for alleged "crimes against humanity" by knowingly choosing to name themselves with an anagram of some of your social security number upside down, putting you at risk of a "terrorist attack"...
...it's generally not necessary to include in your (public record) court filing your driver's license, bank account number, and debit card records.
The details of Google's brilliant nefarious scheme are on page 18 of this pdf (with some help from the Philadelphia 76'ers).
You can't make this stuff up.
Thursday, September 20
Saturday, September 1
Some quetchup with your spam?
In the past few days I've gotten a couple invites to some sort of new social network called Quetchup, even some from people I didn't even recognize. Let's call this Odd Thing #1. But I'm a sucker for social networks (it is, after all, my job to study them) so I went ahead and clicked a link to "join Rowyn and his friends today". Never mind that Rowyn is, in fact, a woman. Odd Thing #2.
Signing up is a three-step process. On the first step, they ask you to choose a screen name, along with your first and last name. Don't worry, though, your first and last name "will not be visible" and "will be kept strictly confidential". (So what exactly do they need them for?) Odd Thing #3. Call me a Facebook (or Friendster) snob, but this is one of the most infuriating things about MySpace: not being able to find people you know in real life because people hide behind cutesy screen names. They also wouldn't let me sign up until I told them how I heard about Quetchup, which was a little odd since I just clicked through a mammoth URL purportedly from Rowyn. Odd Thing #4.
But the piece de resistance here, and the reason I caution anyone who wants to try out this site, is that Step 2 of the process demands your login for one of the Webmail services, and informs you that by providing this you give consent for them to invite everyone in your address book. Odd thing #5. Since Gmail adds every single person you ever replied to to your address book, this ain't so hot. This scores Quetchup a special place in the circle of hell previously reserved for Plaxo and Facebook apps that automatically "notify" your friends. I supplied an old hotmail account that surely didn't have anyone to spam.
And finally, when it was all said and done, I wasn't even Rowyn's friend. Odd Thing #6. I went through all that to sign up, and she still had to explicitly approve me as a friend. (Perhaps this is because she didn't explicitly ask Quetchup to spam me in the first place.)
And even when I did become her friend, I couldn't see her name. So now I have an account on a social network with one friend. I'm afraid to let it scan a list of people I've emailed to see who else is on the site because it'll spam them all. I can't search for anyone by name because names are "confidential". It's like MySpace without the personality.
Which is too bad because they have some interesting ideas ported over from Friendster, like letting you see your second-degree friends (friends of friends), who may well be your actual friends in real life. Facebook still has yet to do this, even though people who many of your friends know on the site may actually know you in real life. And no app developer can do this either, since it's against the Facebook developer terms of service.
Signing up is a three-step process. On the first step, they ask you to choose a screen name, along with your first and last name. Don't worry, though, your first and last name "will not be visible" and "will be kept strictly confidential". (So what exactly do they need them for?) Odd Thing #3. Call me a Facebook (or Friendster) snob, but this is one of the most infuriating things about MySpace: not being able to find people you know in real life because people hide behind cutesy screen names. They also wouldn't let me sign up until I told them how I heard about Quetchup, which was a little odd since I just clicked through a mammoth URL purportedly from Rowyn. Odd Thing #4.
But the piece de resistance here, and the reason I caution anyone who wants to try out this site, is that Step 2 of the process demands your login for one of the Webmail services, and informs you that by providing this you give consent for them to invite everyone in your address book. Odd thing #5. Since Gmail adds every single person you ever replied to to your address book, this ain't so hot. This scores Quetchup a special place in the circle of hell previously reserved for Plaxo and Facebook apps that automatically "notify" your friends. I supplied an old hotmail account that surely didn't have anyone to spam.
And finally, when it was all said and done, I wasn't even Rowyn's friend. Odd Thing #6. I went through all that to sign up, and she still had to explicitly approve me as a friend. (Perhaps this is because she didn't explicitly ask Quetchup to spam me in the first place.)
And even when I did become her friend, I couldn't see her name. So now I have an account on a social network with one friend. I'm afraid to let it scan a list of people I've emailed to see who else is on the site because it'll spam them all. I can't search for anyone by name because names are "confidential". It's like MySpace without the personality.
Which is too bad because they have some interesting ideas ported over from Friendster, like letting you see your second-degree friends (friends of friends), who may well be your actual friends in real life. Facebook still has yet to do this, even though people who many of your friends know on the site may actually know you in real life. And no app developer can do this either, since it's against the Facebook developer terms of service.
Friday, August 24
Not just gimpy. Disabled
Yup. It's official. Yesterday I went to the DMV. One hour and $6 later, I had an official disabled parking permit. I felt weird joining the ranks with the elderly lady with a walker in front of me, but then a pain in my ankle had me sitting right beside her.
This tendinitis/bursitis/plantar fascitis (yes, apparently I have all three) hasn't gotten much better over the last month. It's like playing whac-a-mole with different tendons and ligaments. This doctor's strategy seems to be a carrot-and-stick approach: be nice to it with orthotics, a cane, and minimizing walking (hence the permit), while simultaneously tormenting it with physical therapy and cortisone shots.
At least with the cane I look the part of the disabled person, though fortunately not the old man. I found a nice black cane, which I'm told makes me look "dapper". (So far I've worn a suit with it three times and a top hat once.) It also makes a huge difference in how people treat you. People surrender their seats on trains (it helps that I look like the dude with the cane in the icon on the window). People try extra hard not to run you over. Even TSA screeners treat you gingerly at security (though I get my own personal wanding every time I go through, thanks to the metal in my boot).
As amusing as this has been, it's getting old. I've found people are much happier with the barfight story than the real one. But I miss dancing, hiking, and standing up for longer than two minutes at a time.
It has given me an interesting perspective on mobility, and how much it impacts your life. It affects how you spend your time and who you spend it with. It's such a simple thing to be empowered by, something I'd taken for granted (and being in my 20s probably justly so). But lots of people live with these infirmities, and have them much worse than I do. I heard an interview on NPR about how people experiencing hearing loss tend to withdraw from their social circles, because they feel they can't share the same experiences as easily.
It's easy to fall into the trap of retreating into a disability and giving up. One grandfather did just that after his hip replacement; he decided it was far easier to sit in his chair and be lazy than work at trying to regain his strength. The other decided that having only a quarter of his heart working wasn't going to stop him, and poured himself into researching vitamins, drugs, and exercises, fighting for every last day; ultimately this probably gave him an extra year or two to live.
So while this gimpiness is annoying as all hell (how annoying is hell? pretty friggin' annoying), it is only temporary. I need to be more like the latter grandfather, doing everything I can think of to bring closer my triumphant return to the world of the standing.
This tendinitis/bursitis/plantar fascitis (yes, apparently I have all three) hasn't gotten much better over the last month. It's like playing whac-a-mole with different tendons and ligaments. This doctor's strategy seems to be a carrot-and-stick approach: be nice to it with orthotics, a cane, and minimizing walking (hence the permit), while simultaneously tormenting it with physical therapy and cortisone shots.
At least with the cane I look the part of the disabled person, though fortunately not the old man. I found a nice black cane, which I'm told makes me look "dapper". (So far I've worn a suit with it three times and a top hat once.) It also makes a huge difference in how people treat you. People surrender their seats on trains (it helps that I look like the dude with the cane in the icon on the window). People try extra hard not to run you over. Even TSA screeners treat you gingerly at security (though I get my own personal wanding every time I go through, thanks to the metal in my boot).
As amusing as this has been, it's getting old. I've found people are much happier with the barfight story than the real one. But I miss dancing, hiking, and standing up for longer than two minutes at a time.
It has given me an interesting perspective on mobility, and how much it impacts your life. It affects how you spend your time and who you spend it with. It's such a simple thing to be empowered by, something I'd taken for granted (and being in my 20s probably justly so). But lots of people live with these infirmities, and have them much worse than I do. I heard an interview on NPR about how people experiencing hearing loss tend to withdraw from their social circles, because they feel they can't share the same experiences as easily.
It's easy to fall into the trap of retreating into a disability and giving up. One grandfather did just that after his hip replacement; he decided it was far easier to sit in his chair and be lazy than work at trying to regain his strength. The other decided that having only a quarter of his heart working wasn't going to stop him, and poured himself into researching vitamins, drugs, and exercises, fighting for every last day; ultimately this probably gave him an extra year or two to live.
So while this gimpiness is annoying as all hell (how annoying is hell? pretty friggin' annoying), it is only temporary. I need to be more like the latter grandfather, doing everything I can think of to bring closer my triumphant return to the world of the standing.
Friday, June 15
Yeah, but you should see the other guy.
I'm spending the weekend on the couch under strict doctor's orders not to put any weight on my foot. Why, you ask?
It was a brutal bar fight with a man who insulted my family's honor. Next thing you know, we're brawling. He sprained my ankle with a kick from his steel-toed boots, but I at least broke his nose.
It was a shark attack off the California coast. I was swimming along minding my own business when a shark approached. I tried to swim away but it caught up and took a bite out of my foot. I struggled and managed to wrestle it away with a deft blow to its slippery snout, but I still needed twelve stitches.
It was a dance from hell with a woman who never figured out you're not supposed to waltz in stilettos. I'm not one to turn down a lady for a dance, even though she was obviously a beginner. Something possessed me to try a left waltz with her, and as we were changing directions, she stepped on my foot. Hard. With her heel.
Actually, it was much less exciting a story. Back in December when I went to NYC for New Year's to visit Cheng and Rose. Being New York, we walked everywhere, even places we could've taken the subway. Now, I've spent days walking all over cities like San Francisco, Bangkok, and Tokyo. So I didn't think this would be a big deal. But apparently I aggravated some old injury, because by the end I had a sharp pain in my ankle and was limping around. I was all set to brave the subways to the airport like a true New Yorker, but by then I was willing to pay whatever fare a cabbie could dream up.
So far, my doctors have determined that there's damage to the ligaments in my foot (bursitis and maybe tendinitis as well). So I started doing physical therapy. Once or twice a week I'd go in in the morning to see a series of therapists, who invariably spoke only Chinese. Which is just fine when you need to communicate something like "Ow!" but not so much for things like "It hurts here when I put weight on it" or "the voltage is too high, turn it down please!" (Yes, this apparently involves shock therapy too.)
The original plan was to have me back on my feet in time for Viennese Ball. And indeed, I was able to semi-gracefully dance the opening waltz, if not the pivot- and redowa-laden polka. Gradually I grew more adventurous, doing a little more swing and light polka. But I couldn't stay on my feet for more than a couple songs at a time.
Now it's been almost six months, and though I'm not in pain all the time, it still hurts more often than it...should after six months. I finally went to go see a podiatrist, who recommended cortisone. By this point, my doctor has decided this has been going on long enough too. So today I got a pleasant injection of lidocaine and cortisone. And this weekend I'm on the couch. With any luck I'll be back in action in time for Waltz Weekend and our trip to Crater Lake next month.
So beware of drunk guys in bars, sharks, stiletto-clad dancers, and... the streets of New York.
It was a brutal bar fight with a man who insulted my family's honor. Next thing you know, we're brawling. He sprained my ankle with a kick from his steel-toed boots, but I at least broke his nose.
It was a shark attack off the California coast. I was swimming along minding my own business when a shark approached. I tried to swim away but it caught up and took a bite out of my foot. I struggled and managed to wrestle it away with a deft blow to its slippery snout, but I still needed twelve stitches.
It was a dance from hell with a woman who never figured out you're not supposed to waltz in stilettos. I'm not one to turn down a lady for a dance, even though she was obviously a beginner. Something possessed me to try a left waltz with her, and as we were changing directions, she stepped on my foot. Hard. With her heel.
Actually, it was much less exciting a story. Back in December when I went to NYC for New Year's to visit Cheng and Rose. Being New York, we walked everywhere, even places we could've taken the subway. Now, I've spent days walking all over cities like San Francisco, Bangkok, and Tokyo. So I didn't think this would be a big deal. But apparently I aggravated some old injury, because by the end I had a sharp pain in my ankle and was limping around. I was all set to brave the subways to the airport like a true New Yorker, but by then I was willing to pay whatever fare a cabbie could dream up.So far, my doctors have determined that there's damage to the ligaments in my foot (bursitis and maybe tendinitis as well). So I started doing physical therapy. Once or twice a week I'd go in in the morning to see a series of therapists, who invariably spoke only Chinese. Which is just fine when you need to communicate something like "Ow!" but not so much for things like "It hurts here when I put weight on it" or "the voltage is too high, turn it down please!" (Yes, this apparently involves shock therapy too.)
The original plan was to have me back on my feet in time for Viennese Ball. And indeed, I was able to semi-gracefully dance the opening waltz, if not the pivot- and redowa-laden polka. Gradually I grew more adventurous, doing a little more swing and light polka. But I couldn't stay on my feet for more than a couple songs at a time.Now it's been almost six months, and though I'm not in pain all the time, it still hurts more often than it...should after six months. I finally went to go see a podiatrist, who recommended cortisone. By this point, my doctor has decided this has been going on long enough too. So today I got a pleasant injection of lidocaine and cortisone. And this weekend I'm on the couch. With any luck I'll be back in action in time for Waltz Weekend and our trip to Crater Lake next month.
So beware of drunk guys in bars, sharks, stiletto-clad dancers, and... the streets of New York.
Tuesday, April 10
Who said Barack Obama was my friend?
So after seeing my coworker's massively stocked RSS reader, I decided to give the updated Google Reader a try. It's much better than their first prototype, which was trying so desperately to be AJAXy it was underwhelming and painful. But that was two years ago, and what with Web 2.0 and "feeds" being all the rage, I decided it'd be a great way to condense all the mindless clicking to check on people's blogs into one place. The beautiful thing about Reader is that you can just scan through dozens of posts (if they're short) with your scroll wheel in no time.
The sucky thing is that I've discovered that for every truly awesome story on Digg's front page, there's a whole bunch of useless Apple fanboy posts or choice articles about things like the pee shiver, some geek with a Firefox ATM card, and misleadingly labeled rant about why there are 2 pi in a circle. Since adding digg's feed to my Reader, I haven't yet been able to get below 100 unread articles. Like some demon Whac-a-Mole, it keeps sprouting stories I don't care about, burying the "important" feeds.
I discovered a bunch of my friends are now syndicating their blogs as Facebook notes, which is pretty convenient. I can just grab the master feed of friends' notes and add it to my Google Reader. Done. Since Idon't try not to visit Facebook every day, it's a nice way to keep on top of their blogs. Each person posts, on average, once a day. Very easy.
Then I decided, in a fit of optimistic democratic engagement, to "support" Barack Obama on Facebook. Like many candidates, his campaign manager posted a profile there showing his softer side (how many people can claim a musical palate ranging from Bach to Miles Davis to the Fugees?). The idea is people can express their support for a candidate, which shows up in their friends' Facebook stalker feeds (which are not, incidentally, available as RSS), which encourages other people to support him/her, and it spreads like a virus. Which is all well and good for Obama--he's managed to almost beat Hillary at fundraising by getting a stunning 100,000 individual donors.
The problem, though, is Facebook decided he was my friend. And as such, I now get "his" notes all over my friends feed. At least twice a day now. They're not even interesting notes either--I know he's not really logging into Facebook and posting them, it's syndicated from some blog maintained by one of his campaign managers.
I like this guy. I want him to be President. Barring any dramatic revelations 'tween now and the primary he's got my vote. But I don't want to hear about the 35-year-old legal assistant from Houston, Texas who decided to vote for Obama. I don't care.
RSS could be the next frontier for spam. Just wait.
The sucky thing is that I've discovered that for every truly awesome story on Digg's front page, there's a whole bunch of useless Apple fanboy posts or choice articles about things like the pee shiver, some geek with a Firefox ATM card, and misleadingly labeled rant about why there are 2 pi in a circle. Since adding digg's feed to my Reader, I haven't yet been able to get below 100 unread articles. Like some demon Whac-a-Mole, it keeps sprouting stories I don't care about, burying the "important" feeds.
I discovered a bunch of my friends are now syndicating their blogs as Facebook notes, which is pretty convenient. I can just grab the master feed of friends' notes and add it to my Google Reader. Done. Since I
Then I decided, in a fit of optimistic democratic engagement, to "support" Barack Obama on Facebook. Like many candidates, his campaign manager posted a profile there showing his softer side (how many people can claim a musical palate ranging from Bach to Miles Davis to the Fugees?). The idea is people can express their support for a candidate, which shows up in their friends' Facebook stalker feeds (which are not, incidentally, available as RSS), which encourages other people to support him/her, and it spreads like a virus. Which is all well and good for Obama--he's managed to almost beat Hillary at fundraising by getting a stunning 100,000 individual donors.
The problem, though, is Facebook decided he was my friend. And as such, I now get "his" notes all over my friends feed. At least twice a day now. They're not even interesting notes either--I know he's not really logging into Facebook and posting them, it's syndicated from some blog maintained by one of his campaign managers.
I like this guy. I want him to be President. Barring any dramatic revelations 'tween now and the primary he's got my vote. But I don't want to hear about the 35-year-old legal assistant from Houston, Texas who decided to vote for Obama. I don't care.
RSS could be the next frontier for spam. Just wait.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)