The Programmer's Lament

Today, I'm going to rant, and I'm going to rant about programming. If you don't care about programming (and really, why would you?), I advise skipping off to look at something else. I'm pretty sure I heard something about a famous singer dying. Maybe someone is still talking about that somewhere.

Okay, so once in a while, a decision is made to use a third party tool. For those who don't know, a third party tool is something a company buys from another company to speed up software development. Let's say, just for a random example off the top of my head, someone makes a really cool grid control. It does all sorts of things that people would like to do with grid controls that would probably take a long time to program yourself. Well, your company shells out some cash, and then you get to download and work with that grid control.

This is all fine and well, except sometimes, the third party who provides the control forgets a step. They code up the control. They do some testing to make sure it does things. They even offer some nice tech support. What they forget is that at some point, someone should have WRITTEN SOME %@$#ING DOCUMENTATION TELLING YOU HOW TO USE THE GODDAMNED THING. Otherwise, it may be that a skilled, competent (not to mention strikingly handsome) developer, not unlike myself, might find that they are pissing away weeks of their life trying to figure out where the button is that makes the control do all of the neat things that they claim it will do.

My favorite situation is when this is brought up and someone points out that there are support forums. Again, for the uninitiated, support forums are where the suckers who purchase these products go to read questions from other suckers who purchased these products in the hopes that the previous suckers ran into the same issues that they are having. It's a gamble to be sure, but if you're willing to slog through page after page of almost-but-not-quite-the-same issues, you might find a support person who at least gives a hint to the solution to your own problem.

Anyway, I've been looking at the same %$@# for weeks now. I've sent off support requests. I've been ignored in forums. I've gotten to the point where I've downloaded their source code to look for what might be causing my problems. Unfortunately, as often happens with the decision to use such third part components, I've invested so much time into this, I no longer have enough left to simply abandon them and code the whole thing myself, which I believe probably would have been a better way to go at this point. So I have no better option that to continue scanning the things, hoping that understanding will suddenly occur.

On the bright side, I get paid no matter what I spend my time doing, so I suppose I'm still winning. Yay me?

The One Time I Did, She Came Home Whistling the Harlem Globetrotters Theme

Early last week, I heard a familiar sounds coming from my car, a sound that indicates that my front brake pads were not long for this world, and they were thinking about taking my rotors with them. Now I've replaced these things myself, assisted by my in-laws (and by "assisted by" I mean I stood there and watched and pretended to be helpful), but my time is currently at such a premium that I prefer to just pay someone to make my problems go away. Fortunately, I have found a mechanic in town who I almost trust, particularly when compared to the place I went to before I moved.

The first time I took the car in, there were a couple of issues, including the check engine light being on. When they called to say what needed to be repaired, they told me that the catalytic converter caused the light to come on. I braced myself for the incoming request for money and asked what it was going to cost. The girl on the phone said, "Oh you don't need to replace it. It's just not running as efficiently as it could be, so it's going to turn the light on again later, but it'll still work for a long time". I actually asked her to repeat it, as I had never had a mechanic suggest that I could actively ignore a problem where money could have been involved. My previous mechanic had treated each issue as if a decision to ignore it was akin to signing a death warrant for my family and myself.

As if this was not enough, they avoid my second pet peeve about the mechanic - the random suggestion. I take my car in for brake pads and rotors, and the new place calls me and tells me what it will cost to replace the brake pads and rotors. The last place would too, it's just that then they would tell me that while they were looking, they also discovered about several hundred dollars in completely unrelated work that "you're going to want to get taken care of soon". How they could tell my serpentine belt was going to fail by taking my brakes apart I could never figure out, but then I'm not a professional mechanic.

Finally, the silliest and yet most annoying thing the old place did and the new one doesn't do was to %#$@ with my seats. Every time I went to pick up my car, there was a piece of paper on the floor and the driver's seat was pushed as far back as it would go. Maybe there is some correlation between the skills required for fixing cars and being an NBA star that I'm unaware of, but I find it hard to believe that every single time they finished working on my car, Wilt Chamberlain was the one who parked it in the ready-for-pickup lot.



Just to be safe, though, I never did sent my lovely wife to pick up the car.

I Promise I'll Only Use My New Hosing Powers For Good. Mostly.

Previously on DLOG, I discussed that we were going to replace the patio and considered some of the interesting things we might find when we dig up the current one. Well, we're making appointments and talking to landscapers, which means this is going to go down fairly soon, and I've accepted the fact that what we're most likely to find under the patio is dirt.

Once this new patio is built, however, I get to enter into an exciting new world of furniture purchases. Having never had a patio before, we are obviously lacking in anything to sit upon one. So now we get to figure out just what kind of stuff we want on our new space. I've been giving this some thought, and in addition to the standard umbrella-covered table, I have some suggestions:

• Comfortable chair for reading and playing PSP


• Patio cooler (this one has everything but a cabana boy)


• A cabana boy


• Patio-mounted Super-Soaker capable of knocking a full grown adult of a bike


• High quality telescope (good for both educational purposes and neighbors who live more than a block away)


• Mounted cannons (I suppose replicas would do, but fakes won't help ward off zombies now will they?)


• Bat signal with interchangeable symbols (Batman is great, but who wouldn't want to use low cloud cover to remind everyone to have a nice day?)


• A moat with a drawbridge (I'd add sharks, but I would just have to clean up after them)


• Stone gargoyles (but only because I don't think my lovely wife will ever let me put them on the roof)


• Nice flag posts (for showing patriotism/declaring war on the neighborhood/displaying current zombie alert levels)

I'm sure I'll think of more (plus my lovely wife probably has some ideas as well), but I think that would be a good start anyway, plus I've got other things to worry about. Having resigned myself to the idea that nothing of interest will be found upon digging up the current patio, I feel it is my responsibility to take this opportunity to bury something myself in an effort to keep future generations as weird as I can. My current favorite idea: a box containing a fully-intact frog skeleton, complete with tiny top hat and cane.



Hello my baby indeed.

Even the Ones I've Seen Pictures Of. No, Especially the Ones I've Seen Pictures Of

As I mentioned in the long, long ago when I started this thing, I like to write. Unfortunately, my efforts at fiction have thus far been found to be lacking. Admittedly, I only submitted a few stories, but it's a time consuming hobby to collect rejection letters and my fragile ego decided that my time would be better spent elsewhere. So, I write this instead, finding my talents more suited to humor than fiction.

There is one case where I am lured into using my writing talents outside of this site. See, I cannot back down from a challenge. Well, that's not exactly true. I can happily back down from a challenge if there's nothing to be gained or I think it's silly. This is what saved me from that let's-see-who-can-eat-the-most-pickled-pig's-feet-and-the-winner-gets-a-kick-in-the-junk debacle. (I find most challenges that start with a drinking contest are best avoided anyway). However, if there is a prize, it's a pretty sure bet I'll at least look into it.

This is what won my my beloved "durr" cup, as pictured below. A simple blurb writing contest for Halforum.com (which is where about 75% of my readers hail from - hey guys), and I found myself a prize winner. More importantly though, someone outside of this space and people who had proofread things for me had shown approval of my writing. Sure it was just the about us hunk, but still, it was a nice feeling.



Well, they've started another writing contest, but this time it's fiction for a bigger prize, and it's messing with me a bit. I have an entry. I don't think it's bad. It fulfills all of the contest requirements. The only problem is that I'm really weird about showing it to anyone. So I haven't had it proofread for criticism, and I'm submitting it Friday. Today I bit the bullet and asked for help from my friends on Facebook, but part of me is hoping no one replies. Oddly, I have no qualms submitting it to people I've only met online.

I guess that's the benefit of believing deep down that all everyone else on the internet is an artificial construct created by the Government to keep me distracted while stealing all my good ideas.

Big Brother Just Threw Up a Little

Yesterday, my good friends at Slashdot pointed me to a story about the city of Lancaster, Pennysylvania installing a boatload of cameras to deter crime. The story is mostly notable because it's a citizen's group watching the cameras and not "the man", but it gets the same response as the similar system they put in the UK. Specifically, people get all big-brother-is-watching, invasion-of-personal-rights about it. Personally, I'm not concerned as I see a certain amount of inevitability to it, but having given it some thought now, I see a pitfall to the whole system that could be truly catastrophic.



Sure, I can see the merit of those whining about the loss of liberties. Personally, I'm not doing anything I care about them watching. What's more, these things are always out on the street, so it's not like you're not in plain view of anyone walking by anyway. Seems to me the cameras aren't going to see anything that anyone else on the street was going to see, which is precisely where I become concerned.

See, instead of people losing liberty, I'm actually afraid of liberty being gained. Consider the following: what is the main difference between a constantly running camera and the regular flow of strangers in the average sity street? It's that with strangers, you know when they're watching, whereas with the cameras you have to assume that you're being watched all the time, which is theoretically going to stop the guy next to you from stabbing you in the head with a pencil to steal your pack of Mentos.



Why does this worry me? Well, knowing that eventually the prying eyes of strangers will go away, giving us a moment of privacy, means that we reserve certain activities until no one is around. If people start to think that they're always being watched, this decorum will be abandoned as hopeless. This means that all the little things that we like to pretend that people don't do (even though we know damned well that they probably do) will cease to be done in a clandestine manner, instead becoming a public performance.

You guys, we're talking about a serious breakdown of basic societal conventions here. No longer is that guy at the bus stop going to wait until you turn away before doing a nasal exploration and excavation. Gone are the days of the lady in line before you at a hot dog cart waiting to take care of that inappropriate itch until after she has made her purchase and found cover. We're facing the possibility of our major cities devolving into nose picking, butt scratching, wind breaking, wall whizzing, finger sniffing dens of disgustingness, and I for one want no part of it. If that doesn't worry you, consider this: the entire ritual dance that is currently being performed in an effort to fix a wedgie discreetly will be lost to our society forever.

At the very least, we need to begin filming instances of the latter every chance we get, if only for historical and socialogical purposes.

You Ever Accidentally Sit On The Remote? Well, That Just Got a Whole Lot Weirder.

Today, I've found another brilliant new technology, and I have to speak on it. Also, I'm going to use the word 'penis'. Repeatedly.

According to the link here (and my research has not unveiled it as false yet), Panasonic is experimenting with a gel remote that "stiffens" when it's used. My paraphrasing won't do it justice, so here's the line from the site:

Constructed of a soft, flesh-like gel, the remote appears cold when off. Once turned on, however, it seems to come to life. A soft light emanates somewhere from within as the center of the device begins to slowly rise and fall, mimicking the tranquil motions of breath. Left undisturbed, the remote will slumber peacefully. But should a human hand approach, sensors inside alert it to the imminent touch. It stops breathing, grows rigid - the light from within is extinguished.

And here it is:


Ordinarily, I would write this off as a joke. I mean surely no right-minded individual was looking at a remote control and thought to themselves, "Well sure it's useful, but how could I make it more like my penis?". So that means it penis-like qualities are accidental, which I would not have believed possible, but having watched the whole tea-bagging debacle unfold, I suppose my faith in human ignorance of double entendre has been restored to new heights.

Then it hits me that no, this isn't accidental at all. Someone in marketing has finally figured out a way to make men buy anything. Do you need a new remote? Of course not. You've probably got three you don't use already. But what if we can make it work just like your penis? Well, at the very least you have my attention.

This could lead to a whole new world of products. Penis flashlights. Penis pens. Penis kitchen utensils. A tool chest full of flaccid gadgets awaiting your firm grip to spring to life. Don't even get me started on the world of possibilities when it comes to the world of weaponry. Aim and fire indeed.

Of course, there is a risk inherent in such a product line (beyond the obvious embarrassment that would occur when you tried to show it off only to discover the batteries had died, leaving you unable to perform your channel changing). One of the great battles in any household is who is the keeper of the remote. In my house, we actually run a two party system, with my lovely wife controlling volume while I run the DVD player, to avoid the issue. Now imagine the battle should we invest in a universal remote of this type. You know how sometimes one of you can make the remote work better than the other one can? What if you had this remote, and somehow she was just better with it?

I would continue, but I've just been informed by the ghost of Sigmund Frued that I've officially taken it too far. There's one more reason I should remember not to leave the Ouija board out.

Assuming the Intelligence/Deliciousness Correlation Holds True, Of Course

This morning, in an effort to not appear as dead to the world as I really am, I made the first of many treks to the office coffee machine. In passing through the dining area, I came across what would ordinarily not even register. In my exhausted state, however, it caught my imagination to the point where I actually felt the need to take the following picture:



Now I've noted my fascination with the idea that office folk will eat any baked goods set before them without question. Never before, however, have I stumbled across found food that sparked my imagination like this. All sort of questions surround this mystery melon.

For starters, did the forsaker of the fruit start out with the intention of doing so? I personally am of the ilk that when I begin eating something, I do so with the intention of completing the job. You won't find a half eaten apple or a partial bag of chips at my desk. If I start it, you can be damned sure I'm going to finish it. That's just how I roll. So I personally would never start a food with the intention of leaving half of it to office vultures.

Still, it's hard for me to imagine the alternative. I mean, who sits down to a melon and, after finishing half of it, looks at the remainder and thinks to themselves, "Man, that was good, but I just don't know if I can eat another half." I mean, it's a melon for Pete's sake. You eat melon in units of chunks or slices (or, if it's something you're comfortable with, balls, although I personally cannot hear someone say "melon baller" without giggling like a schoolgirl). Unless you find yourself lost in the jungle and devoid of sustenance, it is not, of itself, a proper serving size.

Anyway, I left it where I found it, resisting the urge to take a big bite out of it first (my urges get weirder and sillier as sleep is reduced). A little later I discovered that someone had divided it into proper units (chucks), which I could see being a little more tempting. Having brought in my own fruit for lunch, I still just walked by, as coffee is much more effective than melon for staying awake at one's desk.

If it had been half a cake, however, I'd of been on that like zombies on Stephen Hawking.

I Actually Envy "That Kid Who Farted Each Day During Story Time"

This morning, I faced one of those delicate parenting situations that I dislike. The Princess, having successfully dressed and brushed her teeth and whatnot, finished her morning by brushing her hair. All good so far. Then she tried to put a braid in her hair that involved the hair wrap she got at Disney (the thing where they wrap string around a small patch of hair, add a few beads, and then charge you the price of a small, foreign car for it), with the end result making her hair bunch and gather and basically look like that of a wild woman.

Now she was pretty proud of herself, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but I could not in good conscience let this go. See, as a youth I was left pretty unaware of anything by way of fashion sense. This is bad, but the fact is that my mother, who was responsible for selecting clothing for me, had some questionable habits, really pushed it into weird territory.

First, my mother had this habit of buying painter pants for me. This alone isn't offensive (although I still think it's odd that I didn't actually own a pair of jeans until late middle school). The issue was that she bought them in colors that do not flatter...well anyone. Serously, I wore plaid pants to my first three years of elementary schools. Multiple kinds of plaid. Plurals of plaid. Years later, when I run into people from that town (it's only that we moved that allowed me to achieve a decent social life), they honestly only remember me as "the kid with the plaid pants". Nice.

Now this alone could be overcome assuming that at some point I took up golf, which is the only socially acceptable excuse for plain pants so far as I can tell, but things got worse. See, she bought most of my clothes from the local Goodwill. I'm not sure why she had an obsession for Goodwill, but she did. As a result, I frequently ended up with an odd assortment of clothes that others had gotten rid of. Oh sure, some of them were disposed of because someone had grown out of them, but some were clearly a decision based on something more fashion oriented. Anyway, it resulted in things like me being the only kid I knew in a used, red Micheal Jackson jacket long after there was even a potential for such a thing to be cool.

So yeah, I feel the need to protect my daughter from this kind of thing. It's not that I want her to think that the way you look is the most important thing in the world. At the same time, it's disingenuous to pretend that you're not going to get judged on it by some people, and just working from my own experience, I can tell you the following is true:



Seriously, it's a wonder I didn't get beat up more often than I did.

Only the Jokes Are Dangerously Cheesy

On numerous occasions, I've taken the opportunity to show off my status as a snack food aficionado. It is with this in mind that I must address a concern. As this issue has reared its ugly head in my own home recently, I can let it go no further.

These are Cheetos:

Cheetos are delicious, crunchy little stems of delight. They only have two flavor variants that I am aware of: Jalapeno and Flaming. Both burn in a good way. (Apparently, in Japan, you can get strawberry and milk chocolate as well. Japan is weird.) They come in two colors, namely the standard bright orange that cannot be found in nature or the Flaming red. If you turned my work keyboard over, a delightful confetti of red and orange Cheeto dust would rain down in a celebration of cheesy goodness. I choose not to do so, but rather keep this as a reserve in case I find myself trapped at work and in need of sustenance during the zombie apocalypse.

Anyway, recently upon being offerred her choice of a snack product to bring home for some celebration, my daughter chose Cheetos. I was, of course, proud, as any American father would be. Tastier than a potato chip, less risky than a random Dorito flavor, not one of those creepy, health-nut veggie chips (blech)...it was a fine choice. Well, almost.

See, what she picked were these:

These are Cheetos only in name and color. Unlike their perfect, crunchy counterparts, these are not acceptable. When you eat one of these, instead of getting a satisfying cruch, you get a dissolving mass of cornmeal that, if chewed, forms a plasticine layer over your teeth, a layer that will only gather in strength should you choose to continue. Eat a handful, and you'll find that your jaw no longer wishes to open, as the layer has begun to weld your teeth shut.

So, just to review, these are Cheetos:


These are packing material:


Any questions?

Walt Disney World: The Short Form

Okay, instead of dragging this out forever, I'm going to shoot out a vacation highlight reel and then move on. So, without further ado (because lord knows I hate it when there's too much ado), I give you my Walt Disney World highlights:

Biggest disappointment: Gay Day at The Magic Kingdom
Considering the brouhaha I had seem from certain church groups online, I expected the park to be like a day-long pride parade full of mesh shirts and tiny disco shorts. Instead, it was just a bunch of people in red shirts. It was a lot like I imagine heaven to be in the Star Trek universe. I went the entire day, and only saw one couple making out under the fireworks, and as they didn't violate the cardinal rule regarding public displays of affection (try not to make out in public if you're ugly), it was largely inoffensive.

Ride most like being on drugs: It's a Small World
Seriously, I went through the whole ride with my jaw hanging open. I still can't really find words to describe how delightfully weird it is. The best I can do is say that when people drop acid, this is what they are hoping to achieve.

Favorite ride: The Haunted Mansion
What can I say? I love me some Haunted Mansion. I went twice, and I loved it both times. This time, I had the added bonus of having someone point out to me that at the back of the pet cemetery outside the mansion, a grave has been erected for Mr. Toad, whose wild ride (the second best ride after the Haunted Mansion when I was five) was refitted for a sadly dull Winnie the Pooh ride in 1998.



Hottest park: Disney's Animal Kingdom
Okay, you would think that a theme park made up like a jungle, complete with tree shade throughout most of the park, would be cooler than it's counterparts. Instead, you get the Animal Kingdom, where the whole place feels twenty degrees hotter than the surrounding area, and half the attractions seem to involve walking paths. We did breakfast, the safari, two air conditioned shows, and watched a parade, and then took off for someplace cooler. Like Hell.

Coolest special event: Star Wars Weekend at Hollywood Studios
This was awesome. Star Wars sets. Stormtroopers patrolling. Chewbacca (what a wookie). The actors who portrayed Boba Fett, Jengo Fett (and countless clones), and the one and only Darth Vader on parade. Very, very nerdcore.

Best character meal: Cinderella's Royal Table
Okay, now the Tusker House Breakfast that we attended to celebrate the Moose's third birthday was cool, and the kids got their pictures with the full set of Mickey, Donald, Goofy, Daisy, and Minnie, but Cinderella's won for two reasons. First, not only did the kids get a great professional picture with Cinderella, but during dinner, there were more characters performing as well. If this wasn't enough, the kids got toys - a princess wand for her, and a sword for him. To emphasize that last point: they gave a freakin' three year old a sword at the dinner table. I would say the highlight of the meal for me was discussing our dietary restriction with the chef, and seeing my son take his little sword and poke the chef right in the junk with it. The fact that I didn't laugh out loud still astounds me.



Best country at Epcot: Germany
Oh sure, I could have gone with Mexico for the food, or America for my country, or Canada for...I don't know, Martin Short I guess. Instead, Germany wins out. It had good chocolate, good beer, and clocks that little, toy people come out. Man those crack me up, especially after the good beer.

Scariest ride: Dumbo
It's a little car with a tiny seat belt, there's not really a door on the outside, and how high you go is typically decided by the kid sitting next to you. %#$@ that noise.

So there you have it. There was more - a lot more, and I'm sure it will come up in time, but overall, it was an excellent trip. Now I just need to get rested up, because Disney is fun, but it leaves you a bit hung over.

Okay, the whiskey probably helps, but mostly, it was Disney.

I'm Going, and Yet I'm Not Going To Go There

As mentioned yesterday, the family and I are headed for Walt Disney World. Well, we're arriving tomorrow, the first week in June. For those that don't know (the only reason I know is that I was clued in by a more Disney savvy co-worker), this is actually a special day annually at the Magic Kingdom park. For tomorrow culminates Gay Days, a whole week of...well, I'm not sure what, and I'll be damned if I'm going into a bunch of research online for it. The line must be drawn somewhere, and I'm still hurting from the dinosaur junk thing.

Seriously though, the bit of looking I did do doesn't concern me much. Apparently Gay Day started as a grass roots effort by a guy named Doug Swallow (assuming that's true, and it's on WikiPedia, so it must be, that is the most unfortunate name that could be associated with such an event). It's not an official Disney thing. The guy wanted to get a day when a bunch of the LGBT community would show up at Disney in red shirts (one would assume that the cross section of the LGBT community and Star Trek fans would have protested, but whatever), just to be seen. It got a lot bigger over the years, and apparently now attracts over 135,000 people. Yikes.

Now, ordinarily this is the part where I would make a bunch of jokes about this, but I'm not going to, and not just because my lovely wife put a hiatus on me making jokes about wearing chaps without pants underneath after an unfortunate indecent on Facebook. No, I'm not going to make jokes because thanks to our good friends in California, that would force me to count myself amongst the haters, and I can't do that. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - once we work past this ridiculous "debate" (it seems I find very few people actually debating about anything), people are going to look back on this controversy of ours the way we look back on segregation. So I, who ordinarily takes the stand that pretty much anyone or anything is open for joking about so long as it's relatively good-natured, is backing off this one time.

I hate to admit it, but this is killing me. This shouldn't really surprise anyone. I'm a big fan of the easy joke, and this whole thing is rife with potential. As stated, however, I will stand resolute. No princess jokes. No Chip and Dale jokes. Nothing. Once in a while, even I feel the need to take a stand.

Just to reassure you all, though, if it was Furry Day at Disney (which, let's face it, actually makes a lot more sense), there would be no mercy shown. &$%#ing freaks.

You There - Laugh At My Joke and Then Get Me a Cup Of Coffee.

So, as I alluded to a couple of days ago, the family and I are going on vacation next week. This was not by choice. Rather, two men in dark suits arrived at our doors, mentioned the ages of our children, noted how much vacation time my wife and I currently had built up (how they knew that I have no idea), and explained that we had nearly exceeded the time allowed until we were due for a family vacation. They handed us a package on Walt Disney World, issued a stern warning about not wanting to have to come back, and left. Through the tinted windows of the car they drove in, I'm pretty sure I could make out someone smoking a cigar in the back seat - someone with two perfectly circular ears sticking out from the top of their head. It was...bizarre.

It was an undeniable fact, however, that with the Princess nearing seven years of age, our family has never managed to go on so much as weekend trip. We have done a couple of day excursions, but that's been it. This isn't because we didn't want to, but rather a side effect of our general schedule. We're lucky to pull off an overnight visit to grandma's house.

Anyway, we saved up and we're going. What's funny is that, when I mention this to people, I feel like I need to explain. What with the economy being what it is, it feels wrong somehow to be going off on a big vacation. The fact that we're in Michigan just makes it worse. Whenever it comes up, I'm always afraid it's going to be followed by someone telling me they just lost their job and their house and their car and they're piling up medical bills and their dog ran away to go live with some family doing better. It hasn't happened yet, but in these times, every conversation has the potential to end as a county song. It's best to be prepared.

So there you have it. Next week, you'll all have to get your fix of general silliness somewhere else. Sorry, but that's what happens when your entire editorial staff consists of one guy waiting for code to build. Maybe I should get an intern. "You - I'll be out next week. Write something funny each day. Mock a celebrity if you can." That would be cool.

Of course I'd have to explain who the new kid sitting at my desk was, but I think I've reached a degree of awesome that justifies an entourage, don't you?

Maybe We Should Exchange Gifts At a Mexican Restaurant

When I was a younger man, I would do the things a younger man is supposed to do when it came to celebrating events with my wife. I would buy gifts or cards or whatever, and give them hoping that she would be pleased. I'll leave it at that, as we like to run a nice PG-13 outfit here, but you all get the idea. There was a reaction that I was hoping for.

I've found that this is still true, but at some point it changed dramatically. I still want my lovely wife to be pleased, obviously, when I send her a note or buy her a gift or whatever, but at some point I set the bar in such a way that has made things kind of difficult. At some point, I found that what I really wanted was to achieve something that seemed totally counter-intuitive to my actual goals.

In essence, I'm not happy until someone cries.

This wouldn't work on me, because depending on my level of exhaustion, an overly sentimental dog food commercial can make me cry. My wife is made of stronger stuff, however, so I can only think of a few occasions where she has broken down on the basis of sentimentality. Each of these that I was the cause of stand out as a total win in my mind.

Of course, it's not always easy, and sometimes it turns out badly. Wrapping gifts in onion skin, for example, didn't work like I thought it would. The time I gave her a bowling ball and "accidentally" dropped it on her foot when handing it to her, likewise, did not give me the same thrill. Let's not even discuss the I-got-you-some-jewelry-and-oops-the-pepper-spray-misfired incident. That one landed my on the couch for a week, despite the fact that she really seemed to like the jewelry.

So yeah, it's not easy, but it's something to strive for. I guess I have to stick to the traditional methods of actually giving thought to the gifts I purchase. I'll also still be stuck reading each and every card in the Anniversary section of the local Hallmark store until I find something that suitably expresses my fondness for my lovely wife, or, giving up that quest (it's easy to eliminate anything that rhymes, but after that I have to think), actually write something on my own.

It's a good thing I found the one woman in the world who's worth all this effort. Happy anniversary, love.

Baby, It's Time To Fight Like a Cow Again

My wife has given me many things. Support, love, two beautiful children...there are too many thing to count here in a simple entry. She has effected my life in ways I could have never predicted, and now, so close to our anniversary, one of those things she has shared with me has returned, and I could not be happier.

For it was my lovely wife who introduced me to Monkey Island.

I had always been a gamer. Atari 2600, Nintendo Entertainment System, Odyssey, Sega Genesis...I was in there. My parents, however, never owned a computer, so I had not experienced anything beyond the standard shoot-em-up, collect the coins, save the princess/skate park/world type games. I didn't know there was anything else.

When I got older and managed to finally get a PC, my lovely wife asked if I had ever played The Secret of Monkey Island. I had no idea what she was talking about, so we scored a copy and ran through it. It was, in a word, amazing. It was everything I loved about games and didn't know it. It had puzzles. It had humor everywhere. It had monkeys. It had a story that actually made sense. (Seriously, after the third castle the princess wasn't in, why didn't Mario take a step back and ask for directions to the correct one? Men.)

After that, I was into anything with an action menu. Loom. Grim Fandango. Total Throttle. Sam and Max Hit the Road. The 7th Guest and The 11th Hour. Above all, of course, the next three installments in the Monkey Island series. These games are the reason that even hack-and-slash action games have to have at least half a story to hold my interest. The bar was set, and it was set high.

Now, after years of pining for a return to the Tri-Island area, I'm finally getting back in, for they've returned. As if a return wasn't enough, they're back with a vengeance. I get the fifth installment, Tales of Monkey Island, but I get a completely new version of the original Secret of Monkey Island, now full of voice-over goodness. I'm not kidding when I say that I was giddy at this development.



So it is with great satisfaction that I look forward to putting in my first ever pre-orders to ensure that, come July, my lovely wife and I will sit down at the computer and spend time with old friends. Once again we'll help Guybrush Threepwood overcome the vile LeChuck. Once again we'll seek advice from the Voodoo Lady, get swindled by Stan, and convince someone that there is a three-headed monkey behind them. Once again, we will seek out swag, for no swag means no grog, and ladies and gentlemen, we are getting dangerously low on grog. And for all of this, I owe my lovely wife a debt of eternal gratitude.

Oh, and the kids and the love and support and stuff. Those are nice too.

Eventually, My Knowledge Of Programming Will Save The Day. I Hope.

There are times when I, as someone who doesn't eat meat or dairy, have it a lot easier than others. For example, let's say you're planning a trip to a major theme park. Most of you would have to face a tough decision of where you would like to eat each meal. For my family and I, we simply have to identify the one place that serves something we can eat, and we're locked in.

Okay, there's a hint of sarcasm there. In reality, this is another one of those areas where we're kind of punished for not eating like everyone else. The fact is, we have to spend an entire day planning out where and when we're going to eat, scouring online menus, just to ensure that our kids aren't going to go hungry at these places. (Well, my lovely wife had to anyway, which we owe her for tremendously). What's awesome is that she actually could do that. All of this information is online, so instead of waiting until we get there to figure it all out, she can plan it out now.

At if that wasn't enough, she actually found instances where we have options other than the veggie burger. Don't get me wrong - I love me some veggie burgers, and appreciate the fact that I occasionally get to eat at a restaurant without special ordering something (or worse, just letting them put the cheese on it and suffering the inevitably musical consequences later). When you're facing, say, six days of two veggie burgers a day however...well, options are nice. I mean beyond condiments, that is.

Anyway, she was very successful, and we owe her a debt of gratitude for taking the time to do it. I'm not someone who's big on preparations and whatnot, so I would have likely spent half our trip wandering from restaurant to restaurant until I found one with an item we could order. This leads to crankiness as people get hungry and tired of waiting to eat, and I want to avoid as much cranky on vacation as possible. Now, I get to actually take happy kids on rides and stuff.

The lesson: my vacations, not unlike my life in general, are so much better when I leave the planning to someone more qualified.