I’m not one to let life get in the way of my plans. And when life does in the way of my plans, and I make new plans, I’m not one to let life get in the way of those. As you’ll soon see.
First, I’ll admit that last week, despite my best efforts, life did manage to get in my way when the local pool hall hosting our 8-ball league closed its doors.
“It’s hard enough to have one independent thought on the weekend, much less two.”
(Side note: The story in that article is actually primarily about a different location of the franchise, which is in a different state and quite a few miles away, and which also closed next week. The story mentions the Boston location, calling it the ‘flagship club’ of the franchise, but that’s all the mention my home pool hall got.
Evidently, bar closings in Danbury, Connecticut are big headlines. In greater Boston, it’s less than nominally newsworthy.
I’m having a very hard time deciding whether this is a good thing, or a bad thing. Possibly, it just means Connecticutians are more crazy for the pocket games than people around here. I can’t say.)
Now, for our billiards team, which has been in a Boston Billiard league with me for nearly three years — and without me for quite some time before that — this was very bad news. No league means no more pool competitions on Tuesday nights. No league means no honing our bank-shot skills. No league means no laughing at the single guys on the team trying to hit on the waitresses all night. And no league means no getting home at two o’clock on Wednesday mornings reeking of chicken wings, beer and billiards chalk.
In other words, no league means a huge disappointment, for all involved. Except probably the waitresses getting hit on by the single guys. But they lost their jobs, presumably, so still, this situation is working out for no one.
Except me, in a way. As much as I hated to see pool night go, I did need a Weekend Werind topic this week. And reprising the billiards-based buffoonery that I’ve written before seemed like a great way to say goodbye, and mention that such shenanigans were unlikely to grace these virtual pages again any time soon. A fond farewell to felt-topped foolishness, that would be just the ticket.
But wait.
In an eleventh-hour rescue, another pool hall right down the street — and now we see why one closing its doors got no mention in the Beantown press — offered to take over our league. It’ll take a couple of weeks to sort out the details, evidently, but next Tuesday, in a scant nine days, we’ll be back to chucking balls off the table, scratching on the eight-ball, and breaking cues over our heads in berserker fits of self-loathing and rage. The usual old Tuesday night routine, just as it should be.
But wait, again. Then what will I highlight this weekend in this post?
Uh… pool. Still pool. It’s hard enough to have one independent thought on the weekend, much less two. So I’m sticking with the original plan, and pointing you towards the previous pool-related posts that have appeared in this space. Sure, the new digs present the possibility of more of these, but hey — they won’t happen in our old pool hall, like the ones below. And even if there’s no real practical distinction in print, at least I’ll know the difference. And also, I’ve got nothing else planned. So life can suck an egg. One curveball in a week is plenty; enjoy the billiards-based posts below.
Pool-Related Posts Plucked from the Way-Back Machine:
A chalky conundrum uncovered: Seeing Red at Seeing Red
Proving I’m just as smooth with a stick in my hand: A Putz with a Pool Cue
And last but not least — why can’t I just play assholes?: Nice Guys Finish… Ahead of Me
That’s all until Monday, folks. Happy weekend, and RIP, Boston Billiards. We’ll miss you.
Permalink | 2 CommentsI had an appointment with an exterminator today. We live in a hundred year old (and then some) house, and we’ve been seeing evidence lately that we may have mice cohabitating in our basement. And those furry little bastards aren’t helping out with the mortgage, so I want them out.
The only freeloader allowed in this house is the dog. And if she doesn’t stop farting kibble gas and eating all the Snausages, she’s packing her poochy bags, too.
But back to the exterminator. When my wife first suspected that we might have a residential rodent run in the root cellar, she called one of those big exterminator companies you see in the commercials. I don’t want to say which one exactly, for reasons coming soon, but I’ll give you a hint: it rhymes with Sperminex.
Don’t think too hard about that one. Or about what ‘Sperminex’ might be, if it exists. We’ve got plenty enough to worry about here, as it is.
“Had they set up mouse house already, with mouse carpets and mouse credenzas and wee tiny mouse couches?”
So, the guy showed up around noon, had a look around our basement, and informed me that there was, indeed, evidence that mice may have been visiting down there. I don’t know what sort of ‘evidence’ he saw — did they leave tiny little party hats and cheese wrappers down there? Had they set up mouse house already, with mouse carpets and mouse credenzas and wee tiny mouse couches?
I didn’t ask. I was worried he’d wax poetic about a certain sort of mouse ‘calling card’. And I walk barefoot down there sometimes. No, thanks.
The upshot of his investigative evidence gathering was a need to set traps. Figuring this was another job best left to the professional, I returned to whichever couch I’d been napping on and got back down to business. After a little while, our exterminating specialist emerged from the basement, declaring the traps set and the job complete. We settled up some paperwork, and I thought we were finished. That’s when he chose to share a bit more information, from personal experience.
And ooh, how I wish he hadn’t.
As we walked toward the door, he looked around the hallway and said:
‘Yep, this is one of those big old houses. Reminds me a lot of mine.‘
Good, good. Solid small talk. Now all we need is a quick exchange about the weather, and I’m just a ‘have a good weekend’ away from getting back to my nap. Excellent.
‘Course, the mice never really get out of these places. Got ’em, myself.‘
Wait. Did my exterminator just tell me, offhandedly, that he, himself, has mice. The guy whose job it is to trap, kill, squish, poison, repel and otherwise retard the spread of small animals — and who I’ve just paid to do so — has mice? In his own house?
Surely, I heard that wrong.
‘Hear ’em in the walls some nights. My wife says they’re mocking me.‘
Nope, I didn’t hear it wrong. And now my exterminator’s mice are shooting thumb-nosed raspberries at him from the insides of his walls. That’s just freaking peachy.
It’s not that I think he’s wrong about getting rid of those squeaky murine furballs, necessarily. Maybe so, and maybe not. But why in the world do you essentially tell someone who’s just hired you, ‘Yeah. I’ll do what I can — but what’re ya gonna do? That’s life.‘
Seriously. Would you eat at a restaurant if the waiter said, ‘Very good, that’s the chicken alfredo. Unfortunately, our chef doesn’t really ‘do’ pasta, so we’ll see what you wind up with‘? Or a dentist who told you, ‘Well, I’ll clean your teeth, but I don’t really know where the plaque is. Wanna see my dentures?‘
I think not.
Unfortunately, this guy was shrewd enough to drop his bombshell after I signed the bill. And the traps were already in place. Hell, they might work. Maybe my mice are dumber than his, or haven’t gotten the memo about his apparent inability to follow through with his vocation. Maybe the dude sets traps upside down; I don’t know. I only knew that in that moment, I had a helluva lot less confidence that our basement would be mouse-free anytime in the near future.
I suppose there’s no walking barefoot down there for a while now. Maybe it’s time to call Sporkin. Or flood the place, and see what floats to the top. With my luck, it’ll be defective traps, half-eaten bait, and a bunch of tiny little party hats.
Super. Guess I’d better get used to the sound of mousey little raspberries. I hope those mocking bastards choke on a whisker.
Permalink | 10 CommentsThe more I find out about this ‘Google phone‘ I’ve had for the past couple of months, the more impressed I am.
With the phone. But not with myself. Because each new feature I uncover leads me down a path where I find out that I’m not quite as smart or creative as I think I am. Worse, I’m not even keeping pace with the phone. It’s a sad day in a man’s life when some piddly little thing in his pants pocket can outthink him on a daily basis.
(Oh, who am I kidding? That’s every day in a man’s life. But we’re talking about phones here.)
” It’s a sad day in a man’s life when some piddly little thing in his pants pocket can outthink him on a daily basis.”
Take today, for instance. This afternoon, I found something in the phone’s shiny software that I’d previously thought was a bug, or a glaring omission. Turns out, I was just looking in the wrong place. And now that I know better, I’m not smart enough to properly take advantage of the feature that was there all along. I’ll explain.
At least for the moment, the only Googly Android phone that’s available in my neck of the hemisphere is from T-Mobile. The same T-Mobile that offers a ‘Fave Five‘ feature, where five numbers that you call most often are free to call, or billed at a lower rate, or get you airline points or Starbucks bucks or something. Maybe calling those people makes donations in your name to the local orphan leper whale charity; I don’t know. It’s not like I actually read my customer agreement.
Anyway, I filled in a couple of my five — because, let’s face it, how many numbers do I really call on a regular basis that haven’t already blocked me or screen me out? I’ve got my house, my wife’s cell, and maybe a pizza joint number in there. And the pizza place only answers my calls if I use a pay phone, so they don’t know it’s me. Man, you send one pizza back because the pepperonis are asymmetrical, and these people hold a grudge, like, forever. Sheesh.
So when I was filling in my partial ‘Fave Five‘ — does that make it a ‘Fave Four‘, or maybe a ‘Treasured Three‘? — I thought about customizing each one a bit. The little selector gadget lets you pick an icon for each number, so I did that. And then I thought, wouldn’t it be cool if I could assign a different ringtone to each? That might be fun.
I looked on the menu for a Fave Five ringtone selector. Nothing.
I checked the preferences. No ringtones.
I looked for properties, options and submenus. Mostly, I came up empty. Where I didn’t come up empty, I still came up with no ringtone selector. Nothing.
I was, frankly, a bit concerned about this. Not because I really needed the phone to blare Our House when I got a call from home, or Ball and Chain when the missus rings from her mobile.
(Heaven knows I certainly don’t need the latter to happen when she’s within hearing distance. I get into enough damned trouble as it is.
Plus, she’s not a big Social Distortion fan. I’m sure that wouldn’t help things much.)
Rather, I was just miffed that my fancy new piece of hardware seemingly didn’t have a feature that I’ve seen on other phones for years now. Why on earth, I thought, wouldn’t I be able to set a unique ringtone for my favorite few numbers?
Well, it’s because, as I finally discovered this afternoon, I can instead set a unique ringtone for every single freaking number that I’ve ever called, or that has ever called my phone. Every single contact in the address book has a ringtone option. That’s not a lot of people, but it’s sure as hell too many for me to bother setting different options for. I wouldn’t even know how to begin with some of those people, anyway. What would you want to hear when your accountant calls? Or your boss? Or your mother-in-law?
More to the point, what would you want to hear that wouldn’t get you audited, fired or divorced the next time your phone rings in the wrong company? See? Not so easy now, is it, Senor Smartypants?
So I’ve finally faced the facts. This phone, gleaming example of cutting-edge technology that it is, is simply too smart for me. If there’s something it doesn’t do, then that just means that it really does do it, and I’m too dumb to figure out how to ask it nicely in just the proper way. Maybe I should start sending the phone to my office every morning, and handle its calls, instead of the other way around. That might be a more effective use of our respective talents and abilities.
Except I don’t take messages very well. And I always forget to give them to the person when I see them. So that’s not going to work very well, either.
Maybe I’ll send the phone to work and switch places with the keychain, instead. With a little practice, maybe I could at least do it’s job.
Permalink | 2 CommentsI went to the gas station this afternoon for a fill-up and saw something there I’ve never seen before. A guy was at the opposite pump, filling his tank and absolutely elated to be doing it. He was downright giddy, grinning like an Exxon tiger and giggling to himself while the fuel flowed freely into his funky Ford Festiva.
(The color? Fuchsia.
Nah, not really. But that would have been cool. Insofar as ‘Ford Festiva’ and ‘cool’ can be mentioned with a straight face within six sentences of each other.)
“He was downright giddy, grinning like an Exxon tiger and giggling to himself while the fuel flowed freely into his funky Ford Festiva.”
At any rate, the guy seemed to be enjoying himself greatly. I can’t say why — he was just about to climb into a Ford Festiva, for one thing — but I suppose he had his reasons. Maybe it was his first car, or he’s Amish and had never seen a gas station before. Or he’d just set a record-best for miles per gallon, or possibly those ‘Festivas’ really live up to their name.
(Yeah. Unlikely.)
Perhaps he was simply pleased as unleaded punch that gas prices have dropped back to a level that doesn’t require a second mortgage or signing over your first-born child to refill your ride. Don’t know.
What I do know is that he was filling his tank both greedily and lustily, and that’s not something I’ve ever witnessed in the past.
Oh, sure, I’m familiar with greed, and with lust. Those are right up there with sloth and gluttony on my list of favorite deadly sins. And I see people doing things ‘greedily and lustily’ all the time. Eating, for instance. There’s a McDonald’s in the food court near my office. You’d think some of the people ordering there were just rescued from a desert island and dropped into line, desperate and starving. Some guys tear through the bag to get at their two all-meatlike-substance patties before the cashier even hands back their change. The staff might as well just set up a firehose full of French fries behind the counter and spray hot taters directly down customers’ gullets.
(That’d save on a helluva lot of packaging, too. You want to be ‘green’, fast food joints? Buy one used firehose and a reusable funnel. Also, you might need a tarp. You’re welcome.)
I even remember the first time I saw a woman doing something ‘greedily and lustily’. At least, I think that’s what she was doing. I’m not entirely sure it was even a woman. I was watching the Playboy channel as a kid when my parents were out, and our old cable company scrambled the signal so you couldn’t really tell what the hell was going on. From all the moaning going on, I think she was enjoying herself — but with the screen split in the middle and all the weird colors and distortion, who can say for sure? She might have just had a tummy ache, or was humming her favorite song. Badly.
On the good side, I did get a glimpse of what I was pretty well convinced was a nipple. At the time, that was plenty enough ‘greed’ and ‘lust’ for me. Even if the thing was colored orange and stretched halfway across the screen by the scrambler. Come to think of it, maybe it was a basketball. Or a frisbee. Who knows?
Anyway, those are the sorts of situations in which I’m comfortable with the ‘greedily and lustily’ qualifier. A guy at the next gas pump on a cold night in January simply doesn’t qualify. Come to think of it, anything involving ‘a guy’ and any sort of ‘pump’ is well out of my comfort zone. And I still don’t know what the hell this gas-pumping goon was so damned happy about.
But when he was done, he let out a thrilled little squeal, replaced the nozzle, hopped in his shitbox and drove away. Whether he was ‘greedy’ or ‘lusty’ — or both — behind the wheel, I can’t say. I was still filling my own tank. And wondering what the hell kind of ‘additives’ they’re putting in the petroleum products these days. I’m all for feeling good about my refueling trips, but I’m not sure ‘laughing gas’ would be such a good idea.
On the other hand, I didn’t feel giddy at all after topping my tank, so that’s probably not it. It’s probably just one guy, a little unstable and in love with OPEC. Or something. Just to be safe, I think I’ll avoid getting near any Ford Festivas for the rest of my life.
Which means I don’t have to change a thing. Sweet.
Permalink | No Comments
Pipe, Pipe, Douche!
No, this isn’t a new — and patently disturbing — take on the old childrens’ tag game. Nor is it the prop list for a soon-to-be-released — and equally disturbing — construction-site-themed porn flick. Thankfully.
Rather, it’s what I said to myself earlier this evening, when I noticed that a few comments here — quite a few comments, as it turns out — were being inadvertently flagged as spam, and not being published. Or responded to. Or seen, at all, by myself or others. And as much as I’d like to blame the two pipes that directly caused the problem, it’s really the douche that put them there who’s to blame.
I’ll give you three guesses who that douche is. And ‘Massengill’ and ‘John Edwards‘ don’t count.
“It’s a lot like searching for diamond dust in a turd factory.”
I’ll tell you the details. It involves a bit of a computer programming lesson, but don’t worry — evidently, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, so how complicated could the explanation be, really? It’ll be like having a monkey expound on the symbolism in Beowulf. You’ll be fine.
So, here’s the thing about comments. I’ve never moderated comments here, and I doubt I ever will. If and when people are kind enough to leave comments — or annoyed or confused enough, or legally obligated to inform me of pending legal actions, perhaps — then I’m more than happy to have them on the site. Tickled pink and puffy, even.
However.
For every legitimate comment I receive, there are hundreds — maybe thousands — of ‘spamments’ incoming. There’s a constant stream, flying just under the shiny surface of the template and these words, of Viagra this and casino that and mesothelioma the other, and porn, porn, porn, always with the grandma midget donkey veggie porn.
What it is these bulkmailing bastards are trying to accomplish, I don’t know. A page rank boost for their sweaty sexpot sites? An honest attempt to sell me and my three readers genuine Canadian knockoff drugs and the latest in black market near-silicone breast implants? Just freaking cheesing me off? No idea.
Luckily, they’re not accomplishing any of these things, thanks to the fancy spam filter tucked away in my blog software. Every once in a while, some new spamspewing shuckmonkey will slip a ‘comment’ or twelve past the goalie, but all I have to do is open up the settings, update a spam filter pattern to match, and delete the offending chicanery. And since that’s the only stupid job I personally have in this little arrangement, that’s precisely the bit that I screwed all to hell for a few months, and never realized.
I’ve added a lot of spam filters manually over the past five years or so — an awful, howling testament to the relentless misapplied creativity displayed by these spamchucking weaselbots. Maybe if their mothers had only held them as small children, or a teacher had shown even an ounce of interest in their aspirations, they could have channeled their energies for good. But no. Evil it is. And so, evil I must repel from my site.
One of my most often-pinged filters looks something like this:
/\/(forums|files|download|catalog|…)\//i
(The ‘…’ above is simply a placeholder for another three dozen or so words, each of which has shown up in one or more spamments and been added lovingly to this list, which sends any of their subsequent slimy spammy brethren to the junk comment purgatory pit.
I like to imagine brimstone in there. And rivers of fire. Also, unspeakable acts performed with pineapples, bowling balls and rabid wolverines. Spammers and their spawn are not on my Christmas card list.)
In case you’re not familiar with the syntax above, that jumble of words and punctuation is what’s known in programmer’s parlance as a ‘regular expression’. Why it’s called that, when it’s clearly quite irregular, and not especially expressive, is beyond me. That’s just what it’s called. But what does it mean?
Well. This is where the programming bits come in. Feel free to avert your eyes for a few paragraphs, if you’re allergic to these sorts of computery type things.
The slash at the very beginning and almost at the end enclose the actual code; like buns on a Big Mac, they’re just the wrapper for the meaty bits inside. And that little ‘i’ dangling off the end stands for ‘(case) insensitive’, so the program knows to ignore upper-casiness and lower-casitude within the pattern. No problem so far.
The first and last bits of the pattern are also slashes — forward slashes ( / ), to be exact. But since the pattern itself is enclosed by those same sorts of slashes, the ones inside have to be noted specially, lest the first one be mistaken for the ‘end of pattern’ slash, and the rest of the code go for naught. In this particular coding system, forward slashes are specially-noted — or ‘escaped’ by putting another character in front of them. Which happens to be a backward slash ( \ ), making a funny little V-looking thing ( \/ ).
(I wish I were making this up. But this is really the kind of shit we coders are expected to remember on a daily basis. It’s a wonder I have enough brain cells left to remember my fricking name.)
Forget the funky bits for a moment. The last part of the code is a bunch of words, enclosed in parentheses and separated by a funny straight-up-and-down sort of slash. We call that a ‘pipe’. And if you’ve read the title and ever coded a regular expression before, you probably already see where this is headed. For your sake — and everyone else’s, at this point — I’ll keep the rest of the explanation brief:
The parentheses serve to group whatever’s in between them, and the pipes act as ‘or’s. So in the pattern above, that middle bit is saying, ‘anything with the word ‘forums’ OR ‘files’ OR ‘download’ OR ‘catalog’ in it‘. The funny V-looking slash-slash bits, and the ‘i’ at the end expand that, so that any comment is counted as spam that has:
‘a forward slash, then any of the words in parentheses, regardless of case, then another forward slash‘
This is all well and good, because all those words I put in the parentheses are used in spamjacker URLs all the time, and always between two slashes. If you know about directories on web sites, then you may recognize that I’m attempting to filter out directories — like ‘/forums/’ or ‘/catalog/’ — that are likely to exist on some commercial site with pills or porn or pork rinds to sell, but not so likely on a site that a legit commenter would type in. Like a blog, or a MySpace page.
This pattern has weeded out many, many hundreds of spamments for me over the years, and for that, I’ve been extremely grateful. Until a few hours ago, when I looked a little closer, and noticed that what the code actually said was:
/\/(forums|files||download|catalog|…)\//i
That’s two pipes in a row there, in the middle. Which means that in addition to all the words in the list I worked so hard on, at some point I also introduced an ‘OR nothing at all‘ in between those two slashes in the pattern. And a slash, then nothing, then another slash is, last I checked, ‘slash-slash’.
As in ‘colon-slash-slash’. As in, part of ‘http://‘, which has been the beginning of every single freaking link on the web for the past twenty years.
So basically, if someone left a comment, and it pointed back to their site — any site at all, spam shack, blog, vatican.com, charlieisthegreatestever.org, anything at all — it got flagged as spam. At least since I picked up writing again in November, and probably for many, many moons before that.
There’s one bright spot in my blogging day, and that’s logging in to see that some kind soul has been moved enough to leave a comment on one of my posts. And for months, I’ve been shooting myself squarely in the ass in that regard, without ever knowing it. I could only wonder why the comments seemed to have dwindled upon my return, blame everything on the crappy economy, and cry myself to sleep on my keyboard at night.
Which sounds sort of tragic, I suppose. Except that since realizing my mistake, I’ve now looked through no less than twelve thousand comments relegated to the junk folder, searching for the few spare notes left by real people. It’s a lot like searching for diamond dust in a turd factory. I’ve seen more spam in the last three hours than any one person should be subjected to in a lifetime. Frankly, I prefer the crying and wondering bit. At least a nice hot shower can wash away the shame from that.
So, long story marginally shorter, I managed to ‘rescue’ a couple dozen comments — in other words, roughly four hundred percent of the ones I’d seen in the past two months, not counting the ones I’ve written myself. And I trashed the steaming pile of actual spam comments, to start with a fresh slate. If only I could swap my eyes for a new set, too, I’d be just peachy.
Of course, I flushed a couple of thousand comments before I looked closely enough, so I may have missed a missive or two. For that, if you sent something that you thought I’d ignored, I apologize. And I’m now going to tackle the task of responding to each of the new-to-me comments that I’ve found, and hope that my adjustment to the filter — second pipe, yoink! — fixes the problem going forward.
Still. If you left a comment in the recent past, please feel free to submit it again. Or if you don’t recall what moved you at the time, drop a different line. If you haven’t commented, well, now’s the time. Somebody’s got to test the system, and heaven knows I can’t do it alone. Look at how solidly I mucked it up last time. Either way, really, it’s safest just to drop a quick comment, and see what happens. I might still have gremlins lurking in my filters. Only you can help me ferret them out. Don’t leave this douche crying on his keyboard.
Permalink | 12 CommentsCategories: (Stupid) Computers, A Doofus Is Me, Bits About Blogging
Tags: blogging, comedy, comments, douche, fun, funny, humor, patterns, pipe, regular+expressions, spam, spam+filter