Archive for 2002

24 Decembris 2002

Indiana Dream and the Futon of Doom

David and I Psychic Shopping Networked a twin-size futon last night. When we opened the basement door to cart it downstairs, Dream seized the opportunity to scoot down into the forbidden zone.

David hustled down after him—one of us had left the outer-basement door open, and we didn’t want him getting in there. Dream is a good sort, though; once David blocked the outer-basement door, he knew the jig was up and turned resignedly around to head back.

It was just then that I tipped the futon to let it slide down the stairs, that being the easiest method of transport.

Dream leapt to his right and galloped up the stairs, skirting one side of the immense steamroller heading for him. He arrived safely at the top and promptly dove under a table. He wouldn’t let us apologize for a good five minutes.

David suggested the appropriate title for the harrowing experience. It was such a good title that I had to use it. Dream is currently curled up on one arm of the computer table, not objecting.

23 Decembris 2002

Nothing’s lost

The library-science department got back to me—commendably quickly given the time of year, so brownie points to them.

My application is still in the pile, “on track to be reviewed in a couple of weeks.” They don’t know what the voucher was about, but they’re checking; I may have to return it, which is not a problem.

A couple of weeks. Think good thoughts, people, please.

22 Decembris 2002

Blog meetup

In town because of his kid’s college graduation, Tom Shugart and his savvy wife Jill nonetheless managed to find some time yesterday to meet the Salos and their goth-kitties.

Tom is exactly the kind of nice that one would expect upon reading his weblog. So much for writing ourselves into existence—it’s quite clear that Tom was Tom long before he was Tom. We had a very pleasant chat on everything from employee agreements to metablogging (Frank, Mike, David, your ears were burning) to (of course) Lord of the Rings.

So if you have a chance to meet Tom and Jill, this is me saying “do it!”

21 Decembris 2002

Gollum

The Gollum-design crew did an amazingly smart thing that I haven’t yet seen anyone else articulate.

Look at him. Dude is neotenous as all get-out. Huge head, huge eyes, little tiny mouth. Proportions of an anime hero, I tell you.

That is why his physical (so to speak) form is so difficult to experience as wholly repulsive, despite the nasty teeth and ugly gray-green skin.

By the way—and I wish this had been gotten right—dude’s original name is properly pronounced SMAY-a-ghol, first syllable rhymes with “day” and the “gh” is a velar fricative, like a “g” only leave your tongue there a bit longer and gargle.

I asked David about this. He shrugged. “They never asked me,” he said. I checked the list of names he read out to them on videotape, way back when. Sure enough. Little gray-green dude wasn’t on there. Oh, well. Wrong list, it turns out. David found me the real one; little gray-green dude most certainly was on there. We dunno what happened.

Author schmauthor

Much ink and many pixels are spilled on the question of how to get authors to use SGML and XML. This article is only the latest example.

Ska-rew it, say I. If you care, GET AN EDITOR.

As the man says, “Very few people are willing to change the way they work in order to make somebody else’s life easier.” I would add that very few people who write actually give much of a damn about the formal features of text, and those who do give a damn often use WYSIWYG tools to get those formal features just precisely wrong.

Editors care. That is what editors are hired for. Markup is actually a remarkable fit with the way editors’ minds work (at least, the editors I have known). I guarantee that you can teach ten editors markup in one-tenth the time it takes to teach one typical author. I guarantee it.

Authors are hopeless. Quit focusing on them. Consider yourselves lucky if your authors can type. Editors are the people you want to convert to The Markup Way.

We saw the movie

My word, The Two Towers is a brutal movie. This got a PG-13 exactly how?

Mad props to Andy Serkis and the CGI wizards. Props also to Bernard Hill and the makeup people who made this very vital and handsome man look rather more than one foot in the grave.

And if Ngila Dickson doesn’t get an Oscar this year it will simply be a travesty. Found the next dress I want after Rosie Cotton’s rockin’ party dress from Fellowship. I loved Eowyn’s plain medium-blue underdress with the olive side-laced jumper overtop. Eminently wearable, that.

And I want to live in Meduseld. Bag End is nice, but Meduseld just rules. (Yes, all right, I am a sucker for well-done horse motifs. Sit down, you Freudian in the back row there!)

20 Decembris 2002

We’re off…

… to see The Movie—

well, not quite yet; we’ll get picked up in a couple of hours for dinner first.

But we’re going to see the movie! *happy dance*

Razzafrassin’—

My hand hurts. A lot. Ow. And I can’t find the mental energy to hack today, even though I meant to. And I goofed again—Mike didn’t delink me after all.

And I got the runaround on why my grad school application fee suddenly and unexpectedly got refunded to me. Not that I’m precisely complaining about that, but I sure as heck will complain if it turns out somebody’s lost my app. Grad school says it looks okay, but I’m bloody well contacting the department too.

I need this MLS. I need this MLS. I need this MLS. Enough to go through two-plus more years of the effing useless university bureaucracy. I need this MLS. I need this MLS. I need this MLS.

19 Decembris 2002

Delisting, delinking, delovely?

A couple thoughts on the delisting fuss now fussing at a blog near you.

I don’t think it’s quite fair—even though I’ve done it—to say that nobody should ever be concerned or upset that someone who used to link to you no longer does.

Several reasons for that, which boil down to the various reasons people delink. One reason, try though we may to deny it, is frank aggression, which (as many before me have pointed out) most often manifests itself in wilful, angry public declaration and justification for the delinking. Sure, we ought not meet anger with anger—but I am hardly in any position to say it’s an unnatural reaction.

Another reason is simple offense; reading a formerly-linked-to blog causes a rise in blood pressure or other such unlovely reactions. Mike appears to have delinked me, probably for this reason. I don’t blame him. I daresay I would have done the same in his shoes. I don’t think feeling regret over it (as I do) is unreasonable, however.

Nor, obviously, do I think we should dismiss the offense we cause, much less ridicule or demean those we have (however accidentally) offended. Paying attention, apologizing when necessary (and even when not), clarifying ourselves, trying to mend our ways permanently when we recognize the hurt we cause, recognizing that hurt to begin with—that’s all part of being a decent human being. (At least for this human being.) I’ve tried to do that here, but I will certainly admit room for improvement.

It’s worth pointing out a behavior pattern I think I share with quite a few people, which may illustrate to some extent some recent blowups in the blogsphere.

Mostly I am an anger-swallower; I swallow offense, anger, and similar reactions the way a fakir swallows knives. While an angry outburst from me looks sudden and senseless, it’s a safe bet there’s been more going on behind the scenes. I don’t just suddenly blow up. Doesn’t happen.

Which means, typically, that responding only to what appears to be the immediate cause of anger isn’t going to help, not one bit. Especially if the response is as belligerent (or more so) as whatever I did to prompt it. I daresay lots of people can say that.

Or—and this is the important bit—if the response is self-justificatory, “I did nothing wrong” stuff. When I’m angry this never fails to sound like “Yeah, I pissed you off, and what’s more, I’m glad! Who do you think you are to be angry anyway?”

Whereas an apology or similar show of acknowledgment cools me down—not right away, sometimes, but much faster than I would manage on my own. My husband is a master at this, though I will say (and I think he would too) I truly don’t give him too many opportunities to demonstrate his mastery.

He knows that I can’t discuss whatever’s wrong like a rational human being until I’ve—well, turned back into a rational human being. So he says what’s needed to calm me down, no matter what he thinks about the issue at hand, and then we figure out what’s wrong (which involves going back some distance in time, usually, because of my delayed-reaction explosions) and how to fix it.

And then I apologize for being such a jerk. No, I do. Invariably. It’s that Serious contrition in action.

What I cannot, cannot manage to do when I am really angry is respond appropriately to someone’s attempts to justify their actions. It only makes me angrier, so much so that it tempts me toward unacceptable behavior. I am so aware of this particular failing of mine that I have scared or offended people by literally walking away from them and refusing contact. It isn’t anything they did, which is why they are legitimately confused or frightened; it’s me unable to trust myself not to make matters worse, both internally and externally.

I used to think this was a difference in degree of anger; when I’m thoroughly angry, I sulk and refuse reconciliation, whereas I can be reasoned with when I’ve got a more moderate mad-on. I can’t square that with events, though. My husband has brought me down from a towering fury in ten seconds flat, whereas much less important (in hindsight) issues have been known to keep me in an angry simmer with the occasional boil-over for weeks or even months.

Somewhere or other Tish had a story that resonated with this pattern of mine… ah, here it is, it’s on her holiday Blogspot blog:

The young man was desperate to convince the young women that he was not a racist. They were beyond accepting that.

In his urgency to convince them he kept moving across the room toward them. And finally I said, “You know, whether or not you understand why, these women have fear in their bodies because of what you have written. You need to sit down and wait for them to feel safe.” This was a very thin, medium height fellow. He was not a threat, physically. And what he was written was so dumb it was hard to take seriously. But the women had taken him seriously. And they needed to have their feelings be the more important truth. He just needed to say he was sorry. And wait.

This is just another example of the “Tish bling” phenomenon. I can’t articulate or illustrate something no matter how much verbiage I throw at it, Tish does, bling goes the “Yeah, that’s it” sensor. How does she do that?

When I’m righteously pissed, I need to hear, “Gee. You’re righteously pissed. That’s too bad. I’m sorry.” I know that sounds bloody stupid, but it’s the truth.

Obviously the above reaction is not exactly common in the blogsphere as a reaction to another blogger’s anger. If you get the impression that I think it ought to be commoner—well, yeah.

The worst thing about this is that even my worst simmer-and-boil mode never lasts forever—but the bad impression I cause with my inadequate coping mechanisms often does.

And if you get the impression that the above is me apologizing for behaving like a big jerk—well, yeah. It is. I’m truly sorry.

Er, what farms?

The other day a coworker happened across a bunch of farm laborers on one of her pages who supposedly worked on a “finca de enanos.”

Excuse me, dwarf farms?

Handwriting, while not pristine, was pretty clear. No way to make it say anything other than “finca de enanos.”

A quick email to the one principal investigator who is a native of Puerto Rico solved the mystery: we are talking about dwarf bananas here.

But the image of somebody tipping a watering can over Gimli’s head just won’t go away now…