Wired ... Not

We have a new printer.

It's a really spiffy Hewlitt-Packard model, a sleek black icon of the digital age that scans, prints, copies, faxes, and squats placidly on the corner of my desk, flashing an occasional light and periodically emitting an odd growling noise. I'm somehow reminded of the plant in The Little Shop of Horrors that keeps muttering feed me!

Anyhow, we got this Spiffy New Printer for two main reasons: it was on sale; and, it can be connected to a wireless network. The sale part was very important, of course, but we also were looking for the ability to send things to the printer from our laptops ... which are, as the name implies, generally on our laps, which are attached to our backsides, which are frequently parked in chairs in front of the TV in the rec room at the other end of the house, well beyond cable length range.

Didja follow all that?

Well, last night I unpacked the Spiffy New Printer and set it up. It came with a large number of assorted cables, six different print heads and ink cartridges, an attachment that allows two-sided printing, and a three-foot pile of instruction sheets, books, warnings, warranty papers, and other stuff. The license agreement (which you must, of course, accept in order to install the printer) is longer than a Hugo Chavez speech, and as incomprehensible as Republican economic theories. I think something about my firstborn male child was involved.

Anyhow, I set up the Spiffy New Printer on the desk and worked my way through the step-by-step, designed-for-digital-morons, can't-possibly-screw-this-up-ha-ha installation instructions. The result, after several hours of work:

1. Printer connected to the wireless network, and all system tests check out - yep. So far, so good.

2. Wirelessly connects to the Mac - no. The Mac petulantly refuses to acknowledge the wireless connection to the printer, in spite of the fact that the wireless modem is less than 10 feet away and the Spiffy New Printer is less than a foot from the Mac.

3. Wirelessly connects to Agnes's desktop computer - no. Of course, her desktop computer is about 3 years old and still runs Windows XP, which makes it a relative antique. I think its wireless capability is a Gugliemo Marconi original.

4. Wirelessly connects to Agnes's laptop computer - yes! Test page printed fine. I'm on the scoreboard!

5. Wirelessly connects to Bill's laptop computer - I'll let you know...ran out of time and patience and went to bed before I got the software loaded.

So, I'm 1 for 4.

As I've noted here often enough before, machines hate me. So does software. And as I see it, the real advantage of a wireless connection is that there's nothing for me to hang myself with when I get frustrated with the whole thing.

My digital duel with the Spiffy New Printer and its sidekick, the Evil Wireless Modem, will continue this evening. I hope I have enough gin on hand to last out the fight.

I'll let you know how it comes out.

Have a good day. More thoughts - wirelessly - tomorrow.

Bilbo

Wii, Wii, Wii All the Way Home...

Oui, we have a Wii.

For those of you who don't know what a Wii is, it's something which allows you to waste vast amounts of time and energy in an alternate reality.

Kind of like being a Tea Party person, but you can turn it off with the push of a button.

But anyhow...

Our son and our daughter each have Wiis, and we decided we (Wii?) ought to have one, too. After all, exercising with an oddly-featured digital copy of a personal trainer is so much nicer than doing the same exercises at the gym, where we have to endure the sideways glances and giggles of the buff, snickering gym rats as we try desperately to touch toes we haven't even seen for years.

The Wii is easy to install, assuming you have:

a. Access to an electrical engineer; and,

b. A space-age television with faster-than-light drive, a plagrastic variognometer calibrated in versts per angstrom per fortnight (squared), and the correct input plugs in an accessible location. (Note: There is no such thing as an accessible location when your TV is mounted on the wall...every available input plug you need is conveniently located on the back of the set, where it's dark, full of cobwebs, you cannot see anything, and you have about 1.5 inches of space in which to work.)

Miraculously, I managed to properly install not only the Wii, but also the wireless balance board. The wireless balance board is a high-tech device designed to transmit embarrassing information about your weight and body fat index to the Wii by way of the television set. Taken as a whole, the Wii system enables you to be insulted not by a living, breathing, sweating gym rat, but by a pudgy digital copy of yourself (cleverly known as a Mii, oui?).

So, we have a Wii. And we each have a Mii. My Mii is a wee me (as Fiona might say). And my Mii mocks me. What have Wii done...or we done?

Stay tuned to find out if my Mii gradually turns sleek and svelte instead of pudgy.

Wii'll let you know.

Oui.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

Why a Slide Rule is Better than a PC

First of all, do you even know what I'm talking about? If you went to school when dinosaurs like Mike and I did, you are probably familiar with the good old trusty, frustrating, guaranteed-to-make-you-look-like-a-geek Slide Rule.

This is a traditional Slide Rule:

This is a fancy circular Slide Rule:


You can go here to read everything you ever wanted to know about Slide Rules.

If you are of a certain age, you learned how to use a Slide Rule, rather than a calculator, to do your scientific and mathematical calculations. It was accurate enough for your routine needs, required no power, was lightweight and easy to carry, and was relatively cheap. It didn't have a memory, but if you needed to record your data, you used the only required peripheral device, the Paper Pad.

Today, few people use a Slide Rule because we have expensive graphing calculators and PCs. These are far more accurate than the good old slide rule and Paper Pad, but have their own problems. Here are a few of the many reasons Slide Rules are better than PCs...

1. A Slide Rule doesn't shut down abruptly when it gets too hot.

2. One hundred people all using Slide Rules and Paper Pads do not start wailing and screaming due to a single-point failure.

3. A Slide Rule doesn't smoke whenever the power supply hiccups.

4. A Slide Rule doesn't care if you eat or drink while using it.

5. You can spill coffee or a soft drink on a Slide Rule and keep on computing.

6. A Slide Rule never sends you snarky system messages about upgrades, reboots, and damaged files.

7. A Slide Rule and Paper Pad fit in a briefcase with space left over for lunch or a change of underwear.

8. You don't get junk mail offering pricey upgrades for your Slide Rule that fix current old errors while introducing new ones.

9. A Slide Rule doesn't need scheduled hardware maintenance, an IT staff, and a 24/7 help desk outsourced to a team of geeks in Carjackistan who barely speak English.

10. A Paper Pad supports text and graphics images easily, and can be easily upgraded from monochrome to color.

11. Slide Rules are designed to a standardized, open architecture.

12. You can use a Slide Rule to hit the obnoxious person in the next cubicle.

13. Nobody can steal your identity by hacking your Slide Rule.

14. You can upgrade your memory without limits by simply adding additional Paper Pads. No need to reconfigure anything, change any settings, or do any backups. "Backing up your data" consists of putting the old Paper Pad away in a drawer.

15. Nobody will make you feel bad by introducing a smaller, faster, cheaper Slide Rule next month.

Slide Rules. Don't leave home without them.

Have a good, low-tech day. More thoughts tomorrow, on Cartoon Saturday.

Bilbo

When Gadgets Go Bad...

Apple recently introduced - to the usual hysteria - it's latest product: the iPad. As gadgets go, it seems to be pretty neat, if only little more than an iPod Touch on steroids. In case you were wondering, I don't plan to run out and buy one...I still haven't figured out how all the features of my iPhone work, so it'll be quite a while before I'm ready to take on anything more complicated than a pencil sharpener.

If nothing else, the somewhat unfortunately-named iPad has spawned millions of jokes about its name. Here are a few of the best:

* If I order this, will my boyfriend and I have to worry if it comes late?

* Does a Period Tracker app come free?

* Don’t wear white jeans while using an iPad, and don’t use an iPad in front of your crush. (You’re a teen magazine embarrassing moment waiting to happen!)

* How soon will Apple release a companion pen, the iPon?

* Did the prototype come with a belt?

* But what if a cute boy sees me shopping for one? What if my dad has to take me?

* I prefer the CVS brand; a few bucks less and it does the same thing.

* Does this mean iffy WiFi coverage will be called iSpotting?

* Can I get a scented iPad for when my data feels not-so-fresh?

* Everyone, just try to Stay(free) calm and keep your Poise. It’s Always nice to see a new product on the market. I Depend on Apple to come up with great ideas. Maybe we’re taking this out of Kotex.

Not bad. I have also heard that Apple is getting ready to market special models of the iPad which will target specific user audiences: the oyPad will target the Jewish market, the aye-ayePad will cater to the needs of sailors, and the highPad will address the requirements of users of medical (wink, nudge) marijuana. The guyPad will include a built-in beer bottle opener and come with a screensaver featuring the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, and the liePad will be heavily marketed to politicians and lobbyists.

The possibilities are endless.

Today is the first work day after our latest weekend snowstorm. According to its website, my Fairfax Connector bus will be operating normally with no detours...it will be interesting to see if it actually shows up at my stop in about an hour...

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

The Perfect Crime

The "perfect crime" is a staple of detective fiction and police procedural novels. Every writer dreams of devising a crime so clever and well-plotted that the criminal escapes scot-free while the forces of law and order scratch their heads and bump into each other in a futile attempt to close the case.

There probably aren't any "perfect crimes," though. DNA analysis, computer forensics, telephone wiretaps, good police work, and all the neat stuff you see on TV shows like NCIS, Bones, and CSI make getting away with a crime pretty much a thing of the past. Unless, of course, you succeed in looting an entire economy, in which case you're pretty much guaranteed to escape meaningful punishment.

But wait - there is a perfect crime in the making, and I'm sharing the story with you so that when I'm gone, the perpetrators can be brought to justice.

I refer to the sinister plot hatched by an unnamed software company to drive me to suicide by trying to use their product.

We have something like 758,000 VHS tapes stacked on shelves here at home, most of them dance videos Agnes bought over a 20+ year career teaching ballroom dance. As you know, VHS tapes take up quite a bit of space compared to DVDs or CDs, and so in an attempt to recover some of our limited shelf space, Agnes decided it would be a good project to transfer all those VHS tapes to DVDs.

Well, yes, it's a good idea...but like so many good ideas, it ain't quite as easy as hooking the VHS player to a DVD recorder and lettin' 'er rip. You need to insert chapter breaks and menus to allow you to search the DVD. And there's the rub...

Some years ago, I spent the GNP of an average African country to buy a spiffy software program that would let me make and edit movies. That software proved to be so complicated to use that my head started to smoke, and so it sat unused for a long time...until yesterday.

We were able to copy the VHS tape to the computer's hard drive with no problem. Inserting the chapter markers was a little bit of a problem. Figuring out how to insert a top-level menu was a fairly big problem. Figuring out how to edit the menus was an insurmountable problem.

After two telephone conversations with tech support people in Ouagadougou whose English was barely up to the task (and who referred me to each other to solve the problem), I ended up conducting two lengthy online chats with two more tech support people who finally ended up deciding that my expensive program would not allow us to do that which we expected it to do, and we would have to upgrade to the newer (and more expensive version) of the software. Of course, in true modern software fashion, the program comes in three versions: "basic," "ultimate," and "ultimate collection," the price of each escalates astronomically. And, naturally, the ability to insert multiple menus (which we need to do to make the DVDs useful), is only available in the "ultimate" and "ultimate collection" versions of the software.

AARRGGHH!!

So I bit the bullet and ordered the "ultimate" version of the program. I downloaded the installation file, saved it to the computer, then double-clicked to install it ... only to get a message telling me that it was "not a valid Win32 application."

DOUBLE AARRGGHH!!

Another online chat with yet another drone, who tells me that the file must have been corrupted during the download, and I should download it again. I do this. The file downloads correctly. I double-click to install it.

And...

About an hour and a half later, after endless extractions of compressed files, two system reboots, acceptance of huge legalistic User Agreements written in Old Church Slavonic, and the sacrifice of two chickens and a small goat, the installation is complete.

Does it work? I don't know. It took so long to troubleshoot the original program, get straight answers from tech support, download the installation files, and install them, that we ran out of time to see if it all works.

I'm going back to work today. Agnes will get to try out the program on her own. She will no doubt call me to ask how it works...

And I'll shoot myself.

The perfect crime.

She'll probably split the insurance money with those guys in Ouagadougou.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow...if I haven't done myself in.

Bilbo

Machines Still Hate Me, But I Help Them

Yes, Monday is starting early this week.

Yesterday I spent the day power-washing the driveway, washing Agnes's car, weeding the yard, carrying out trash, and generally working quite hard in the warm sun...and that was before fixing a nice dinner of marinated, planked salmon and rice pilaf. By bedtime I was exhausted, and so I was extra careful about following my normal routine: I carefully checked and re-checked to make absolutely sure that my alarm was set for the Monday time (4:10 AM) rather than the Saturday time (6:30 AM). Satisfied that it was correct, I collapsed into bed.

Of course, the alarm clock always works better if, in addition to properly setting the time, you actually turn the alarm on.

AARRGGHH!!

I woke up at about 4:40, gawked at the clock in horror, cursed in several languages, and sprang out of bed. Not only was I half an hour behind schedule, but I also had to factor in time to take Nessa (our daughter's dog, for whom we are, if you remember, dog-sitting) for a walk in addition to everything else.

So...

Here I sit, with my body clock and carefully-crafted daily routine out of whack. I am not a person who deals well with changes in my normal routine outside of the office, so things will be rocky for a while. Even my blog suffers, as I don't have the time and mental capacity to write my usual well-crafted and spectacularly popular (well, with my usual 36-45 readers per day) post.

Sigh...

But I must pull myself together enough to remark on the fact that this is a most remarkable day: it is the day on which, in 1969, man first landed on the moon. I didn't actually know it had happened for several days, as I was far out in the Sangre de Cristo mountains of southwestern Colorado with the rest of Monitor Patrol, all of us attending the Colorado Outward Bound school. We first learned that the landing had been a success when we came down out of the wilderness to a public campground to meet our resupply vehicle, and got the news from some campers roughing it in their camper van (complete with TV and radio).

Now, forty years later, we are still stuck in earth orbit. Don't get me wrong, the International Space Station is a marvelous achievement, but it's just not the same as actually walking on another planet. Okay, moon. Where's the dream and the drive to go beyond orbit and back to the Moon, on to Mars, and then ... well, wherever? How can we be ready for First Contact with the Vulcans and the Borg, not to mention Klaatu and Gort? How can we (sorry, Army) be all we can be?

Of course, we could solve a few problems here on earth, like religious intolerance, affordable health care, and an economic system that benefits everyone, but you can't do those with flashy special effects and the thrill of high adventure.

Food for thought on an already-hectic Monday.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

Password Fandango

There are so many serious things I need to write about that I sometimes just have to step back and reset my internal system with something off-the-wall. Today, that would be passwords.

At work, I use five different networks, each with its own login and password. At home I have my Mac, which has a system password, and about 700 websites I visit regularly, 2/3 of which require a login and a password. Agnes's computer has its own login and password that I need to know on the rare occasions I need to use her machine.

I'm up to my pasty white backside in passwords.

The ones at work are the worst, because each network has its own standards for login (firstname dot lastname, lastname plus first and middle initial, lastname plus first intial dot six hundred random characters, lastname plus California's current budget deficit estimate, etc, etc, etc). But the passwords are worse. Each network wants its own password that can't duplicate the password used on any other network ... and then there are the other rules ... this is my latest attempt to summarize the Arcane and Mystical Rules of Password Generation:

* Each password-protected network will begin prompting you to change your password three days after you change it, and will warn you that it will soon expire ("Your password will expire in XX days. Do you want to change it now? Well? Do ya, punk? Yeah, I'm talkin' to you!").

* Each password-protected network will allow its passwords to remain valid for a different length of time - one week, 30 days, two sidereal months, etc. The validity period will change randomly each time you reset the password.

* Each password must be at least 72 characters long, at least 17% of which must be upper case, 19% lower case, 22% numeric, and the remainder “special characters.” A given number of each character type must appear in specific locations, and the required number and specific locations will randomly change each time you have to change the password.

* Your password must not duplicate any of the last 475 passwords you used.

* Your password must not include any words contained in any unabridged English, Spanish, French, German, Russian, Chinese, Urdu, Hindi, Swahili, or Xhosa dictionary.

* It must not offend anyone for any reason.

* It must be complex enough that you will lock yourself out of your account at least twice per week.

* All of your passwords will change at irregular intervals which are not synchronized with any other networks, so that at least once a week you need to remember a new password for one of the networks...and you can never remember which one.

I'm not the only one who finds the Password Fandango maddening. Yesterday in the Washington Post, John Kelly wrote this wonderful little article - "So Many Passwords, So Little Time," which pretty much summarizes my password fatigue. Check it out. Oh ... I forgot ... you may need a login and password for washingtonpost.com. Sorry about that.

Aren't you glad you don't need a password to read my ramblings every day?

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

In Case You Were Wondering, Yes, Machines Still Hate Me

I was at work yesterday morning, minding my own business, when Agnes called to let me know that the power had just gone out at home as she was plugging in her hair dryer, that she was calling me on her cell phone because all our cordless phones were out, and that she was about to lose the battery on the cell phone. I had just enough time to tell her to check the circuit breaker panel in the basement before her phone went dead.

I keep a trusty old corded telephone in the closet in my study for just these occasions; unfortunately, I am the only one who can find anything in said closet, so Agnes was out of luck. As it turned out, the power outage covered a large area and had nothing to do with her hair dryer, but I couldn't tell her that until she got to work, wet hair and all, and I could talk to her on a real phone.

Okay, I told you that story so I could tell you this one: I arrived home at my usual time and reset all the clocks in the house...except the one on my nightstand.

As a result, I am running late this morning and don't have the time to put up the post I'd originally planned. Maybe later this evening or tomorrow morning.

Yes, machines still hate me. The battery backup in my nightstand clock should have kept it running on time. It has betrayed my trust. I am considering premeditated clockicide...


I'll have to ask Zipcode, who is a law enforcement type, what the penalty is before I do anything rash.

Have a good day. I'll reset the clock, and offer more thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

#%@$! Alarm Clock...

My worthless alarm clock failed to go off this morning, and so I am running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Just out of the shower, the dog needs walked and fed, my lunch needs packed, and I've got to be off for work.

Not even time for my morning cup of coffee.

AARRGGHH!!

Look for todays real post later this evening, after I get home from work.

It's gonna be a rough day...

More thoughts later.

Bilbo

Auto Da Fe, 2008

According to history, the auto da fe was a religious ceremony of penance for condemned heretics and apostates that usually culminated in their punishment by torture, burning at the stake, or some other similarly enlightened form of public demise.

Today, the auto da fe still involves torture, but it uses real autos.

As a result of a long and tangled skein of circumstances, Agnes and I have three cars. Since shortly before last Christmas, at any one time two of them have been in expensive mechanical distress of one sort or another. I have been towed about five times, spent the equivalent of the GNP of a medium-sized African nation in repairs, and am reluctant to drive farther than I can walk back. The Mistress of the Dark writes eloquently of her dread of the Orange Light O'Doom on her car's dashboard...I dread the multicolored lights o'doom on our dashboards which always indicate the pending hemorrhage of cash from our battered checkbooks. We're funding the college educations of our local mechanic's children. And his yacht.

Last week, I took in Agnes's car with the worst of all possible problems: an intermittent electrical problem which prevents the car from starting until help has arrived, at which time it starts up fine and runs normally. The car always runs like a Swiss watch for the mechanic, but when we're at the wheel, the specially designed agony-inducing circuit kicks in and causes all sorts of problems. The dealer kept the car for four days, during which time it resolutely refused to cooperate with all attempts to reproduce the problem. I spent $1300 ($1200 after the senior citizen discount they gave me in sympathy), and within 24 hours the bright, happy "Check Engine" idiot light was back on. AARRGGHH!!

Today, I'm taking in my car, which has a distressing tendency for the engine to suddenly stop running at irregular intervals. This is fun when you're cruising down the interstate and suddenly have no engine, no power steering, and no brakes. My local mechanic tells me his computer registers 16 different fault codes when connected to the car...but he can't figure out what the problem is. After the last time he worked on the car, it seemed to run all right, except that now each time I hit a bump, the radio stops and none of the power windows operate. I've decided to bite the automotive bullet and take the car back to the dealership, which has called in extra staff to stock up on zeroes for the estimate.

So, we're down to one reasonably well-functioning car...but it has one headlight out, and is designed so that Real People cannot replace the headlights on their own...a mechanic has to remove the entire front end of the car up to the firewall to reach and replace the defective bulb.

Country singer Jerry Reed once sang a song called "Lord, Mr Ford":

"Lord, Mr Ford, I just wish that you could see
What your simple horseless carriage has become...
If I ain't out of gas in the pouring rain,
I'm fixin' a flat in a hurricane,
I once spent three days lost on a cloverleaf."

Mr Reed and I understand each other.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow, unless I'm stuck at the side of the highway waiting for a tow while I watch the Orange Lights O'Doom.

Bilbo

Another Low, Dirty Machine Trick

Yes, you already know that machines hate me, for I have bitched and complained endlessly about it here. But their campaign is relentless, and their attempts to screw up my life are neverending.

It wasn't enough that my car left me stranded in the center of three lanes at a major intersection earlier this week, or that my computer occasionally simply decides to do something wacky that will eliminate hours of work (regardless of how often I've saved or backed up).

This morning, my alarm didn't go off.

Actually, it did go off, but I didn't hear it because the problem is not with the alarm per se, but with the volume control on the clock radio. The volume is controlled by a slider, which has two settings - off and way-too-loud - separated by the tiniest and most fragile of margins. If the control is set to way-too-loud (as it must be) and, for instance, Amanda slams a door in Palembang, the control slips to off.

Amanda slammed the door this morning.

Agnes shook me awake at 4:30 (my usual alarm time is 4:10), sweetly and urgently asking me if I knew what time it was. Now, since I am a creature of habit who depends upon my morning rituals to ease into the working day, my whole morning schedule is fried and the rest of the day is in question. AARRGGHH!!

Today is payday. Tomorrow, I'm buying a new clock radio. And I'm going to make sure the new clock radio doesn't have a chance to meet the old one before I install it.

But it won't matter, because they're all linked on some unknown level of mechanical consciousness.

And they're all out to get me.

Watch out for your own machines...when they get tired of screwing around with me, they may turn on you.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo