Coffee heat rising

Brexit…

Holy sh!t.

Y’know what really worries me about this?  If the Brits could do something that stupid and self-destructive under a populist, xenophobic impetus, so can we. In the xenophobia department, our racism “trumps” theirs, any day.

We could end up with Trump in the White House. All of a sudden, it doesn’t look at all unthinkable.

Hope you had your assets positioned for this eventuality. I know my guys have moved out of some stocks into bonds…but maybe too little, too late.

Conversation at this morning’s business networking breakfast suggested (hopefully?) that US markets may benefit because money will move out of Britain, much of it in our direction. That remains to be seen, IMHO.

News of the Day

As a long-time news junkie, I read the news of the day several times a day, thanks to the handy-dandy Internet and a long string of links to favorite suppliers. Lately, though, the daily news makes me feel like I’m watching a spider chewing up its prey. Half the time it’s not informative; it’s not helpful: it’s just stress-inducing.

We have the late gorilla episode, for example: the one where the four-year-old says “MOMMY, I’m gonna go swim in the pool inside the gorilla exhibit.” She says “No, you’re not,” and turns her attention to her cell phone and the four or five other children present. Result: rare lowland gorilla male is executed; child is rescued with minimal injuries (only, as far as anyone can tell, by the grace of God and the skill of a sharp-shooter).

Reading the comments on this story is enough to curdle your stomach. Some armchair pundits think the zoo should be put out of business — matter of fact, all zoos should be put out of business. Other self-righteous members of the peanut gallery think the mother should be prosecuted. Some of the uglier commenters believe the child should have been left to die, given that lowland gorillas are teetering on the verge of extinction and human children are a dime a dozen.

F’r chrissake. That was a CHILD trapped with a wild animal. No matter how magnificent and endangered the animal, we humans owe our first allegiance to humans. And no, it does not matter whether the child’s mother needs an IQ transplant.

Then we have Stephen Hawking on the Trump Horror Show. That a lying, clownish demagogue could achieve nomination by one of country’s two major parties suggests something is wrong with our political system; if he gets into the White House, it will prove our system is broken. While I’m not crazy about Clinton, I fear that an avowed socialist couldn’t win against Pluto the Dog, much less against a guy who riles up all the long-standing resentments against the liberal agenda…some of which are justified: the bureaucratic bullshit, the tangled and patently unfair tax system, the dictatorial political correctness, the death of the middle class…all valid complaints.

If the conservatives run a third-party candidate, they’ll split the Republican vote and lose the election to Clinton. That will be a good thing in that it foils Trump, but it may not be the best thing for America. The best thing for America would be for the Republican party to nominate a qualified candidate and let the best man or woman win.

Almost daily, we’re reminded of the ubiquitous American distrust of and hatred for anyone who is different from oneself. One of the gorilla reports elicited a comment from a guy who openly said the kid should have been sacrificed because he was black and the mother would pop out another half-dozen between now and 2026. No shame, there! Nor is there any in just about any part of the media when it comes to people over the age of about 45. CBS MarketWatch, for example, tells us as a fact that “Older adults have a ‘toxic combination’ of high self-confidence and low financial literacy.”

Then we have this astonishment: A woman answers the door to her apartment, expecting to see a 12-year-old relative. Instead, she finds a rapist who barges in and proceeds to beat and strip her. She manages to reach her husband, who comes running and thrashes the thug to death, a fitting end for that particular sh*thead. And what does he get for his trouble? You got it: prosecution. It’s hard to avoid wondering if he would have been charged were he white…

The homeless population is growing older as the homeless mentally ill age and no concerted nationwide effort is made to get them off the streets.

Consumer spending “enjoys” its largest jump in six years. Dude! Mr. Pollyana, sir! It’s not that we enjoy spending. It’s that everything costs more and more. That would be, presumably, because there’s no inflation, hm? And because junk products made in China don’t last longer than about seven years, max. Most of them, far less, come to think of it.

Home prices are rising faster than expected. This is good news? “The economy is supporting the price increases with improving labor markets, falling unemployment rates and extremely low mortgage rates,” David Blitzer, chairman of the S&P index committee, said in a statement. “Another factor behind rising home prices is the limited supply of homes on the market.”

Yeah, uh huh. Zillow thinks my house is worth almost as much as it supposedly was at the height of the disastrous housing bubble. Interest rates are at rock-bottom and it’s not all that hard to get a loan. How many of those loans are covering collateral with real value? And how many of them are loans against air?

Oh, God. I’ve got work to do.

If I won the lottery…

What would you do if you suddenly came into SOOO many bucks there was no question of your ever having to work again?

Tellya what I’d do: I’d find an incredible resort somewhere and rent a suite…not for a week or so, but for several months at a time.

The thought of owning a vacation home makes me cringe: isn’t one house enough to take care of? 😀 But if I won the lottery…ah, if I won the lottery, I’d make a resort my vacation home: a getaway where someone else takes care of fixing the plumbing and maintaining the septic tank and repairing the roof and…whatEVER. Where someone else fixes breakfast, lunch and dinner whenever you want it. Where someone else cleans the pool, and someone else cleans the house and changes the sheets and does the shopping and there’s not a Costco within driving distance.

Yeah.

What I would like to do right now, right this minute, is zone out and write another storyline in the ineffable Fire-Rider saga. There are a lot of ideas on the float, but I haven’t had a moment in months and months to sit down, think them through, draft, redraft, create… Nary a moment.

Not that I’m complaining. By the end of this week I will have billed enough to make up for all the cash I’ve diddled away in the ridiculous self-publishing venture. But my god! The amount of work!!!

I’ve been working from 5 in the morning till 9 or 10 at night for so long I’ve actually lost track of how long it’s been. Weeks and weeks. This morning I was up at 3 a.m. wrestling with what I thought was a corrupt PDF. (Not so, thank god: the client’s magnum opus was SO long it took the print-on-demand vendor’s website about eight hours to upload the damn thing.)

As a practical matter, it looks like I’ve succeeded in working myself sick. Yesterday morphed into a Day from Hell along about dawn.

A couple of days ago, a swelling developed under and around an eye. I thought a mosquito had bitten me right close to the eyelid, because it itched a lot.

By yesterday it was clear it wasn’t a mosquito bite. The old-lady bag under that eye was so swollen, it looked like a big blister.

I suspect this is a side effect of the omeprazole — remember, if a drug has a weird side effect, I will be among the .01% that gets it. So I look this up and discover…yea verily. Facial edema is a side effect, and it’s considered a bit of a medical emergency. “Seek medical care immediately.”

Of course, it’s five or six in the morning by the time I figure this out. I call the Mayo trying to get through to the internist on duty — all I want to do is ask a doctor is this is something I need to have checked right this very minute, or if I can safely wait until I can make a normal appointment with a normal doctor. The stupid answering lady will NOT let me through. She says I need to go to the ER.

I do not think this is an emergency-room problem.

There’s an urgent care place just down the street. I get in the car and drive over there. Naturally, it’s closed.

Why call it “urgent care” if you’re not going to be open when people urgently need care?

So I end up driving up to the Mayo’s ER.

This consumes most of the fuckin’ morning. The doctor there, after a cursory look, says he thinks it’s an infection and prescribes an antibiotic.

Fortunately, the copay only cost me a dollar at the Walmart, since it made my tongue turn red and swell up and my lips tingle like they were getting ready to explode.

Dropped a Benadryl, which beat that back to some degree. Called the quack’s office, which by now was open. She prescribed another antibiotic, one that has to be taken every six hours, on the button. Luckily I wake up at four in the morning every night anyway….

So now I’m ripping up my already tender innards some more with a drug I do not believe is appropriate for the purpose. I still do not believe this is an infection: there’s no redness, no heat, no fever, no general malaise. I’m as certain as I’m sitting here that it’s a direct reaction to the omeprazole.

But right now I’m too damn tired to argue.

Finally, after endless dicking around, I put the client’s 463-page book to bed last night. But it refused to stay down. As mentioned above, the PDF seemed not to be loading. Screwed around and screwed around with that until I couldn’t screw around another 30 seconds.

At 3:00 this morning, the file was still blank after page 35. Holy shit.

Emailed a desperate cry to my spy at the PoD joint.

Also at 3:00 a.m., I remembered I’d forgotten to edit a Chinese mathematician’s latest paper, in which he and two esteemed colleagues prove mathematically that Twitter works to help diminish contagion in an epidemic. Ripping myself away from the magnum opus, I got to work on that thing. And what a tangle it was: passages where it was hard to tell what the authors intended to say; crazy formatting where it was converted out of Latex into Wyrd.

But better yet: Section 4 was missing! I would’ve seen that if I’d started on the paper the minute my guy had sent it. But I couldn’t — I was fully immersed in two other projects.

Translated that, tidied that, made two copies of that, and sent it off to the client with an offer to read the rest of it ASAP if he’ll send it right along. So far nothing back from him: it’s probably still the middle of the night in China.

About 8:30, the PoD angel e-mailed saying he couldn’t see a problem. He thought we should just go ahead and order the four copies Client wants.

?????????

Now I get back online and lo! There the thing is, in its glorious entirety. Looks as good as it’s going to get at this point. So yea verily, I ordered the four copies Client wants.

Then of course he wants another copy. And note that he wants these by Friday.

Well, I hope they’re done by then. This is Tuesday. I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow and if I have any sense, I should actually call the Mayo and make an appointment with an ophthalmologist to look at this damn eye. And I had to cancel the mechanic’s appointment to work on the car: that needs to be redone, too. I have a serious suspicion that I’ll be wanting to do something — make that having to do something — far, far away from the Third-World country that is lovely South Phoenix.

Well, the ice pack has probably been on the face long enough to reduce the “blister” enough so I won’t frighten small children. And so, away to run an errand or two. Then back here to drop some Benadryl again. Ugh.

Life in these United States…

gets creepier and creepier every day

Just imagine giving this guy access to that kind of data collection by virtue of the nation’s highest public office… Because Big Brother isn’t the government bound by the US Constitution but is a company that can be subpoenaed, just about every detail of our private lives is accessible not just to anybody who wants to sell us something or push ads in our faces, but to anybody who wants to control our behavior and our thinking. Or put us in jail because we don’t agree with their thinking.

big brother...watching you
big brother…watching you

Image: Scanrail; Depositphotos

All Done In…

So I started at about 5:30 this morning. It’s 7:30 p.m. and I’m knocking off. That’s…what? Fourteen hours, interruptus

Paused to walk the dogs (40 minutes), clean the pool (half an hour), and dicker with an Apple tech to get my email back online (probably another 20 or 30 minutes, not counting time spent steaming at Apple’s obnoxious telephone Muzak). So about an even 12-hour workday. Nice.

I’ve created not one, not two, not three, but eight renditions for Honored Client’s book cover. Excessive, I know. But…though I’ve now generated about 30 book covers for my own fine literature, this is the first cover art I’ve ever done for someone else. And I really would like it to be right. I really, really want him to be happy with it.

We’ll see.

Two of the covers are pretty good. The problem is, we’re working with images he took himself during a lifetime of world travel. He has some wonderful pictures documenting some wonderful adventures, but the quality of the images leaves something to be desired. Even the best of those old point-and-shoot cameras left something to be desired…like resolution, for one.

Later in his travels, he got his hands on a high-quality digital camera, and those images are close to print-quality. But from among those, I’ve only got one candidate for cover art.

One picture is extremely cool: it’s a Gypsy family, presumably in Romania, riding atop a haystack on a horse-drawn wagon. The people in the image are mostly kids. It’s really a kick. But when you take one of these things and blow it up to fit a 5.5 x 8.5-inch cover — or worse, try to wrap it around front to back to get fancy with the thing — it pixelates. Big time.

Tried sharpening it with one of those online photo editors. When set site-by-side with the original, it doesn’t seem any better. Or any worse. The same…that would be the word we’re groping for here.

In terms of print quality, the best picture he has — also extremely cool — is of a man playing a traditional Ukrainian stringed instrument called a bandura.

The guy’s performing on a sidewalk in front of a shop, the door behind him open and the shop window plastered with come-ons and advertisements. The picture is as clear and crisp as you could possibly want. Trouble is, when I set it up to fill the front cover, all those window ads create a mass of visual static. No matter what you try to do with the cover lines, no matter how big you make them, no matter how loud you make them, no matter how white you make them, no matter what kind of shadows or glow or whatever you manipulate, they’re lost. Unreadable.

So  I ended up cropping the thing to create some space above the image for the title and subtitle. The byline could run across the gray stone sidewalk with no problem. It looks…OK. Better than most of the others because it has enough resolution to hold up to some abuse. But not as good as it would’ve looked had I been able to use the entire image to fill the front cover.

We’ll see how that goes over. Tomorrow the client will be here to inspect all these efforts.

Meanwhile, today I also plowed through another chunk of textual analysis of Semiramus narratives ranging from the 1st century AD to the early modern period. If I ever reach the end of this chapter (which just now seems questionable), I’ll be halfway through.

The current Chinese graduate student is quiescent for the nonce, presumably wrestling another chapter of her dissertation into shape. I believe she’s past the deadline for her extension, so I hope her director hasn’t knocked her out with the Nerf bat.

With three large projects on the burner, what should one of the CLS co-editors do but load up a new article for the next issue. Holy sh!t.

Hope to foist that onto the Kid, assuming she’s back from the honeymoon and not completely smothered with the work that will have piled up during that excursion. If she can’t do it, then I’ll have to. How, exactly, escapes me.

MacShafted

Give me back my index cards and my typewriter, please! Granted, the Mac is better than the PC. That does seem to be so. But it’s still a computer and it still is designed to inject as many headaches and hassles into your life as possible.

I have to say, at least Apple has some customer service. With a PC, you’re on your own. Still…yesterday, two of the three CSRs who tried to solve the problem had no idea what they were talking about; a third figured it out — or rather, the two of us did, together — but only by sheer persistence. And during the course of that marathon hassle, I learned that if I update my OS to the latest Scenic Wonder, “El Capitan,” it probably will disable my Office for Mac programs.

Holy sh!t.

It sucked FIVE HOURS out of a day burdened with a huge editorial project (with two others in the wings) to learn that the reason my e-mail program was crashing random incoming mails is that MacMail was not deleting messages consigned to “Trash,” as it was supposedly programmed to do.

A few years ago, I set MacMail to delete items in the “Trash” folder once a month. Then, as they came in, I flagged spam messages and Twaddle, Facebook, LinkedIn, and Pinterest notifications to go direct to “Trash.” In theory, all of these attention-distracters were being disappeared automatically.

In reality? Not so much.

After an interminable exchange over the phone with one of Apple’s factotums, we discovered that something over three thousand messages had accrued somewhere in the accursed Cloud. And because all Apple computers now function to some degree in the Cloud even if you haven’t bought into the idea that you should store all your data there, all this stuff was building up like dental plaque somewhere in the Cloud.

Fixing this entailed a trip to the Apple store, explaining to a “Genius” what was going on, listening to his theory, discovering that it was wrong, being told it was something on the Cloud that he wasn’t allowed to mess with, making an appointment to talk by phone with someone somewhere in the bowels of Apple Corp, (is that Core?), jawing with her for quite a while, thinking she’d figured out how to fix it, discovering she hadn’t; calling back, hassling to get another person on the phone, explaining the whole mess over AGAIN, and then hanging on the phone for two hours while we tried to figure out the problem.

Ultimately we figured out that something over THREE THOUSAND junk messages were hiding in Computer Hell.

They could not be killed off by highlighting all and deleting all. It looked like I was going to have to delete them one at a time, guaranteeing a permanent case of carpal tunnel syndrome.

Finally we figured out that I could highlight & delete about a dozen at a time. So it took all afternoon to clean all these out. This was after I’d sunk god only knows how much time, a few days earlier, disabling and deleting all my “Rules.” At one point, the Cloud was cloning deleted messages and re-saving 21 iterations of each. It took FOREVER to get rid of them.

It looks like MacMail is probably working again. You can tell by the volume of spam and junk pouring into the inbox… Lovely.

The guy on the phone suggested waiting two or three days to be sure all messages are getting through before trying to reinstate anti-spam “Rules.” So now my Inbox is filling up with junk faster than I can kill it off.

What. a. NIGHTMARE. hassle.

Meanwhile, the gigantic task of indexing 350 pages of Anglo-Saxon art history got put on hold.

Yesterday I intended to enter another marked-up chapter’s worth of index entries in Wyrd. Instead, I carried an unread article to the Apple store so I could start marking it up. Despite making an appointment with their “Geniuses,”  you still end up sitting around a noisy, crowded store for quite a while before you get service. Conveniently, though, they let you sit at a table while you wait, making it possible to cram in some work. In between episodes, I continued to mark up page proofs.

And these are some page proofs. This particular author finds himself fascinated with a specific Old English word-suffix combination, from which he believes he can deduce any number of enlightenments about monastic culture and theo-political thinking during the Benedictine Reform. At one point, the guy surveyed existing literature and counted 137 occurrences of this linguistic combination.

Holy sh!t. Can you even imagine how OCD you’d have to be to do that?

On my end, speaking of OCD, I have have found Word for Mac’s keyboard commands for the letter eth (ð) and the letter thorne (þ) to be somewhat wanting. For the eth, Wyrd’s keyboard command creates a thing that looks like an italic version without the crossbar; for the thorne, it creates…nothing. It does, however, do a nice job with Æ and æ. That’s something. I guess.

Fortunately, WordPress has these characters, which can be copied and pasted into a Wyrd file, thereby making it possible to do the job without begging the client to replace substitute symbols out of his specialized software.

And speaking of Wyrd…the guy who was helping me on the phone remarked that my system needs to be updated to the latest operating system, cutely named El Capitan. I said that I had not updated to the newer Big Cats or to the latest Scenic Delight because I had lost the use of a key program in an earlier update and I do not wish to lose the use of any more programs. He allowed as to how El Capitan could disable Wyrd 2008 for Mac. This would require me to update to Wyrd 2013 (or, more simply, to close down my business altogether…). I hate, hate, HATE  the fucking “Ribbon,” and I have exactly zero desire to work with my own and my clients’ files in Microsoft’s “Cloud,” nor am I going to end up paying far, far more than the program’s real value by being forced to buy a monthly subscription.

When you look it up, you find that issues with Wyrd 2008 are mixed: some people say the program still works, others say it’s broken. There’s not much you can do about this, since Microsoft stopped supporting 2008 some time back, partly by way of herding its sheep customers into the Cloud Corral. Eventually you learn that the program will work if it was already resident on the upgraded machine, but you can’t install it anew under El Capitan:

Users report that they cannot install Microsoft Office 2008 (out of date) on El Capitan. If Office 2008 was already installed on Yosemite and you upgrade to El Capitan, it will work.

And in the unholy hassle department, here’s what we’re told you have to waste time doing to “get ready” for El Capitan:

  • Use Software Update to keep all Apple software up to date, including the OS.
  • Apply all free updates to other software you use.
  • Set up an external hard drive and use Time Machine.
  • Add more RAM if you can.
  • Fix damaged and duplicate fonts.
  • Use Disk Utility to repair permissions on your hard drive. (This is safe to do, and quick.)
  • If you are running a version of Mac OS X earlier than Snow Leopard, you will have to install Snow Leopard first. You can buy an installer disc for Snow Leopard from Apple’s web site for $20.

Read on, and you learn the thing disables any number of programs, including anything that’s called a “Power PC” program (whatever that is). And of course, it assassinates yet another expensive Adobe program.

Mac is hardly alone in blithely robbing consumers of programs they need through “recommended” or “required” upgrades of its operating systems. Microsoft’s 2010 Office upgrade, for example, would delete all of an upgrading user’s Access and Outlook files, without asking permission to do so.

Y’know…if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it! What the frack is the point of these endless time-consuming upgrades that don’t do much except complicate people’s lives?

Truly. This is the sort of thing that makes me crave — more and more often! — to go back to my IBM Selectric and my Smith-Corona. At least they couldn’t be “upgraded” by some arrogant corporation.

Trust no one.