No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise…
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince.
— T. S. Eliot (1888-1965), “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
I forgot about the tremendous opportunity at shows such as this for booty. Now before people start hitting me and sending sympathetic notes to Margie over my “Guy at a…
I forgot about the tremendous opportunity at shows such as this for booty.
Now before people start hitting me and sending sympathetic notes to Margie over my “Guy at a business conference who betrays his marital vows” (in which case it would be me requiring the sympathetic notes because it would be Margie hitting me — and she hits hard), I am referring, of course, to booty in the “pirate’s swag” sense.
As in, “I went to the vendor show at Gartner and all I got was a lousy t-shirt. And some pens. And a tote bag. And some stuffed animals. And some retractable extension phone lines. And a Velcro dart board. And some foam cubes, suitable for hurling across the office. And some key chains. And some superballs that light up when you bounce them. And a lot of brochures. And a Lego dune buggy. And a foam rubber brain. And a Magic 8-Ball. And a PDA case. And some mouse pads. And some pill boxes with mints in them. Oh, and a lava lamp.”
And now, since she has to figure how to pack all this, Margie is going to hit me anyway. And she hits hard.
SMART GUY 1: The thing that the modern-day pundits fail to realize is that all the socioeconomic and psychological problems inherent in modern society can be solved by the judicious…
SMART GUY 1: The thing that the modern-day pundits fail to realize is that all the socioeconomic and psychological problems inherent in modern society can be solved by the judicious application of way too much beer.
BUFFY: My mother always said beer is evil.
SMART GUY 1: Evil, good — these are moral absolutes that predate the fermentation of malt and fine hops.
— Buffy the Vampire Slayer, “Beer Bad”
Monday night was, as I noted earlier this morning, the special Magic Kingdom Guest Night for Gartner attendees. At 7:45 p.m. we all boarded busses and rode off to the Magic Kingdom, like herds of elephants crossing the veldt, converging on the watering hole.
Now, the entire park wasn’t open. But all the E-ticket rides were (for those who recall what an E-ticket ride was). And the crowds were minimal, so you could ride eides as fast as you could walk to them and through the queue guides. Plus live entertainment here and there. The local equivalent of the Electrial Parade. A number of restaurants were open, and there were also buffet tables all over the place. Oh, and ice cream carts. Oh, and beer and wine carts.
In other words, the perfect, decadent Disney experience. We had much fun, even though the 3-4 hours we had were not nearly enough.
Having grown up in Southern California, Disneyland’s Magic Kingdom is the “One, True Magic Kingdom of which all others are but Shadow.” Being well familiar with the Anaheim park, visiting WDW’s Magic Kingdom is like visiting some strange parallel world. The biggest difference is just that — bigness. Anaheim real estate, even in 1960 or so, was still valuable (and Disney was working on a relative shoestring). Florida real estate was — well, anyone interested in buying some swampland? So in the space that you can fit the entire park in Anaheim, WDW fits Fantasy Land alone. There are gaps between the lands, gaps between the rides, a ton of landscaping (with the prospects of fill-in expansion).
Plus oddities like “Liberty Square.” Lesser versions of “The Haunted Mansion” and “Pirates of the Caribbean” and “It’s a Small World.” Alternative but analogous versions of “Space Mountain” and “Big Thunder Mountain.” An arguably superior version of “Splash Mountain.”
Other things here and not in Anaheim:
Of course, they don’t have a “Matterhorn” here. Or an “Indiana Jones.” YMMV.
There’s nothing quite like riding the Jungle Cruise at the Magic Kingdom with a plastic cup of cabernet in your hand, and at least one more in your stomach. “Grad…
There’s nothing quite like riding the Jungle Cruise at the Magic Kingdom with a plastic cup of cabernet in your hand, and at least one more in your stomach.
“Grad Night. With Beer.” That’s how Margie described the “Magic Kingdom Special Event” for Gartner attendees. We sprang for Margie’s admission, plus a sitter, and had Much Fun.
I’m way behind in recording experiences here, but it’s difficult to explain how difficult it is to blog whilst in a hotel room with a cranky toddler and a wife who has been taking care of same all day. Not to mention “lights off” at 7 p.m. in the hope that said toddler will go to sleep.
So … expect more when you see it. I’m typing this from one of the complementary Internet-connected PCs here at Garter (woo-woo). But since I have probably at least a few hours to transcribe — don’t expect it just yet.
“But first, a musical number!” Police chopper in Albuquerque lands by a Krispy Kreme to buy doughnuts. Film at 11. (via Xcot)…
“But first, a musical number!”
Police chopper in Albuquerque lands by a Krispy Kreme to buy doughnuts. Film at 11.
(via Xcot)
I’m going to stop tonight’s efforts by closing up that long first evening. There’s not much else to write about. We arrived in Orlando around 1 a.m., long after everything…
I’m going to stop tonight’s efforts by closing up that long first evening. There’s not much else to write about.
We arrived in Orlando around 1 a.m., long after everything had closed, and trekked a long, long way to baggage claim. Margie went off to find the shuttle folks, Mears, she’d contacted by phone, only to find out that they had closed down long beforehand, the scum. She did find some different folks, Transtar, who were quick to offer their service, and for cheaper. Since Mears seems to do 90% of the WDW business, I find myself obligated to suggest the good folks at Transtar. They did right by us.
The trip away from Orlando International — which Florida conveniently built as a tollway — passes you by an endless array of very elaborate billboards, all pointing to various amusement parks and resorts. Sea World. Universal Studios. Busch Gardens. And, of course, the grand-daddy of them all, Walt Disney World.
Oh, yeah. We also drove past this huge, rather ugly/modernistic church along I-4. The sign said it was the home to the Mary, Queen of the Universe Shrine. The Catholics like doing things in a big way.
The shuttle driver indicated that last week had been really dead, but things were beginning to pick up some.
We arrived at the resort — the Port Orleans Riverport (Formerly Dixie Landings) at 2 a.m. Only to discover that (a) the area of the resort we had been ostensibly booked into, we weren’t, and, more importantly, (b) they had no cribs available. Given that Squiggy was screaming her lungs out at this point (she’s sacked out on the plane, and we’d carried her off in her car seat, still asleep, all the way to the shuttle. She woke up en route, and finally decided she’d had about enough of this), Margie expressed her displeasure with the turn of events.
The bell hop took us and our ton o’ luggage off to our room on a long, golf-cart-like shuttle. It did the job quite nicely, and he described a bit about the resort, which I will do later on, too.
We got into our room. Quaint. Nice. Clean. Vaguely Southern, I suppose. Aside from no crib, the biggest problem is that there’s no desk, and the only table is across the room from the one phone (which is also the one place that has a data port — a/k/a second line — to plug into).
We’re busy unpacking, when the door knocks. Voila, someone’s found a crib. Margie’s magic works again.
We eventually get ready for bed, set Squiggy down in the crib, where she starts to scream bloody murder. Ah, but unlike our church retreat the previous weekend (which I never got ’round to blogging), we’re in a hotel room. Which means her noise is not very audible beyond these four walls. Aha. We feign sleep, just as we would at home where she wouldn’t see us. She can still see us, but it is 3 in the morning, and she’s pretty tired, too. After about 10 nerve-wracking minutes, she eventually quiets down and goes to sleep.
As do we.
More on the morrow on the morrow.
I really dislike Dallas-Fort Worth International. Whenever I end up laying over in DFW, I am inevitably doing an OJ Simpson through one entire concourse, in order to then make…
I really dislike Dallas-Fort Worth International. Whenever I end up laying over in DFW, I am inevitably doing an OJ Simpson through one entire concourse, in order to then make the 1200m dash through another concourse to make my connection in 15 minutes … which then, inevitably, ends up being delayed three hours as I arrive, my body giving out beneath me.
While I didn’t have to dash much this time, my opinion of DFW was not improved.
The Delta concourse is designed with the baggage claim areas paralleling the councourse the entire length. So every thirty yards or so, there’s another gate. Which means another X-ray machine. Which means another pair of soldierly types with their slung M16. Eep. Security nightmare. The soldiers are supported by at least two other law enforcement agencies (couldn’t tell what, but one wore navy blue police type uniforms, the other wore dark leather jackets), but it was still goofy. Why they didn’t close half of them to incoming traffic I do not know.
To make a long story from before short, Margie also wangled us Good Seats on the new flight. Though she paid for it, karmically, by initially standing in line at the gate for about fifteen minutes before they announced they were not actually dealing with the flight we were on yet, but the one going out before it.
See, our flight was delayed. An hour. And, later, another 25 minutes beyond that. And when you’re getting in late in the first place, that’s all not a good thing.
Mercifully, there was a Haagen-Dasz store right near where we were. I wrote in my Palm blog journal, “Rum Raisin is da bomb.” And then, “Can I say that in an airport?”
But it’s true. HD Rum Raisin ice cream is nectar and ambrosia. The gods themselves eat of it. It is the most wonderful thing in the world.
There, now you know.
Unfortunately, it does not make a dinner, at least not in conventional servings. Margie found a good little Chinese place and brought me back some, while I watched Squiggy. We took turns doing that, and, mercifully, she found some other kids to play with (plenty of kids traveling with their parents to Orlando, no great surprise), which let her burn off lots of energy.
I noted in my blog journal, “It’s a bad sign when CNN begins to repeat. Again.”
There were plastic knives in service there, too.
I noted with some irony that Margie’s boarding pass noted, “Infant in arms.” Mine noted, “Bags = 04.”
After complaining mentally once again that the airlines all decided to stop offering early boarding for families with children and infants just at the point where we had one, Delta did so. So we did. Middle three seats on a 767. Not bad. We were pretty tired and frazzled by that point, but at least we were on our way once more.
They played a free movie for us, since we’d been delayed. Cats & Dogs. I’d have rather seen the other choice, Tomb Raider, but Katherine enjoyed the 15 minutes she was awake for.
We left about on-time. 11:30 a.m., for a 3:20 p.m. flight, with the airport but half an hour away. Life in the New America. Of course, we still had to…
We left about on-time. 11:30 a.m., for a 3:20 p.m. flight, with the airport but half an hour away. Life in the New America.
Of course, we still had to make a stop at the post office to pick up postcard stamps and mail off something I’d sold through Amazon.com. And stop by the ATM to pick up some folding money. Still, as it worked out, we got there in plenty of time.
There is now a cursory vehicle search at DIA before you get to the parking structure (it appeared to be only for vehicles going into the parking structure, not those going to the outer lots). A couple of questions, a quick look in the back of the van. Of course, Margie, Katherine and I don’t exactly fit the profile for suicide bombers, but, still …
The lines at the ticket counter were pretty normal. The lines at the security checkpoints were, alas, not. In the past, the lines usually went about five or six deep — ten to twenty deep during really busy periods. For those familiar with DIA, these lines ran back to the ATM/payphone structure, and beyond, through some corded switchbacks, back and forth. We heard later it ran about 40 minutes to get through.
Later, you ask? Well, thereby hangs a tale.
Margie is the politest, friendliest, nicest person in the world. That is axiomatic. She is also cut-throat at cutting corners, getting away with things, and being an all-around effective dealer with life’s more interesting situations.
So we’re off on this flight on a companion fare. Dr. J. is paying my way, since I’m ostensibly here to go to the Gartner Group shindig. Margie’s folks found out about this special deal through her mom’s bank, or through some agency, or through American Express, or some such thing (and my very lack of knowledge in this is evidence enough that Margie deserves all the credit) that basically gave us free companion fares if we booked through some particular agency. Cool. So Margie’s down here free.
Ah, but what of the third member of our trio. Well, had it been me making the reservations, we’d have been out Katherine’s ticket, too. Not Margie. She notes that flights are often not full, and usually a duo is on an aisle-and-window, with the middle seat vacant. So we go on that assumption, carrying the car seat, as though we’re going to sit Katherine there. If it turns out there’s no room, we check the seat at the Jetway, and Katherine sits in our laps. If there is room, we’re in Fat City.
So we head for the back of the long, switchbacky security line. And the very nice US Marshall (based on her jacket) says, “Oh, with a seat, go ahead and step through the line there.” Ah. The car seat is too big to go through the normal scanner, so it has to be screened separately. Some of the other Marshalls we meet (who are all quick to notice we’re going the wrong way) are not so sure, but they accept the other Marshall’s judgment.
We end up bypassing the entire line. Once the security guard is done with the wheelchair bound lady ahead of us, we hand off the car seat to her, and then step back into the line at the front. Wa-hoo!
Of course, I end up having to go through twice. Because, in the New New World Order, my notebook has to be taken out of its briefcase and run through separately. Ditto my Palm and my cell phone. And my wallet, but I ignore that one and nobody catches me at it. No more handing things past the personal X-ray. If it causes a beep, it should be put in one of the buckets and sent through the conveyor belt. Wow.
There are certainly more security types at the checkpoint than before. As well, there are Marshalls, various other uniformed police types, and two gents in fatigues with M16 rifles slung over their backs. They are having a fun time, so I don’t feel particularly intimidated, but, then, I’m not the guilty man fleeing where no man pursueth, either.
They do not check our boarding passes at the security checkpoint. On the other hand, Aunt Louise and Uncle Frim aren’t going to stand in a 40 minute line to go meet the kids arriving.
So we find our way to the gate at 1:05 p.m., over two hours before flight time. For those who make use of DIA, it sounds like the way to go (if you don’t have a car seat) is to take the bridge from the terminal to Concourse A (95% of the folks at the airport are not aware of this bridge) and go through the checkpoint there. Five minutes, from what we heard. Then elevator down to the train and pick it up to Concourses B or C, if you’re not flying out of A. Much easier.
Now for the real sweats.
So, as I mentioned, Margie had only booked two tickets. Well, when we checked in, we didn’t have assigned seats. So we ended up in Way-Hell-And-Gone F and Different-Row-Still-Further-Back D. Bad news, folks. Not only did we not have a third seat between us, we weren’t even seated together. So the 40 minutes we saved at Security might have turned into an hour and a half of one-of-is-stuck-with-the-kid-on-our-lap Hell.
And we were in the same boat on the second leg, from Dallas to Orlando. Yeesh.
Did I mention above how Margie is the Nicest Person in the World. And how she can also be the Most Cut-throat Person in the World? Combine those two features. Send her up to the gate counter with Katherine in her arms. Is the plane really that full? Is there anywhere we could at least be seated together? Eyelashes bat. Baby smiles. Gate attendant smiles back, finds us a pair of seats with an empty one in-between.
And Margie wonders why I ask her to make phone calls to vendors and the like. She is a goddess, that’s all there is to it.
She also notices that there are plastic knives still being offered at the Mexican restaurant there on Concourse C.
We board on time, and take off without any sort of heart-rending speech by the pilot. The plane is fairly full, but we have the car seat, Squiggy in it, and seats of our own, and, aside from a bottle of laudanum for the Kitten, we are off.
There’s something very odd about hearing that you’re country is pursuing war whilst vacationing at Disney World. Not wrong, not “Oh, my God, can’t everyone just get along?” Just ……
There’s something very odd about hearing that you’re country is pursuing war whilst vacationing at Disney World. Not wrong, not “Oh, my God, can’t everyone just get along?” Just … weird. I’m not sure which seems more unreal.
Yes, I’m finally back on-line. More as I can get it typed. Lots of stuff I’ve scribbled notes on — nothing terribly profound, mind you, but hopefully of mild interest.
Ulro, Jr., waxing philosophical as is his wont, has this to say about America, the Land Founded on Rational Politics. And yet, how far have those principles penetrated, in two…
Ulro, Jr., waxing philosophical as is his wont, has this to say about America, the Land Founded on Rational Politics.
And yet, how far have those principles penetrated, in two hundred years? Well, far enough that a nation composed largely of enthusiastic believers in psychic hotlines, horoscopes, UFOs and the literal truth of the King James Bible—a nuclear superpower of three hundred million that trumpets itself as being “at war” with a gang of about fifty knife-wielding thugs—still officially tolerates internal dissent. That’s something; really it is. The rational political structure created by a motley assembly of 18th century sons of Enlightenment continues to hold in key places, though the beast growls and rattles the bars of the cage.
That’s something of a comfort indeed.
Victory Blog cites a Slate article on “War and Commentary.” The article touches on what responsibilities a commentator, editorialist, or writer in general has during a time of crisis, both…
Victory Blog cites a Slate article on “War and Commentary.” The article touches on what responsibilities a commentator, editorialist, or writer in general has during a time of crisis, both to speak out and to refrain therefrom.
A few quotes of note (good article, btw — go read it):
I dropped a note to someone today, mentioning that her link to my blog was obsolete (still the old HTML one, rather than the new, improved, PHP one). She thanked…
I dropped a note to someone today, mentioning that her link to my blog was obsolete (still the old HTML one, rather than the new, improved, PHP one).
She thanked me, and wished me a happy vacation.
That’s kind of weird, you know. Not quite Stalker Going Up To Movie Star And Talking About What He Saw Peering Through The Star’s Window Last Night weird. Especially since I’m the one who’s pulling up the shades and parading in front of the window, not to mention that I’m not a star. But, still, it was kind of weird. Nice (and the sentiment was appreciated), but weird.
About two weeks ago, I was laid out for the better part of a week with some sort of bug. Since then, I’ve been doing much better. Except for the…
About two weeks ago, I was laid out for the better part of a week with some sort of bug.
Since then, I’ve been doing much better.
Except for the cough.
The cough, which started out as a great, hacking, “productive,” throat-clearing thing. Well, the throat is pretty clear now, but the cough lingers on. Turning into some horrible tickle back there that sens me into racking, choking, gonna-trigger-my-gag-reflex-any-moment-now sort of coughing. Keeping-the-wife-awake coughing. Break-out-the-Robatussin coughing.
Feh. Great time to travel.
I listen to public radio. Listening to National Public Radio on Colorado Public Radio (AM 1340 in this area) is a regular fixture of my drive in (Morning Edition) and…
I listen to public radio. Listening to National Public Radio on Colorado Public Radio (AM 1340 in this area) is a regular fixture of my drive in (Morning Edition) and drive home (All Things Considered).
I want to support it. I do. I know that the “public” part is about 5% of their budget, at most. The rest is from donations.
Donations which mostly come through … (shudder) … Pledge Drives.
These are similar to public TV pledge drives, but less interesting. They basically consist in the content you want to listen to being replaced by the same CPR announcers yammering about the same statistics, the same guilt-inducements, the same mind-numbing script over, and over, and over.
I cannot tell you how much I hate Pledge Drives on CPR. With a passion undying. I start quoting Melville. It’s that bad.
It’s so bad that I refuse to donate. I cannot in any way, shape, or form, support such activities. I would sooner cut off my hands, poke out my eyes, and go diving into a swimming pool full of broken glass.
No. Frickin’. Way.
But I feel guilty. I enjoy it. I make use of it. I should support it. And the only way to support it …
No.
And I did, once. I donated something. And they spent at least three times that much over the following five year period sending me mailings to try and guilt me into donating more.
Besides which, CPR is like the Borg of Public Radio. They’ve extended their empire from the Denver Metro area up and down the Front Range, and across the I-70 Corridor to western Colorado. It’s hard to find an NPR affiliate any more that is not part of the CPR Empire. Which has meant that a lot of local voices have been stilled. Which sucks.
Don’t want to support that. No way.
But …
I do enjoy the shows. I do make use of them, listen to them, except during Pledge Week, when I’ll actually flip on other local drive-time yammerers to avoid it. And, to be fair, this particular drive the CPR interruptions have been much shorter. Five minutes of yammering, ten minutes of show, five minutes of yammering, ten minutes of show … Movng from the Utterly Awful to only being Wildly Annoying.
Still …
(Still … couldn’t they have held off on the Fall Pledge Drive for another week ….)
Naming no names, places, or anything that could be traced to the event by lawyers, but … A particular manager who, several years ago, contributed to one of the most…
Naming no names, places, or anything that could be traced to the event by lawyers, but …
A particular manager who, several years ago, contributed to one of the most hellish Death Marches in my professional career by expressing double-facedness, a lack of support for the 18 hour days I was putting in, and a willingness to stab anyone in the back who got in the way, is being eased out. And in such a way that it is expected the person might go ballistic and write some horrifyingly incendiary e-mail to a client.
So I was asked, for a number of convoluted reasons that had nothing to do with my knowing this person, to assist in setting up a quarantine on their outgoing Internet mail, so that upper management could vet it and (unstated) hopefully catch any such bombshells and use them as grounds for termination. Being a dutiful corporate stooge, I was happy to do it.
And even happier when they finally revealed the name to me ….
When you burn too many bridges, eventually you get caught in the flames.
Katherine … doesn’t have the world’s longest attention span. So why is it that she’s enrapt by the “Discovery Kids” channel I flipped on for her. Big, colorful puppets, snippets…
Katherine … doesn’t have the world’s longest attention span.
So why is it that she’s enrapt by the “Discovery Kids” channel I flipped on for her. Big, colorful puppets, snippets of music, funny voices, interesting animated bits.
She watches it. She calls to me to look at it.
She sings, claps, and stamps her feet to it.
I begin to see why some folks find the TV to be an effective babysitter.
And now you know why we amended our plans to make sure we hit the Magic Kingdom down at WDW.
By the way, Katherine has, this morning, discovered how to open and close all the cabinetry in the family room. We’re doomed …
Computerworld’s Shark Tank is your daily dose of tech support humor and True Tales from the Trenches. Though the metaphor of “sharks” (end-users) and “fish” (IT workers) is sometimes labored,…
Computerworld’s Shark Tank is your daily dose of tech support humor and True Tales from the Trenches. Though the metaphor of “sharks” (end-users) and “fish” (IT workers) is sometimes labored, it’s almost always amusing, and a great bit to bring print-outs to your IT staff meeting.
Better yet, you can have it delivered to your e-mail daily. Good stuff.
Parks and Recreation Department IT pilot fish is sitting in his office, coding away, when he thinks he hears his name being called. He listens hard — and hears it again. He steps out into the hall, and figures out where it’s coming from: His boss is plaintively calling his name from inside the server room.
“I enter the combination to the door,” fish says, “to find my boss with his finger on the main server on/off switch.” He’s holding the push-button in — and if he lets go, he crashes the main server. Hard.
“Seems he decided to relocate the mail server, but hit the off switch on the live system’s main server instead,” says fish. “Then he couldn’t reach the keyboard to do a graceful shutdown.
So with the boss’s finger still on the button, fish sends the broadcast message to all users and performs the clean shutdown, he says — “once I stopped laughing.”
Okay, I haven’t found the source for this, but I am sure that yesterday on the radio I heard that, on top of all the increased military spending, all the…
Okay, I haven’t found the source for this, but I am sure that yesterday on the radio I heard that, on top of all the increased military spending, all the internal relief, extended unemployment, and security spending — all on top of a budget that was already tottering into deficit before 9-11, and was now clearly headed that way — Bush is now proposing additionlal tax cuts.
Exsqueeze me?
Ah, it’s for economic stimulus. Did we see any evidence that all those $300 and $600 checks reversed our economic slowdown? Oh, it’s to increase consumer confidence. Huh? Marginally reduced payroll taxes are going to make Americans Feel Good About Their Continued Job Prospects?
Wasn’t LBJ’s biggest mistake thinking he could deficit-spend his way to providing both guns and butter?
I really don’t want to think this is opportunism. I really don’t want to think that this is some sort of horrific expression of greed and moneygrubbing on the part of the plutocrats. I would almost feel more comfortable thinking that Bush is just an idiot.
But remember this, kids. When, five to ten years ago, the GOP is railing about how all the Dems’ profligacy and Big Guvimment has generated such a big budget decifit, remember who, as things were slowing down, cut the government’s income, and who, as that income was being drawn on as never before, cut it even further.
Well, either we just had a heavy frost, or we had some light snow last night. Either way, it’s both a regretful time and a perfect time to fly off…
Well, either we just had a heavy frost, or we had some light snow last night.
Either way, it’s both a regretful time and a perfect time to fly off to Florida. Especially since our furnace is having problems. It’s chilly this morning in the house. It’s in the 80s this week down in Orlando.
Margie’s off to the office briefly this morning, whilst I scramble about with the final packing. Which either means I’ll be blogging an amazing amount this morning (since I’ve got a whole stack of notes here), or else not at all. Stay tuned!
Margie had some further observations that I’ll transcribe for her here. The whole “Buffy and Dawn on the gangplank” thing went on about twice as long as it should have….
Margie had some further observations that I’ll transcribe for her here.
Speaking of Jules, Margie likes her review of Buffy vs. Angel.
Do I agree with Margie? Hmmmm. Not sure. But I tend to be easily persuaded by such things, esp. by my Honey-Bunny. I’ll let you know.