Sneakers, update

Got a comment from a correspondent that's worth repeating. The idea in "Sneakers" is that Web pages are so bad because Web designers can't read. Seems it's even worse than I thought:

Another problem with the graphic designer not paying attention to the text is that, to the extent that the text is important, the graphic design should guide the reader's attention from one part of the screen to another in some reasonable way. The text isn't just blocks of stuff to be moved around.

Unfortunately, it too often is. Try to follow a (paper) magazine article some time. You'll find little snippets of text all over the place. Like Web pages, I suspect that they're trying to get the maximum number of ads in front of your eyeballs.

Hmm. I guess graphic designers for paper media can't read either.

On Splitting Firewood

It's nice to deal with a problem that really can be solved by hitting something with an ax.

If it doesn't work, you really do need a bigger hammer.

Quote of the Day

"A mango is what you would get if the Department of Defense designed fruit."

-- Dave Barry

(If you need this explained, go down to your Friendly Neighborhood Grocery Store and buy a mango. If they don't have mangos, you need to find a new Friendly Neighborhood Grocery Store. They're best when they're just starting to get a bit soft. Then (snicker) take it (giggle) home, and (hysterical laughter) eat it! Delicious. Really.

One of the traditional ways to eat mangos is in the nude. In the bathtub. After you eat one, you'll know why.)

The Harvest of the Moon

All the husbands and the wives
We were dancing for our lives
All to the tune of Elsie Marley
Instead of gathering up our differences
And throwing them in the air
And giving them to the wind that shakes the barley

And the children they were watching
Every girl and every boy
As we danced to the tune of Elsie Marley
But they'd heard another tune
From the harvest of the moon
That rides upon the wind that shakes the barley

Then Bridget she declared
That she was not prepared
To watch us dance to the tune of Elsie Marley
She said I'll sing you all a song
And you'll want to sing along
If you listen to the wind that shakes the barley

And the song that she sang
Could be heard for miles around
The air was full of harmony
You should have heard the sound
As we gathered up our differences
And threw them in the air
And gave them to the wind that shakes the barley

All the husbands and the wives
We were dancing for our lives
All to the tune of Elsie Marley
Until we gathered up our differences
And threw them in the air
And gave them to the wind that shakes the barley

Then all of us declared
That we were not prepared
To dance our lives away with Elsie Marley
For we'd heard another tune
From the harvest of the moon
That rides upon the wind that shakes the barley

And the song that we sang
Could be heard for miles around
The air was full of harmony
You should have heard the sound
As we gathered up our differences
And threw them in the air
And gave them to the wind that shakes the barley.

-- Recorded on Time, by Steeleye Span.

Nuthin' more I can say. Nuthin' more needs be said.

Them

My wife tells the story of one of her Canadian/Irish relatives who was doing some kind of public health stuff in Nigeria. The family was a bit concerned when he announced that he had gotten engaged to a woman that he met there; after all, Nigeria is just full of Them. When she came to Canada and the family was able to see that she wasn't one of Them, they were pleased to welcome her to the family; everybody thought that she was a delightful person.

What's unusual about this story? Well, with this family "Them" is Protestants. When she went to Mass with the family, everybody gave a sigh of relief. Her skin tone? The kind of rich, velvety West African black that drives photographers up a wall. ("Expose for the skin tones". Yeah. Right.) For this family, irrelevant.

A nastier version happened when my wife and I visited my father (the first and last time). After getting my father off of his normal topic of conversation (Rush Limbaugh is God), his wife went to work. She went into her full tirade about how horrible They are. When she gets into this mode, you're in for about a half hour of high volume ranting and raving. In her mind,They are filthy, diseased, ignorant, stupid criminals who have no right to exist in a civilized society. I had long since learned to let her vent; if there's anything that will shut her off, nobody's found it. (I never tried a bucket of cold water.)

Problem is, to her, They are Italians. And my wife's father is first-generation Italian-American. My wife is one of Them. They have an English name because in the 1930s, her father found that a machinist with an Italian name was unemployable, while the same machinist with an English name could get a job anywhere.

Anyway, we walked out and never went back. I suspect that they have no idea why we got offended. At least, nobody on that side of the family has ever contacted us.

Life Lesson: Everybody has a Them. Everybody's Them is different. You are part of somebody's Them. And the person you're talking to may be one of your Them.