// August 19th, 2003 // 26 Comments » // General
This image displayed on Yahoo is quite amazing actually. It’s one of those pictures that plays with your eyes. If you look at it long enough, you’ll start to notice a grounded sailboat in the background. With this particular image, this phenomena seems to only really work for men. Perhaps this is why the picture is labeled under Yahoo’s “science” section.
// August 19th, 2003 // Comments Off // General
So far, my only real published literary works are stuck inside obscure magazines that only systems administrators read. I’m just sort-of silently celebrating the fact that I got another segment published again in SysAdmin Magazine. Hey, at least they pay me for it.
// August 18th, 2003 // 24 Comments » // Techie
A detraction from the abnormal for a moment. I wasn’t actually able to find much information regarding this, so I figured I’d post my findings here for others.
I was looking for a CF (CompactFlash) card for my Sharp Zaurus SL-5500 that worked as a 4-in-1 media adapter of sorts. I wanted to be able to plug in a MMC, Smart Memory, SD or Memory Stick into the CF card so I could read them with the Zaurus. Fortunately I was able to find a 4 IN 1 Smart Memory/MultiMedia/Secure Digital/Memory Stick To Compact Flash Adapter on EBay, which I’m happy to report works like a champ. I was able to plug a Smart Memory card from my digital camera into the Zaurus this way, then read the pictures from it, transfer them to my PDA, edit them on the fly, and even email them.
After a little searching around, I found you can get more information from Sagatek’s website — the company that makes this card. The card shows up in OpenZaurus as “Anonymous Memory”, but the card is still mountable as /mnt/cf, just as a regular CF card. I haven’t yet tried to actually write to the card yet, but reading works just fine.
// August 15th, 2003 // Comments Off // Tales
I have a thing about shitting in privacy. If there was a way to have my very own private, locked bathroom everywhere I went (short of driving around in a camper), I’d be one happy…um…camper.
Knowing of my reluctance to taking a dump within the earshot of others, my father would often chime in with, “you’d never make it in the Army.” It was no secret that once you were in the military, the closest you got to any personal privacy was when you were scrubbing toilets. I believe this ranked number two on my reasons for not joining the military, right under “blanket parties”.
In the building I work in, I happen to have it pretty good in regards to “safe havens”. My office is on the first floor, with our computer lab on the basement level. On the first floor we have a two-staller. One of these stalls is the typical “floater” style (door and three walls do not touch the floor nor the ceiling), while the other is a prime, virtual isolation chamber. “The Chamber”, as I like to call it, is almost a room in of itself. While the door is floater-style, all of the walls are six inches thick, floor to ceiling — a virtual safe-haven.
One of our suites on the first floor also has a private restroom, with just a sink and toilet. While this at first may seem to be a prime target, the room is surrounded by the entire accounting team, who happen to all be chicks. The room is also utterly ventless and echoes like the inside of a drainage pipe. For all these reasons, I believe the room is essentially unused.
The basement bathroom is quite a special situation. Not only is this a one-staller, but the room itself is locked with card-key access only. Most people in the building are too lazy to make it to the basement to take advantage of this sweet piece of real estate, while others simply don’t carry their card-key with them. This place is like a second home to me.
Today I had to take a detour from the bat cave in the basement, since it was (as rarely happens) occupado. I found this not to be a problem, as I knew I had a second shot on the first floor.
I should also mention here that I have another peculiar habit when set out to do God’s work. If I happen to enter a public restroom and someone I know is there within eyesight, I immediately make it appear that my intention was to hit the urinal. If they’re in the floater stall, no problem. There’s no way in hell I’m letting this dude remember me next time as the mystery man in the isolation chamber.
On this particular situation, I did happen upon someone I work with as he was cleaning up at the sinks. Playing it cool, I said hello and proceeded to play my fake urinal maneuver (also know as “the ol’ one-not-two”). Within ten seconds, he was out the door, but I heard a familiar voice approaching. As quickly and quietly as I could, I made a bolt for The Chamber, and the safe haven was mine.
The familiar voice I heard was yet another person I work with, and this guy is big. I’m talking that breathing heavy, waddling, bursting out of his shoeleather big kinda guy, who you wonder how in the hell he’s able to bathe himself (or if he does). He of course was normal with regards to his restroom privacy, and huffily took residence in the floater stall.
Without getting into too much detail, said new neighbor went about his business as he gasped for air like he walked up half a flight of steps. There was a bellowing wet fart, then a few plops. I could then hear him pull up his pants, buckle his belt, flush, wash his hands, and leave. Now, unless he used his bare hand, commando-style, He didn’t fucking wipe his ass! There was no tell-tale purr from the paper dispenser — none. This was no clean-sweep either — that fart was fucking wet. A two, maybe three wiper at least. This guy was no doubt walking around with a full ass crack.
Of course, the rest of the day I avoided the guy like he was, well, someone who tired of the idea of ass wiping. Unfortunately for me, I have to work on his computer from time to time, so I can’t avoid him forever. He just might get suspicious when I seem to always carry my own keyboard and mouse into his office when he needs something done.
// August 14th, 2003 // 28 Comments » // General
Power will be restored to the New York area shortly…
“Just kidding!”
// August 14th, 2003 // Comments Off // General
I was sick of people getting dumped out because of RCN blocking access to port 80. As you may have noticed before, I had to host on port 5150 — a port RCN didn’t block access to. Unfortunately, a lot of peoples’ firewalls block outgoing connections to port 5150, so I was denying so many multitudes of fine folks the pleasure of my site. I’ve also moved Bob’s OOTD here as well.
// August 12th, 2003 // 1 Comment » // General
Speaking of missing limbs, apparently in a botched operation for bladder cancer, some poor sap lost his twig and berries. From the article:
“My wife had to hold my hand in the bed there. And she said ‘Honey it’s over. They got all the cancer.’ And she waited a few minutes and then said ‘But they had to remove your penis.’ And I was one mad dude, you know,” Ralls said on ABCNEWS’ Good Morning America.
Sadly it seems he’s not yet used to not using the word “dude” when refering to himself.
// August 12th, 2003 // Comments Off // Ranting
Have you heard the supposedly latest “new thing” in sexual fetishes? If you were sick enough to guess “Apotemnophilia” (amputee fetishism), you’re unfortunately correct. I can see the personal ads now:
SWF 18-35 Bilateral amputee (arms and legs) with active seizure disorder wanted for perverted sex. Must have big tits. No Freaks!
What a world. I guess they like a girl who can travel in a plane overhead compartment. Let’s give all those Apotemnophiliacs out there a hand. Err…sorry. Apparently I don’t have a leg to stand on here.
// August 12th, 2003 // Comments Off // Reviews
I’m sure there are literally tens of people suffering from the same problems I’m suffering in the workplace. You arrive at the office on time, grab your coffee/tea/bloody mary, and not two minutes into sitting in front of your computer, some real pain comes along to make the rest of your day a living hell. This little annoyance is always waiting for you, sitting on your office floor, just itching for you to try and get comfortable before stabbing you in the back. It’s so bad that some days, you consider throwing the little pest out the window. Yes, your chair is that bad.
Recently inspired by a comment thread posted on Slashdot, I figured I’d give the Fitterfirst Exercise Ball Chair a try. Not only did I hope my sitting habits would improve, but I always thought my posture could use some work as well. They’re reasonably priced (~$30 ) and can be used for exercises other than sitting (indeed, some people consider this a sport).
My office is sort-of a mish-mash of weird stuff — tribal masks from different countries, ten promotional coffee mugs, a soda can of Clean Air, various Tux figures, a few D&D-like pewter figures, a plantless pot, etc. What better addition to my environment than me plopping my arse on on huge inflated ball? Well, probably a total overhaul would be a better addition, but that’s beside the point.
I ordered the Classic 65 cm, 25″ version of the chair, seeing as it would accomodate my 6-foot stature best. One thing I did not anticipate when I got the ball was its color. The ordering page for the ball chairs show some respectable, male-worthy colors: yellow, silver, blue, black. They decided to send me the one color that no straight man would dare be caught near, let alone sit their derriere on: periwinkle. Oh God, I said “derriere”! That color truly is a curse.
After convincing myself that the ball was actually colored Vikings-helmet Purple and I wasn’t sitting on one of Barney’s testicles, I tried it out for a bit at home. The first thing I noticed was that I was still slouching when sitting on the ball when out on an open floor. I wasn’t leaning on a desk or anything, which I wasn’t sure was the issue. I also tried sitting on the ball without my legs touching the floor, which is more doable than it sounds due to the amount the ball compresses when you sit on it. Then I found the air pump in the box the ball came in. Wow, when this thing’s inflated, it’s much too big to be a human-sized dinosaur’s testicle! I was relieved.
The morning after using the (inflated) ball, I could tell that my lower back had gotten quite a workout. Just from sitting on the ball for about an hour, I could tell there were some serious results. After a few more times of using the ball, the back pain went away, but I could definitely tell this would do wonders for my back and posture.
I’ll be bringing the ball into work soon and will report back here with my findings. So far I see good things coming from using it as my new chair. Hopefully I’ll make it through the front doors of my building before I get pummeled to death by punks.
// August 7th, 2003 // Comments Off // Tales
I reached blindly into the half open cooler behind me and Andy, instinctively knowing we hadn’t yet run out of beer. Fishing was thirsty business — we knew that. In a day of fishing, the beer supply was like the fish in the lake: if you didn’t get enough of them within a few hours, you got pissed off, packed up your shit and went home.
Stirring my hand through the cooler’s stew of water, melting ice and cans and bottles of beer, I was not up to settling for a cylinder of aluminum. Usually we’re both privy to drinking some of the finer vintages of brew: Sam Adams, Bass, Guinness. Most of said beers come primarily in bottles, which the cooler was frighteningly beginning to lack. I slowly but blindly sorted its contents.
Can. Can. Can. Something that resembles a wet, half-eaten calzone. Can. Ah, finally a brown diamond in the rough — a bottle. It took about three seconds from that moment to remember that Budweiser doesn’t only come in cans.
Now don’t go getting me wrong here — Budweiser’s a fine, well manufactured, carefully crafted beer, made with the finest hops and barley this planet has to offer.
BAAHAHAHAHA! Sorry.
Anyway, as a wise man once said to me, “the worst beer I ever had was just wonderful.” Actually I may have misled you there — it was my father-in-law who said that, and I forget where he heard it, but it’s still true nonetheless.
“Ugh,” I said aloud, flinging the cap off with my keychain-opener. “Looks like I pulled a loser this time.”
Andy just looked over and laughed. I took a swig of the Bud and winced a little. At least it was cold.
“Man, I remember when this was premium beer to me. When I thought shit like Guinness and Sam would gag a maggot and cans of Keystone sat in my fridge.”
I checked the bait on the end of my line, then made a cast into the deep spots of the nearby water.
“Bhah,” I muttered as I stared at the bottle in my hand. “I remember the last time I actually bought a case of Bud bottles. I think it was the drunkest I’ve ever been. Now that is a long story, man.”
Andy shrugged. “Not like we’ve got somewhere to be,” he said as he tugged on his line a little.
“Well,” I began, looking out at the water, “it was back maybe around 1992 or so.”
Just then, everything within my sight became wavy and shimmery, as I began to reach back deep within my memory to my college years. Then I realized it was just my eyes getting screwy with the sun reflecting on the water, so I shrugged it off and started to tell my story.
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