Gentle reminder that donotcall.gov exists.
MicroBlog Written with a loving hand by kitt some time around 19:21 on 10 April 2015Didn't really want to watch Longmire anyway
Blog Yeah, kitt finished writing this at 19:15 on 10 April 2015Okay, since I'm nearing the end of the published books of the Walt Longmire series, I bothered to look up the television series details. I've been meaning to start watching the series since book one, and thought I'd check out how the series was handled. There are some plot points in the first book that I thought might be tricky, and I wasn't very excited to read that Lou Diamond Phillips was cast as Henry Standing Bear in the television version - mostly because the man IS NOT SIX FOOT FIVE AND BROAD OF CHEST, come on, there's no way that Phillips can stand in Bear's shoes / moccasins / whatever footwear you want to use, few people can. It's like casting for Jack Reacher's described character, it's hard, nearly impossible, but only nearly impossible. Phillips is not Bear, no matter how many Indians / Native Americans / First Nation people he has played on TV. Nope. Nada. Unh-uh. No.
Yeah, so, the plot of the tv series. I looked it up.
WHAT.
THE.
FUCK?
Okay, this series is CLEARLY going to be like the Bourne movies were to the books: the two sentence summary of the books and the two sentence summary of the movies are the same, and the main characters are named the same, AND NOTHING ELSE IS. HF nothing else is.
Same as the Dresden Files. Oh boy, does that television series not even come close to the awesomeness of the books. Nope.
So, I am now less enthusiastic for watching the Longmire television series. I suspect it may be fun and all, and, to be honest, I will likely watch the episodes when I can get them less expensively, but not any time soon. The two sentence summary and the names might be the same, but the Longmire of the books, the television series is not.
Spirit of Steamboat
Book Notes Instead of being asleep at 18:57 on 10 April 2015, kitt created this:
So, apparently, Johnson writes Longmire books for the fun of it. Sometimes they are short stories which are released, say, around every Christmas time, to be later gathered into a compendium for those who either missed the individual stories, or want to have them all in one place. And sometimes, when he starts writing a short story, it just sorta gets away from him. Or so, this is what he said when explaining the existence of the Spirit of Steamboat, a half-sized, not mystery, Walt Longmire book.
I have to say, I rather liked this book because it wasn't a mystery. It was a Walt Longmire adventure, which is great in its own right. But better than that, this book had the elements of suspense that, in this case, I would argue, were stronger than in the mystery books. And suspense in a good sense, too, the OMG OMG OMG KEEP READING READ FASTER sort of way that I like, not the torturous "omg what the f--- is going on I can't read this any more" sort of discomfort way that causes me to skip to the end of the book sort of way that I hate.
I was amused when Johnson had Walt hear the drums in the rotors and remark on them, given that Walt was surprised to hear the drums in the first of the Longmire series. So, either he didn't hear any drums in the intervening 22 years, or all the crazy antics between this book and book one of the series caused amnesia in the man. Both are plausible, given how much physical abuse Longmire takes when doing The Right Thing™.
Totally recommended.
Giving what I want to get
Blog Written with a loving hand by kitt some time around 11:25 on 9 April 2015Every Thursday at work, we have Engineering talks. These talks are technical talks by developer-tech-type people for developer-tech-type people. They are short to long, interesting to boring, by experienced speakers and by inexperienced speakers, good to fantastic. They are recorded and viewable by anyone in the company, though discovery of older sessions isn't well supported. Given we have three main offices for the company ("main" is defined as "has a good-sized engineering team," but even that is hand-wavy with the "good-sized" description), the Engineering Talks rotate among the offices, streamed to the other offices.
Today being Thursday, we have Engineering Talks. Today's talks are at the office I work in. My first inclination is to just watch the livestream: I can stay at my desk and keep working, half listening to the presentations while still Getting Shit Done™. It also allows me to be somewhat unsocial, which is to say, not overwhelmed by the mass of other people all crammed into one room. The sound is often better on livestream, as is the slides' view.
So, yeah, my default is watch from my desk.
When I mentioned this to a coworker, his response was, "Boo, it's in Ottawa. Come to the lounge."
At which point, after pausing to realize I wasn't really considering my actions, I was just defaulting to hermit mode, my sole thought was, "Huh. Yes."
Yes a thousand times, because that is what I want as a speaker. I want people to listen to me when I have something to say (which, oddly, isn't as much as other people want me to speak, a fact I find very strange). I want my coworkers to know a bit more of the puzzle that is the giant piece of software that we work on. I want to know more about what is going on in other parts of the system. I want to be engaging as a speaker, entertain, and still teach; amuse and still explain. I want them talking about the conversation I start with my presentation, and debating the merits of what I say, expanding to their work.
My first talk here at work was short, 8 minutes, about squashing git commits in pull requests. I explained what the problem was (too many not-useful commits merged into master), gave boundaries of the issue (each commit to master should be atomic), I showed two ways of merging a commit (git merge --squash and git rebase -i), and provided solutions to the peeve that was the ten-commits-in-a-merge-only-two-of-which-were-stand-alone. It was well-received, started one of the most active conversations in the development channel, and had a positive change on the awareness of coworkers in squashing commits into atomic chunks more easily used by git-bisect. A win in my book.
If everyone had stayed at their desks, though, would I have had the impact I did? I would not have, not by a long shot. There were questions asked at the talk, people watched the talk, people engaged. My talk was better because of that engagement, because I wasn't talking TO my coworkers, I was talking WITH my coworkers.
Being present in the lounge and showing support to my coworkers as they talk about their work, as they show their enthusiasm for this new technology or solution, that is what I want. I want that when I speak in front of them, so I will give that when they speak, as best I can. I want a positive work environment, and being present is one way I can show support.
So, yeah, I went to the lounge and listened. And learned more than a bit.
Besides, I'm not really sure I can resist in any appreciable way a grown man saying, "Boo!"
Deplorable Limerick
Scalzi Story kitt decided around 05:34 on 6 April 2015 to publish this:Wherein I take a band name from Scalzi’s Next Band Name list, and spend no more than 20 minutes writing the story with the band name as a title. Current one is Deplorable Limerick, which I am unable to find on the tumblr blog. You can read the full story archive, if you'd like.
---
"There once was a hole that was glory,
And wow could it tell you a story.
'Bout the things that went in..."
Michael leaned over to his brother, Cain, sitting next to him on the bleachers and commented, "He uses this one every year."
The crowd erupted into cheers as the middle aged man on the small stage in front of the bleachers grinned up at the cheers. He took a small bow, as much as his large stomach would let him. He scrambled to keep his trucker hat on his head as it slipped, even with the small bow.
Michael leaned back into his brother to be heard. "We think he lost his virginity in a glory hole, back in high school." He sat back straight and lifted the long neck to his mouth, taking a deep drink.
"His wife must love that rumour."
Michael gestured with the bottom of his bottle. "Oh, she does."
Cain followed the direction to see a stiff backed woman on the second set of bleachers looking down on the stage. She was clapping properly, her smile more of a grimace. Cain snorted. "Right."
The crowd slowed its cheering as the man walked off the stage, while an old woman walked slowly across to the microphone in the middle of stage, two spotlights illuminating it only barely more than tape surrounding, also brightly lit stage. A dark haired round man in a cheap business suit sat on the stage to one side, clipboard in one hand, pen in the other, a giant sash reading, "MAYOR" across one shoulder.
"They do this every year?"
Michael smiled as he looked around. "Yep. Every year. Been going on since two kids in the fifties tried to top each other with bad limericks. Became a town obsession. Now it's a contest to see who can come up with the most deplorable limerick. The mayor," he pointed to the man on the stage, "judges and has the final say. Jean down there," he gestured to the woman with the blue hair on stage, "she's entered most of them. Hers are pretty good. As librarian she keeps up with current events."
The crowd hushed, as it did for every speaker, giving the respect each entry deserved. Michael grinned at Cain, then turned back to the stage.
"There once was a cup and two girls
Who wore nothing but elegant pearls
When the crowd watched a bit..."
Cain's head whipped around to look at his brother again, shock on his face. Michael was gripping his stomach, holding in laughter. The crowd wasn't as well disciplined, bursting into thundering applause filled with laughter when Jean finished. Even the mayor was clapping enthusiastically.
"You didn't."
Michael was shaking with laughter. "I did!"
The crowd eventually calmed, as Jean waved and walked off the stage. A small teenager walked onto the stage after her. The girl's hair was in pig tails, braces on her teeth. The waif of a girl seemed lost as she stood in front of the microphone waiting for the crowd to quiet.
"What's the minimum age?" Cain leaned in to ask.
"Thirteen. She's old enough, or they wouldn't let her up there."
Cain shook his head.
"There once was a girl with a duck."
The girl's voice, barely a whisper, was clear in the microphone.
"Who said that she just liked to suck.
But when asked what she'd thought..."
Her voice grew stronger, until the last word of her limerick boomed out over the crowd. The crowd was even louder than after the librarian. Cain and Michael joined in, standing and cheering for the girl, as she seemed to fold back into herself, smiling as she walked off the side of the stage.
Sitting back down and laughing a bit, the brothers watched as a frail old man shuffled across the stage. He didn't move quickly, and seemed in no rush. Murmurs and talk continued in the crowd during the couple minutes it took for the man to cross to the microphone. Again, the crowd grew silent when it became apparent he was ready to speak.
The old man looked across the crowd. He adjusted his glasses as he leaned into the microphone.
"There once..."
He paused, looking around. He started again.
"There once was a ..."
He stopped, and looked back towards the mayor. After a moment, he seemed to make a decision, and started shuffling towards the seated man. The crowd started murmuring. Cain looked at Michael, who looked back and shrugged.
When the old man arrived at the mayor, he gestured for the seated man to remain seated. He then leaned over to whisper in the ear of the mayor.
As he whispered into his ear, the mayor began blushing. The old man paused, took a breath and kept speaking. The mayor shifted in his seat, looked around at the crowd, but didn't stand or stop the old man.
When the old man finished, he straightened, and turned to face the crowd. He didn't look back down at the mayor as he grinned, his smile growing bigger and bigger as the mayor shifted in his seat, a deep red blush still across his face. He seemed to be in some distress, looking down at his clipboard, his sash, back to the clipboard, and his feet.
Suddenly he stood up and rushed to the microphone.
"Mr. Dale Johnson is the winner!" he called into the microphone. Johnson, still standing next to the now empty mayor's chair, raised both arms into the air, pumping them slightly. The mayor hurried off the small platform, to disappear behind the bleachers.
"That's a new one," Michael commented, as the raucous laughter and confusion sent the crowd into cheers.
Cain looked at his brother. "What just happened?"
"A limerick too deplorable for our ears," he answered.
Cain smiled, "Clearly," and toasted his brother before finishing his beer.