Thursday, December 22, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Concerning the spelling of my (nick)name
This came up on another blog I write for, and I didn't want to waste their time with it.
My name is Nicolas.
N-I-C-O-L-A-S.
As you may have noticed, there is no H. Many miss this, and spell my name with an H. That's OK. I understand. My parents were cruel and decided to spell my name as if I were some sort of frenchman. It's not your fault that it's an uncommon spelling, and I don't blame you for the oversight. I've been known to spell "Lindsey" with an A or forget the H in "Meghan" (but seriously, Meghan?). It's considerably more annoying when someone hands me a sign-up form on which I write my name, and then I find I'm in the system as Nicholas. Like, yeah, I spelled my own name wrong. Thanks for catching that.
Jackass.
"Nicolas or Nick?" teachers would always ask. "I don't care," I told them. "I don't care" was frequently interpreted as "Nick," because in America we are always in a hurry and cannot waste time with extraneous syllables. I became accustomed to this, and started telling people I was Nick. "Nicolas" became reserved for doctor's appointments and angry mothers. The only downside to "Nick" is that my last name also starts with a K, and the words kind of blend together when I'm introducing myself.
Nick has always been spelled with a K. The "normal" way, y'know?
Always, that is, until my freshman year of college, when Dr. Weller started addressing me as "Nic" in e-mails. He even said my name differently. Usually the K at the end is pretty hard. Weller would leave it almost silent at the end, so you could hear that there was no K. "OK," I thought, "cool." I'm used to my full name being spelled differently; it only seemed right that my nickname would be different too.
A girlfriend picked it up. Then her dad. And without known cause, like a virus mysteriously leaping cities, suddenly it was everywhere. In the Church. In the blogosphere. On Facebook.
Presumably, my use of the name "Nicolas" on Facebook left room for ambiguity as to the spelling of my nickname, and the Latiny spelling encouraged people not to use a K. I never told anyone not to, yet it seems to be the trend.
I still sign my own name as "Nick." That's how it's always been, and I refuse to be one of those people who suddenly insists his name is different from what it's always been. I know a Sonya who suddenly became Sonja. Not for me.
I encourage others to continue their modified spelling, telling them there's no correct spelling of a nickname. I like it. I just can't do it myself.
(I guess this actually makes me just like Sony/ja, who continued to introduce herself as Sonya while asking everyone else to call her Sonja.)
Now you know.
My name is Nicolas.
N-I-C-O-L-A-S.
As you may have noticed, there is no H. Many miss this, and spell my name with an H. That's OK. I understand. My parents were cruel and decided to spell my name as if I were some sort of frenchman. It's not your fault that it's an uncommon spelling, and I don't blame you for the oversight. I've been known to spell "Lindsey" with an A or forget the H in "Meghan" (but seriously, Meghan?). It's considerably more annoying when someone hands me a sign-up form on which I write my name, and then I find I'm in the system as Nicholas. Like, yeah, I spelled my own name wrong. Thanks for catching that.
Jackass.
"Nicolas or Nick?" teachers would always ask. "I don't care," I told them. "I don't care" was frequently interpreted as "Nick," because in America we are always in a hurry and cannot waste time with extraneous syllables. I became accustomed to this, and started telling people I was Nick. "Nicolas" became reserved for doctor's appointments and angry mothers. The only downside to "Nick" is that my last name also starts with a K, and the words kind of blend together when I'm introducing myself.
Nick has always been spelled with a K. The "normal" way, y'know?
Always, that is, until my freshman year of college, when Dr. Weller started addressing me as "Nic" in e-mails. He even said my name differently. Usually the K at the end is pretty hard. Weller would leave it almost silent at the end, so you could hear that there was no K. "OK," I thought, "cool." I'm used to my full name being spelled differently; it only seemed right that my nickname would be different too.
A girlfriend picked it up. Then her dad. And without known cause, like a virus mysteriously leaping cities, suddenly it was everywhere. In the Church. In the blogosphere. On Facebook.
Presumably, my use of the name "Nicolas" on Facebook left room for ambiguity as to the spelling of my nickname, and the Latiny spelling encouraged people not to use a K. I never told anyone not to, yet it seems to be the trend.
I still sign my own name as "Nick." That's how it's always been, and I refuse to be one of those people who suddenly insists his name is different from what it's always been. I know a Sonya who suddenly became Sonja. Not for me.
I encourage others to continue their modified spelling, telling them there's no correct spelling of a nickname. I like it. I just can't do it myself.
(I guess this actually makes me just like Sony/ja, who continued to introduce herself as Sonya while asking everyone else to call her Sonja.)
Now you know.
Thursday, November 03, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The ethics of multiple universes
My friend and host, Tucker, her son and I watched Source Code the other night. Starring Jake Gyllenhaal and Vera Farmiga, it's one of those thrillers with a sci-fi twist that manages not to be sci-fi. It's a fun watch, which is probably why nobody liked my constant philosophizing.
Spoilers follow (don't worry, you don't care).
So the premise of the movie is that a terrorist attack has destroyed a commuter train in Chicago, killing dozens of people. Authorities suspect that it is a precursor to a much larger attack, so they need to find out who's behind it.
Luckily, there's Source Code, a top-secret military project that is able to take the consciousness out of an almost-dead blown-up helicopter pilot (Gyllenhaal) and put it into the body of someone on the train, hours earlier. They can do it for eight minutes at a time, and the goal of each eight-minute mission is to find the identity of the bomber so they can catch him in the present.
But he's not a mere observer. He can get up, go places and find information that his host didn't know. He can even deactivate the bomb or get the pretty girl across from him off the train--though he's told that this doesn't actually change anything. If it does have an effect, it's on a different reality than his own. This would fall under the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics: every time he changes something in the past, a new universe is created in which those events occurred. If we assume this is the case, it's not a great leap to assume a new universe is created every time he goes back, since all he has to do is breathe in a slightly different pattern or say one word differently to create a new reality--even if it's practically identical to one that was already created.
We do eventually get confirmation that this is what is happening, because after he completes his mission and allows the people running him to capture the bomber, he insists on going back one last time to try what he has so far failed to do: save every person on the train. He knows it doesn't mean anything; he just wants to do it. At the end of this mission, Vera Farmiga agrees, his mutilated body will be taken off life support.
Naturally, Gyllenhaal rocks it. He disarms the bomb (both detonators this time), apprehends the bomber, and calls in the authorities. He also sends a quick e-mail and calls his father, who already thinks him dead, to speak with him one last time. He asks the pretty girl out, and at the end of the eight minutes, just as Farmiga is taking him off life support, kisses her passionately.
And then... he keeps kissing her. Apparently when his body finally dies in his reality, his consciousness doesn't snap back. He gets to remain in his new body with his new identity. He teaches everybody on the train a valuable lesson about enjoying life by paying a grumpy guy $100 to do a stand-up routine, then skips work and goes to Millennium Park.
Meanwhile, the Vera Farmiga of that reality is just starting her day when she gets an e-mail. It's from Gyllenhaal. "You should be seeing a story about a thwarted terrorist attack. You and I stopped it together, and Source Code works better than you ever imagined." See, while in his reality he only managed to stop the second attack, in this new reality, he stopped the first one, too. This is how we know it's the multiple universes thing and not just a meaningless eight-minute simulation.
Still with me?
There are some ethical concerns here. Firstly, what happened to the guy whose body he took over? Has his consciousness been permanently replaced by Gyllenhaal's?
But the real question I was left with was, is his use of time-travel ethical?
With the exception of the last instance, every time Gyllenhaal goes back, the train is destroyed. So every time he is creating another universe in which the terrorist attack--and the much larger second attack, which supposedly destroys downtown Chicago--occurs, all in the name of stopping one of the attacks in the reality he's from. He is ensuring the bigger attack happens a half-dozen more times, across all realities, in the name of stopping it from happening once in his reality.
The question is, do people in other realities have standing?
My friend Sam, a philosophy major I met here in California, suggested that another consequence of considering the moral standing of people in other realities is that it can serve to de-value the suffering in our own reality. If there are infinite realities with infinite people suffering infinitely, does one person suffering here even matter? If such de-valuation is a danger, should that be used as a point of argument for caring only about our own reality? Or should we have a "prime directive" that forbids interfering with other realities (and would essentially outlaw Source Code, since it does just that)?
Steve?
Spoilers follow (don't worry, you don't care).
So the premise of the movie is that a terrorist attack has destroyed a commuter train in Chicago, killing dozens of people. Authorities suspect that it is a precursor to a much larger attack, so they need to find out who's behind it.
Luckily, there's Source Code, a top-secret military project that is able to take the consciousness out of an almost-dead blown-up helicopter pilot (Gyllenhaal) and put it into the body of someone on the train, hours earlier. They can do it for eight minutes at a time, and the goal of each eight-minute mission is to find the identity of the bomber so they can catch him in the present.
But he's not a mere observer. He can get up, go places and find information that his host didn't know. He can even deactivate the bomb or get the pretty girl across from him off the train--though he's told that this doesn't actually change anything. If it does have an effect, it's on a different reality than his own. This would fall under the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics: every time he changes something in the past, a new universe is created in which those events occurred. If we assume this is the case, it's not a great leap to assume a new universe is created every time he goes back, since all he has to do is breathe in a slightly different pattern or say one word differently to create a new reality--even if it's practically identical to one that was already created.
We do eventually get confirmation that this is what is happening, because after he completes his mission and allows the people running him to capture the bomber, he insists on going back one last time to try what he has so far failed to do: save every person on the train. He knows it doesn't mean anything; he just wants to do it. At the end of this mission, Vera Farmiga agrees, his mutilated body will be taken off life support.
Naturally, Gyllenhaal rocks it. He disarms the bomb (both detonators this time), apprehends the bomber, and calls in the authorities. He also sends a quick e-mail and calls his father, who already thinks him dead, to speak with him one last time. He asks the pretty girl out, and at the end of the eight minutes, just as Farmiga is taking him off life support, kisses her passionately.
And then... he keeps kissing her. Apparently when his body finally dies in his reality, his consciousness doesn't snap back. He gets to remain in his new body with his new identity. He teaches everybody on the train a valuable lesson about enjoying life by paying a grumpy guy $100 to do a stand-up routine, then skips work and goes to Millennium Park.
Meanwhile, the Vera Farmiga of that reality is just starting her day when she gets an e-mail. It's from Gyllenhaal. "You should be seeing a story about a thwarted terrorist attack. You and I stopped it together, and Source Code works better than you ever imagined." See, while in his reality he only managed to stop the second attack, in this new reality, he stopped the first one, too. This is how we know it's the multiple universes thing and not just a meaningless eight-minute simulation.
Still with me?
There are some ethical concerns here. Firstly, what happened to the guy whose body he took over? Has his consciousness been permanently replaced by Gyllenhaal's?
But the real question I was left with was, is his use of time-travel ethical?
With the exception of the last instance, every time Gyllenhaal goes back, the train is destroyed. So every time he is creating another universe in which the terrorist attack--and the much larger second attack, which supposedly destroys downtown Chicago--occurs, all in the name of stopping one of the attacks in the reality he's from. He is ensuring the bigger attack happens a half-dozen more times, across all realities, in the name of stopping it from happening once in his reality.
The question is, do people in other realities have standing?
My friend Sam, a philosophy major I met here in California, suggested that another consequence of considering the moral standing of people in other realities is that it can serve to de-value the suffering in our own reality. If there are infinite realities with infinite people suffering infinitely, does one person suffering here even matter? If such de-valuation is a danger, should that be used as a point of argument for caring only about our own reality? Or should we have a "prime directive" that forbids interfering with other realities (and would essentially outlaw Source Code, since it does just that)?
Steve?
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Creature of the night
I have long been a bit of a night owl. In part because I am a genius, no doubt, but likely also because I got my own computer when I was in the seventh grade, and hours-long AOL chats with my unrequited love and marathon sessions of designing new levels for "X-Wing vs. TIE Fighter" both forced me to stay awake late. (I also failed three classes in the eighth grade and had my calculus teacher tell me I would not graduate high school.)
It gets worse, of course, during bouts of depression, when I simply never bother to go to bed because there's nothing to look forward to when I wake up.
Though I now have my own apartment, I've lived most of my life with other people, so I am accustomed to sneaking about in the dark, trying to minimize the sounds I make. I knew just how to distribute my weight in our creaky house to make the stairs and hallway a little less creaky (that was the best I could do). Everywhere I lived, I have a distinct memory of what it's like in the dark, as I feel my way around. Home. College. Mexico. I usually manage to pull off this lurking with minimal disturbance to others.
Of course, there are times when it all fails spectacularly. Once, I was trying to sneak up from the basement (the location of my computer at the time) late at night when our dog, who had never displayed any signs of being useful, decided that was the night he would try out the "guard dog" thing. Nothing ruins a subtle entry like a barking dog. There was the time I had so much trouble with my key that my host dad had to come downstairs and let me in the house.
And there was tonight, when the whole damn house woke up thanks to the stupid cat.
As the last one to bed, it is often my duty to close the cat in the kitchen/dining room area of the house at night. This usually just entails closing two doors, since the cat tends to stay in that territory anyway. Tonight, though, I couldn't find her anywhere. Fifteen minutes I circled around and around the first floor of the house, searching.
Wondering if she slipped outside while the dogs were out, I opened the front door as quietly as possible and stepped out. Honestly, it was almost silent. Except when the door kept opening all on its own, and bumped against the painting on the wall. Repeatedly. It sounded like someone was banging to be let in.
I dashed back inside and carefully closed the door. Now I heard some shifting of weight upstairs, but I decided it was unrelated to me. I continued my search.
Meow, the cat said, upstairs. The cat usually doesn't go upstairs, but tonight she decided to mess with me. I made for the stairs, and could now hear Doug (another tenant) moving about on the second floor. Doug had come to investigate the door banging, lest I be one of Berkeley's axe murderers.
"Is the cat up there?" I stage whispered.
After he challenged me for my identity (what, like I'm a burglar who inquires about the cat?), he went to fetch the cat.
There are also two dogs in this house, and one of them hates Doug. When he called out for the cat, the dog lost it, and all hell broke loose. Soon the homeowner was awake, lights were on, and retrieving the cat was no longer a covert operation.
Fail.
If I had my way, that animal would be denied breakfast.
It gets worse, of course, during bouts of depression, when I simply never bother to go to bed because there's nothing to look forward to when I wake up.
Though I now have my own apartment, I've lived most of my life with other people, so I am accustomed to sneaking about in the dark, trying to minimize the sounds I make. I knew just how to distribute my weight in our creaky house to make the stairs and hallway a little less creaky (that was the best I could do). Everywhere I lived, I have a distinct memory of what it's like in the dark, as I feel my way around. Home. College. Mexico. I usually manage to pull off this lurking with minimal disturbance to others.
Of course, there are times when it all fails spectacularly. Once, I was trying to sneak up from the basement (the location of my computer at the time) late at night when our dog, who had never displayed any signs of being useful, decided that was the night he would try out the "guard dog" thing. Nothing ruins a subtle entry like a barking dog. There was the time I had so much trouble with my key that my host dad had to come downstairs and let me in the house.
And there was tonight, when the whole damn house woke up thanks to the stupid cat.
As the last one to bed, it is often my duty to close the cat in the kitchen/dining room area of the house at night. This usually just entails closing two doors, since the cat tends to stay in that territory anyway. Tonight, though, I couldn't find her anywhere. Fifteen minutes I circled around and around the first floor of the house, searching.
Wondering if she slipped outside while the dogs were out, I opened the front door as quietly as possible and stepped out. Honestly, it was almost silent. Except when the door kept opening all on its own, and bumped against the painting on the wall. Repeatedly. It sounded like someone was banging to be let in.
I dashed back inside and carefully closed the door. Now I heard some shifting of weight upstairs, but I decided it was unrelated to me. I continued my search.
Meow, the cat said, upstairs. The cat usually doesn't go upstairs, but tonight she decided to mess with me. I made for the stairs, and could now hear Doug (another tenant) moving about on the second floor. Doug had come to investigate the door banging, lest I be one of Berkeley's axe murderers.
"Is the cat up there?" I stage whispered.
After he challenged me for my identity (what, like I'm a burglar who inquires about the cat?), he went to fetch the cat.
There are also two dogs in this house, and one of them hates Doug. When he called out for the cat, the dog lost it, and all hell broke loose. Soon the homeowner was awake, lights were on, and retrieving the cat was no longer a covert operation.
Fail.
If I had my way, that animal would be denied breakfast.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The PayPal Chronicles
Once upon a time, a fraudulent charge for $900 appeared on my PayPal account. As in, I got an e-mail confirming a payment of $900 that I had never authorized, to a recipient I had never heard of. Since my PayPal account was linked to my checking account, they tried to withdraw the money directly. Three times.
Luckily, $900 was so far beyond the laughable amount of money in my checking account that the transaction was simply denied, all three times.
I immediately filed a claim of unauthorized access to my account with PayPal. A few days later, I got an e-mail informing me my claim had been denied. And that was that. There's no further appeal process when it comes to PayPal. They're not a bank, and aren't regulated like a bank, and they pull out of any country that tries to regulate them like a bank. So once they decide the activity isn't fraudulent, there is absolutely, positively nothing you can do about it. If they'd gotten that $900, I would never have gotten it back.
I closed my bank account and abandoned my PayPal account. They want to make me pay? They can sue me.
Some years later, I decided I actually did need a PayPal account in order to do some freelance work. So I opened up a new account with as much different information as I could.
Some more years later, I wanted to buy my roommate Steve some shot glasses on eBay. For reasons I can't remember, I wasn't able to use my credit card to pay (maybe I didn't add it in time and the payment was due?), so I did the stupidest thing of my life (based on the action itself, not the consequences) and signed up for something called "PayPal Buyer Credit." As in, they cover those $16 shot glasses for me for a mere, I don't know, say $52.
For other reasons I can't remember, at some point a phone call was necessary in relation to my Buyer Credit account. The man at the other end of the line was very adamant that I just link up my bank account with them.
"My concern," I said, "is that if someone were to break in to my account and send themselves like $900, and PayPal decided to deny my claim about it, you could just take it from my bank account and I would have no recourse."
"Oh, that could never happen," he said.
I actually went to the expense of sending them a money order to pay off my Buyer Credit account, just to make sure they didn't snag the routing number off my check and tap into my account without my permission. When I used Buyer Credit again last year (accidentally), I paid it off by sending a check to a special, alternate address that the very fine print of the contract said I should use if I didn't want to authorize them to take funds out electronically.
I have been uncharacteristically sharp when it comes to these guys. Fool me once...
Anyway, I just got an e-mail to my old college e-mail account regarding my original PayPal account. "Our records show that you are the owner of a derelict PayPal account with a balance of $30," it said. "To claim the funds..." blah blah blah.
NO MENTION of the $900 I owe them. Just $30 that's all mine; all I have to do is confirm that I exist!
I'll let Admiral Ackbar take this one:
Yes, thank you, Admiral. E-mail deleted.
Luckily, $900 was so far beyond the laughable amount of money in my checking account that the transaction was simply denied, all three times.
I immediately filed a claim of unauthorized access to my account with PayPal. A few days later, I got an e-mail informing me my claim had been denied. And that was that. There's no further appeal process when it comes to PayPal. They're not a bank, and aren't regulated like a bank, and they pull out of any country that tries to regulate them like a bank. So once they decide the activity isn't fraudulent, there is absolutely, positively nothing you can do about it. If they'd gotten that $900, I would never have gotten it back.
I closed my bank account and abandoned my PayPal account. They want to make me pay? They can sue me.
Some years later, I decided I actually did need a PayPal account in order to do some freelance work. So I opened up a new account with as much different information as I could.
Some more years later, I wanted to buy my roommate Steve some shot glasses on eBay. For reasons I can't remember, I wasn't able to use my credit card to pay (maybe I didn't add it in time and the payment was due?), so I did the stupidest thing of my life (based on the action itself, not the consequences) and signed up for something called "PayPal Buyer Credit." As in, they cover those $16 shot glasses for me for a mere, I don't know, say $52.
For other reasons I can't remember, at some point a phone call was necessary in relation to my Buyer Credit account. The man at the other end of the line was very adamant that I just link up my bank account with them.
"My concern," I said, "is that if someone were to break in to my account and send themselves like $900, and PayPal decided to deny my claim about it, you could just take it from my bank account and I would have no recourse."
"Oh, that could never happen," he said.
I actually went to the expense of sending them a money order to pay off my Buyer Credit account, just to make sure they didn't snag the routing number off my check and tap into my account without my permission. When I used Buyer Credit again last year (accidentally), I paid it off by sending a check to a special, alternate address that the very fine print of the contract said I should use if I didn't want to authorize them to take funds out electronically.
I have been uncharacteristically sharp when it comes to these guys. Fool me once...
Anyway, I just got an e-mail to my old college e-mail account regarding my original PayPal account. "Our records show that you are the owner of a derelict PayPal account with a balance of $30," it said. "To claim the funds..." blah blah blah.
NO MENTION of the $900 I owe them. Just $30 that's all mine; all I have to do is confirm that I exist!
I'll let Admiral Ackbar take this one:
Yes, thank you, Admiral. E-mail deleted.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Diet, not exercise
I'm getting both in Berkeley. Probably both because I don't drive. Without a vehicular commute, there's never any temptation to just go ahead and swing through Arby's. ("This roast turkey & swiss sandwich is healthy, so by getting it, I earned the mozzarella sticks"). I'm too afraid of looking incompetent to try the unfamiliar bus system, so walking it is. Seven miles at a time, when Brandi has something to say about it.
But I haven't been going for runs like I wanted to, and have only scaled the nearby hill (mountain) a handful of times. I've spent weeks practically without leaving the house, thanks in part to laziness but largely due to a foot injury. Yet my weight is as low as it's been in two years, and if I shed another pound or two I'll weigh less than I did since I started my last year of college. I weigh the same now as I did last summer, when I was obsessively running up to three miles a day. And I'm chalking it up to the good ol' California diet (not counting a night of In 'n Out. Bloated, but worth it).
I've read that exercise can keep weight off, but diet is really the only good way to lose it in the first place. I'll buy that.
(Mark thinks he lost a hundred pounds or so from walking around all day, but I think it has more to do with his daily intake of about 45 calories.)
But I haven't been going for runs like I wanted to, and have only scaled the nearby hill (mountain) a handful of times. I've spent weeks practically without leaving the house, thanks in part to laziness but largely due to a foot injury. Yet my weight is as low as it's been in two years, and if I shed another pound or two I'll weigh less than I did since I started my last year of college. I weigh the same now as I did last summer, when I was obsessively running up to three miles a day. And I'm chalking it up to the good ol' California diet (not counting a night of In 'n Out. Bloated, but worth it).
I've read that exercise can keep weight off, but diet is really the only good way to lose it in the first place. I'll buy that.
(Mark thinks he lost a hundred pounds or so from walking around all day, but I think it has more to do with his daily intake of about 45 calories.)
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Lest you think me a good person
I saw Crazy Carl again today. I was just rounding the corner at the bottom of my street, headed for the store to buy some tortilla chips because mine were missing and the two bags I found were stale. Not "oh these are stale" stale, but "I can't swallow this so instead I will spit it into the trash" stale. And there was ol' Carl, wearing the same clothes as before. I didn't check to see if he bought new socks with my money. Instead I tugged my baseball cap lower across my eyes and sped past him. There was a bit of a crowd there, thanks to the bus stop, and his gaze was cast downward, so I think I got away without him recognizing me. Or at least without him knowing I recognized him.
As I returned from the store, I looked cautiously about. No Carl down the street. No carl visible around the corner (the two glass walls of the café allow for such foresight). I turned onto my street and there he was, up the road, walking towards me. I immediately (and obviously) changed direction and bolted across the street. I didn't feel quite secure on the other side, though, so I actually walked three blocks out of my way so as not to pass him.
Not that I'm afraid of Crazy Carl, even with his pipe (the metal hitting people in the head kind, not the crack kind). I just wasn't feeling another hour-plus conversation.
As I returned from the store, I looked cautiously about. No Carl down the street. No carl visible around the corner (the two glass walls of the café allow for such foresight). I turned onto my street and there he was, up the road, walking towards me. I immediately (and obviously) changed direction and bolted across the street. I didn't feel quite secure on the other side, though, so I actually walked three blocks out of my way so as not to pass him.
Not that I'm afraid of Crazy Carl, even with his pipe (the metal hitting people in the head kind, not the crack kind). I just wasn't feeling another hour-plus conversation.
Oh my god I hate OSX Lion
I read that people aren't very impressed with Lion, so I decided not to upgrade.
Then, I read that Lion includes support for tools that extend the life of solid state drives and for encrypting the entire hard drive. Since both of these things seem very useful for my Air, I decided to go for it. I can take some ugly applications.
Not that I have a big "tech blog" type following, but I have to grouch about all this, so here goes.
Ridiculous scrolling
When I first booted up my computer after installing Lion, I was greeted by an "upgrade assistant" screen telling me how to scroll. "Duh," I thought. I tried to scroll, but with no success. I tried closing the program, but it warned me that I shouldn't, making me wonder if there was more to the tutorial. It took me a good five minutes to figure out it was telling me to scroll the other way.
On every laptop trackpad that has been made since the invention of two-finger scrolling, you scroll down by dragging two fingers downwards (towards your body) and scroll up by dragging two fingers upwards (away from your body). Down is down, up and up. It makes sense.
As of OSX Lion, though, you drag up to scroll down and down to scroll up. This is to mimic the "flick" type gestures you use on your iPhone (if you were duped into getting an iPhone). The thing is, that's actually intuitive when you're actually touching the image. The trackpad is separate from the screen, so there's no desire to act like you're "flicking" the image or document. Nobody who has ever been born has difficulty grasping that you flick one way on a touchscreen phone and the other on a computer trackpad, but Apple decided to solve a problem that didn't exist and drive everybody absolutely crazy.
(You can turn this off in settings, but still. Really?)
Ugly sidebar, and what is this Finder??
Remember when iTunes used to have nice, color-coded icons on the navigation bar? That was before iTunes 10 came along. Now the rest of the Apple navigation experience has gone the way of gray icons, either to make sure it takes me longer to do anything or to ensure those using black-and-white monitors aren't getting a lesser experience than everyone else.
Also, launching the Finder now defaults to a new "All My Files" view, laughing in the face of all my organization efforts.
And while I'm on frustrations with launching Finder, once I finally locate the gray "Applications" icon and click it (reaching the point I'd already be at in Leopard), I find I'm unable to "modify" (move) any of the core applications. See, I spent an obscene amount of time building folders into which to sort all my applications and installing custom icons so those folders could look pretty on the dock. Here, look:
In a new-agey move I bet Apple would appreciate, I made all the folder names verbs. "Browse," "Communicate," "Organize," "Enjoy," "Edit," "Write," "Play." It's been one of the rare times such effort proved well-spent, because I love it. Only now, I can't put Address Book, iCal, etc. into those folders, because they can't be "modified." So now I have to go with aliases, complete with ugly arrow icons and a cluttered Applications folder.
Vomit-inducing ugliness
Take a look at iCal:
And Address Book:
This is for people who remember with longing a day when we actually used physical calendars and address books. And bought the most hideous ones possible. This might be cute on the iPhone, which favors cuteness over functionality, but it has no place on my computer. And there's no option to turn it off, either, which means as soon as I post this blog I'll be hacking my computer.
OH, and I forgot Launchpad. You click it, it shows you all your applications. In case you're one of those people who only uses your computer six times a year and doesn't have more applications than can fit on one screen. Also, when did they become "applications" and not "programs?" Damn you, Apple.
Anyway, I want my old operating system back.
Then, I read that Lion includes support for tools that extend the life of solid state drives and for encrypting the entire hard drive. Since both of these things seem very useful for my Air, I decided to go for it. I can take some ugly applications.
Not that I have a big "tech blog" type following, but I have to grouch about all this, so here goes.
Ridiculous scrolling
On every laptop trackpad that has been made since the invention of two-finger scrolling, you scroll down by dragging two fingers downwards (towards your body) and scroll up by dragging two fingers upwards (away from your body). Down is down, up and up. It makes sense.
As of OSX Lion, though, you drag up to scroll down and down to scroll up. This is to mimic the "flick" type gestures you use on your iPhone (if you were duped into getting an iPhone). The thing is, that's actually intuitive when you're actually touching the image. The trackpad is separate from the screen, so there's no desire to act like you're "flicking" the image or document. Nobody who has ever been born has difficulty grasping that you flick one way on a touchscreen phone and the other on a computer trackpad, but Apple decided to solve a problem that didn't exist and drive everybody absolutely crazy.
(You can turn this off in settings, but still. Really?)
Ugly sidebar, and what is this Finder??
Also, launching the Finder now defaults to a new "All My Files" view, laughing in the face of all my organization efforts.
And while I'm on frustrations with launching Finder, once I finally locate the gray "Applications" icon and click it (reaching the point I'd already be at in Leopard), I find I'm unable to "modify" (move) any of the core applications. See, I spent an obscene amount of time building folders into which to sort all my applications and installing custom icons so those folders could look pretty on the dock. Here, look:
In a new-agey move I bet Apple would appreciate, I made all the folder names verbs. "Browse," "Communicate," "Organize," "Enjoy," "Edit," "Write," "Play." It's been one of the rare times such effort proved well-spent, because I love it. Only now, I can't put Address Book, iCal, etc. into those folders, because they can't be "modified." So now I have to go with aliases, complete with ugly arrow icons and a cluttered Applications folder.
Vomit-inducing ugliness
Take a look at iCal:
And Address Book:
This is for people who remember with longing a day when we actually used physical calendars and address books. And bought the most hideous ones possible. This might be cute on the iPhone, which favors cuteness over functionality, but it has no place on my computer. And there's no option to turn it off, either, which means as soon as I post this blog I'll be hacking my computer.
OH, and I forgot Launchpad. You click it, it shows you all your applications. In case you're one of those people who only uses your computer six times a year and doesn't have more applications than can fit on one screen. Also, when did they become "applications" and not "programs?" Damn you, Apple.
Anyway, I want my old operating system back.
Friday, July 22, 2011
He's on to me
I recently failed to get a job because I haven't finished my Master's degree (don't tell my freelance writing clients; I lie to them). Apparently when it comes to directing a college residence hall, the difference between qualified and not qualified is a seventy-page thesis on the interplay between the Bible and American exceptionalism. (And I imagine this is one of those blog posts that will be set to "private" next time I apply.)
Anyway, I was all set on this job, which would have represented a decent lifestyle change for me. First, I would have had lots and lots of money (by my standards). Second, I would have moved into the provided apartment. I put a lot of energy into thinking about these changes, and now I find the thought of returning to same old apartment, same old (actually less) pay, same old everything to be somewhat unpleasant.
I've been seriously considering moving, just because I think I could use a change of pace/scenery/environment. I have no real issues with my current apartment; I just feel a pull to move on. There's a pricy apartment in the depot district that has been sitting empty for quite a while, which I've been considering trying to score at a deep discount. I've seen a few good apartments show up on college mailing lists (though they are mostly bigger places for which I'd need a roommate). And my current landlord has some other places at similar price points, but I'm kind of wanting to shoot for a higher quality unit than he generally provides. Anyway, I've gotten some encouraging remarks on this potential venture. Bekah is supportive, probably because when it comes to my eccentricity, she has to choose her battles. Brandi is supportive because she is even more eccentric than I am. Mother (nope, no website there) is supportive because she wants me to find some roommates and lower my housing costs (probably not gonna happen).
The thing is, my landlord is pretty awesome. He's a full-time landlord so by nature he is a sneaky bastard, having me sign a paper certifying the apartment was clean before I saw it (it wasn't) and a lease agreement stipulating that post-move-out cleaning costs are my responsibility (non-standard), and trying to charge me $20 for the privilege of renewing my lease (I decided to go off-lease rather than pay). But he is also as friendly and helpful as I can imagine a landlord being. Any issue I have (like thinking my stove is too hot or thinking there's a wiring problem because a light switch I didn't know about is turned off) prompts an immediate visit from his handyman, Micah, or whoever else is needed. No charges, ever. No charge to replace my screen, to charge for locking myself out of my apartment, no charge even when my idiocy surely earned them a bill from the electrician. The final balance is I'm a fan, and I always recommend his property service to new people.
In the latest infraction against common indecency, Terry actually had the nerve to pick up my water and trash bill for me, knowing I'm out of town. That's right--even though he's still paying the city for trash pickup and sewer fees, I get a pass on it this month. It's like he knows I'm thinking about moving, and wants me to feel really guilty about it.
I guess that is a sound business strategy.
Anyway, I was all set on this job, which would have represented a decent lifestyle change for me. First, I would have had lots and lots of money (by my standards). Second, I would have moved into the provided apartment. I put a lot of energy into thinking about these changes, and now I find the thought of returning to same old apartment, same old (actually less) pay, same old everything to be somewhat unpleasant.
I've been seriously considering moving, just because I think I could use a change of pace/scenery/environment. I have no real issues with my current apartment; I just feel a pull to move on. There's a pricy apartment in the depot district that has been sitting empty for quite a while, which I've been considering trying to score at a deep discount. I've seen a few good apartments show up on college mailing lists (though they are mostly bigger places for which I'd need a roommate). And my current landlord has some other places at similar price points, but I'm kind of wanting to shoot for a higher quality unit than he generally provides. Anyway, I've gotten some encouraging remarks on this potential venture. Bekah is supportive, probably because when it comes to my eccentricity, she has to choose her battles. Brandi is supportive because she is even more eccentric than I am. Mother (nope, no website there) is supportive because she wants me to find some roommates and lower my housing costs (probably not gonna happen).
The thing is, my landlord is pretty awesome. He's a full-time landlord so by nature he is a sneaky bastard, having me sign a paper certifying the apartment was clean before I saw it (it wasn't) and a lease agreement stipulating that post-move-out cleaning costs are my responsibility (non-standard), and trying to charge me $20 for the privilege of renewing my lease (I decided to go off-lease rather than pay). But he is also as friendly and helpful as I can imagine a landlord being. Any issue I have (like thinking my stove is too hot or thinking there's a wiring problem because a light switch I didn't know about is turned off) prompts an immediate visit from his handyman, Micah, or whoever else is needed. No charges, ever. No charge to replace my screen, to charge for locking myself out of my apartment, no charge even when my idiocy surely earned them a bill from the electrician. The final balance is I'm a fan, and I always recommend his property service to new people.
In the latest infraction against common indecency, Terry actually had the nerve to pick up my water and trash bill for me, knowing I'm out of town. That's right--even though he's still paying the city for trash pickup and sewer fees, I get a pass on it this month. It's like he knows I'm thinking about moving, and wants me to feel really guilty about it.
I guess that is a sound business strategy.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The Bible and sexy women
"True or false," Crazy Carl quizzed me, "the Bible says do not kill." (Crazy Carl did not know my profession.)
True, I told him, and Crazy Carl gleefully told me I was wrong. He tried to go on but I pressed him, telling him the Bible most certainly said that in both Exodus and Deuteronomy. No, he told me, that's a common misconception. The Bible really only says "do not commit murder." I told him it all comes down to how you choose to translate ratsach (רָצַ×—). That shut him up.
Actually, it really, really didn't. He challenged me to a quick game of "Is it in the Bible" (which he failed at--see below). He asked about a couple of sayings I can't remember, which were easy nos, along with "money is the root of all evil" ("the love of money is the root of all evil," 1 Timothy 6:10).
He then launched into a lesson on lust. "The Bible says something about your neighbor's wife," he said, and I supplied him with the word "covet." "Covet, that's it," he said. "It doesn't say don't lust after her."
Actually, I told him, Jesus says in the Sermon on the Mount that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully commits adultery in his heart. I think he did a complete one-eighty on what he was going to say, because he started talking about how useful that is, because obsession is self-defeating. Then he said he would definitely sleep with Catherine Zeta Jones, but she's married to Michael Douglas and that man is crazy. So the Bible really gives good advice.
In the (very long) "women Crazy Carl finds sexy" portion of our conversation, Nadia Comăneci came up. I'd never heard of her, but Carl informed me she was the first gymnast to score a perfect 10 in the Olympics and that she had scored a 9.5 the day after drinking a cup of bleach--just to prove her superiority. The first is true (1976), but I could find no reference whatsoever to the second story. She did cut her hand on a bar, get a blood infection, leave the hospital against doctors' orders and score a 9.95, so maybe that story just morphed. A lot.
True, I told him, and Crazy Carl gleefully told me I was wrong. He tried to go on but I pressed him, telling him the Bible most certainly said that in both Exodus and Deuteronomy. No, he told me, that's a common misconception. The Bible really only says "do not commit murder." I told him it all comes down to how you choose to translate ratsach (רָצַ×—). That shut him up.
Actually, it really, really didn't. He challenged me to a quick game of "Is it in the Bible" (which he failed at--see below). He asked about a couple of sayings I can't remember, which were easy nos, along with "money is the root of all evil" ("the love of money is the root of all evil," 1 Timothy 6:10).
He then launched into a lesson on lust. "The Bible says something about your neighbor's wife," he said, and I supplied him with the word "covet." "Covet, that's it," he said. "It doesn't say don't lust after her."
Actually, I told him, Jesus says in the Sermon on the Mount that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully commits adultery in his heart. I think he did a complete one-eighty on what he was going to say, because he started talking about how useful that is, because obsession is self-defeating. Then he said he would definitely sleep with Catherine Zeta Jones, but she's married to Michael Douglas and that man is crazy. So the Bible really gives good advice.
In the (very long) "women Crazy Carl finds sexy" portion of our conversation, Nadia Comăneci came up. I'd never heard of her, but Carl informed me she was the first gymnast to score a perfect 10 in the Olympics and that she had scored a 9.5 the day after drinking a cup of bleach--just to prove her superiority. The first is true (1976), but I could find no reference whatsoever to the second story. She did cut her hand on a bar, get a blood infection, leave the hospital against doctors' orders and score a 9.95, so maybe that story just morphed. A lot.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
naked man jesus rock cloak
If you search for the above string of words on Google, Scribble Theology is the first hit.
Hep C, tetanus, and cat scratch fever
I should say a word or two about Crazy Carl's appearance and mannerisms. He was dressed in a tattered long-sleeved shirt and the dirtiest blue jeans I have ever seen. He had blue eyes, a beard, and reddish brown hair swept up and back sort of like they do on TV (it never works for me), though he was clearly in need of a haircut. And he danced. Danced like a person with ADHD who was hopped up on caffeine and really had to pee. He'd lunge forward into my space, or sort of stumble to the side, but he was always moving. I spent most of our conversation trying to figure out what he was high on or missing, but I think in the end he was just a little bit drunk and a little bit crazy.
When I told him I was drinking a chai tea, he immediately launched into a story about a time he'd been in Santa Cruz and had hepatitis C. He hadn't gotten it from a dirty needle or anything--he'd gotten it when (perhaps high on some other drug, he joked) he'd bathed in the river while the tide was going out. Apparently while the tide is going out in Santa Cruz, they dump all sorts of septic overflow into the river, and it has the nickname "Hepatitis C River." (I should reinforce that I am not vouching for any of Crazy Carl's information.) I told Crazy Carl I would really strongly advise against bathing in any body of water that was actually called "Hepatitis C," but he said he'd had antibacterial soap and he figured he could just get himself wet and then quickly scrub himself down. But in any case, he wound up with hep C.
So he was sick, and miserable. And begging for change so he could get a clean pair of "knickers" (when I encountered him, he was looking for socks). A woman offered to buy him some food, but he told her he was sick and didn't want anything to eat. She then insisted he try drinking some chai, which she provided. And it made him feel better.
That was one of the three times Crazy Carl has been ill.
A second was when he got tetanus. He was in the middle of telling me how I could get tetanus when I cut him off and told him I'd been immunized. He told me that just meant it wouldn't kill me, and then said if he scratched me with a tack that was even slightly bent to expose the iron, that should be considered assault with a deadly weapon.
Speaking of deadly weapons, he totally had a length of pipe strapped to his backpack, next to the water bottle I'm pretty sure had alcohol in it.
His third illness was cat scratch fever. He didn't go into its symptoms ("usually benign," says Wikipedia), but he described at length exactly how the bacterium Bartonella (he did not name it) gets under a cat's nails as it scratches through feces-infested sand. He showed me how even though his nails were short, there was space underneath them where disease might flourish. Seeing that his fingernails--and fingers--were absolutely black with filth, it wasn't exactly an academic line of thought. He described how the cat becomes sick and more easily feels threatened. And how all it takes is one little scratch.
And then... he scratched me. While talking about how a scratch can pass on bacteria from under fingernails and make you sick, he reached out and scratched my arm. Twice.
I think I can point to that moment as when I really started to lose patience with Crazy Carl.
When I told him I was drinking a chai tea, he immediately launched into a story about a time he'd been in Santa Cruz and had hepatitis C. He hadn't gotten it from a dirty needle or anything--he'd gotten it when (perhaps high on some other drug, he joked) he'd bathed in the river while the tide was going out. Apparently while the tide is going out in Santa Cruz, they dump all sorts of septic overflow into the river, and it has the nickname "Hepatitis C River." (I should reinforce that I am not vouching for any of Crazy Carl's information.) I told Crazy Carl I would really strongly advise against bathing in any body of water that was actually called "Hepatitis C," but he said he'd had antibacterial soap and he figured he could just get himself wet and then quickly scrub himself down. But in any case, he wound up with hep C.
So he was sick, and miserable. And begging for change so he could get a clean pair of "knickers" (when I encountered him, he was looking for socks). A woman offered to buy him some food, but he told her he was sick and didn't want anything to eat. She then insisted he try drinking some chai, which she provided. And it made him feel better.
That was one of the three times Crazy Carl has been ill.
A second was when he got tetanus. He was in the middle of telling me how I could get tetanus when I cut him off and told him I'd been immunized. He told me that just meant it wouldn't kill me, and then said if he scratched me with a tack that was even slightly bent to expose the iron, that should be considered assault with a deadly weapon.
Speaking of deadly weapons, he totally had a length of pipe strapped to his backpack, next to the water bottle I'm pretty sure had alcohol in it.
His third illness was cat scratch fever. He didn't go into its symptoms ("usually benign," says Wikipedia), but he described at length exactly how the bacterium Bartonella (he did not name it) gets under a cat's nails as it scratches through feces-infested sand. He showed me how even though his nails were short, there was space underneath them where disease might flourish. Seeing that his fingernails--and fingers--were absolutely black with filth, it wasn't exactly an academic line of thought. He described how the cat becomes sick and more easily feels threatened. And how all it takes is one little scratch.
And then... he scratched me. While talking about how a scratch can pass on bacteria from under fingernails and make you sick, he reached out and scratched my arm. Twice.
I think I can point to that moment as when I really started to lose patience with Crazy Carl.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Jesus surrenders his cloak
(A Crazy Carl story)
There is a story in the Bible that goes like this: Jesus and his disciples were walking along when they encountered a naked man, holding a rock threateningly, as if about to throw it at Jesus. Jesus walked up to the man, removed his cloak, and draped it over the man's shoulders, so he himself was naked but the man was clothed. His nakedness taken away from him, the man stood stunned, and dropped the rock. Then one of Jesus' disciples removed his own cloak and gave it to Jesus.
There is a story in the Bible that goes like this: Jesus and his disciples were walking along when they encountered a naked man, holding a rock threateningly, as if about to throw it at Jesus. Jesus walked up to the man, removed his cloak, and draped it over the man's shoulders, so he himself was naked but the man was clothed. His nakedness taken away from him, the man stood stunned, and dropped the rock. Then one of Jesus' disciples removed his own cloak and gave it to Jesus.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Crazy Carl
Does being homeless make people crazy, or does being crazy make people homeless?
I'm sure the answer is "both."
As I watch people brush by the homeless on the streets, fiercely avoiding eye contact, pretending they can't hear them clearly talking to them, it occurs to me that it must be an incredibly dehumanizing experience. Having almost everyone you encounter pretend they can't see you. I start to feel a little crazy if someone ignores (or doesn't hear) me once; how bad must it get after days? Weeks?
Years?
Today I met Crazy Carl. His name is probably not Carl. I did not ask his name, because I thought that could lead to a handshake, and frankly I didn't want to touch his hand. And graded on the homeless curve, he was actually pretty sane. Possibly just a little drunk.
He asked if I would give him a few pennies if he could tell a joke that made me laugh. I told him he was on, he told me a joke, I chuckled and gave him some change. I probably should have walked away at that point, but instead I started chatting about how if I hadn't bought the chai I was carrying, I wouldn't have any change. That started an hour-plus conversation that was very, very hard to get out of.
I suspect that as a result of being ignored all the time, a lot of homeless people seem really chatty once you start talking to them. At first this was cool, but I wasn't looking for a conversation that lasted as long as an episode of Star Trek. The thing is, I couldn't get out, because I always want to find a decent break in the conversation--and he didn't leave any. He'd be talking about immune systems, say "but like I was saying," and then launch into something he hadn't been saying. About religion.
Still, there was much of intrigue, which I will turn into a series of blog posts. Not one long blog post, because studies show that on the internet people tend not to read long things.
I'm sure the answer is "both."
As I watch people brush by the homeless on the streets, fiercely avoiding eye contact, pretending they can't hear them clearly talking to them, it occurs to me that it must be an incredibly dehumanizing experience. Having almost everyone you encounter pretend they can't see you. I start to feel a little crazy if someone ignores (or doesn't hear) me once; how bad must it get after days? Weeks?
Years?
Today I met Crazy Carl. His name is probably not Carl. I did not ask his name, because I thought that could lead to a handshake, and frankly I didn't want to touch his hand. And graded on the homeless curve, he was actually pretty sane. Possibly just a little drunk.
He asked if I would give him a few pennies if he could tell a joke that made me laugh. I told him he was on, he told me a joke, I chuckled and gave him some change. I probably should have walked away at that point, but instead I started chatting about how if I hadn't bought the chai I was carrying, I wouldn't have any change. That started an hour-plus conversation that was very, very hard to get out of.
I suspect that as a result of being ignored all the time, a lot of homeless people seem really chatty once you start talking to them. At first this was cool, but I wasn't looking for a conversation that lasted as long as an episode of Star Trek. The thing is, I couldn't get out, because I always want to find a decent break in the conversation--and he didn't leave any. He'd be talking about immune systems, say "but like I was saying," and then launch into something he hadn't been saying. About religion.
Still, there was much of intrigue, which I will turn into a series of blog posts. Not one long blog post, because studies show that on the internet people tend not to read long things.
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
Because I can
Based on an entry from my journal, dated June 20. Censored, of course, and greatly expanded (because I can type more before losing interest than I can write).
I think there exists in the human condition--or at least in my condition--a longing for something like a heroin addiction. A severe mental illness. An abusive parent. Something to unify the events of life, to give them a theme. Something to blame for all the unhappiness.
I have a guardedness to me that perceptive people notice very quickly. Maybe not perceptive people. Unfiltered extroverts--the sort of people who fling very personal things at me. They notice that these things hit a wall. A more substantial wall, it seems, than the one everyone has.
An online aura test (ha!) said I have a "red overlay," a sort of psychic shield that is developed in response to childhood trauma. To my knowledge, I have no such trauma, but I want to believe that I do. So I wonder if I have repressed memories.
I do have one potentially traumatic memory. I was on a floatation device on the lake where some family friends have a house, out deeper than I could touch with my dad and some other adults. This when I was very young, and unable to swim. At some point I rolled over and fell off my raft, and I have a sharp memory of the black of being underwater. The next thing I remember is being back on the couch in the lake house, and I have a vague sense that my dad rescued me from the water.
Holy crap, right? Except for one thing: neither of my parents has any memory of this event. This rules out any dramatic rescue or loss of consciousness, because that wouldn't be easily forgotten; Mom does remember, quite clearly, the time I fell out of a shopping cart directly onto my head. (As smart as I am anyway, I can only assume that if she had not allowed me to stand up in the cart, I would have a nobel prize by now.) I can think of three possibilities, then, for what really happened.
1. It never happened, and this memory is the product of mis-remembered fragments and possibly invention.
2. I dreamed it and forgot it was a dream.
3. The event in question did happen, but I was only in the water for a split second before Dad snatched me out. I don't remember the next few minutes because it was forever ago, and my parents don't remember the event at all because there was never enough danger for it to make a lasting impression. To little land-lubber me, though, it was genuinely traumatic.
I'll likely never know. Interesting how memory works... or how it doesn't.
Mom says I used to suffer from night terrors; that I would be sitting in bed screaming and she couldn't wake me up. I have no memory of this, but I do remember some terrifying dreams. In one, a highly dramatic twist on a real event, a bull had gotten loose and made its way into a small room, where I was stuck with it.
I also had a recurring dream with variations of the following: My parents would be having a party with twenty or more adult friends, all milling around in the dimly lit first floor of our Third Street house. I would be sent upstairs to bed, but in the upstairs hallway I would encounter a large crocodile. This crocodile had an extremely long tongue (I always remember it as a "twenty foot tongue," though I don't recall ever measuring), which could snake about with great dexterity and would instantly kill anyone it touched. This was just knowledge I had; I always woke before the dreaded tongue came out. Until one night--and I think this only happened once--when the crocodile broke the rules of the dream and appeared downstairs, where it shot its tongue out and killed several people before hitting me. I fell, feeling myself die, and then woke up.
Every night of my childhood I went to bed terrified that I would have this dream. During my bedtime prayers I begged God to give me no dreams, so afraid was I of nightmares. I worried that if I prayed for "good dreams," God might send me dreams that had scary moments but resolved happily, and I knew that the scary moments would nonetheless leave me lying in bed, afraid to close my eyes, unable to go to sleep until I had woken my mom (knowing she was awake made me feel safe enough to fall asleep). And that I would remember those scary moments just when bedtime came around the following night.
I sometimes wonder if such fervent determination not to dream is to blame for the rarity of remembered dreams today.
Perhaps I have my trauma, after all.
I think there exists in the human condition--or at least in my condition--a longing for something like a heroin addiction. A severe mental illness. An abusive parent. Something to unify the events of life, to give them a theme. Something to blame for all the unhappiness.
I have a guardedness to me that perceptive people notice very quickly. Maybe not perceptive people. Unfiltered extroverts--the sort of people who fling very personal things at me. They notice that these things hit a wall. A more substantial wall, it seems, than the one everyone has.
An online aura test (ha!) said I have a "red overlay," a sort of psychic shield that is developed in response to childhood trauma. To my knowledge, I have no such trauma, but I want to believe that I do. So I wonder if I have repressed memories.
I do have one potentially traumatic memory. I was on a floatation device on the lake where some family friends have a house, out deeper than I could touch with my dad and some other adults. This when I was very young, and unable to swim. At some point I rolled over and fell off my raft, and I have a sharp memory of the black of being underwater. The next thing I remember is being back on the couch in the lake house, and I have a vague sense that my dad rescued me from the water.
Holy crap, right? Except for one thing: neither of my parents has any memory of this event. This rules out any dramatic rescue or loss of consciousness, because that wouldn't be easily forgotten; Mom does remember, quite clearly, the time I fell out of a shopping cart directly onto my head. (As smart as I am anyway, I can only assume that if she had not allowed me to stand up in the cart, I would have a nobel prize by now.) I can think of three possibilities, then, for what really happened.
1. It never happened, and this memory is the product of mis-remembered fragments and possibly invention.
2. I dreamed it and forgot it was a dream.
3. The event in question did happen, but I was only in the water for a split second before Dad snatched me out. I don't remember the next few minutes because it was forever ago, and my parents don't remember the event at all because there was never enough danger for it to make a lasting impression. To little land-lubber me, though, it was genuinely traumatic.
I'll likely never know. Interesting how memory works... or how it doesn't.
Mom says I used to suffer from night terrors; that I would be sitting in bed screaming and she couldn't wake me up. I have no memory of this, but I do remember some terrifying dreams. In one, a highly dramatic twist on a real event, a bull had gotten loose and made its way into a small room, where I was stuck with it.
I also had a recurring dream with variations of the following: My parents would be having a party with twenty or more adult friends, all milling around in the dimly lit first floor of our Third Street house. I would be sent upstairs to bed, but in the upstairs hallway I would encounter a large crocodile. This crocodile had an extremely long tongue (I always remember it as a "twenty foot tongue," though I don't recall ever measuring), which could snake about with great dexterity and would instantly kill anyone it touched. This was just knowledge I had; I always woke before the dreaded tongue came out. Until one night--and I think this only happened once--when the crocodile broke the rules of the dream and appeared downstairs, where it shot its tongue out and killed several people before hitting me. I fell, feeling myself die, and then woke up.
Every night of my childhood I went to bed terrified that I would have this dream. During my bedtime prayers I begged God to give me no dreams, so afraid was I of nightmares. I worried that if I prayed for "good dreams," God might send me dreams that had scary moments but resolved happily, and I knew that the scary moments would nonetheless leave me lying in bed, afraid to close my eyes, unable to go to sleep until I had woken my mom (knowing she was awake made me feel safe enough to fall asleep). And that I would remember those scary moments just when bedtime came around the following night.
I sometimes wonder if such fervent determination not to dream is to blame for the rarity of remembered dreams today.
Perhaps I have my trauma, after all.
Sunday, July 03, 2011
Living like literature
I'm starting to read for class--last semester's class--just because I think literary theory is something I should be better versed in than I am. Especially since Steve says in literary criticism lies the easiest road to a Ph.D.
I was reading some thoughts by Terry Eagleton on how we might define literature. He discusses how what is considered literature can change over time--we might imagine a world in which Shakespeare is no longer considered to have any literary value--and can be quite independent of the author's intent--that is, whether the author considers his or her work to be literature. Except Eagleton phrases it as whether the authors consider themselves literature. Just a little quirk in his language; I'm sure he didn't mean to shift the conversation away from the topic at hand. But the ADHD kicked in, and I started thinking about how people might be thought of as literature.
A few pages earlier, Eagleton is offering various definitions for literature. The first option he offered (and ultimately rejected) was in step with the Formalists, claiming that literature is "organized violence against language," or, as I have been putting it, "queering language." Because literature isn't how we talk or write business e-mails; it's something different. In literature, blades can be described as pale. Godric comes to mind. Literature is language that calls attention to itself; it is not the content that matters so much, but the words. The medium, not the message.
Hold on to that for a second.
There exists a bias (I could be all snooty and say "in Western society," but I think we hippie types draw that particular contrast a little too freely) towards the content of one's life. Occupation, family, income, volunteer work, musical talent, penchant for mathematics--that's all content. That's all what people do in life, and that's what we tend to see. But I think there's also a how, a way of walking and speaking and reacting that won't show up on even the most overdone résumé. I can certainly think of people who seem to have a literary grace about them quite independent of everything that goes on in their lives. It's not the content of life; it's the language in which it's lived.
Therein, I think, lies my ambition. I have always been rather ambivalent about my future plans, be they career, locale, or family, and I think it's because what I truly want is for my life to have the ring of literature. I'm quite sure I'm not there--I doubt people look at me and see that grace. I'm too impulsive and quick-tempered, and I speak too loudly. But at least I've figured out what I want.
This week.
I was reading some thoughts by Terry Eagleton on how we might define literature. He discusses how what is considered literature can change over time--we might imagine a world in which Shakespeare is no longer considered to have any literary value--and can be quite independent of the author's intent--that is, whether the author considers his or her work to be literature. Except Eagleton phrases it as whether the authors consider themselves literature. Just a little quirk in his language; I'm sure he didn't mean to shift the conversation away from the topic at hand. But the ADHD kicked in, and I started thinking about how people might be thought of as literature.
A few pages earlier, Eagleton is offering various definitions for literature. The first option he offered (and ultimately rejected) was in step with the Formalists, claiming that literature is "organized violence against language," or, as I have been putting it, "queering language." Because literature isn't how we talk or write business e-mails; it's something different. In literature, blades can be described as pale. Godric comes to mind. Literature is language that calls attention to itself; it is not the content that matters so much, but the words. The medium, not the message.
Hold on to that for a second.
There exists a bias (I could be all snooty and say "in Western society," but I think we hippie types draw that particular contrast a little too freely) towards the content of one's life. Occupation, family, income, volunteer work, musical talent, penchant for mathematics--that's all content. That's all what people do in life, and that's what we tend to see. But I think there's also a how, a way of walking and speaking and reacting that won't show up on even the most overdone résumé. I can certainly think of people who seem to have a literary grace about them quite independent of everything that goes on in their lives. It's not the content of life; it's the language in which it's lived.
Therein, I think, lies my ambition. I have always been rather ambivalent about my future plans, be they career, locale, or family, and I think it's because what I truly want is for my life to have the ring of literature. I'm quite sure I'm not there--I doubt people look at me and see that grace. I'm too impulsive and quick-tempered, and I speak too loudly. But at least I've figured out what I want.
This week.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
So pretty
I don't sign my credit cards. Instead, I write "See photo ID," hoping that cashiers will card me, or, more pointedly, the jerk who stole my credit card. They don't. They take my card, flip it over, read "See photo ID," and proceed to swipe the card.
So when I got a new card, I got more explicit. "INVALID without photo ID," I wrote. The process has not changed. Exactly one person in the last year has carded me because of the strongly-worded statement. I have considered disputing every charge for which I'm not carded, since technically I indicated that I don't consent to the charge. But I doubt my credit union would be highly amused, and I would love to keep the 9% APR card I carry. (Not that the rate matters, since I've never carried a balance.)
The other thing I do is refuse to sign my name. Here's what I usually do on the signature line:
So when I got a new card, I got more explicit. "INVALID without photo ID," I wrote. The process has not changed. Exactly one person in the last year has carded me because of the strongly-worded statement. I have considered disputing every charge for which I'm not carded, since technically I indicated that I don't consent to the charge. But I doubt my credit union would be highly amused, and I would love to keep the 9% APR card I carry. (Not that the rate matters, since I've never carried a balance.)
The other thing I do is refuse to sign my name. Here's what I usually do on the signature line:
Most people think that's my thing. But, as with so many of "my" (or, I bet, "your") things, it's actually carried over from a non-mutual acquaintance. This habit I picked up from Jason Shenk when I was 18. We walked from campus to Marsh (or was it "Low Bill's" or whatever back then?) for some snacks, and that's how he signed.
So I often sign that way. Sometimes I draw something else. Sometimes it's random scribbles. Once I just drew an opaque rectangle. Sometimes I write "No way!" I get bolder, too, when it's one of those electronic key things. I do it because I find it annoying that there's no security with this stuff, and this is how introverted comedians express their frustration.
Today at Safeway, I did the usual. Unusually, though, the cashier looked at the receipt after it printed out. Squinted carefully at it. And then called me by name (my last name) as he wished me a good day.
Still no reaction to the drawings.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Scribble Theology apparel
Two designs are available over at the Red & Shoulders store. With one, you can claim to be a theologian (you know, because you talk about God). With the other, you can identify yourself as a theologologian, or one who studies theology.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
What if *that* were up?
When I was little, I used to make my dad dangle me upside-down and carry me around the house. It was one of my favorite things because when he did that, I didn't have the experience of being upside-down. I simply had the experience of the ceiling being "down." I imagined I was walking on the ceiling, navigating around light fixtures, stepping over the inexplicable foot-high walls that separated every room.
For years, I have sat--in calculus class, in dining rooms, on busses--and tried to imagine what would happen if gravity suddenly changed directions. I'd imagine everything falling to the new down, try to estimate how badly I might be injured in the fall, look for handholds to grab on to, and plan how I might venture in the new sideways world. Because it would be like adventuring in a new world, wouldn't it? You probably wouldn't be able to leave the building you were in when it happened; at least, not without a ladder, which could help get to the neighbor's house. A house across the street would now be on the other side of a deep chasm. Billions would be dead or dying. Do you ever make plans for the zombie apocalypse? Yeah, me too. But I also make plans for the gravity shift apocalypse.
Think about it. Think about all the places you can walk now that would be utterly inaccessible in the sideways world.
Upside-down would be even worse, of course. Particularly if you were outside. Sometimes I lie in the grass and look up at the sky, and I make the sky "down." I am stuck to this grass ceiling, perhaps by some upside-down-world static electricity, dangling over an endless fall. Could I grab that telephone line on the way? Would it support my sudden weight? Would there be any survival strategy if I wound up clinging to a power line? What does "grounded" mean now?
Attempts to survive a straight-up gravity reversal from outside would be futile, so I normally don't bother. I just cling to the ceiling and look down at the sky, and enjoy the feeling.
Usually I assume other people think more or less like I do, but I've yet to meet anyone who shared these considerations.
For years, I have sat--in calculus class, in dining rooms, on busses--and tried to imagine what would happen if gravity suddenly changed directions. I'd imagine everything falling to the new down, try to estimate how badly I might be injured in the fall, look for handholds to grab on to, and plan how I might venture in the new sideways world. Because it would be like adventuring in a new world, wouldn't it? You probably wouldn't be able to leave the building you were in when it happened; at least, not without a ladder, which could help get to the neighbor's house. A house across the street would now be on the other side of a deep chasm. Billions would be dead or dying. Do you ever make plans for the zombie apocalypse? Yeah, me too. But I also make plans for the gravity shift apocalypse.
Think about it. Think about all the places you can walk now that would be utterly inaccessible in the sideways world.
Upside-down would be even worse, of course. Particularly if you were outside. Sometimes I lie in the grass and look up at the sky, and I make the sky "down." I am stuck to this grass ceiling, perhaps by some upside-down-world static electricity, dangling over an endless fall. Could I grab that telephone line on the way? Would it support my sudden weight? Would there be any survival strategy if I wound up clinging to a power line? What does "grounded" mean now?
Attempts to survive a straight-up gravity reversal from outside would be futile, so I normally don't bother. I just cling to the ceiling and look down at the sky, and enjoy the feeling.
Usually I assume other people think more or less like I do, but I've yet to meet anyone who shared these considerations.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Time zones
The trouble with living in California is that by the time I realize, "Hmm, I'm not doing so well right now," everyone I know is asleep.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Big brother
Just wanted to call your attention to this.
I'm pretty uncomfortable with the idea that a venue I'm in could potentially disable the recording function on my phone (it's enough to make you wish Cisco hadn't killed the flip). And not just because I want to go record concerts. Seriously? That's your concern? How much revenue are you losing to shaky low-quality YouTube videos of an artist singing inaudible lyrics?
The more insidious use would be the installation of "no recording" signals on, say, police vehicles.
I'm pretty uncomfortable with the idea that a venue I'm in could potentially disable the recording function on my phone (it's enough to make you wish Cisco hadn't killed the flip). And not just because I want to go record concerts. Seriously? That's your concern? How much revenue are you losing to shaky low-quality YouTube videos of an artist singing inaudible lyrics?
The more insidious use would be the installation of "no recording" signals on, say, police vehicles.
Thursday, June 02, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
This is how *I* cook
Working at a college the day after graduation can be a lucrative business. The pre-graduation takings are so-so, because pre-graduation is when all the people move out according to plan. What they want, they keep, and what they don't, they arrange to get rid of well in advance.
After graduation, though, you get the stuff people intended to keep but ended up not having room for. Books, paintings, art supplies, nerf guns, pottery, a cutting board, a stein, even a fully working external DVD-RW drive made it into my possession recently. But tonight the find I'm most proud of is a lantern.
After graduation, though, you get the stuff people intended to keep but ended up not having room for. Books, paintings, art supplies, nerf guns, pottery, a cutting board, a stein, even a fully working external DVD-RW drive made it into my possession recently. But tonight the find I'm most proud of is a lantern.
This lantern.
I found it dumped in a (stolen) shopping cart outside the (locked) building that contained the "free stuff" box. A cool looking piece of camping equipment, with one issue.
It's broken.
The lantern is missing whatever control device (knob, switch) used to turn it on. But I figured with my extensive knowledge of electricity (I took AP physics in the eleventh grade), surely I could rehabilitate the device.
I did the obvious: I stripped away the insulation and connected those two wires.
Like this.
But, nothing happened. But that didn't necessarily mean my strategy was flawed; perhaps the issue was elsewhere. Dead batteries, perhaps? So I unscrewed the bottom to look at what I was dealing with.
D cell. Nuts.
I don't have any D batteries on hand, and I didn't feel like a trip to the store at night, right before a road trip, just to finish a project that was distracting me from the more pressing issue of "get things clean before the road trip." But all was not lost, because this lantern has an alternate power source:
DC-in!
Of course, I didn't scavenge the thing with an AC/DC adapter, but having examined all of the ones I have earlier today in an unrelated project, I knew that most of the ones of that size have 12V outputs. Since I didn't pay anything for the lantern, I decided to risk it, and plugged in the power source for one of my external hard drives.
Victory!
So if I securely fasten the wires together, I can turn the lantern on and off by installing and removing charged batteries.
Next step: wire in a switch, and it will be good as new.
Nico: 1.
Throw-away culture: 0.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Exchanges with a scam artist, part nine
From: Nico
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Very well. I don't have a fax number, but the rest of my contact information is:
935 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, D.C. 20535
United States
+1 202 324 3000
Please reciprocate with more information to confirm your identity.
(The address and phone number I gave him are for FBI Headquarters. This might be the end of our fun with Elton Lee.)
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Very well. I don't have a fax number, but the rest of my contact information is:
935 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, D.C. 20535
United States
+1 202 324 3000
Please reciprocate with more information to confirm your identity.
(The address and phone number I gave him are for FBI Headquarters. This might be the end of our fun with Elton Lee.)
Exchanges with a scam artist, part eight
From: Elton Lee
To: Nico
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Dear Nico,
Thanks for your timely response, i got your email alert on my phone and had to wake to my computer room to reply you. You can trust in me and i promise you will never regret your involvement in this transaction. I will not want to see you in person till I can at least build some trust as to whom really I am dealing with.
It might interest you to know that I can get into a very big trouble of you decide to turn your back against me, so I have to be really very careful. Please send your details as requested and after I deem you fit to be a trusted partner, I will further proof myself to you and arrange on how we can meet. Its 2:18 am here in Hong Kong, i have to go back to bed because of work in the morning.
Fridays are always very busy for us. Will reply you before i leave for work in the morning or during any of my coffee break at work. Let me have requested details if you are really interested and I reassure you will never regret this.
Have a blessed day.
Elton.
To: Nico
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Dear Nico,
Thanks for your timely response, i got your email alert on my phone and had to wake to my computer room to reply you. You can trust in me and i promise you will never regret your involvement in this transaction. I will not want to see you in person till I can at least build some trust as to whom really I am dealing with.
It might interest you to know that I can get into a very big trouble of you decide to turn your back against me, so I have to be really very careful. Please send your details as requested and after I deem you fit to be a trusted partner, I will further proof myself to you and arrange on how we can meet. Its 2:18 am here in Hong Kong, i have to go back to bed because of work in the morning.
Fridays are always very busy for us. Will reply you before i leave for work in the morning or during any of my coffee break at work. Let me have requested details if you are really interested and I reassure you will never regret this.
Have a blessed day.
Elton.
Exchanges with a scam artist, part seven (are you still there?)
From: Nico
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
----
From: Elton Lee
To: Nico
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Yes I am and if you are ready to execute this transaction with me, kindly get back to me with the requested details.
Regards, Elton Lee
----
From: Nico
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Would it be more convenient for you if I came to Hong King? Given the amount of money involved, I could probably arrange it.
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Mr. Lee, are you still wanting to do this transaction?
----
From: Elton Lee
To: Nico
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Yes I am and if you are ready to execute this transaction with me, kindly get back to me with the requested details.
Regards, Elton Lee
----
From: Nico
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Would it be more convenient for you if I came to Hong King? Given the amount of money involved, I could probably arrange it.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Exchanges with a scam artist, part six
From: Nico
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response
Mr. Lee,
You have neglected to answer the concerns I expressed in my previous message, such as your obvious use of a pseudonym instead of your real name and my request that you provide more specific contact information. Obviously this is a trust game, and since you were the one brazen enough to contact me, I think it's more appropriate you give me your contact information before I give you mine.
I don't think it is clearly a "must" that we share these funds 50/50. You contacted me; you asked for my help. I want at least a 60 percent share of the net amount, after costs incurred. If this is a game of chicken, understand that I fully intend to win: I led a happy life before you contacted me, and I'm content to return to that life if you are not willing to grant me a more generous share. Besides, you indicated that there is an industry standard in transactions like this, which suggests that they are not uncommon. Which means you will have other opportunities and thus don't need as big a chunk of the money.
Please let me know if you are willing to negotiate seriously and address my concerns.
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response
Mr. Lee,
You have neglected to answer the concerns I expressed in my previous message, such as your obvious use of a pseudonym instead of your real name and my request that you provide more specific contact information. Obviously this is a trust game, and since you were the one brazen enough to contact me, I think it's more appropriate you give me your contact information before I give you mine.
I don't think it is clearly a "must" that we share these funds 50/50. You contacted me; you asked for my help. I want at least a 60 percent share of the net amount, after costs incurred. If this is a game of chicken, understand that I fully intend to win: I led a happy life before you contacted me, and I'm content to return to that life if you are not willing to grant me a more generous share. Besides, you indicated that there is an industry standard in transactions like this, which suggests that they are not uncommon. Which means you will have other opportunities and thus don't need as big a chunk of the money.
Please let me know if you are willing to negotiate seriously and address my concerns.
Exchanges with a scam artist, part five
From: Elton Lee
To: Nico
Subject: Hello Nico (Your Response)
To: Nico
Subject: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Dear Nico,
Thank you very much for your email and explainations, actually I have confidence in your capabilities to handle this transaction appropriately, this I would say is an advantage to both of us, honestly speaking I have no cause to doubt your intergrity,however I believe that our individual virtues would be confirmed as we move along with this business. You should also have trust in me as I will have in you otherwise what will be the point going further if we cannot establish some trust for each other. You being part of this transaction would only be at your free will I cannot impose this on you, it is your choice to accept or disagree with the principles and of this business or even with the transaction as a whole.I would indeed be overwhelmed meeting you in person, perhaps there are lots of other transactions we could have together apart from this, I have being in the fanancial sector for many years though I try as much as possible to diversify my interests by exploring new frontiers.
I want to know if you are willing to follow up this business seriously before I can give you more details about this transaction; however I shall be waiting for your response and assurance along with your full names and private contacts (ADDRESS, PHONE & FAX) just as they will appear on the documents to process the claims.Please do not betray my confidence. If we can be of one accord, we should act swiftly on this. Please get back to me immediately via this my private email.
Note: It is a must we share 50/50 because we are both going to put aside 5% of the total sum aside for cost incurred during the course of the transaction, i should be the one telling you not to be greed because i brought upthis business deal and i work directly with the bank invloved. So please follow my directives religously and stop making issuses out of nothing at this early stage.
Regards,
Elton Lee.
Exchanges with a scam artist, part four
From: Nico
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Mr. Lee,
On the subject of trustworthiness, you clearly have my name and I do not have yours. I say this with some confidence as I believe someone with as English a name as "Elton Lee" would likely have a better command of the language. Please be straightforward with me if you expect me to participate in this transaction.
Your letter did not adequately address my previous concern, which is that I want more than half the money. I don't care what is "always done" in banking circles; you stand to make millions of dollars either way, so don't pass up this opportunity out of greed.
Maybe as a sign that you're committed to this, you should give me your contact details first? I imagine you don't want me calling you at your HSBC office.
I await your reply. This is clearly a lucrative opportunity for both of us.
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Mr. Lee,
On the subject of trustworthiness, you clearly have my name and I do not have yours. I say this with some confidence as I believe someone with as English a name as "Elton Lee" would likely have a better command of the language. Please be straightforward with me if you expect me to participate in this transaction.
Your letter did not adequately address my previous concern, which is that I want more than half the money. I don't care what is "always done" in banking circles; you stand to make millions of dollars either way, so don't pass up this opportunity out of greed.
Maybe as a sign that you're committed to this, you should give me your contact details first? I imagine you don't want me calling you at your HSBC office.
I await your reply. This is clearly a lucrative opportunity for both of us.
Exchanges with a scam artist, part three (HE takes the bait)
From: Elton Lee
To: Nico
Subject: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Hello Nico,
Thank you so much for your response to my proposal. However, your interest to assist me was rather unspecific as a result of which I am quite skeptical in believing that you could be of assistance to me, therefore I would like to be sure of your willingness, trustworthiness and commitment to execute this transaction with me, I cannot afford to compromise these virtues considering the money involved, it is necessary for me to be sure of the person to whom I will be entrusting this transaction, my trust is not given out lightly. In 2003, Alfred (a businessman) who was our Client, made a fixed deposit of Twenty four million Five Hundred Thousand United State Dollars only in my branch, a number of notices were sent to him when it was due, but no response came from him till date. We later found out that Alfred along with his family had been killed in a bomb blast that hit their home, what bothers me most is according to the laws of my country at the expiration of 8 years the funds will revert to the Hong Kong Government if nobody comes for the funds, Against this scenery, I have all the information needed to claim these funds.
What I expect from you is trust and commitment, I want this large sum of money transferred with your assistance and you should have nothing to worry about regarding legality AT ALL. All that is required is your honest co-operation and I guarantee that this will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect me and you from any breach of the law. Like I proposed; that since I have exclusive access to his file, you will be made the beneficiary of these funds. You do not have to have known him. I know this might be a bit heavy for you but please trust me on this. For all your troubles I propose that we split the money in half. In the banking circle this happens every time. Please accept my apologies, keep my confidence and disregard this email if you do not appreciate this proposal I have offered you. All confirmable documents to back up this fund shall be made available to you, as we move on; I shall let you know what is required of you. Your earliest response to this letter will be appreciated. I want to know if you are willing to follow up this business seriously before I can give you more details about this transaction; however I shall be waiting for your response and assurance along with your full names and private contacts (ADDRESS, PHONE & FAX) just as they will appear on the documents to process the claims.
Please do not betray my confidence. If we can be of one accord, we should act swiftly on this. Please get back to me immediately via this my private email.
Regards,
Elton Lee.
To: Nico
Subject: Hello Nico (Your Response)
Hello Nico,
Thank you so much for your response to my proposal. However, your interest to assist me was rather unspecific as a result of which I am quite skeptical in believing that you could be of assistance to me, therefore I would like to be sure of your willingness, trustworthiness and commitment to execute this transaction with me, I cannot afford to compromise these virtues considering the money involved, it is necessary for me to be sure of the person to whom I will be entrusting this transaction, my trust is not given out lightly. In 2003, Alfred (a businessman) who was our Client, made a fixed deposit of Twenty four million Five Hundred Thousand United State Dollars only in my branch, a number of notices were sent to him when it was due, but no response came from him till date. We later found out that Alfred along with his family had been killed in a bomb blast that hit their home, what bothers me most is according to the laws of my country at the expiration of 8 years the funds will revert to the Hong Kong Government if nobody comes for the funds, Against this scenery, I have all the information needed to claim these funds.
What I expect from you is trust and commitment, I want this large sum of money transferred with your assistance and you should have nothing to worry about regarding legality AT ALL. All that is required is your honest co-operation and I guarantee that this will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect me and you from any breach of the law. Like I proposed; that since I have exclusive access to his file, you will be made the beneficiary of these funds. You do not have to have known him. I know this might be a bit heavy for you but please trust me on this. For all your troubles I propose that we split the money in half. In the banking circle this happens every time. Please accept my apologies, keep my confidence and disregard this email if you do not appreciate this proposal I have offered you. All confirmable documents to back up this fund shall be made available to you, as we move on; I shall let you know what is required of you. Your earliest response to this letter will be appreciated. I want to know if you are willing to follow up this business seriously before I can give you more details about this transaction; however I shall be waiting for your response and assurance along with your full names and private contacts (ADDRESS, PHONE & FAX) just as they will appear on the documents to process the claims.
Please do not betray my confidence. If we can be of one accord, we should act swiftly on this. Please get back to me immediately via this my private email.
Regards,
Elton Lee.
Exchanges with a scam artist, part two (I take the bait)
From: Nico
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Proposal)
Mr. Lee,
If I am to be next of kin I expect a much greater share than 50%.
To: Elton Lee
Subject: Re: Hello Nico (Proposal)
Mr. Lee,
If I am to be next of kin I expect a much greater share than 50%.
Exchanges with a scam artist, part one
I received (another) e-mail the other day from one "Elton Lee," a banker who informed me that a potential relative of mine had passed away with no heir to claim his $24 million account. Since I get really mad at people who try to steal from me, I decided to waste his time. This and the following posts will catalogue our exchanges.
------
From: Elton Lee
To: Nico
Subject: Hello Nico (Proposal)
------
From: Elton Lee
To: Nico
Subject: Hello Nico (Proposal)
Dear Nico,
I am Elton Lee, Head of Trade & Supply chain HSBC, Asia. A transfer of $24.5 million was deposited by our Late customers who died without declaring any next of kin before his death in 2003. My suggestion to you is to stand as the next of kin to Alfred, since you bear the same surname. We shall share in the ratio of 50% for me, 50% for you.
Elton Lee.
I am Elton Lee, Head of Trade & Supply chain HSBC, Asia. A transfer of $24.5 million was deposited by our Late customers who died without declaring any next of kin before his death in 2003. My suggestion to you is to stand as the next of kin to Alfred, since you bear the same surname. We shall share in the ratio of 50% for me, 50% for you.
Elton Lee.
Monday, May 09, 2011
No title here
Gray light like an afternoon storm, but it's morning light. My day is shot.
I read a poem that made me think of you.
How I've known you for longer than almost anyone.
How I don't know you at all.
How I can be with you and still feel
lonely.
Cityrise
The birdrise, she once called it.
I hear them regularly, cheerful warbles as I stumble up to my apartment after work,
them starting the day as I'm ending mine.
The sky will soon go from black to a deep, rich blue.
But there are other rises in the city. Here the sound of the morning
is a diesel engine idling as the sanitation workers join the birds
starting the day together.
A gentle roar rising in the distance as more cars take to the road.
Soon the sun will slip between the cracks in my blinds,
and I'll sleep the day away.
It's almost romantic.
I hear them regularly, cheerful warbles as I stumble up to my apartment after work,
them starting the day as I'm ending mine.
The sky will soon go from black to a deep, rich blue.
But there are other rises in the city. Here the sound of the morning
is a diesel engine idling as the sanitation workers join the birds
starting the day together.
A gentle roar rising in the distance as more cars take to the road.
Soon the sun will slip between the cracks in my blinds,
and I'll sleep the day away.
It's almost romantic.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Wasted potential, documented
I'm doing a "deep clean," which is something I do that appeases my need for micro-level organization without tackling the utter mess that is my floor. While re-sorting my stupidly large amount of paperwork from one filing cabinet to two, I came across a "College Student Inventory" that was done on me when I was 18. The "Motivational Assessment" part of the inventory is made up of 17 percentile scores across five categories. I scored as follows:
Academic Motivations
Study Habits: 3
Intellectual Interests: 91
Academic Confidence: 85
Desire to Finish College: 64
Attitude Towards Educators: 78
Social Motivation
Self-Reliance: 43
Sociability: 29
Leadership: 67
General Coping
Ease of Transition: 23
Family Emotional Support: 47
Openness: 94
Career Planning: 7
Sence of Financial Security: 80
Receptivity to Support Services
Academic Assistance: 5
Personal Counseling: 48
Social Enrichment: 23
Career Counseling: 19
It also notes that my internal validity is "excellent."
A couple of things stand out (you should see it with bar graphs)... like the ninety-first percentile "Intellectual Interests" versus the third percentile in "Study Habits." That means ninety-one percent of people are less academically interested than I am, but ninety-seven percent of people have better study habits than me. With my 64th percentile desire to finish college and fifth percentile receptivity to academic assistance, this reads like the classic inventory of a college dropout-to-be. I'm starting to understand why the therapist that diagnosed me with ADHD two years ago was so surprised I graduated.
I suppose it's a good thing I didn't drop out, given my seventh percentile rating in career planning: I'd never have found a job.
It also reminds me that my high school senior year GPA was a C+ average, which is sad, and puts me in the "1201-1400" range on my SAT score, which is incorrect: I scored a 1510 (old scale), which makes the C+ even sadder.
I'm glad I'm now at a school that doesn't give grades!
Academic Motivations
Study Habits: 3
Intellectual Interests: 91
Academic Confidence: 85
Desire to Finish College: 64
Attitude Towards Educators: 78
Social Motivation
Self-Reliance: 43
Sociability: 29
Leadership: 67
General Coping
Ease of Transition: 23
Family Emotional Support: 47
Openness: 94
Career Planning: 7
Sence of Financial Security: 80
Receptivity to Support Services
Academic Assistance: 5
Personal Counseling: 48
Social Enrichment: 23
Career Counseling: 19
It also notes that my internal validity is "excellent."
A couple of things stand out (you should see it with bar graphs)... like the ninety-first percentile "Intellectual Interests" versus the third percentile in "Study Habits." That means ninety-one percent of people are less academically interested than I am, but ninety-seven percent of people have better study habits than me. With my 64th percentile desire to finish college and fifth percentile receptivity to academic assistance, this reads like the classic inventory of a college dropout-to-be. I'm starting to understand why the therapist that diagnosed me with ADHD two years ago was so surprised I graduated.
I suppose it's a good thing I didn't drop out, given my seventh percentile rating in career planning: I'd never have found a job.
It also reminds me that my high school senior year GPA was a C+ average, which is sad, and puts me in the "1201-1400" range on my SAT score, which is incorrect: I scored a 1510 (old scale), which makes the C+ even sadder.
I'm glad I'm now at a school that doesn't give grades!
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Spring breeze and mental health
I'm not writing about spring breezes. I'm enjoying one right now, on my back porch, but I'm not sharing it with you. Sorry.
I skipped class today. Totally glad I did, but maybe I shouldn't have, because I was on track to have my first semester of perfect attendance, like, ever.
I skipped class today. Totally glad I did, but maybe I shouldn't have, because I was on track to have my first semester of perfect attendance, like, ever.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Whore
I'm preaching on Rahab tomorrow, to fulfill sermon requirements of (1) preaching from the First Testament and (2) preaching on a female character. I figure since I'm well on my way to reading every single ATLA article that uses Joshua as a text, and since I just did a paper on Rahab, I'd go ahead and stick to what's easy.
I stumbled across this while reading commentaries: "Rahab appears to have been an innkeeper; and if she had formerly been one of bad life, which is doubtful, she had left her evil courses."
See, Rahab was a prostitute. Don't believe me? How about the Bible? Rahab is called a prostitute five times (Joshua 2:1, 6:17, and 6:25; Hebrews 11:31; and James 2:25). People like the guy quoted above are quick to argue that in ancient Hebrew, "prostitute" and "innkeeper" are the same word. However, the words are different in Greek (porne and pandoceus), which is what the authors of Hebrews and James were using. Plus there is absolutely zero reason to think the Hebrew text is talking about an innkeeper.
What cracks me up is how some commentators/preachers bend over backwards to claim she wasn't a prostitute, as if a prostitute couldn't do something good, and definitely is not worthy of mention in the Bible. You know, alongside the Son of God who was born out in the barn with a bunch of animals. OK kids, I think if you're trying to cover up a convert's sin, you're missing the point.
To be fair, most preachers do say Rahab was a prostitute. In fact, they love saying it. That she was, was a prostitute, until she came to Jesus. Yes, seriously. I just read a sermon that said Rahab came to Jesus. These sermons are all about how Rahab had faith, which is (to be generous) a gross anachronistic application of modern concepts of monotheistic faith within the lens of the Christian religion to an ancient henotheistic pre-Christian context where there was really no such thing as faith, because religious conviction was just an extension of society. One's god was fact, not a proposition to be believed.
But here's the best part: they all say Rahab went from prostitute to woman of faith, from harlot to heroine. That she quit being a prostitute.
I suppose it is possible that the (fictional) character stopped being a prostitute, but we have no reason to assume that. Know why? Because the Bible doesn't say that. The whole question is totally irrelevant to the story, which really doesn't portray her as a sinner at all. Just mentions (five times) that she was a prostitute.
No judgment here.
I stumbled across this while reading commentaries: "Rahab appears to have been an innkeeper; and if she had formerly been one of bad life, which is doubtful, she had left her evil courses."
See, Rahab was a prostitute. Don't believe me? How about the Bible? Rahab is called a prostitute five times (Joshua 2:1, 6:17, and 6:25; Hebrews 11:31; and James 2:25). People like the guy quoted above are quick to argue that in ancient Hebrew, "prostitute" and "innkeeper" are the same word. However, the words are different in Greek (porne and pandoceus), which is what the authors of Hebrews and James were using. Plus there is absolutely zero reason to think the Hebrew text is talking about an innkeeper.
What cracks me up is how some commentators/preachers bend over backwards to claim she wasn't a prostitute, as if a prostitute couldn't do something good, and definitely is not worthy of mention in the Bible. You know, alongside the Son of God who was born out in the barn with a bunch of animals. OK kids, I think if you're trying to cover up a convert's sin, you're missing the point.
To be fair, most preachers do say Rahab was a prostitute. In fact, they love saying it. That she was, was a prostitute, until she came to Jesus. Yes, seriously. I just read a sermon that said Rahab came to Jesus. These sermons are all about how Rahab had faith, which is (to be generous) a gross anachronistic application of modern concepts of monotheistic faith within the lens of the Christian religion to an ancient henotheistic pre-Christian context where there was really no such thing as faith, because religious conviction was just an extension of society. One's god was fact, not a proposition to be believed.
But here's the best part: they all say Rahab went from prostitute to woman of faith, from harlot to heroine. That she quit being a prostitute.
I suppose it is possible that the (fictional) character stopped being a prostitute, but we have no reason to assume that. Know why? Because the Bible doesn't say that. The whole question is totally irrelevant to the story, which really doesn't portray her as a sinner at all. Just mentions (five times) that she was a prostitute.
No judgment here.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
The housesitting underground
(Dream from last night)
I was housesitting, but getting ready to leave and go volunteer at a nearby camp for a week. A younger girl--maybe in her early to mid teens?--who may have been related to the home owners showed up, and she was going to be there alone after I left. I fed her, or tried to, and I remember this house had a set of drawers mounted on the wall that were heated, allowing them to contain already-made mac & cheese.
The house was connected to the neighboring houses via a series of underground tunnels (don't think ordinary cellars; think Dwarf mines), and for some reason I decided to leave the house that way. Luz, an older woman who goes to school with me, and one other person undertook this journey with me. At one point we came to a ladder, which was on top of a steep set of stairs, so you kind of had the option to climb either way? Anyway, I climbed the ladder, but Luz moved a set of boxes and found a much more manageable set of stairs to ascend.
I exited the tunnels in the back yard of the original house, from the foundation of a neighboring house. The girl was in the yard, and expressed sadness that I was leaving. I decided I might as well stay the week and babysit her, since it was starting to rain and my only way to get to camp was a motorcycle.
I was housesitting, but getting ready to leave and go volunteer at a nearby camp for a week. A younger girl--maybe in her early to mid teens?--who may have been related to the home owners showed up, and she was going to be there alone after I left. I fed her, or tried to, and I remember this house had a set of drawers mounted on the wall that were heated, allowing them to contain already-made mac & cheese.
The house was connected to the neighboring houses via a series of underground tunnels (don't think ordinary cellars; think Dwarf mines), and for some reason I decided to leave the house that way. Luz, an older woman who goes to school with me, and one other person undertook this journey with me. At one point we came to a ladder, which was on top of a steep set of stairs, so you kind of had the option to climb either way? Anyway, I climbed the ladder, but Luz moved a set of boxes and found a much more manageable set of stairs to ascend.
I exited the tunnels in the back yard of the original house, from the foundation of a neighboring house. The girl was in the yard, and expressed sadness that I was leaving. I decided I might as well stay the week and babysit her, since it was starting to rain and my only way to get to camp was a motorcycle.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Nico-spirituality
I am taking an online course in eco-spirituality, and doing rather poorly. Not in my coursework, but in my efforts to learn something.
Part of our continuing expectations in the course is nature journaling, and part of my final project is to be a little more in-depth about it. I've set up a blog to this end that you can check out: nicospirituality.blogspot.com
Get it? NICOspirituality. Ha.
Part of our continuing expectations in the course is nature journaling, and part of my final project is to be a little more in-depth about it. I've set up a blog to this end that you can check out: nicospirituality.blogspot.com
Get it? NICOspirituality. Ha.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Sneaky bastards
This is the sort of thing that makes me really really angry, but I have nothing I can really do about it. Except, you know, blog.
My attention was drawn to the office TV (playing FOX News) by something about "Republican governors." An ad celebrated Republican governors like Walker taking brave stands and saving their states money (you know, by union busting. Next target: suffrage?) I actually almost thought the ad was going to be against that, since it sort of let the facts speak for themselves and I sort of think revoking collective bargaining rights and vetoing high-speed rail are facts that say rather negative things. But the ad went on to say Democrats are trying to build a new bridge from Detroit to Ontario. A bridge we don't need. A bridge that will cost taxpayers too much.
What really made me curious, though, was that at the end of the ad, text appeared saying it was "Paid for by the Detroit International Bridge Co." Sounds kind of weird, right? Why is a bridge company lobbying against a bridge?
I did some research and found that the Detroit International Bridge Co. operates Ambassador Bridge, also between Detroit and Ontario, and has proposed creating a second span to handle increased international traffic.
So by "the taxpayers can't afford this" they mean "we're trying to scuttle this bridge project so ours will go through."
Holy. Crap.
My attention was drawn to the office TV (playing FOX News) by something about "Republican governors." An ad celebrated Republican governors like Walker taking brave stands and saving their states money (you know, by union busting. Next target: suffrage?) I actually almost thought the ad was going to be against that, since it sort of let the facts speak for themselves and I sort of think revoking collective bargaining rights and vetoing high-speed rail are facts that say rather negative things. But the ad went on to say Democrats are trying to build a new bridge from Detroit to Ontario. A bridge we don't need. A bridge that will cost taxpayers too much.
What really made me curious, though, was that at the end of the ad, text appeared saying it was "Paid for by the Detroit International Bridge Co." Sounds kind of weird, right? Why is a bridge company lobbying against a bridge?
I did some research and found that the Detroit International Bridge Co. operates Ambassador Bridge, also between Detroit and Ontario, and has proposed creating a second span to handle increased international traffic.
So by "the taxpayers can't afford this" they mean "we're trying to scuttle this bridge project so ours will go through."
Holy. Crap.
Monday, March 07, 2011
Thursday, March 03, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Priorities
I just found out that security no longer carries keys to the housekeeping areas because of their insistence on "controlling their inventory."
Yes. Because I have access to scientific devices worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, an observatory, radioactive materials, dangerous chemicals, a live boa constrictor, the world's most complete giant beaver skeleton, key-making equipment, police and EMS radios, expensive musical instruments, and the private residences of over a thousand people, but what I really want to do is steal some Windex.
Yes. Because I have access to scientific devices worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, an observatory, radioactive materials, dangerous chemicals, a live boa constrictor, the world's most complete giant beaver skeleton, key-making equipment, police and EMS radios, expensive musical instruments, and the private residences of over a thousand people, but what I really want to do is steal some Windex.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Insanity and Four Square
I suppose a blog with "Four Square" in the title and "young people" as a subject would be remiss not to note that for another twenty hours or so, an intrepid group of crazy people at Manchester College will be playing one long game of Four Square in order to beat the world record (29 hours). You can watch them live here. (Game will end at approximately 6:00pm EST, 2/26).
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
It's possible I'm over-committed.
My week:
9 credit hours.
32 hours of work.
5 hours of other work.
27 hours of studying, according to the 3/1 theory.
That's a 73 hour week. BEFORE my thesis work.
9 credit hours.
32 hours of work.
5 hours of other work.
27 hours of studying, according to the 3/1 theory.
That's a 73 hour week. BEFORE my thesis work.
Monday, February 21, 2011
In case you thought I was smart.
I have been having computer issues lately. Without warning my computer will start highlighting things without me pressing the mouse button down, and will respond only to right-clicks. I have restarted the computer, killed processes, torn my hair out, screamed, tried to do everything possible with only right-clicks (quite difficult)....
I just found that the difficulty was because my wireless mouse, which I have not been using, is sitting on top of my desk and occasionally gets a binder or book thrown on top of it, depressing the left mouse button. Leaving my computer unable to differentiate when another left mouse button is pressed.
I just found that the difficulty was because my wireless mouse, which I have not been using, is sitting on top of my desk and occasionally gets a binder or book thrown on top of it, depressing the left mouse button. Leaving my computer unable to differentiate when another left mouse button is pressed.
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
Lawer seeks female chess player
(Playing on chess.com)
NEW GAME (72456754) - lawerz_999 vs. nico (15 10 rated)
lawerz_999: hi
nico: hey
lawerz_999: lets start
lawerz_999: u m or f
nico: m
lawerz_999: never mind
I originally made a blog post with just that, but then there was more...
lawerz_999: hay
lawerz_999: if i win i will spanking u
nico: good to know
lawerz_999: i will spanking u very hard for these play
nico: you're aware that "spanking" tends to have a sexual connotation, yes?
nico: i just want to figure out for the readers of my blog if you're trying to threaten me or hit on me. either way it's cool.
He never replied.
I changed his screen name so he can't find my blog by searching for himself. According to his profile, he was from Egypt. I won, and was not spanked. Be careful, residents of Berkeley, California: he thinks I live there.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Cameraz
Ok seriously I don't know how you photobloggers do it. That entry I posted a while ago, with all the pictures? It took me forEVER to get it all uploaded and everything. I want to be able to snap a picture, wave my phone in the general direction of my computer, and have it appear. Until then, you'll have to deal with mostly scribbling.
Despite this I almost took a picture of my salad tonight because it was so pretty but then my phone decided "Hey, this would be a good time to reboot." Android phones are known for many wonderful things, but booting up quickly is not one of them. I hope you'll forgive me for just going ahead and eating.
Despite this I almost took a picture of my salad tonight because it was so pretty but then my phone decided "Hey, this would be a good time to reboot." Android phones are known for many wonderful things, but booting up quickly is not one of them. I hope you'll forgive me for just going ahead and eating.
Booooks.
The pattern is always the same. I sit down and crack open a book I'm to read for class--or rather, a book I was supposed to have read already. I force my way through the first fifty pages or so.
The problem is the authors always like to use those first fifty pages to redundantly tell me why the book is necessary. Their arguments are not unconvincing, but I was going to read it anyway, and by the time they're done convincing me to I'm tired of reading.
Maybe I should always start with chapter 3.
The problem is the authors always like to use those first fifty pages to redundantly tell me why the book is necessary. Their arguments are not unconvincing, but I was going to read it anyway, and by the time they're done convincing me to I'm tired of reading.
Maybe I should always start with chapter 3.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Earlham hero
I'm not real big on the whole asking for prayer thing, but, y'know, keep my co-worker Charlie in your thoughts. He had a bad stroke the other day and unless something unexpected happens his family will be taking him off life support on Tuesday.
A real treasure to have around.
A real treasure to have around.
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