vs their own immediate payoff, and I especially don't trust the small town fatcat long-time shysters to do what's best for you.  They've made a good living doing what's best for their company.

But I support your choice to go with an over-priced, short-sighted, blinkered, self-centered junk dealer.  I won't worry once you understand that keeping your backups in the same house as your computer is not helpful in a house fire or flood.  It's your choice, and that's fine.  Let me know that I've been fired beforehand so I can stop the backups and we can consider where your new offsite backup place will be;  because as soon as you swap out the router, getting your data copied out becomes a difficult task -- if I can't get to your machines, you can't get to my backup machines to get all your stuff back.

And I'm also fired.  It makes me sad because I thought I was doing a good job.

Can I have your old blue router?  It has massive potential and it saves you chucking it out.  Call it my severance.