A Little Less Detail, Danny

I’ve got kids in grade school, so this week was spent preparing for their classes Valentine’s Day celebrations. The only things that have changed since I was a kid is that these days they hand out candy with the little paper valentines, and there’s more Pokemon valentines than there are Star Wars valentines.

But anyway, my oldest son, who is nine, was working on decorating his valentine box. I think a video card from newegg.com came in it originally, but with the addition of a strategically placed rectangular hole, it became a receptacle for little paper valentine cards. And he was decorating it with Pokemon, Spongebob, and other decidedly non-Valentine’s Day related stuff.

So I said, “Why not put a heart on there for Valentine’s Day?”

He goes to work and I hear giggling, so I look over and notice that the heart he drew also had a sword piercing it.

I said, “What, no blood dripping from the sword?” This turned out to be a great suggestion, and soon there were little drops of blood dripping from the tip of the blade and pooling below.

But then he started to erase the blood and told me, “That’s probably a little too much detail.”

I agreed that it might be.

Then he said, “My teacher told me not to draw things so detailed.”

“Oh? When did she tell you that?”

“At Halloween. She told us to draw monsters and I drew a zombie.”

“And your zombie was too detailed?”

“Yeah. I drew him taking a bite out of a brain and there was blood squirting out of it.”

“Squirting out of the brain?”

“Uh huh.”

“Yeah, that might’ve been a bit too detailed. Did you change it?”

“Yeah. I just made him holding the brain. He wasn’t biting it and there was no blood.”

“And the teacher said that was OK?”

“Yup.”

Sometimes it’s great to be a father.

A Geeky Second Fast Approaches

In Unix, derivatives of which run pretty much the entire internet (and quite a few desktop systems these days), the time and date is tracked internally as the number of seconds since midnight on January 1st, 1970. In *nix circles, this moment is known as the beginning of the epoch, and about 4,717,800 seconds into the epoch, I was born.

Well tomorrow, February 13, 2009 at 18:31:30 Eastern Standard Time (23:31:30 Greenwich Mean Time) the number of seconds since the beginning of the Unix epoch will be 1234567890.

I first noticed this was approaching last October 7th (I can pinpoint it because found a chat log where I mentioned it to a co-worker). I was working for yet another company who, for reasons unknown, liked to store all dates in a database as epoch seconds rather than use the handy built-in date/time types every modern database has (which still use seconds in epoch internally of course, but have lots of handy functions for adding and subtracting units of time, converting for time zones, daylight savings time, not to mention displaying the info back in a way understandable by humans). But whatever, you’re the boss. You wanna pay me to code the conversions every time, I’ll do it.

Wait, where was I? Oh yes…

So last October I noticed the epoch seconds at the time were at 1223355600(ish) and wondered when it would be 1234567890. As a perl hacker, my curiosity was quickly settled by typing perl -e 'print scalar localtime 1234567890;' at a Linux command line. It would be on the evening of February 13th, 2009. I immediately set a Google Calendar reminder.

A quick search of ‘epoch 1234567890‘ showed me that I was not the first geek to notice this was coming. A guy named Chris Rowe has made a cool epoch countdown timer. I don’t know what he’s going to do with that domain name after tomorrow, though I suppose if he keeps it for a few years it will read 2222222222 on June 1st, 2040 at 23:57:02. There is another one here, more accurate (because it’s based on a time server instead of the viewer’s system clock) but not nearly as cool looking and with an even more soon-to-be-obsolete domain name. It also doesn’t link to xkcd, so more win for Chris.

But anyway, celebrate that second tomorrow evening in the knowlege that myself and countless other geeks will be celebrating it with you.

I’m Sick of Comedy Central Fucking Up Futurama

Look, I’m glad somebody’s showing it, and I’ve got nothing against Comedy Central in general. I like The Daily Show and Colbert, and I’ll always love South Park (even though I sometimes tire of them spouting libertarian clap-trap). But they’re fucking up Futurama in a number of ways.

I suppose before I go any further, I’d better stop and say that I am a huge geek for Futurama. Having read the Wired cover story months before the show even aired, I was there from day one. I’ve watched it continuously since then. I can usually tell you the name of the episode from the opening scene, and sometimes from the opening subtitle. I can name everyone in the Robot Mafia. The show never let me down, at least not until Bender’s Big Score.

And allow me one further digression on that topic. I’d like to settle the debate once and for all: Bender’s Big Score was pretty much crap. It made That’s Lobstertainment look like Roswell That Ends Well.

But anyway, my point was that now that Comedy Central is showing the reruns, they’re fucking them all up. Here’s how.

First of all, they nearly always show two episodes back to back. I’m going to refer to them as Episode A and Episode B (even though I’m tempted to call them Episode A and Episode 1 so neither feels inferior). Now while two episodes back to back would normally be a good thing, for some reason they refuse to show the closing credits for Episode A.  They start Episode B immediately after the final dialogue of Episode A and put a tear (as in rip, not as in cry) effect across the bottom of the screen during the opening of Episode B, and inside of this torn off area they show a compressed version of the closing credits from Episode A. This would be only a minor sacrilege, except that every episode opens with a joke subtitle. Things like “Painstakingly Drawn Before a Live Audience” or “In Double-Vision (Where Drunk)”. And that god-damn tear across the bottom of the screen nearly always obscures the subtitle. It pisses me off. It’s the equivalent of cutting the chalkboard gag from the beginning of every Simpsons episode (though there’s probably some shitty channel that does that, too).

Secondly, I don’t know how they manage to do it, but they somehow fuck up the ending time of Episode A so that the DVR misses the last minute or two. Granted, I’m usually recording both episodes, so theoretically I can pick up the ending at the beginning of the next episode, except for two problems. One is that sometimes I don’t get the second episode. Despite my love of Futurama, I’ve seen each one at least a dozen times, so they’re a lowish priority in the DVR settings. Also, even when I do get the second episode recorded, there’s still a few seconds missing. Sure it’s only a few seconds, but there’s been a few times that those missing seconds contained one of the best jokes. And the really weird part of this is that despite starting late, the second episode always finishes on time. With time to spare. I get the first minute or so of whatever show follows it. WTF? Are they frontloading all the commercials into the first episode or something? Why would Episode A run over and then Episode B end on time?

And my last gripe has to do with my kids. My kids are pretty cool. They love Futurama. Seriously, every night I hear “Dad, can we watch Futurama?” Granted, there are certain episodes I don’t let them watch. I don’t want to have to explain snu-snu or how it leads to shattered pelvises. But since sometimes they show Futurama late at night, my recordings are often filled with commercials for Girls Gone Wild and gay 1-900 chat lines. I end up having to be pretty fucking diligent on the DVR remote when we watch. And seriously, are these the only advertisers Comedy Central can get? Tittie videos and gay voice chat? Fuck man, I watch G4 some nights, and all they show is commercials for pecker pills, but at least they’re subtle. I mean, my kids wouldn’t know that “male enhancement” is innuendo for “makes your cock bigger”, but it’s hard not to notice that those girls in thongs are showing their tits and kissing each other. I’m all for dumb drunk chicks showing their tits and making out of course, but I’d rather my kids don’t see it, at least not until they’re 9 or 10.

So seriously, Comedy Central, stop fucking up Futurama. Cartoon Network managed to not fuck it all up back when it was on Adult Swim. Why is it so hard for you?

Merry Christmas

The HP TouchSmart PC

HP’s got an advertising blitz going on for their new touchscreen interface PC. It looks pretty damn cool on the commercials, and I mean come on, is the mouse really the best input device we can come up with?

But the thing is, despite HP’s Hudsuckeresque “Touch the Future Now” slogan, this has actually been tried before. Back in the 80′s. I was a computer geek long before it was cool, and I remember the first time touch screens and light pens were all the rage. So if this awesome futuristic technology is actually over 30 years old, how come we’re still using the shitty old mouse?

Well, let’s try an experiment. Pretend you’re reading this post on a touchscreen. Pretend that you can navigate just by touching links. There should be a whole shitload over there on the right. Spend five minutes touching the links, pretending to navigate around. I’ll wait.

Now, how does your arm feel? Is it sore? Does it ache? Congratulations! You’ve got gorilla arm!

Gorilla arm was a side-effect that destroyed vertically-oriented touch-screens as a mainstream input technology despite a promising start in the early 1980s. Designers of touch-menu systems failed to notice that humans are not built to hold their arms at waist- or head-height, making small and precise motions. After a short period of time, cramp may begin to set in, and arm movement becomes painful and clumsy — the operator looks like a gorilla while using the touch screen and feels like one afterwards. This is now considered a classic cautionary tale to human-factors designers; “Remember the gorilla arm!” is shorthand for “How is this going to fly in real use?”. Gorilla arm is not a problem for specialist short-term-use devices such as ATMs, since they only involve brief interactions which are not long enough to cause gorilla arm. Gorilla arm also can be mitigated by the use of horizontally-mounted screens such as those used in Tablet PCs, but these need to account for the user’s need to rest their hands on the device. This can increase the amount of dirt deposited on the device, and occludes the user’s view of the screen.

There’s an old saying about those who don’t learn from history being doomed to repeat it. Or maybe there’s a marketing saying about how most people won’t remember the failed technology of the past and they might buy some expensive hardware until the lessons are relearned. At any rate, we’ve been here before, and there’s a very good reason these things didn’t catch on the first time.

My Favorite Arcades: Introduction

I hated the 80′s. Fucking loathed them. I hated Reagan, hated the music, the consumerism, and the yuppies who lived it. I hated the vast majority of my peers, who’s superficial pursuit of mindlessness was perfectly reflected in the droning synth-pop bullshit they sent shooting up the charts. The 1980′s will surely go down in history as the most culturally desolate decade in American history, a span of 10 years that we still haven’t completely recovered from. And it was in this climate that I spent my tenth through nineteenth years.

But that’s not to say there weren’t bright spots. I had a handful of like-minded friends, and when we weren’t in Bill and John’s basement hacking on their Trash-80 Color Computer, we were hanging out at the video arcade.

Now back in the early 80′s, arcades were not the slick corporate affairs they are now. They were small, locally owned joints with character. Most of them were downright seedy. The lights were low, the floors were dirty, the machines were loud, and the control panels were scarred with cigarette burns. Pre-pubescent boys and post-teenage stoners mingled without incident. The smells of smoke, sweat and high-fructose soda hung in the air. And there was always that one shirtless long-haired dude who could exploit the pterodactyl bug or play Galaga forever on a quarter, but we put our quarters up for next game anyway. Observing his godlike skill was almost as fun as getting our eventual turn. Arcades weren’t the kind of places our parents liked us hanging out, but we went there anyway. By bike or by foot, we could always get to an arcade and we could always beg borrow or steal a few bucks to drop into a Dig Dug machine a quarter at a time.

I don’t know if kids even go to arcades anymore. I doubt it. The only arcades I’ve seen in ages are Dave & Buster’s and Gillian’s, and places like that only have the personality their board of directors decided on. When I have to venture into a mall (which is rare these days), I never hear the siren’s song of a hundred arcade machines beckoning me to come and spend my quarters. Or maybe I just don’t recognize the sound anymore, now that it isn’t eight-bit bleeps and bloops and the machines all have card-readers instead of coin slots.

Even though I despised the 80′s, my memories of the arcades are some of the fondest of my childhood. If I had to choose a single moment to spend the rest of eternity trapped in, it may well be a moment in one of those dirty old arcades.

This post is the first part of a series. Look for new installments in the coming days.

I’m Just Sittin’ Here Watchin’ The Weevils Get Caught and Drown

So a little over a year ago, we moved out into the country. There’s bugs out here, and we get the usual spiders and crickets and whatnot, but both summers we’ve been here we’ve had big problems with these little tiny gray bastards that get inside and crawl everywhere. They look kind of like pot seeds with antennae and legs. After much research I eventually figured out that they were imported longhorn weevils (calomycterus setarious), which as I understand it were unintentionally brought over from Japan (which I guess explains their love of manga).

Now I try to pretend I’m enlightened and respect all life, but the truth is I’m just lazy. They don’t fly or jump, they don’t bite, and they don’t carry any diseases. Mrs. FatDave does a good job keeping them out of the kitchen, so I tend to not care too much about them unless they invade my personal space.

And this has started to become a problem. My wife may sweep them out of the kitchen, but my office is my problem. Anybody whose ever seen my office knows that I’m not the fastidious type. In fact I’m the opposite of fastidious. What’s that called again? Oh yes–slovenly.

So I’m pretty sure there’s a fair number of weevils crawling around in my office, and this is evidenced by the fact that they often launch organized assaults on my Diet Coke cans. See, nothing seems to attract these little assholes like moisture, and I’ve nearly always got a cold Diet Coke within easy reach, and it tends to sit on the corner of my desk sweating which inevitably brings around the weevils.

At first I was a little squeaminsh about killing them, and I’d pick them up in a kleenex and crush them. But now I just smash them with a bare finger, which elicits a satisfying crunch. Mahavira would not approve.

But at certain times of day (roughly 3AM) it seems like the weevils get extra active, and defending my soda was requiring more attention. A better solution was required (I’m not being paid too little to kill weevils all night, after all). Luckily, I was able to come up with one.

As of yesterday, on the corner of my desk, sits a small plate full of water. In the middle of the plate is an empty mason jar on which I set my pop can. The mason jar used to hold my pens, but my children always seem to have a higher purpose for those, so the jar was sitting empty awaiting its true destiny. Now there is no way for a little crawly thing to get to the pop can without crossing water, and as it turns out imported longhorn weevils are horrible swimmers. Essentially, what I’ve done is to build a moat around my pop can, and it has worked wonderfully.

Of course as I was building my weevil trap, some experimentation was needed. I had to determine whether or not weevils could swim, so I poured water into the plate and waited for a vollunteer. Soon I had two; one very small and one quite large. I debated about which would make the better test subject (the smaller may not break the water’s surface tension, but the large one may be more buoyant), but I couldn’t make up my mind. Eventually I just decided to choose the lesser of two weevils.