Black Dog Blog

Archive for March, 2007

My side of a convo, with a concept that I've hardly thought about for quite a while but is oddly still as true as ever.

Mutt: Hmm. I've recently been rather sick of Inain, since he isn't progressing much beyond cardboard cutout stage, but I'd like to play one of my non-major [characters].
Mutt: Or, actually, the two of my majors I hardly ever touch any more. Heh.
Mutt: I currently have three major characters (not counting Weft, who, believe it or not, was never supposed to get this popular) and out of those, Suitov's the only one I play semi-regularly.
Mutt: Uh, this is sorta complicated, but. My 'major' characters at any time loosely conform to four archetypes in my head. Thinker, jester, healer and fighter. Currently the fighter's missing, though I just realised an obvious choice for that one.
Mutt: No no no no not Weft. He doesn't fit. Bazzle is the jester – practically the archetype.
Mutt: I told you it was complicated. And veird. Heh. I've been grooming Ferrl for a bigger role in the Shade war timeline, and she's Fighter with a dash of Thinker. Not as pure as Bazzle, but even Suitov isn't that.
Mutt: It goes by attributes and personality, not the jobs they happen to do. Weft, incidentally, is… gods. On the surface monk-Weft is a sick, rather unpleasant mixture of healer and fighter.

Gets even more complicated than this. Because J/T and F/H are opposing pairs, and very roughly, if I've come up with someone who's a mixture of two opposites, they'll likely be crazy. Or, more likely, crazy characters will turn out to be mixtures of an opposing pair when I think about it, as in Weft's case.

No, this isn't a new and oh so cool personality profiling system or anything (down with Lawful Evil and Myer Briggs!1!); just a marginally interesting thing that applies to me and (as far as I know) only me.

And so. Every so often something comes along and kindly reminds me what a broken individual I am. Because after the pleasure this morning of finding some cheap shirts I bought recently now fit me, Doris knows I needed taking down a peg or two.

Today I was mooching homewards, a couple of melons and some veggie burgers in a shopping bag inside my rucksack, when my heart sank. Why? RTA? Realised I'd forgotten to buy garlic? Nope, because I saw three teenagers, two females and a male, walking ahead of me. Slowly. Swaggering. Talking loudly. Laughing.

For those who don't know that much about me, I was bullied at school. A lot. Nothing physical, thankfully, because I never want to find out what would happen if I got into a fistfight. A lot of mental. Because I was socially disabled and couldn't look these people in the eye, they were, as good as literally, faceless. And there were a lot of them. Male and female. Disparate groups. I attracted sadistic little shits. Ever tried telling a teacher "um, actually, I think it's half the goddamn school"? I learned to fear and avoid everyone in my age group, unable to make exceptions for the few freaks and geeks that I could have been friends with. The only people I could even talk to were three or more years younger than me – significant difference at that age – or adults.

My fears never grew up with me. I'm 24 and no longer scared of my contemporaries. I'm still scared of secondary-school-age children. The laughter of teenage girls still chills me.

Teenagers, apparently, still look at me and think "victim".

I found myself walking more and more slowly so as not to catch up with this trio. Then one looked round and saw me. Hoo boy. The inadequate strategy I developed at CHS refluxed. One of the girls sneered up to me and said "Hi!". I blanked her out, kept walking. She started keeping pace with me. There were giggles. Look, I can't justify how this could feel so threatening, but it does; packs like this know what they're doing. Like orcas haranguing a right whale because there's nothing else to do and, hey, it might always beach itself out of sheer terror. That would be fun. (I'm already thoroughly conditioned to fear it, so most of the work was long since done for them.)

A zebra crossing came up in a few more metres. I veered across the road. They followed. Luckily, since we were in public, I managed to make use of traffic and crossing a side street to force them to stop following. There were spoken words, laughs and an insincere "Sssh, don't be so mean". I didn't look back until I'd rounded a curve out of sight and reached a spot where I could recross the main road. Then I waited to make sure there were no creatures on my heels before continuing where I'd been going.

Why this sort of thing can still bring me to the point of panic, and even not too far off tears, I guess I don't know. I thought I had trained myself to let go of the paranoia. I no longer instantly think someone coming up to talk to me is only trying to get me to say something funny to mock. I can chat to my colleagues. I can banter with my workmates. I can answer the telephone, barely. I can turn away a stranger trying to foist leaflets upon me. I greet roving packs of scally boys in my neighbourhood with a tight smile and walk right past them. And, hey. Nine or so days ago I saw some people pushing to get onto a tram, and one man who had been loud and obnoxious throughout pulled a knife on someone. I had started towards him before my mind caught up with my glands¹ and then the situation defused itself.

But I'm scared of little girls in fake-fur boots, jeans that don't pull up properly and too much hairspray.

Scratch the surface and I'm that fat little autistic kid who spent des lunch breaks hiding, not in the library, because even that was too frightening, but in the tiny alcove of the classics library. Well, haven't I come so very far?

¹ Absolutely the wrong thing to do. I surprised myself. But for that split second, I would have done it.

DIPSY IS DEAD

Proof = bare feet!

(This entry is a reference to this.)

Note to self: when editing WP entries, do not use the back button. Because it fucks up, multiposts and doth not cache. *annoyed; uses back and forward buttons all the time*

Spent two hours last night downloading, levelling and correcting the tags on a bunch of audiobooks, then wiping QuadruPod and putting them on there and teaching mum to use it, all so she could listen to stuff in the several hours she'll be in the dentist's chair today.

Guess what got left on the shelf in the hall this morning?

Guess whose mobile was turned off?

Argh argh argh. And because I didn't have anything singing to me on the way to work (for I left it there just in case she remembered and came back for it), I'm particularly at the mercy of getting songs stuck in my head. Be it Nightwish or Edguy or Rhapsody or Doris Day. (The Deadwood Stage, because a sometime-coworker mentioned buying Deadwood on DVD. Love that song.)

And now, news. Or olds, in fact: Caraboo. ♥ ♥

This really offends me. What a waste.

Freaky Beaky's love of dripping

asdlfkjsadlkfjhslfsPANDAS! (video)

CoworkerR: "It just has to be non-human for you to go all soppy over it, doesn't it?"
Mutt: "Pretty much."
CoworkerR: "Preferably mammal or fish, I'm guessing not insect?"
Mutt: "Well, non-ruminant mammals, but yeah… Oh, but I love insects."

…hehehehe. I shouldn't be able to recognise this 'person' just from a tiny thumbnail.

I'm in a minority of 2%! :'(

Glee. Bubble wrap.

Should apes have human rights?

This is probably a viewpoint that will get stamped on before I can explain it, but I think it's human rights that should be scrapped as an idea. The whole concept of 'rights' is so fuzzy that it's useless. We should legislate to protect people, of various species, and where necessary to guarantee freedoms… but only where we REALLY need laws to guarantee said freedoms. 'Cause I'm also a red-tape-hat0r.

Um, yeah, that's my tuppenn'orth from my highly expert position of having coded up our animal rights section, anyway.

Also, here, binary star planetary systems.

And a random pretty and marauding parakeets (damn immigrants?!21!?someone call the Daily Mail321!£123?!?).

Petition to recommend Terry Pratchett for a knighthood (open to UK residents only)

Bizarre…

*tries out new, suddenly-and-inexplicably-orange Performancing*

Down another kilo this week, which is good, because I had no idea whether I had lost or gained or maintained. (I ignore most of the time and then periodically worry, but I can't stand doing the scales thing at home, so I don't.)

My mind is in a constant fog. For months. Yes, smartasses, I'm taking oil supplements and sleeping… well, sort of sleeping… and generally taking reasonable care of myself; I'm pretty sure I'm not sick. The doctor dude I saw for something else had one idea of what could be affecting my concentration. I'm not sure I can let myself agree, though. Too much like excuses, anyway; it sounds like something I might want to believe, rather than the more likely scenario that I'm lazy and a slacker.

"The murder of black teenager Anthony Walker was caused by the same racism which led to slavery, the Bishop of Liverpool has said."

No it wasn't.

Anyway.

The programme about Nanny Maroon over the weekend was a huge disappointment. The presenter was a stupid young girl whose only qualification to present it was that she's black and part Jamaican through one of her grandparents (or, more realistically, is famous).

This silly little snit sat in a white Jamaican man's plantation house and lectured him on why he should feel awful about his ancestry. She quite clearly knew nothing about the subject, while the fellow was very knowledgeable but (gasp!) said he didn't feel personal guilt. So, why doesn't he? Rather than explain, he was shouted down. She got to make more unanswered accusations, or rather reiterate her points in exactly the same terms she'd used in the interview (she sounded like she was reading from a script all the way through), after the interview was finished, in the guise of "If I were him I'd feel this and that". Travesty of journalism.

Then when confronted with the occasional actual fact (like that the Maroons signed a peace treaty agreeing to hand back escaped slaves), she tried to weasel out of it! ("But maybe they were starving and had no choice but to accept?" "No, there's no evidence of starvation; it seems to have been a political decision." VO after interview: "Oo-err, I don't think I want to accept this – still, at least Nanny [who didn't sign the treaty] was exonerated.") Impartial? You decide…

In other words, the views of a taxi driver were rated more highly than someone from the national archive, because although the taxi driver's response was entirely emotional and uninformed, he said what she wanted to hear. Most of the interviewees had no credentials provided except that they were descended from Maroons. (I'm descended from someone called Jane Eyre, love, and that doesn't make me a literature expert.)

And she was the worst interviewer I've ever seen. ("But specifically about the brutality, how do you feel about that?" "You mean how do I feel about what went on in the plantations?" "No no, about the brutality." She would not leave go of that word as the poor interviewee tried to get out of her what she was actually asking.) And the constant interjected "right"s and "uh huh"s from her drove me crazy (and made her sound as though she didn't believe anything the interviewees were saying).

I know I'm going to loathe any programme that's described in its billings as a "personal journey" instead of a real documentary. And this was absolute trash. One or two thumbs up for atmosphere – I actually enjoyed the use of the Jamaican musicians throughout, though it was rather lazy filmmaking, too blatantly emotive and their interpretation of the story strayed too far into the mythological – but minus everything for the ludicrously biased, anecdotal, fact-free content. As the taxi driver said at the start, Nanny and the Maroons deserve a documentary about them. This wasn't one.

(Edit: sent this, only slightly toned down, as an official complaint. It annoyed me that much.)

OMD f00dpr0n!

I wanna try most of those varieties. Actually, you know… I want dragonfruit. To stab and eat. Right now. Tough luck. *goes to brush teeth and write*

Two boxes (not my initial design; all my work to get 'em working) added to the Religion and Ethics superb and useful homepage. :D

Also tweaks to the religion and effiks useful tools section, last box. Rewording and text optimisation and and white borders yay. We also decided we hated the old email picture, for it was ray-traced and cartoony and evil.

All of which was fun. But basically it's just linking the stuff I've been showing you over the last few weeks more prominently.

Nice vector art. (Charly and Mutster especially!)

Down two kilos woot! The weight loss at this stage is being completely unpredictable – up a bit, down a lot, staying the same, down an awful lot… (As long as the general trend is still downwards I won't panic.)

According to the nurse, if you're still losing 1 to 3 lbs (I've no idea what that is in real units) in a week on this stage of the program you're doing well.

I intend to do well.

I heard somewhere there's a 95% failure rate as regards regaining weight once you come off a diet like this (across a lot of different programs, not just this one). That just means I have to be the one in twenty.

Also, I have to admit, I'm sick of this OpenID mailing list conversation dragging on ad nauseam.

I'm off work today. Not sick; I booked it off. Unfortunately I am feeling rather under the weather, or rather the weather's getting under my (loosened, less insulating) skin. SO EFFING COLLLLD. *blows nose, checks one MORE time that boiler and central heating are really honestly turned on*

Oh, and FreePOPs hasn't worked with my Hotmail accounts since I 'upgraded' to 2.0. It's getting irritating. I'm having to check them the long way. Which means I can't file all my important organising-things emails in one Thunderbird folder, which is annoying…

Imagemap w0e!

Oh man oh man oh man coordinates. I started off with an already-completed map, but then I had to add Ireland, so of course the dimensions of the image changed…

If you don't know how imagemaps work in HTML: very briefly, you tell it coordinates, counted from the top left (so 2,4 is two right and four down from the top left corner), of the various bits of the image you want to be 'clickable'. It counts from the left. I'd just added 70 extra pixels to the left.

In adjusting the coords to take that into account, I took the opportunity to go through and make corrections or tweaks to virtually all of the areas (fixing some that were out of position by some way, correcting shapes or making them bigger so people would have a chance of finding them with the cursor).

Fiddly, time-consuming and cosmetic, but it feels like honest work, our map is now significantly better than it was before I got my hands on it, and that's what makes me happy.

What makes me grin is when people from other departments 'unofficially borrow' things I've done. (We had unofficially borrowed the earlier version of this imagemap.) (It's not so amusing when we discover people unofficially borrowing images we paid for and not even including the mandatory copyright notices, though…)

"Hi, I'm a Mac." "I'm a PC." "This advert is almost as annoying as those contentless IBM corpowank ones."

Zzzz.

But now! PC vs Mac – get the REAL lowdown!

Fneh fneh fneh.

The only thing I'll miss with my kickass new (1990 vintage!) Model M bludgeon keyboard will be the Windows-key-M combination, the one that minimises everything. There doesn't seem to be a non-winkey equivalent. (Though, looking it up online, I did find out that winkey+D toggles 'show desktop', which is a better alternative because some things refuse to minimise when told to.)

Well darnit. Still, buckling springs. Sounds cool, doesn't it? (No, I mean really SOUNDS cool.)

The reason I like Buddhism is that it's so practicable and not at all hypocritical.

Oh yeah, what was that hadith (Muslim anecdote about stuff said by the prophet) about the poor sods who have to cook for and tend to ascetics being far more worthwhile? Hehehe. *slips on flame-proof green silk leggings*

"Inappropriate and illegal questions"?!

What should be illegal is expecting children as old as 11 not to know what sex is about. Not practising it, but certainly told about it openly and honestly. Then again, I was allowed to read The Body Book at about age four, so what do I know?