|
THURSDAY, AUGUST 09 2007 Today’s Moment of Peculiar Juxtaposition, snapped on the way home with the iPhone:
Venus might well agree. Fun Spam Update: step one is easy. Select all 47 messages. Individually. Step two: select the “Unpublish Comments” option in the drop down menu. This leads to a screen that asks you if you want to “delete the comments and all their children,” which sounds attractive. It sounds like you’re kicking the guy in his yarbles. Step three – and this is key – mistakenly leave the option as “publish all selected comments,” then hit SUBMIT. Step Four: in a panic, close the browser. Step five: reopen the browser, and check the “Recent Comments Box.” It should read: And so on. Apparently that's a word PEOPLE respond to, and a word no sysadmin will block. Hah. Just you wait, Mr. Dxyyptxls. (That's the author of the spam. He alters consonats every day to thwart the filters.) Step six: Select all messages in the “Approved Comments” queue. Delete them. And their children. Especially their children. It’s amazing: I’ve been going 97 MPH since I got up, and I still haven’t fixed the two big things that need fixing – mail, and the submission for the book. I’ll be up until two with this krep. This isn’t fun. The individual components of my life are fun; I still love what I do, but the aggregate effect is doubleplus unfun. I know it’s hard to understand why I can’t fix the flippin’ email and RESPOND to people to whom I owe responses, but the moment there’s one millisecond of free time the phone rings, or I have to make Gnat lunch, or the Oak Island Water Feature makes a horrid gurgle and I have to shut it off, of the dog yarks up half a crayon, or Gnat needs to have the spelling checked on her thank you notes – honest to God, I feel like a gong that’s being struck every 17 seconds. I suppose I could be doing it instead of This, but right now I’m taking a break from pawing through nineteen boxes of ancient recipe books, looking for the one piece of art the publisher says moired too horribly to be reprinted. But you didn’t come here to hear that. Well. How about a picture of hell, then?
Tonight my sister and brother-in-law and nephew & niece were in town, and we went to see them at their hotel. This was the lobby bathroom. YOU WILL WATCH TELEVISION. To complete the vision of hell, there were three Tvs, each tuned to a different station. The next one had ESPN. Which would be great if your initials were E. S. Anyway, I took time off from DUTY, even though all the demons – they have calendars for bodies and clocks for heads – were jabbing me and laughing. We met at a hotel with a large water park, or a water park with a hotel hanging off one side; hard to say. Big place, right by the Mall of America. In fact it’s the Water Park of America. All other water parks are controlled by the Taliban. We’d intended to sit by the pool and watch the kids play, but no: there’s a $16 “dry pass” just to get into the fargin’ place. Because I might strip off my clothes once inside and leap into the water, I guess. So we let the kids go and retired to the bar, where we chatted about Dad and kids and the gas business. That last one: bad. See, there’s no profit in selling gas. The profit comes from soda, smokes, jerky, food. But that requires people to leave the island and enter the store. If they use a card to pay – and everyone does – the card fee wipes out the profit on gas, small as it is. Good thing they’re diversified. The other side of the Lileks Oil Empire involves filling trains, and this is interesting – to me, anyway. Maybe I mentioned this before. But the train companies bought satellite time, or perhaps they have their own birds; I don’t know. Whichever: they’re capable of spotting the smallest amount of pollution left behind when the trains are filled. Regs require mats and sandboxes to catch any overflow, and if you leave a stain – which we don’t, natch – the satellites have proof, and you get dinged. We’re talking minor spillage in industrial areas, too., not Valdez-style dumps in day-care playgrounds. Doesn’t matter: they’re strict. In the old days my dad would show up at 3 AM, fill a train, and that would be it; now whoever stands there in the dark of the night with the winter wind sticking stilettos up his nostrils knows that high above a camera takes note. No matter how much you shake and dance, the last few drops always go on your record. You know what? I should have been working on other things instead of writing this. But I enjoyed it. I’m happier for it. If all goes well I'll wrap up most of this tomorrow, and enjoy some simple - Holy crow. Tomorrow's my birthday. DON'T SEND EMAIL. I thank you for the thought, but as I said, it's hosed. Birthday! Checking the picture database . . . hah. The governor sent me a letter. Do they still do that?
God and Flour. Despite what you mght think, only the latter was a state-owned brand. Well, if I have a few minutes of the spare variety, a Birthday-Themed Diner might be appropriate. Things can't get so contruded and compacted with duty I can't do Diners. I mean, my grand scheme is supposed to add a podcast for buzz.mn, not subtract one from the Bleat. (It'll be a Monday morning podcast, 10 minutes.) Now back to sifting through piles of books, looking for illustrations I scanned a year ago and forgot. It’ll only take an hour. It’s midnight now. Then I can write the morning copy for buzz.mn. Actually, from where you sit, I’m there already. Remember, it’s Lance Lawson Mystery Thursday. See you in dog-faced-kidland.
|
||||||
...