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linkadu
09 July 2007 @ 08:32 pm
Here's a movie: a spy tries to figure out why his agency is trying to kill him with the help of a beautiful stranger. Sounds like the Bourne Identity, no? In fact, it's also the plot of a 1973 movie with Robert Redford called 3 Days of the Condor. The movie's far-fetched premise is that books contain useful information. The CIA has people who read every piece of fiction written in the world and analyze it for links to commies, terrorists, or just for good ideas. Robert Redford's secret literary analysis unit is killed while he's out to lunch. When he tries to come in to the CIA, an agent tries to kill him. Turns out Redford discovered a book that was translated into some strange languages -- Czech, but not Russian, Italian, but not French, etc. Turns out, "it was all about oil." How is a book translated into funky languages "all about oil?" Who cares. It's so obvious to liberals (like me) that it's all about oil, that it doesn't need any explanation. During Robert Redford's flight from the CIA, he Stockholm Syndromes an attractive photographer lady into sleeping with him. It seems weird and forced, but sex in 70's movies is kinda pro-forma. And hell, who needs an excuse to sleep with Robert Redford?

The end of the movie is a bit of a cliff-hanger: Redford wants to avoid being killed by the CIA for his information by going public to the New York Times. The movie ends with the question, "But will they publish it?" It's an interesting question, probably heavily influenced by the Pentagon Papers fiasco right around that time. It's still an interesting question -- after the NYT held off on publishing stories about Bush's secret prisons, and a raft of other important stories (not to mention the credulous stenography leading up to the war)...

Looks like things people were pondering in the Nixon era are suddenly relevant again. Hm.
 
 
linkadu
01 June 2007 @ 09:15 am
I dreamt I was in a new video game last night. I had been playing Duke Nukem until late, but this wasn't anything like Duke Nukem. THe interesting thing is that this game, unlike most of my dream games, it actually seems like a pretty cool game.

So, let me tell you about the game -- instead of the incidental sexy chicks -- in standard second-person, back-of-the-box format.

You are a pirate and your job is to collect as much booty as you can before the sands run out! Look for treasure maps and try to get the treasure. But watch out! You might have to fight your fellow pirates to get it. You can also try pirating, raiding, or any form of petty thuggery. Just don't let the Royal Navy see you, or you'll be hounded to the ends of the earth. Arr.


What would make this game fun is that there'd be tons of NPC's, and there'd be a lot of different strategies, from massing up as a team, to being a team that sends out runners to gather information on treasure and supply routes, to stalking other players... there'd also have to be some resource allocation issues, figuring out if you should buy weapons, upgrade yet cannons, buy another boat...

ANd law enforcement would be another fun part of the game. If you attack NPCs in the city, or leave survivors in a boat assault, your team will be flagged for arrest, which will lead to some campaign of harrassment; and you might lose access to the city, which will limit your ability to get supplies. And since there's no honor among pirates, you would be able to switch your team (with consent of the new team) at any time, so there could be plenty of back stabbing.

It seems most MMPORG's are basically band-oriented, and basically centered around fighting. I haven't heard of any game where it makes sense for team members to fan out and cooperate on more than just where to point their guns/swords/spells.
 
 
linkadu
Today was another gruelling day migrating my dad's XP system over to his new Vista Box. I'm just going to talk about the supposedly simple process of moving his Outlook Express mail to Windows Mail.

Step 1. Plug in Windows "Easy Transfer." Easy Transfer easily transfers all your files and settings from XP to Vista (or to another XP system). It can connect through a special USB cable (extra monies) or through the network. I hooked it up through the network then waited for about 4 hours while it transferred everything. Just one glitch: "Microsoft Easy Transfer Can Not Transfer Outlook Express files." Hm. As Mr. Schrute would say: "Question: Why can't Miscrosoft's Transfer Program Transfer Microsoft Program Data?"

Step 2. Export to Outlook Express to a different format. Problem: Microsoft needs to install the "interpreter" program to translate Outlook Express to Comma-Separated-Files. It will need the disk to do this. First of all, with all the junk they load onto windows, it seems like the interpreter would be pretty small and quite useful. Secondly, I can't effin' deal with putting in the original install disk, especially on my dad's system. Half the time I can't find the disk, and the other half of the time it's the wrong version, and yet the other half of the time it's the right version, but the wrong license. So, I say "Fuck it." Let's try step 3.

Step 3. Attempt to find the PST files that Outlook Express natively uses. That wasn't too hard. Files - Options - Data Settings or something. Copy those files over to the shared directory.

Step 4. Open up Windows Mail on Vista, and import the .PST files. Should be a snap. The import menu comes up, I click on "Import from Outlook Express." Instantly the gong of death comes up and Vista informs me, "Can not import from this MAPI client." And that's all it says. Again, Mr. Schrute: "Question: Why can't Miscrosoft's Mail's Import Feature Import Mail from a Microsoft Product?"

Step 5. Furious web searching gives me the answer: Microsoft Mail cannot import DICK unless Microsoft Outlook is installed. That's right. If you don't want Microsoft Outlook, you have to install it in order to import.

Step 6. Installing outlook:

Step 6a. Download the Outlook. Since everything is bundled, I also had to download Word, Excel, Access, and god knows what else. That was about 488 megs. That took some time.

Step 6b. Give Microsoft ALL your data. I'm talking name, phone number, home address, company you work for, size of company, e-mail address, job titles, etc. Of course, they don't actually know my name isn't "Fuck You You Fucking Cocksmokers." They also don't know that I don't live at "27 I Fucked YOur Mother Lane," nor can they automatically verify that I work as the CEO of a small tech firm employng 7-12 people under the banner of "Microsoft'sBigGapingAnus.com."

Step 6c. So I plugged all that in, and Microsoft sends me an e-mail with my registration key.

Step 6d. Run the install program, cut and paste the key.

Step 7. Do the import. It works fine.

Step 8. Uninstall Outlook. Install openoffice.

Ah, and here's my favorite part. The e-mail with the registration key began like this:
Thank you for registering for a free 60 day Microsoft Office trial.

You’re about to experience the latest developments and improvements of Microsoft® Office, so prepare to power past mundane busywork and move on to more important projects.
 
 
linkadu
21 May 2007 @ 09:03 am
I like to think about what life would be like if 95% of everyone just died (me, of course, excluded). I think life would, at least, become more interesting. Everything most of us do is pretty inconsequential in the grand scheme of things -- heck, even in the grand scheme of our own surivival what we do is inconsequential. We do something, we get paid, we buy food. The actual act of survival is going to the store and exchanging bits of paper -- heck, not even that most times.

We are all going to die, we realize, but many of us take comfort in knowing that we will live on through our friends and family, and pretend that the good that we do will reverberate down through the ages, and in that way we achieve some small measure of immortality. Apocalypse robs us of even that illusion and forces us to acknowlege that cultures and societies die just like people do. It forces me to ask myself, "Well, what is the point of being alive, really?" Because there really isn't one reason, particularly. You just are alive. And I figure in a post-apocalyptic world, just being alive might be enough reason to live. Or at least I'd be too busy surviving to wonder why it's worth it.

I was with a friend over the weekend. She said, "I don't understand your obsession with the apocalypse. What is that about?"

I told her, "Well, I think it brings everyone down to the level I'm usually at: which is wondering, 'What is the point of anything?'"

She replied, "I think a lot of people think like that, but they just don't talk about it." Wow, I thought to myself, that's really cool. Someone else understands the depths of my despair. Then she went on, "Like, I don't like to clean, because I figure, what's the point, things are just going to get dirty anyway."

Some days the apocalypse can't come soon enough.


I shouldn't have bothered mowing the lawn this morning.
 
 
linkadu
21 May 2007 @ 08:55 am
After someone has received one of mix tapes (or CD's or shuffle or whatever the hell you kids are calling it these days), I almost always get some advice, usually in a kind way, such as: "Those are some of the most retarded transitions I've heard on a mix, are you mental?" and "I kept thinking it was over because there were these 12 second gaps between songs."

I'm still working out my mix philosophy. I like a range of moods, but, honestly, I trend towards the depressed. I might have Tom Waits, Tori Amos, Rufus Wainwright, and Jeff Buckley in one set. Those are all pretty much downers, and I'm not sure anyone wants to be that depressed -- not even me. But here's the other thing -- I don't like moderate music. I either like it depressed or I like it manic, and there's not a lot in between. That makes for some awkward transitions.

Quite the dilemma.
 
 
linkadu
15 May 2007 @ 02:33 pm
The one thing that keeps closing job window for me is, "Would I hire me for this job?" Most of the time, the answer is, "no." Sometimes because I know I wouldn't like the job, other times because I know I wouldn't be there for very long. It's tough to present at a job interview when you don't really want the job. Employers can totally see through that, especially if they ask the questions career hopping generally inspires.

So today I took a different tack: I sent one e-mail to one pharamceutical company I would like to work for, because they seem cool, and they're in biology. I said, "Hello. I have none of the skills you're looking for, but could I just, you know, clean up in the back warehouse or something?" See, that's a job I would hire me for, because I know I'd really want to work there.

Maybe finding a career is about accepting that you're just a cog in a machine, professionally, and finding a machine that you respect enough that it's OK to be a cog in it. I didn't really respect social work, so it's no wonder I wasn't happy in it. Go figure.

Update: Woo hoo! Just got an e-mail back from the HR Department:
Thank you for your interest in exploring career 
opportunities ...

We have received your resumé and will retain this information on file for one year. We will consider your
candidacy if a position becomes available during this period of time that matches your qualifications. You are also encouraged to check our website to keep apprised of available career opportunities within our
Company.

We sincerely appreciate your interest in Neurogen
Corporation and wish you success in your career endeavors.

Sincerely,

Human Resources Department
I am so in!
 
 
linkadu
14 May 2007 @ 10:28 pm
So apparently I've chosen my post social work career: Watcher of terrible 80's televesion shows.

Today's was "Manimal," a show about a man who can turn himself into any animal he wants. Manimal! Get it? Man + animal = manimal? Clever, huh? Today's episode guest starred Laura Cushing, in her only role in history (according to IMDB). Boy, watching this girl in a leather outfit acting out the role of the daughter of a rich murdered industrialist raised by wolves really made me wonder what more someone needs to do to jump start their career in Hollywood.

The episode ends with Sarah, the wolf-girl, learning to say, "Sarah. Girl," while looking in the mirror. This prompts the star's black chauffeur to say, "You better watch out, Brook," implying that the show's main love interest better watch out, because the main star might having sex with wolf-girl. Ah, eighties humor. So rich.

I also spent some time thinking about the employment picture. I really don't want to work in the field I trained for, and I want to go back to school. I'm a terrible liar, and I can't imagine that there's any job that's going to want to take someone as disinterested as me.

Maybe I should look up Laura Cushing and ask for her career advice?
 
 
linkadu
14 May 2007 @ 01:30 am
My LJ friend Laurenis is going through her own job hell right now, but it made me realize that I'm not the only one who has had trouble with the field of social work / counselling.

Let me state my thesis here, clearly and for the record: Social work is a shit career. I've only been doing it for 2 years professionally, and I'm done with it. Social work can be rewarding, and it can be enjoyable. But as a career, it completely sucks. Since there are so many reasons that it sucks, I'm going to have to break it down into at least two or three parts. This entry will deal with probably the biggest problem in social work.

One: You never really know if you're doing a good job.

In social work, your job is to help people get better.
Clients get better, they get worse. That can be measured in a lot of cases. The difference between a slightly depressed client, and a healthy one might be hard to discern, but the difference between a child staying at home, and one staying in the hospital is obvious: one is at home and one is in the hospital. Not too hard.

Objective standards of measurement are possible, but it may very well have nothing to do with how a good a job the social worker is doing. Some clients have bigger problems than others; some clients have more resilient personalities. Some clients, children especially, can completely amaze you with their ability to recover and really excel. Working with other clients, though, can leave you feeling like your banging your head against a brick wall. Social workers should be as wary of taking credit for success as they are eager to avoid blame for failures.


In my second year of my MSW program, I worked at a child guidance clinic. Repeatedly drilled into my head was the following statistic:
Always remember: One third of your clients will get better, one third will stay the same, and one third will get worse. I think she meant that to be a way to prepare oneself for failure, but when I heard it, I thought, "Well, how many of them would get better if I did nothing How many of that one-third would have gotten better anyway?" Questions like that aren't very popular coming from interns, I learned.

Here's another encouraging statement from experience hands: "Some days you may feel like you are doing nothing, but, then, several years later, somebody will come to you and say, 'You know that thing you said? Well, that had a huge impact on me.' And usually that thing is something you weren't even thinking was that important." In other words: Social work is so ineffective that the best affirmation you can get from clients will likely come years after your work and even then it will probably be accidental. How's that for job satisfaction?

Most employers understand this, and so don't judge workers by the success of their clients.

Two: If you don't know if you're doing a good job, your boss sure as hell doesn't know.
So what are employers supposed to do? How is an employer supposed to know that his workers are doing a good job? Well, the reality is that they can't know. But, being bosses, they need to evaluate their workers on something. So here are some measures I've seen put into place:

1) Time. Yes. Time. ie -- How much time is this person in the office? Is he on time? Does he get here late? Does he leave early? If he works late during the week, does he think it gives him the right to leave early on Friday? Time is a pretty sad measure of performance, but I've worked at places where it's almost the main measure of performance. And morning punctuality is really a stupid measure, especially when the real social work is crammed into the between when school lets out and the time parents start getting pissed you're in the home at dinner time.

2) Paperwork. Paperwork is the second standard of measurement. How much paper did this person produce? Are all the records up to date? Are the histories thorough and exhaustive? Are the case notes detailed? Paperwork is important. Papework is an official part of the job.  Working with other people (insurance, therapists, supervisors, courts) requires a paper trail. I have no sympathy for who workers who whine, "I got into this to spend time with people, not sit at a computer all day," and who are six months behind on their case notes.

But paperwork comes at a time cost, time spent working with and for clients. And at times the time-demand for paperwork can conflict with the client's best interests. If several phone calls need to be made for a client, but a big assessment is due, the worker has to make a decision. There is some minor crisis going on, but my supervisor's supervisor doesn't care about the crisis -- they care about their 2-week assessment bench mark. So what to do? If it affects the workers job, the paperwork will likely come first, and the social worker will end up feeling like a toad when she's congratulated for meeting the benchmark. "Yeah, great" she'll think, "we just pushed back that kid's acceptance into a residential program by two weeks thanks to that brilliant assessment."

3) Clique. Does the client get along with the supervisor personally? Do they watch the same television shows, etc? It's a simple one, and it's obviously not a measure of performance, exactly, but it certainly feels like it some days.

4) Client satisfaction. In many instances, agency get paid per client they have, and clients always have the choice of going to a different agency. This is where the free market falls flat on its face. If a drug-addicted client is unhappy with his or her worker, they can go to a different agency. Therefore, when the client complains, the supervisor is supposed to try to make the client happy. Agencies that don't keep their clients happy, don't survive. I worked at a foster care agency, where the parents were treated like gold shit. They had to be, since they were the source of the income. There are always more foster children in the system -- foster parents were the scarce resource. Imagine wanting to work with troubled children, and then learnign that your real job was gladhandling healthy adults collecting a paycheck for their work with children. Not good.

5) Cult of X. Some agency's have a philosophy, or an attitude, or something that you personally need to adopt to do fit in.The most obvious one I ran into was the cult of people horrified by sexual abuse. One of the muckity-mucks in the center was very personally effected by sexual abuse of clients, and seemed to expect us all to discuss sexual abuse with the same personal horror and apocolyptic visions that she did. Sexual abuse is obviously very serious, but everyone responds to it differently. What should matter is how well you work with the issue, not how much you cluck your tongue, or how creative your epithets towards the perpetrator are doing meetings. But if want to fit in and advance, you need to follow the philosophy.

6) An actual goddamned objective measure based on client performance. I'm putting this one last, because it's the most obvious but least used of objective measures. I worked at exactly ONE place that judged me by the success of my clients, and I quit after four months because I was going absolutely crazy. I had little influence over how my clients did, and the official philosophy of the agency was to make the therapist responsible for all outcomes. Yeah, imagine how well you sleep with that over your head, especially when one of your clients is a multiply-diagnosed violent schizophrenic whose parents took her back into the home against the advice of the residential unit so they could start collecting her disability check.

End Part 1.

Feel free to have a discussion party in the comments. And, again, I'm speaking from my somewhat limited experience. If your experience is different, I'd love to hear about it.

 
 
Current Location: the pad
Current Music: antony & johnsons - starfish
 
 
linkadu
14 May 2007 @ 01:05 am
I saw Children of Men a few days ago... My english teacher told me that literature is allowed to make one counter-factual claim, and run with it. For instance, the Germans won WW2, or someobody got turned into a cockroach. Anyway, the point is, literature is allowed to make one change to how the world ususally works, and if it makes more than one, it's likely to go down hill.

Children of Men is about a world where, for some reason, women stop having babies. The last person was born 19 years before the movie begins. As a result of the infertility, economies collapse, and Britain turns into a fascist state. Against the fascist state there is a group of pro-immigration activitists who run an effective organization to counter the government.

Did you catch the counter-factual claim? If you guessed "activisits running an effective organization" you win a cookie.
 
 
linkadu
12 May 2007 @ 08:31 pm
Mom's friend: So, where's your girlfriend?
Me: Oh, we're not together anymore.
MF: Oh? That's too bad. When did that happen?
Me: About six months ago.
MF: Well, I have someone for you. She's a cute Portugese girl. But nobody wants to date her because she's fat, but she's got a heart of gold.
Me: Is she nice in the face?
MF: Oh, yes, she has a very nice face. Give me your number, and she'll call you.
Me: Uh, let me get back to you.

I wish I had said: I am not a dating charity.
 
 
linkadu
12 May 2007 @ 06:22 pm
No strippers, no chicks my age... just a bunch of old ladies nattering about their grandchildren with their bored husbands.

I'm at my parent's house today. My niece turns 1-year-old. For those of you who haven't taken a child development class, here is a quick summary of child development:

0-3 years old -- Boring*
3-12 -- Interesting
13-18 -- Annoying

I'm also no child development expert, but from the way my niece was chewing on her plastic toy, I could tell she was not impressed with the festivities in her honor. My sister is really incredibly nervous about the whole thing as well; she asked me for my opinion about what was the right shirt to wear. Do I like the sort of guy who should know what a mother should wear to her baby's first birthday party? I'm left with the conclusion that this entire thing is largely for the benefit of my mother, who gets to magnanimously host the event, as well as grade her friends on the amount of money they spent on gifts. My sister needs to act polite and gracious and totally in love with being a mom, in exchange for gifts, and my niece, well, she can continue to crap in her diaper to her heart's delight.

--
* Piaget originally extended the boring phase of development until about 4 years of age.
 
 
Current Location: parents bedroom; love wifi
Current Music: dogs whining
 
 
linkadu
11 May 2007 @ 07:59 pm
Zombie fans:

Just saw 28 Weeks Later, and it suffered chronically from having too high a budget. What's that? How can a movie suffer from having TOO much money? Well, if you don't have a lot of money you have to write dialogue and have character development. If you have money, you can fill that same time blowing shit up in spectacular ways.

Nothing against 28 Weeks Later specifically; just hard to follow up on 28 Days Later, where you really got the feel of adjusting personally to the apocolypse. Most of the events in Weeks happen within about 12 hours, I'd guess, and most of that time is spent running in complete terror.

'nuff said.
Tags:
 
 
linkadu
10 May 2007 @ 09:06 am
I visited an old friend last night. I think his marriage might be over. The last few times I've been over there, there's this weird undercurrent of silence or hostility between him and his wife. I don't know if it's hostility -- it's just indifference. They have a two-year old daughter they are raising, and they seem to be more like the child's employees. Sometime's there's a fight over who needs to do what for the baby, or who didn't do what (usually my friend). But that seems to be about the limit of their interaction.

A few possibilities present themselves. The most worrisome of which is that their marriage is pretty much over. They will stay together for the rest of their lives but will not have anything approaching a relationship. They've both been set up by their parents for this. His parents live together, but in seperate bedrooms. His father is out-of-state, off-and-on, for about half the year. His parents don't talk to each other either. Her parents are different: her mom is bat shit crazy, and her father is very patient man who is completely cowed by his wife. Can two people with such dysfunctional models have a real relationship? You bet they can, but I think it would take some work. And the baby might have accelerated the demise of their relationship.

And/or this: Maybe the wife is just depressed, and my friend doesn't know what to do about it. He's takes after his dad -- he's not much of a talker.

I'd ask my gentle readers what they think, but they don't know my friend or his wife; and I already know what I'm going to do: this definitely needs to be gently broached next time I'm over. Now don't spaz out -- I'll be diplomatic and shit.
 
 
linkadu
08 May 2007 @ 08:56 pm
Running is about the stupidest sport I can think of. Consecutively placing all of your weight on alternating feet to effect forward motion is tough on the joints. The thing is, I've been dreaming about running most of my life. I'm not in a wheel chair or anything, I"m just terrible at running. I ran cross country in high school and was the last guy, the VERY last guy, to come in at just about every meet.  I always thought the problem was I was a little heavier than everyone else. There was a senior on my team, built like an ox. He beat me, but only by a little bit. Early during one season, this really skinny kid was making fun of me for working so hard. He and his other light friend would walk through most of practice. "Ha, suckers" I thought to myself, "You are so going to be toasted during our first meet." Skinny kid, who walked through all his practices, won the meet. I came in last.

When I was growing up, I read a story in Highlights magazine about running. In it, a kid, about my age, was always coming in close to last at track meets. This slow kid wished that he could switch bodies with Brendon, the fastest kid in the team. His wish came true! During one meet he found himself in Brendon's body. He smiled, thinking he was going to blow everyone one away. But as he ran, he got more and more tired, and he slowed down. Eventually his body, occupied by Brendon (conservation of psyche?), passed him and won the race. Moral of the lesson: It's about heart, not the body you're blessed with.

I've been running for about a week. I stopped because I'm getting wicked bursitis below my knee. But those last few days I was thinking, "I wish I could track down the author of that story... and beat the living shit out of him." It's clear to me now, at my old age, that the body you're born with is going to be better at some things than others, and that "heart" probably isn't as effective in improving performance as, say, creatine. And if I want to exercise, I'm probably going to have to find a kinder way to do it. I took the bike into the shop today. I should be riding it on Saturday.

Life goes on.
 
 
linkadu
06 May 2007 @ 10:19 pm
When I was in highschool, I used to like ot imagine I was an alien anthropologist sent to study this planets denizens and their weird ways. I've always felt like an outsider. You wouldn't know it to look at me; I'm pretty regular looking in most respects. That is to say, I don't wear my alienation on my nose ring. But man, can someone tell me what it is I'm missing about being alive? It's been more than 10 years since high school, and I still feel like an alien on my own planet. I see people go to work, have children, celebrate anniversaries, get married, and it just feels like I'm watching something on television -- like, huh, that's a nice show. I might want to watch that, but I wouldn't want to be it. I did have something like what I think other people want. I had a house, a dog, a girlfriend, a job, a car. I wasn't happy then. Maybe I didn't get the right job, or the right girlfriend, or the right house. Maybe I should have had two dogs? Maybe there's something else missing?

Richard Feynman talks about Pacific tribes people during WWII who observed all the commerce going on at military air bases. The natives decided to try to bring some of that USAF mojo to their island. They built bamboo models of radio controller towers. They constructed RADAR arrays with palm leaves. Runways were laid with beach sand and pebbles. No plans landed. Feynman called this "cargo cult science."

I think I'm a cargo cult scientist in my own way. I see what I think makes people happy -- the job, the girlfriend, the house -- and try to plant those things on my island. I see them on everyone else's island, and they seem to content. Or, you know, they don't torture themselves about whether they're achieving Their Purpose on this Earth in the Limitted TIme Left. Like Hank in the Venture Bro's, I keep sticking my tongue in the mouth slit of the mask -- and it's maddening.
 
 
Current Mood: depressed
Current Music: Antony & The Johnsons - Hitler in my Heart
 
 
 
 

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