An Inspirational Leader

Friday at my group’s morning status meeting we spent a lot more time talking about the odds and ends of life than about actual work. One of the topics: what sports my boss’s newborn son would participate in. The Official Boss of Muddled Ramblings and Half-Baked Ideas believes her son’s reckless and pain-oblivious behavior makes him a good candidate for hockey. That gladdened my heart.

I don’t think I brought up martial arts, but I did have something to contribute on the subject.

Before I get to the specific advice I dispensed (at no charge), I’d like to point out that martial arts are an excellent choice for a kid. Way better than gymnastics, especially for girls. Why get them started on something they will have to abandon when they weigh more than 100 pounds? Better to get them into a good dojo and learn confidence and skills they can take to the grave. I think black belts would look fantastic on grandmas and grandpas alike.

But the phrase ‘good dojo’ brings me to my specific advice. On my Wednesday morning route I pass a fitness/martial art studio. Jiu Jitsu is mentioned in one of their signs. In the gray light of early dawn the lights of the studio spill out into the street. This week as I passed I looked in and saw a collection of young students doing exercises on the floor, all clad in their white robe-thingies. Seated next to the mat on a folding chair was the instructor. He was slouched down, his arms folded across his nearly-horizontal chest.

Wow. My first thought was how disrespectful this was to his students, then I thought about how disrespectful it was to his dojo, and to his discipline. Martial arts have a strong spiritual element; training is focussed on the mind as much as it is on the body. At least when it’s done right. Thinking about it now, I think an instructor has two options: Stand over the students, attentive and engaged, and correct their form, or do the exercises with them. The dude may as well have been smoking crack in front of his impressionable charges.

So my concrete advice to my boss was simply, “don’t let a dude like that teach your kid.” I think that message can be applied in a much wider context.

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Grotesquely Obese Men and Urinals

You know, I’m going to leave it right there. I’ve seen things.

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Rough Draft of a Letter to the Editor of the Local Paper

Recently Park Avenue in Santa Clara had some work done. The sequence went like this, with roughly two weeks between each step:

1) Scrape off most (but not all) of the markings on the road. Result: a less-safe road.
2) Repaint most (but not all) of the markings scraped off in step 1, right in the grooves left by the scraping machine. Result: step 1 is rendered moot, but the road is still not as safe as it had been before.
3) Scrape off the entire road surface and put down new asphalt. Result: steps 1 and 2 are rendered entirely moot. The road is now a wee bit better than it was before.

What did steps 1 and 2 accomplish? Nothing. Nothing at all, aside from putting my money into the pockets of corrupt contractors and the people who are supposed to be preventing this sort of shenanigans. How much, I wonder, was the government billed for the completely unnecessary work?

At this writing, not all the markings have been restored, so the road is still not as safe as it was. And honestly, there are many less visible roads that could have benefitted from the upgrade much more than that stretch of Park.

Now let’s shift our focus to Miller Ave. in Cupertino. After the ritual pointless scraping of the bike lanes, a new surface was laid down, and it is simply awful. Already there are troughs in the road, and water collects in traffic lanes on days with no rain, presumably from the gutters. As I ride up the street I can see cracks forming in the asphalt already. This work isn’t an investment, it’s an ongoing liability.

Who checked this work? Who said, “Good job, guys! See you on the next project!”

Stepping back, who authorized this work in the first place? To my untrained eye, Miller and Park did not need resurfacing, and as a bicyclist I’m particularly bitchy about road conditions. I could suggest several more-deseriving stretches of road. Or, better yet, let’s put the money into the crumbling school that the unnecessarily-resurfaced road passes.

But the federal money geyser says to mortgage the future to invest in infrastructure now, and somehow spending money resurfacing already-serviceable roads, at maximum inefficiency, is investing in infrastructure. The theory is that such work will pay dividends long into the future, yielding returns greater than the debt incurred. I have no problem with the theory, but that is not what is happening in my town.

A Particularly Shitty Couple of Weeks

A couple years ago, we lost out entire kitchen to a plumbing problem. Since then, we’ve had two near misses. The laundry room under-floor will never be the same, but we can pretend all is well. Then there’s the leak that’s been going on long enough it has been supporting its own ecosystem. Our plumbing is crap.

It came down to this: we would never sleep well at night until we tore out the horrible plumbing in our home and replaced it with not-horrible plumbing. Money has been tight, but we agreed that it was worth spending some cash to end the ongoing risk of catastrophic and expensive plumbing failures. It took all our immediate savings and some sale of fruit-flavored stock, but after a week of what might otherwise have been a relaxing time off work, the plumbing crew was mostly finished. A stressful week, but one that promised peace of mind on the other side.

There were a couple of hitches, so on Tuesday the plumbing company sent a guy out to fix them. Our wee doggie has not dealt well with any of the plumbing intruders, but as I got into the car Tuesday morning I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. We had better pipes. The endless worries about losing months of our lives to home repair were soon to end.

It was raining Tuesday; that’s why I drove. That’s why the roads were slick. That’s why the kid in the Corolla slammed into me.

I’m not hurt. Roxy, the 2001 Ford Escort, is mortally wounded. Roxy has only 40,412 miles on her, which means There are simply no comparable vehicles out there. And there’s the bitch of the thing. The actuarial tables State Farm uses will not yield a number that comes remotely close to the replacement value. We could have ridden that car for another decade easily. The thing just plain did its job.

So now the showdown begins. State Farm will offer us money for our car. That money won’t be enough. Our position: make it like it never happened. Put a car in our garage that fills the same role. It’s not about money. Their position: We’re buying your wrecked car for a fair amount.

Meanwhile, we just gave all our spare cash (and a little more) to plumbers. We’re not ready to take on car payments.

I know, as I bitch about the ill fortune that has beset me, that a lot of people have it worse than I do. Most of planet Earth, in fact. People in camps near where I live would scoff at my problems. But a twenty-year-old kid driving like twenty-year-old kids do has put us in a serious financial bind, and honestly I don’t see the right answer.

The Message I Just Sent to Duraflame

We bought a box of duraflame logs from Costco and they just don’t burn right. They smolder for hours and hours, but never flame up.

Before you send me a boilerplate response, please understand that I followed the instructions meticulously, especially after the first one in the batch just sat there smoking for 16 hours or more.

This last time I tried to blow on the log and I could get one area to glow brightly, but I never coaxed a flame out of it.

The chimney is clear and drawing fine; other things burn well, and the copious smoke from the Duraflame logs does go up and out.

Right now it’s approaching 14 hours for the most recent log, and it’s still in there, making smoke but accomplishing nothing else.

I looked to see if there was any sort of expiration date printed on the log wrappers and didn’t find anything, but one possibility I considered was that these are old, out-of-date logs that Costco dug up.

What can I do? This isn’t so much about the money spent on logs as needing to consider a better alternative for our fireplace.

—————

Note: this is almost exactly what I sent, but I fixed one awful spelling corrector substitution.

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Open Letter to the Jerks at Adobe

Dear Adobe:

First, if you would let me file a bug report without first getting an “Adobe ID”, I would have chosen the quieter route. But you don’t.

While I find it amusing that I periodically get alerts that say, (more or less) “Hey! Guess what? You DON’T need an update!” which is, I admit, a surprising bit of news these days, today I got the message that indeed I needed to update Flash. I take these notices seriously because Flash is notorious for security issues, and I don’t want a gaping hole torn in my Web security. So I went through the update process.

Now, before I updated I had several browser windows open. Some to reference materials, some to sites I’m building and maintaining, some to communications and tracking tools, and so forth. You get the idea. I’ve come to trust that when I shut down my browser it will remember the previous state when it starts back up, reconstructing my workspace.

Unless, that is, I run the Flash Player installer. In THAT case, after the install my browser relaunches, but instead of my workspace, I get advertising for Adobe. And that’s all I get. Needless to say, when you just cost me a difficult-to-estimate amount of time getting things back the way they were (some tabs open for days or weeks, not practically recoverable from history), that is not the time to be splashing your logo in my face.

So stop doing that. There was a time I was a big fan of Flash, but now I look forward to the day I don’t need it at all. And that day is coming soon.

P.S. You’re a big company that presumably reviews your public-facing copy. Someone over there needs to learn the difference between “setup” and “set up”.

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1 mile into my ride this morning…

Legs: Well, all right, if you insist, let’s do this.
Stomach: How ’bout a snack?
Pizza with crushed red pepper I ate last night: I want out. Like, now.

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Revenge of the Hoobajoob

This is likely to be a short episode, for a couple of reasons: one, my memory of the procedure gets fuzzier as the amount of sedatives in my bloodstream was steadily increased, and two, because there are some details that I simply will not share.

About a month ago I went in for a happy-50th-birthday colonoscopy. It was mildly unpleasant, but not terrible. During this probing the doctor found two polyps. Polyps are growths that, if allowed to run amok, can turn in to cancer. Best just to get those bad boys out of there. In the words of the NIH:

Colon polyps can be raised or flat. Raised colon polyps are growths shaped like mushrooms. They look as though they are on a stem or stalk. Flat colon polyps look like a bed of moss.

I had one of the flat sorts, way up at the very end (or beginning) of my large intestine. My doctor didn’t have the proper tools on hand to deal with it, so we set up another appointment at an actual hospital to take care of it. Yesterday was that day.

It turns out, they barely had the proper tools at the hospital. When the alternative is surgery, however, you do everything you possibly can to get the job done using the colonoscopes. Picture three grim-faced auto mechanics trying to get a wrench into a tight spot in a car to free up a seized bolt. If they can’t get it free, they’re going to have to pull the engine to get at the failing part. An expensive and invasive procedure. The mechanics will do whatever it takes to avoid pulling the engine. Now replace the car in that image with me.

“Whatever it takes” in this case includes contorting the patient and mashing down on his gut to push the intestine closer to the business end of the scope. After the third time being rearranged on the table for another go at the just-out-of-reach polyp, all thought of dignity was lost in a haze of discomfort and a feeling of terrible bloatedness as the air displaced by all the equipment up there looked for a place to go. Things got messy.

In the end, they got the damn thing. Probably. I’ll be going back for a followup in a few months. Hopefully there will be nothing to write home about.

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Numbers, English, and Lazy Programmers

While doing research for an episode you will likely see shortly, I went to YouTube and did a search. This is what I got back:
Screen Shot 2014-06-11 at 10.46.47 AM
Note that it says I got “About 1 results”. Obviously, “results” is incorrect. There’s only one result! And About? What’s the standard deviation on that result?

This from a company that was bought by Google for a billion dollars or so. You’d think they’d have someone who could spend five frickin’ minutes to put in

if (results.count == 1) {…

and to only include the word “About” when the code rounds off the number of results (which it does for very large result sets). Neither of those things should be difficult, and I’d be embarrassed if my program were so sloppy. Yet there it is on one of YouTube’s most oft-loaded pages.

MapMyRide.com made a bit more of an effort, but didn’t test all the cases:
Screen Shot 2014-06-08 at 5.13.22 PM

11st place! The rule that works for 1 and 21 doesn’t work for 11. Crazy English and the words we have for the low teens. I sent off a friendly report to MayMyRide letting them know; the bug was in a new feature, and MMR doesn’t have the resources that YouTube does. We’ll see if they fix it before I fall to 13rd place.

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I’m back!

Well, more or less. The months-long grind at work is over, culminating with a swift kick to the professional groin as I missed my deadline despite working every waking hour (after a while I enforced a five-hours-of-sleep rule) for a couple of months, and even before that at least ten hours a day, weekends included, since January.

My apologies to those I’ve snubbed in the last while, especially those passing birthday wishes my direction. What I had planned as a glorious celebration of my half-century on this planet turned out to be a really shitty day.

I’ve taken a little time off from work since then, to get my feet under me, to get my health habits restored, and to generally feel human again. I still dream about the project, and find myself lying in the early mornings going through the solutions to some of the pending tasks on a project that no longer exists. It was so very close to being so very very cool.

The last few days I’ve managed to get a little bit of creative juice flowing, and perhaps soon I’ll be ready to write that retrospective on the last fifty years. April 2th (rhymes with ‘tooth’) has come and gone, but still deserves some observation. In the meantime I’ve got The Monster Within, which by God I’m going to see in book form this year if I have to publish it myself.

Next week I might be ready for human interaction again, so those I’ve been ignoring should be hearing from me soon. Thanks for your patience!

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The Secret Ingredient is Disappointment

I’m a fortunate guy by any measure. One bit of proof: My sweetie packs my lunch for me most days. It’s a simple thing, but sometimes it’s the simple things that matter most. One part of the tradition: Each morning I get to pick out the treat for my dessert. The light of my life recently spotted promising-looking boxes of Mrs. Fields cookies on sale and (after checking that the calorie count wasn’t too outrageous) brought them home. Oh boy!

Cookies!

I was considerably less excited when I opened one of the boxes. Roughly 1/3 of the top was empty space. Eight cheerfully-wrapped cookies hunkered down in the depths of the packaging:

Cookies?

But even that was not the end of the cruel charade. I opened one of the packets and discovered… an even smaller cookie within. Less than half the height of the box!

Aww...

“New Look! Same great taste.” The box proclaims. I’m guessing ‘new look’ is a euphemism for ‘smaller’. The box could quite easily have held 20 cookies rather than eight, and they would have been safer from being bounced around during shipping. Shopkeepers hate this sort of shenanigan as well—they lose precious shelf space to inflated boxes. Walmart does not put up with this shit.

It does explain the reasonable number of calories per cookie, however.

Cocytus

A few months ago, our water heater died. We called our home warranty people and they dispatched Street Plumbing to take care of us. They were prompt and courteous, and we were planning to ask them to convert our plumbing from plastic to copper.

Last week our new water heater started making funny noises. When the burner was on it would hum a deep bass note that would vibrate the whole house. It was as if a big truck were rumbling past, only it didn’t stop. It happened once after I got home from work, then never again. We weren’t feeling great about the events, but we went on with our lives.

Until the heater went kaput completely. Naturally this was on Saturday morning. The heater was practically brand new, so presumably under manufacturer’s warranty. We called our home warranty people (alert readers will note at this point that there are two warranties interacting). The folks at First American Home Warranty sent out a repair guy from Street Plumbing, the same company that had installed the heater, and he showed up Saturday afternoon. He replaced a hose, then couldn’t get the heater to light again.

“You need to get a new heater,” he said. He provided the specific information about our heater that the manufacturer would want when I called, then left. I called the manufacturer, and spoke to a very nice lady who was baffled. It seems everyone who installs water heaters should know that they just need to go back through their wholesaler to take care of warranties.

So I called the Street Plumbing back. No answer. I left a message. I went back to the home warranty company to see if they had a secret insider’s emergency contact number. It is not easy to contact First American; wait times are routinely over an hour. Finally I got through to someone and she said she’d contact Street Plumbing with proper authorizations first thing Monday morning, but that I should call as well.

There would be no hot water until Monday, it seemed. No washing dishes. Very unpleasant showers.

Monday morning I called Street Plumbing. I talked to the receptionist and she said that the technician would call me back. He did not. All further attempts to contact Street Plumbing failed. To the warranty company, all they said was, “we already told those guys they have to call the manufacturer.” Because Street never called us back, they didn’t know that we had already dealt with the manufacturer multiple times. But they never called us, and so never did anything to make the situation better. We had no hot water, and no one was doing anything.

Finally a key piece of the puzzle was resolved. First American Home Warranty had made the purchase of the replacement heater, so they were the ones who had to contact the manufacturer and get the warranty managed. The right person at the First American was contacted, and he said he was taking personal responsibility for seeing this through. Hooray!

By this point my dearest sweetie was handling communications from our frigid base camp. It was a task I was happy to relinquish, but I felt bad for the light of my life. Things were going into a spiral, you see. Mr. Personal Responsibility vanished. He didn’t answer messages (left at a time cost of more than an hour). Sweetie was getting annoyed, frustrated, and downright pissed off.

Another day passed. Another person at First American took “personal responsibility”. With my best gal waiting on the line, she called each of the parties involved and worked through all the shit. She was awesome. Understandings were reached. Let there be light. A manufacturer’s rep would be right out to sort things out. Except…

Another day passed. No water heater.

My sweetie called the home warranty people late the next afternoon. Had to explain the situation all over again. Discovered that HOURS EARLIER the home warranty folks had learned that the manufacturer’s rep would not be coming that day. But they never bothered to tell us that. The rep on the phone started to give the same promises as usual, and my sweetie tore her throat out, using the power of her voice alone. We’re getting off this merry-go-round, thank you very much.

Shortly thereafter, we got a call from a different plumber, Water Quality Plumbing, who is somehow more closely connected with the manufacturer of the water heater. The scheduler said there was no one available until the next day. “have you been without hot water all day?” she asked. “We haven’t had hot water since Saturday,” the brightest star in my constellation told her.

“Saturday? No one told me that!” Sarah at Water Quality Plumbing took that seriously; Jeff was at our house half an hour later, working overtime, and he fixed our water heater.

Let me repeat that. Jeff fixed our water heater. In about thirty minutes. We didn’t need a new one. Days lost while the various entities pointed fingers at each other, hours spent on the phone trying to get someone to do something, were all completely unnecessary. If the first guy to come to the house had been competent, none of the rest would have happened, and we’d still be buying a bunch of copper pipe from Street.

So while there are plenty of bad things to say about First American Home Warranty, Street Plumbing earns the goat award for this one, for not fixing the (apparently) simple problem in the first place, and compounding the problem by not providing a simple piece of information that would have accelerated the ridiculous process by a couple of days.

Lesson to all in the service industry: even if you haven’t made progress on the case, pick up the fucking telephone and answer your messages.

Thursday, I think I had the best non-camping-related shower of my life.

Inhuman

Lately I’ve started paying for books again. While there are plenty or offerings for free at Amazon and iBookstore and whatnot, the old adage ‘you get what you pay for’ seems to apply. There’s a reason the world has editors.

Inhuman, by Danielle Q. Lee, is an example of a good idea fumbled by a writer who could really benefit from the attention of an editor, or at least a good proof reader.

Our main character is a student whom we already know was born in unusual circumstances. She was raised in a traditional Hopi village (cool!) and is now off on the east coast attending university. To raise money for tuition, she volunteers as a gunea pig in a strangely-unfocussed medical study. Then her life suddenly gets weird.

The thing is, you see, our new friend Cassia isn’t human — much to her surprise. Results from a blood test show that her DNA is completely different — a triple helix rather than double (which makes it not DNA at all, actually), and a different number of chromosomes. This catches the eye of a super-secret super-evil government agency whose mandate is to investigate weird shit. And kill it, no matter how useful it might be.

Somehow, despite having absolutely different genetic material, Cassia is able to interbreed with humans. For some reason, the Evil Agency knows this. For some reason, they are more interested in the offspring of an alien than the alien herself. For some reason…

Yeah, there’s a lot of that.

Then there’s the boyfriend problem. She meets a guy, they hit if off, then (*gasp!*) it turns out he’s one of the bad guys! Only… not really?!? He’s doing evil things against his will.

There is an element to the ending that I really appreciated, however, the sort of thing that never happens in stories like these. So bonus points for the writer on that account. Still and all, this novel effectively ended my quest for free material worth reading. It was free, and not worth the price.

Are You Shitting Me, <name of my employer here>?

One of the things I do is read. Another thing I do is review what I read. Occasionally, at least. Right now I’m wrapping up a review of a novel I downloaded from xBookstore (where x is an arbitrary letter of the alphabet) and I decided that I should share that review with others who might be interested in the story.

Oddly, I couldn’t figure out how to leave the review from my laptop. Then I realized I couldn’t figure out how to read the story from my laptop. Apparently that’s not a feature of that particular electronic bookstore. You must use an xDevice. Frankly I’m stunned. Boggled.

Also, I have more respect for the people whose reviews appear on that site; they were typed in adverse conditions.

SOx Sucks

A few years ago a handful of companies, notably WorldCom and Enron but plenty of others, faked up their books and defrauded investors and their own employees of billions of dollars. This despite requirements that the books of companies be audited by an independent accounting firm.

It turns out that in some cases the big accounting firms were more interested in keeping the client than in protecting investors. They allowed the fraudulent behavior continue, so that WorldCom and Enron would continue to pay them for their other services. Not really the independent audit that was needed.

The government stepped in, and passed the Sarbanes-Oxley act, lovingly called SOx. What this did was to provide a vast set of new accounting requirements demanding that companies be able to prove that every important number in every system was properly protected and any monkey business would be traceable. This is a gigantically complex undertaking for a business. Also added was an audit of the audit, and a review of how every number is checked and double-checked. The US government for the first time takes a direct role in looking at corporate ledgers.

A system my department developed and hosts has now been declared to be SOx-related. That means that the server it sits on has to be extra-super-secure, and that we have to document checking the security of the server periodically. (Different aspects of the security have to be checked at different intervals.) Every change to a line of code has to be documented as well, and justified, and audited. Likewise the database has to be extra-super-secure. I’m a big fan of secure, actually, so for the most part I’m totally down with all this. Extra-super-secure is many times more of a hassle than secure, but if someone monkeyed with the numbers in this system, our CEO could go to jail. So, yeah, best to be careful.

Getting the servers set up properly was not really that difficult. Actually, I wasn’t allowed to configure the servers, because I was the only one able to test if it had been done right. Every setting has to be tested by someone other than the one who did the work. Then the test document I create is audited by my boss before being sent over to the Internal Audit department.

Documenting the security of the servers to the satisfaction of the law just plunged me into several long, long days of bureaucratic hell. I had templates for the documentation from the IT department’s setups, but those docs had some surprising holes and some parts that were simply badly written. I spent several hours trying to figure out how to meet a requirement in those docs that was simply wrong. An IT expert probably could have identified the problem at a glance and said, “I expect the writer meant this…” I am not an IT expert, and honestly I like that sort of arcane activity almost as little as I like paperwork.

So, yeah, this was a perfect storm of things I don’t like to do, and I underestimated the time it would take me to do them, which led to a lost weekend and almost every waking hour for a week devoted to the task. Now my work goes on to be audited, and it’s hard to imagine that after a push like that there isn’t an error somewhere.

Here’s the thing: as I was doing all this, I wasn’t mad at the government. Red tape driving up taxes and costing companies millions of dollars usually will make me call for revolution. This is all deadweight on our economy. But who I’m really mad at is Enron et. al., and I’m ready to murder the leadership of the major accounting firms whose dereliction led to this whole fiasco. They owe me. Bigtime.

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