phone rant

Phones, those handy little devices that connect our ears to the multitude voices of humanity. Or at least used to. Nowadays it would seem the phones function has fundamentally changed. Nowadays they connect us to pre-recorded messages where we are told how important our call is to whatever agency or company is currently not answering it. Or allow telemarketers to peddle their wares to us while our dinner cools and our minds seek new and interesting ways to return the favour and cause mayhem. For some handing the phone to a toddler is the key, to others the phrase “oh hang one you need to talk to the owner, I’ll just get him….” Precedes a wait that matches the patience of the telepest on the other end of the line.

Personally I’m rather over phones. Even the modern ones that make lightsaber noises and allow you to engage in a digital parody of sport. To me they are simply a tool and like all tools open to misuse. At least they are in my hands ;-)

For I have a rule regarding phones. When I ring a company needing to speak to a person and get placed on hold the chances of them getting a mischievous or cheeky response is directly proportional to the length of time I have to spend on hold listening to how important my call is to them.

I mean my call may be “important” to them but to me its just the medium I’m using to initiate a conversation. To me the message was important, not the call. I’m a little disturbed that they sit listening to the dulcet ringing tones of their phone rather that answering it. I mean I’m an open minded sort of chap and if their idea of fun is to sit in an office full of ringing phones and that makes them feel special, all power to them. But I just wanted to talk to someone. So if their audio fetish results in me irradiating my head with a mobile or cupping my ear with some plastic appendage for long enough that there’s a danger my skin will grow over it, I have a tendency to play up. After all, those are precious moments of my life that I won’t get back and which normally gave me no satisfaction or amusement at all. And I, like nature abhor a vacuum ;-) So when they finally answer I sometimes feel the need to redress the balance and have a little fun.

Just the other day I was calling tech support to try to get a downed system fixed. After a lengthy wait I got a slightly disinterested tech start his phone spiel with “Can I have your name please.”

“Only if I can have yours. In fact , that’s a great idea, lets swap! I’ve always wondered what its like to be Simon. You can have my identity and I’ll have yours, now I’ll start; are you having a tech problem you need my help with?”

Poor guy wasn’t ready for that “um, hangon you called me”

“true but if your going to be me and me you, then you should tell me your tech issue and I’ll log it and ignore it.”

Took the poor tech a few moments to get his head around that.

Our tech support now knows me pretty well. Its funny how easily you can make an impression. I remember one lass on deciding she should remote into my computer asked “is there anything private on the screen you’d like to close?”

There wasn’t, so I simply replied “nope just some softcore pornography and the schematics of a Kevorkian machine I’m building for my staff. It irradiates your brain to mush while your on hold.”

It was then I discovered that I have a bit of a reputation for phone banter. Despite being new to the tech support office this lass responded immediately with “oh your that Max” and proceeded to mention how my porpoises rant had been played at the last tech support Christmas party. Apparently it had been a huge hit!

I’d been listening to the “your call may be recorded for training purposes” for far too long one day so when I finally got a person he was greeted with

“Hey now listen here, I want to talk about this training porpoises thing your company’s doing. Its unethical you know. I mean off shoring jobs is is one thing but its going too far when you start training aquatic sea mammals! Porpoises are highly intelligent, social animals and putting them in call centres is just plain cruel! Did you know the wild porpoise spends about a third of its time sleeping, a third getting food and the rest of its time playing, swimming and having sex. You can’t tell me your working conditions are anywhere near as favourable as that!”

The poor tech confided that they weren’t, that he was lucky to get a lunch break most days and then went on to explain it was training purposes, not porpoises. He forgot to mention that a particularly amusing rant might also be used for general amusement at annual Christmas parties. But hey, why not share the joy eh? And this chap at least had a sense of humour. So many folks just don’t catch on!

Take my local council for example. They delight in sending me letters about a dog that hasn’t lived at my house for years. I’ve spoken to them on the phone, written to them and even filled in the forms to tell them that the dog and its owner moved but still I get letters asking me to renew its rego. And believe me calling them involves a wait Rip Van Winkle would resent. So after explaining again how the dog was no longer there I decided to raise another issue.

“hey while I’ve got you I wanted to ask something. I was recently ridding my motorbike on Garfield road and a dog ran out in front of my bike. The bike was written off, the dog died and I’ve just come out of hospital after two lots of surgery to repair a smashed knee. Now the dog failed to give way, in fact I’d go so far as to say it showed no knowledge of the road rules at all, and since council issued its licence I’d like to know what legal liability your willing to accept.”

That threw her, but her hastily summoned manager was a little quicker on the uptake after I’d asked him the same thing. There was a long pause then he said

“your having me on right?”

I agreed and explained that this was what I did when I got bored waiting for someone to answer my call.

He commented that he was glad not all his customers were like that and I suggested that maybe the alternative was to answer the phone, promptly.

Sometimes though a phone can bite back!

I recently attended a staff forum where every employee is sent into a large room for an info dump that lasts longer than the proverbial zen piece of string with only one end. Through a strange combination of following advice to put my phone on vibrate (for the first and last time) and having read the night before a news article on testicle biting ferrets, I found myself suddenly subjected to a movement in my pants.

Somewhere in my troubled mind the recognition of a n incoming call was supplanted by the idea of an angry carnivorous diomorph in the vicinity of my private parts. This resulted in a shriek and corresponding sideways leap that covered about four foot.

Suddenly all eyes were on me and I struggled with the voices in my head to find a suitable explanation for my rather unseemly behaviour.

Something just moved in my pants? (um no.)

I thought a furry bandit was about to make off with my family jewels (no, that’s worse)

I just got a call and thought nature was involved….(defiantly not!)

So as the eyes of my professional colleagues watching me awkwardly struggle for words (possibly a first) I went for an hones but emphatic truth.

“It’s a phone! And its driving me nuts!”



Putty road and the slow the F$%#K down wombat.

I recently had the good fortune to take some time off work and ride my motorcycle across some of the best scenery and roads in Australia’s east coast. Had a blast and many memorable experiences, but I must admit, I think my favorite will be the strange and bizarre road signs I saw.
Amongst the road side “tutt tutting” of the modern nanny state with its road safety obsession, “don’t smoke” barrage and constant roadwork’s, there were some standout classics. Like the Victorian nanny state’s advice to tired drivers.
“Sore eyes? powernap now.”
Subliminally, I’d say that’s rather a dubious piece of advice to someone driving a motor vehicle at high speed. I had visions of people simply doing what they were told and having to navigate my way through piles of wrecked cars and copulating Winnebago’s. I actually stopped to see if there was anything on the sign that said it was sponsored by the local auto wrecker. But nope, this entertaining piece of suicidal advice was from Vicroads.
Another that caught my fancy was situated on a perfect road though a lovely stretch of rural sheep country. Someone had tied an old “for sale” sign to a gum tree, and written on the back of it in big letters
“Lost Kelpie, phone ########”
I’ll admit, I saw a funny side to that. Thought to myself, “I knew kelpies were smart, their smart in Queensland. Probably smart enough to read, but in Victoria they’re carrying mobile phones!”
Had visions of a farmer in his driazabone and akubra sending his kelpie out to herd sheep.
“Get around Shep” he’d call “It’s a long way fella, better take your mobile.”
And the lost, but loyal dogs relief when he finally saw the sign. A quick doggie dial and its
“G’day dad? Its Shep! I’m at the sign. Get the Ute!” lol
Modern technology eh, isn’t it great…. 
But the most thought provoking campaign of road side doomsaying was on the approach to the puty road.
If you don’t know the Putty road its 150 kilometers of sometimes narrow and winding road between the mountains of two national parks. Its described as one of the best roads to ride in Australia and imho deserves the reputation. Its fantastic. But needless to say the government has noticed that the road can lead some folks to overestimate their prowess and end up in a tangled mess of broken machine and bleeding person. So they were particularly keen that we all knew the dangers that lie ahead.
“Winding road ahead” a sign warned (enticingly ;-) “Road slippery when wet” “High crash zone” and the lovely pictorial cartoon shapes of bikes and cars sliding helplessly to their doom. It started off with the mild ones and worked up to “Speeding motorists die” I half expected to see one after that that said “Ahead there be dragons, for gods sake turn back!”
But no, the next one was in a rest stop and showed the basics of how to take a corner on a motorbike so as to not overshot the corner and run headfirst into an oncoming car. Without being graphic it was fairly convincing that running headfirst was in a car was a bad thing.
Overall it seemed to take the approach of “Well if you haven’t stopped yet you probably aren’t going to so you better know this!”
I wasn’t planning to set any land speed records. I was ridding a bike from last century (1997) carrying a swag, bulging saddle bags, and had a lot further to go today. So a high speed entrance into the scenery (however lovely,) really didn’t suit my plans.
Instead I was planning to take it with gentle enthusiasm.
Enjoy it, but leave enough room to cope if I misjudged a corner, or there happened to be a rock slide, speeding car or exotic fauna behind that next blind corner. At least slow enough to have a hope of getting around it.
I call this my hedonist approach to ridding motorcycles. Have fun, but try to survive the experience so you can continue to do so in the future.
So needless to say the road signs were more a source of amusement than anything else. Till I saw one that really slowed me down.
It was an animal sign.
In Australia we post small signs on the side of the road to let motorist know what local animals are most likely to try to kill you in the near future.
This may be sheep, cows, the ever popular kangaroo, or something truly exotic. Such as an echidna, deer, saltwater crocodile, or koala. Even if the animals small and fairly harmless they warn you.
I’m not sure if its so sick people can play “road safari hunter” in their cars or to support a mysterious road kill appreciation society. But either way if you pay attention you can normally recognize most of the smeared and flattened meat messes on the side of the road. But this particular animal sign really got my attention.
It showed a wombat.
Natures answer to a bulldozer. A dense muscular form that looks like a small thick tree log has grown four stumpy legs and has been fur upholstered. They are approximately one meter in length when fully grown and I’m told weigh in at roughly 35 kilos. They also have a think protective shield of cartilage that they turn on attackers that is almost impervious to harm.
I’m reliably told colliding with a wombat is like crashing into a tree stump. A tree stump with a butt shield!
They destroy cars, and there are many stories of trucks coming off second best from hitting one! And in these stories the wombat normally scurries off unharmed.
A wombat is like a medium sized scurrying boulder. Hit one, and your going to know it.
I slowed down a little and really kept my eyes open.
I’ve read somewhere they can reach 40 k an hour and a bloke in Victoria was mauled by one. Wombats are a hard core Australian road hazard.
But by the time I reached the other end of the road it occurred to me. Wombats are also quite rare.
Some are endangered and most people who have ever seen one have done so in a zoo. You just don’t see wild wombats. Ever
So I wondered at the sign. I thought maybe road safety association had hired a country bloke with the sort of humor that occurs in the areas I grew up. He’d have sat back at the meeting and gone “well if you really want to slow people down put in a wombat sign. I know I’d slow the f@#k down!”
Thus despite their endangered status the wombat could make a noble contribution to reducing the road toll.
America has smokey the bear, we’d have our “slow the f@#k down wombat.”
And it worked, I’d slowed down. I’d ridden carefully and precisely and kept my concentration on the task.
I’d been alert for scurrying tumbleweeds of solid mass and had got through safely.
A number of times on the ride I thought of “slow the f@#k down wombat.” A number of times when I was tempted to nudge the needle above the mandatory speed limit I had little images of a wombat looking stern and pointing at his butt. I’d chuckle and back off. It never failed to bring a smile to my face, the feeling that I’d been part of a delightful bit of clever manipulation. Someone had played a very cunning, very clever joke on me and I could see the funny side.
At least till on the return trip when I happened to see on the side of the road….
A dead wombat!

Holy crap people, the little beggars are real!!!!!!!!

The adventures of Gagboy and flatudog!

An old one but one I've been requested to post for a while now. this was written a few years ago, before my now departed and sorely missed pooch passed on. I sent it as email and didn't keep a copy but a good mate up the coast thought to save one and sent it to me, so without further ado.....


The adventures of Gagboy and flatudog!

My morning started pleasantly enough, the clock woke me to the soothing
voice of Ted Hawkins, and after a strong coffee and some toast I was feeling almost human. Perhaps it was that having caught up on some sleep I woke quickly and for once didn’t need to be dragged from unconsciousness. The way a hardy back molar is dragged from a jaw (ie with suffering, considerable resistance and the need for strong drugs!)
I made my lunch, got in my washing and still had some time before I had to leave for work. At that point I remembered a guest had mentioned that my dog Cusith was a little on the nose last time they were over.
She can get that way. Being a dog that hates bath time she seems to
know every trick in the book to avoid suds and water, from disappearing from the house to feigning cleanliness. I’ve even noticed how often I intend to wash her only to find by the end of the day I haven’t got around to it. I suspect she knows some deep mental interference discipline known only to Tibetan Lamas, Jedi knights and aged dingoes!
Anyway as I had time I figured now was the perfect opportunity to give her a quick tubbing!
Now Cusith and I go back a long way, and I learnt many years ago that
washing her involved a serious transfer of water from the dog onto the
human. She seems to shake at such times as to make sure I also get
soaked so I figure I’ll beat her at her own game and wash her in the shower. That way I’m already wet and can’t get wetter. Cunning huh? Anyway I summoned the pooch who reluctantly slunk into the bathroom with a look of dread, and prepared to lift her into the shower. At these times she seems to get a lot heavier and lower to the ground than at any other. Thankfully my martial arts training covered basic ki use and the like.
“Your Jedi mind tricks won’t work on me dingo!” I said as I lifted her into the shower.
I washed quickly and then set about working shampoo into her coat. The
water coming off her turned from clear to the color of the Brisbane river after rain. Yep she had definitely been due a wash!
Then it happened. From parts unknown came a horror beyond imaging! It
was as if the very air curdled and went rank. Dingo had let loose the ultimate in silent but deadly botty burps and as its first lethal tendrils assailed my nose my eyes darted fearfully around the shower to see if perhaps I hadn’t noticed a decomposing cow on first inspection. But no, this was worse! Mere death couldn’t have produced such an up wafting of decay and pestilence as this.
This had presence! This had a developed atmosphere of threat and oppression that could have evacuated a small village!
I had wondered if she could truly be the source of such a smell, but as
I looked down through the sickened air I saw the rotten bitch was
smiling!
I was further amazed she had produced this silently, given its stench
I’d have thought it would have taken a months orchestrated chanting and human sacrifice from a team of black robed cthullu devotees to unleash something this evil into the world!
This really was beyond description, it was as if all those months she
had perhaps not been simply licking her butt but recycling this latest
piece of work, fermenting and maturing it till it reached its full and devastating potential.
I started dry retching; a tile dove from the wall and hit me on the
foot. My god this thing had physical powers, it was like the poltergeist of pong!
I snatched up the washer I’d been using on her and stuck it over my
face like an Elizabethan nosegay! Better a nose full of dog suds than that stench! But no, there was no relief! It must have been crawling into my sinuses via my ears, or perhaps mere physical barriers were unable to contain it. For there it was, faintly at first, like the silent testament of a hundred dead things coming my way. I had visions of an innocent eyed child with a serious look saying “I smell dead people…..”
ARRGGHHHHH I howled, then realised with fear that breathing out air
could only lead to the inevitable…. The need to breathe in!
I swung the shower rose towards the dingo and gave it to her full
blast. I needed to put anything between me and that stench.
She was still smiling and I wondered if I should drop to the floor like
firemen do in a smoke filled room. Surely she couldn’t be smiling if
she too could smell that filthy stench? But then, half crouch I realized that perhaps it was waiting, clinging to her bum in poised ambush? It was thick enough to cling!
Perhaps there was another like it in there? The mother load? Cusith didn’t look smaller than when she’d entered. Then again I don’t remember her looking swollen or distended when I lifted her in.
Still, this wasn’t the time to ponder the tardis like qualities of my dog’s bowels.
No the need for air was growing and since there was nothing left in the
bathroom worthy of the name I knew my only hope was to run for it! If I
didn’t breathe soon I’d pass out and be unconscious in that room,
helpless, vulnerable and completely in its power! Fear gripped my heart as the unmentionable foulness assailed my nostrils. Dropping the false
security of the washer I turned off the taps and fled! I grabbed a towel on the way out and burst outside onto the veranda sucking air with a noise like the call of a bull moose in reverse. Cusith was close behind and ducked past me into the garden.
I stood at the top of the stairs waiting for the dizziness to pass and
clutching my towel around me.
A close escape! I’d barely made it out intact and had to give it half
an hour before I’d steadied my nerves enough to attempt a concerted attack to shift the damn thing. I had a bandana over my nose and whole can of air freshener before I ventured back in there. It was wafting in a corner and put up quite a fight! It was like a western gunfight crossed with a scene from the exorcist all in one. Damn ugly business!
I think next time I’ll hose her……from a distance……upwind!

Machines, why does it have to be this way!

There everywhere. I’m sure I’m not the only one whose noticed. Your office is full of them, you drive one to work. You plug in when you get home. And don’t get me wrong, I’m only a partial neoluddite. I enjoy the internet and computer games. I adore the ability to download documents from all over the world, sagas, manuscripts, texts of every type and persuasion. It’s a golden age of learning. All due to machines.
But some of them, quite frankly, shit me.
Alarm clocks for example. Who wants to wake up alarmed! Damn things go off like the buildings on fire and nag you out of bed! Not how I wish to greet the day!
My last one had two settings. One was radio. Bad move. You wake up to some awful song followed by three clowns trying to have fun. And the news.
Yep, nothing like that to make you want to go out and join humanity.
Its other setting was an increasingly loud beeping noise. In case I’d gone deaf during the night I suppose. So it would go off, its initial beep was set at “annoying level” you’d be in the middle of some dream and suddenly think, “hang on, is the building on fire?” pick a dream, it can be one where the beautiful woman has come eagerly to your arms or the post apocalyptic nightmare with zombies and trust me, neither is improved by the thought
“Hang on, is the building on fire?”
The second burst of beeping reminds you that no, its just your life and its time to get up and face it.
Buy the third you want to slap it, amazed at its ability to pick the wrong day and the wrong time to go off, resentment has arrived.
By the fourth you’ve realized that your arguing with a machine, its getting louder, and your not going to win.
I hated that bloody clock!
Finally one chrismas holiday I gave myself a present!
I set that thing for the first morning of my holiday. It sat smugly all night and went off with a strong sense of self importance. I arose eagerly, unplugged it from the wall strode off into the garden, where It, I and a large log splitter engaged in a frank and honest discussion in the universal language. Which is to say it died, violently.
Course I’d forgotten I was entertaining a young lady and that lead to rather interesting conversation over breakfast.
I lived without a clock till Christmas, when some kind relative bought me a new one.
Its round, looks like a tyre and makes a strange electronic sounds like a vaguely frightened “Umm,” “Umm,” “Umm.” Its like its not quite sure if it should. Like a nervous bugler in a camp of hung over soldiers.
You can sleep through it. I have, on principle!
I set it sometimes on the weekends just so I can roll over, give it a cheery obscene finger sign and show it whose boss.
But why does it have to be like this? Why the aggravation?
If I’m going to buy a machine why shouldn’t it be nice to me?
Something pleasant, polite? I mean I’ve got 8 hours for the rest of human interaction, why not slip in the ones I’m not likely to get?
I’d like an alarm clock that makes me a coffee! And says in a sulty voice encouraging things like “Wow it’s a beautiful day, cmon, get up and enjoy it!” or “Mmm, that coffees hot, I made it specially for you,” or even “ get up handsome, the world needs you,” (That ones a personal favorite, the only times its been used on me I’ve been bolt awake in seconds.)
So why not? If we have to live with them why can’t we get along?
I don’t want some gps in my car that berates me when I take a short cut.
“You took an incorrect turn” or “you have missed the turning, you can try again in 70 meters”
Seriously, were half way to one that goes “you know you wouldn’t get anywhere in life without me, your lost again aren’t you, stupid. If I wasn’t here to guide you who knows where you’d end up.” ARRRRGGGGHHHHH
And the stupid thing is there’s men who would try to marry one!
Sure its fine for it to give advice, but if I’m going to buy a machine to tell me where to go it had better be polite about it.
Why not a pretty voice saying “Next lefts a tight corner, but your good at these. I think you can take it.” Or “Why not the next right, come on, lets be adventurous!”
It could make useful observations like, “nice gear change, your pretty smooth with this thing” Or “that was very controlled piece of evasion there, nicely read”
Maybe even occasional food for thought, “Hey you’re a little rough today tiger, did we have a bad day, or are we just having fun?”
My car doesn’t have a gps, so some charming engineer decided to put in an annoying beeping noise. If you put the key in before you shut the door it beeps, if you start the car with the door open it beeps. If your seatbelt isn’t on it beeps. Even if you live on a backwards slope and have to reverse! It cares not, beep!
Its legal to leave the belt off and turn around so you can check that the neighbors kids aren’t behind you but no. Beep!
I’m going to find that friggin beep maker and reprogram it with a screwdriver!
Road rage is on the increase, can’t imagine why! Were all being nagged at by our cars and told off by our GPS’s!
And when you get to work there is normally one machine that really exists to grate on you. For some people it’s their computer. With me, it’s the office printer. Well it thinks it’s a printer. It’s got document collators, a fax ability, it can do double sided and supposedly scan, and its networked, so it can hold the whole office to ransom. But its really just a printer. Bastard!
This thing takes up half a wall and stubbornly resist our attempts to subdue it. It has attitude. You press print, it won’t. It quibbles that the object isn’t quite a match for any of its preset paper sizes. It has so many it just can’t imagine which to choose. So you jab one and the thing reluctantly starts making noise and then…. nothing happens but a strange waving of rollers and accompanying noise. Like its waiting for applause or something and then…oh, behold, a printed page!
I mean I’m gen X! I’m not amazed at the printed page anymore. I’m not going to swoon!
And so now it sulks, sometimes it doesn’t print at all.
I tell the computer to print, and it does. It pops up a little message saying “your document has been sent to the printer. So I walk to the printer, and nothing. It sits there defiantly with a little light flashing saying “object in memory.”
I mean just get it out and print it, don’t think about it. I’m the human and I’ve already thought about it. I just need you to print the sodding thing.
But it wont, it will wait till your ready to head back to your desk to see what’s gone wrong with the print queue when it does its its “lo and behold from the belly of the beast I bring forth, a printed page!”
I’ve been known to snatch the page and growl at it.
It takes opportunities to control. It has three paper trays but it likes to use number three. It will interrupt your important printing to tell you tray three is empty. It has another two trays. But to get it to use one you have to assault it with finger strikes in a precise format that would leave a shaolin monk perplexed. It’s easier to just put an offering of paper into tray bloody three.
Last time the tech was out I asked him if we could stop it beeping.
“Oh it supposed to do that” he said cheerfully.
“But its bloody annoying, I mean we have to live with this thing. If its broken have it make a pot of coffee and drop chocolate like a one armed bandit in payout mode. There are easier ways to get peoples attention. Who designs these things, sadists?”
Clearly he thought I was mad so when he asked if there was anything else I’d like to improve the machine I added, yes, a “just bloody print it” button. It’s a 21st century machine and the futures a wonderful place, it comes from a long line of printers going back to the 70’s and is bred for the job! I don’t care which tray it uses or whether the papers American regulation size. I just want a sheet of paper, to come out of there, with stuff on it! And if the stuff could get from my computer, to the printer, with slightly better speed than a lame and emaciated pigeon I’d be much obliged.”
He left, and he hasn’t come back.
And so my struggle continues on by democratic means. My team didn’t like the idea at first but on my last informal survey of the office there are now three out of around 7 full time staff in favor of me assaulting it with a log splitter. Almost enough for me to have it put on an agenda and take it to a team meeting.
I’ll get that thing yet. And when I do I’m hoping we’ll see a smarter, nicer, more sociable printer arrive in its place. One that’s willing to get along, be one of the team, fit in. Hell, I’d be happy if it just printed!

System upgrades and why they should be avoided

Well folks it’s been a real Monday. One of the great joys of life when you work in IT is what is commonly referred to as a systems upgrade. It’s when you leave on Friday with an ordered system full of carefully filed documents and return to find the sort of order that occurs when one armed men juggle kittens and chainsaws in high powered wind tunnels.
In some ways I feel oddly to blame, I awoke this morning to find myself in considerable pain from an old leg injury that to the best of my knowledge I hadn’t antagonized in any way whatsoever. After careful reflection I cannot think of a single thing I’ve done to offend said leg, but hurt it does. Maybe I’ve moved from sleepwalking to sleep full contact shoot wrestling? Who can tell? But given the state of work over the last few weeks has been akin to bedlam after a tanker of cheap gin has crashed into the cell block housing the most notorious crazies, I stupidly thought to myself, “well, at least this week must be a little better.” Shame on me. I should know better. That sort of idea has a deadly tendency to come back on you. Its like wearing underpants fashioned from particularly angry ferrets. It may feel warm and fuzzy, but its going to come back to bite you on the butt!
I arrived at work and made a bee line from the bike parking lot to the designated smoking area and then to the nearest supply of tolerable coffee. After all, it is a work day and no work day should be attempted without a double shot of caffeinated optimism.
Since I’m well known on campus (cant imagine why) and had a rather pronounced limp in the time it took me to go from A to B to C I fielded no less than 8 repetitions of same question, “what happened to your leg?”
The first few people got a brief summary, the next few an even briefer one and the last a plain faced and calmly delivered “oh I transgressed tribal law and was speared in the leg by my elders as a warning to others.” I managed to utter this while ducking through the office door into our air-conditioned haven for lost souls and coffee addicts.
I’d come in early, as experience has taught me that systems upgrades can cause difficulties in proportion to the size of the upgrade and the number of users involved. This was a campus wide roll out so potentially could have the sort of productivity implications that Godzilla brings to Tokyo.
And it did. Our new passwords didn’t work, our networks were no longer synchronized and our outlook mailboxes seemed to have undertaken their own digital version of the popular US teamwork approach known as “going postal.”
My day was spent reassuring clients while rushing from one tech issue to the next. Thankfully our tech support hotline had been pre warned and gave the distinct impression that many of our problems they had seen before. Maybe they recruit them from Beirut?
But by lunch time even they were obviously reeling under the workload and a call meant sitting on hold listening to soothing music and an automated message that assured us that the first available customer representative would answer our call. It was very reassuring, I mean otherwise I might have thought I’d rung into some radio station that played only old and soppy tunes. Being on hold does wonders for my ability to rationally deal with my fellow bipedal primates. In fact so fast does it erode my general sense of calm I long ago decided on a little personal rule that I tend to use in such situations. Well not so much a rule as a formula. 20 divided by X = Y, where 20 is the number of minutes, X is the quotient of my general discontent and Y is the likelihood that I’m going to have some fun with the person on the other end of the phone when I finally reach one. In short if I’m on hold for any lengthy period of time the likelihood that I’m going be sensible dramatically decreases. Thankfully they answered before things got truly crazy. He asked if he could have my name and I said only if I could have his, in fact maybe switching persona’s could be fun. He took it well, and dutifully recoded my name in his logging software.
I think the tech had a rough idea something was up when he asked what room number I was in and I replied I was somewhere between purgatory and the residence of Cerberus. “Would that be c3?” He asked.
“Impressive” I conceded, “your system obviously works very well,” wondering if my details had come up when my name was entered, or if perhaps they had a large map of Dante’s inferno on the wall of their call center. (Don’t rule it out, when I worked in a call center we did, and it was referred to often.)
I outlined the liturgy of errors and malfunctions we were experiencing and in a truly professional manner he noted “yes we seem to be having a few teething problems.”
“We are indeed” I concurred. “The sort of teething problems saber tooth lion cubs have in the land of sugary gazelles!”
“Oh,” he says “that bad?”
“Well let me put it this my friend almost everything I’ve touched this morning has fallen over, failed miserably or burst into flames. Its so bad I’m frightened to scratch my head for fear it will fall off, and am terrified of taking a loo break in case the law of unspeakable averages transfers to that field of operations and I’m left a scorched Eunuch.”
“Ahh,” he says. And we begin the process of slowly resolving the problems one by one. Or rather some of the problems. Some require a person on campus with administrator level access. Which of course mere mortals are not allowed in case they mess with the system. And if we let just any old IT professional do that what would we need consultative bodies for?
So we toiled, we logged, we resolved and escalated to tier two. And then when we had finished, a new batch of problems had arrived so we started again.
At one point my regular calling brought me back to the same tech.
“Oh hi,” he cheerfully intoned “I think we spoke earlier” in a voice that suggested whatever he was imbibing was a damn site stronger than the coffee I was using.
“Indeed,” I said agreeably. “I’m working up on my frequent caller points in the hope of saving up enough to get some padded wallpaper or one of those neat white huggy shirts with the brass restraining straps.”
“really?” he asked (now I’m sure he’s gone way past coffee)
“No Michael” I reply tolerantly “it s just your voice is so sexy I think I’m enamored with you.” Pregnant pause while the poor chap considered this.
“Do you realize these calls are recorded for training purposes…”
“I do,” I replied, “but I don’t have time to discuss the ethics of offshoring your work onto harmless aquatic sea mammals, I’m dealing with the biggest plague of bugs since the pharaoh told Moses to go stick it in the desert.”
“Yep,” he concludes “your defiantly the bloke I was talking to earlier….”

You see this is what an upgrade is, its where you remove old bugs while introducing a whole load of new ones. And like any invasive introduced species let loose into a pristine environment they multiply and wreak havoc. Though of course if you ask the vendors they will inevitably tell you “its not a bug, it’s a feature!”
So we logged our problems, assigned them numbers and cast them into the abyss of the technical support customer service software. (Note, service in this sense is apparently used the same way it is by vets when they use IVF techniques to “service” cattle.)
So I logged the jobs and realizing it was well past lunch time and the point of return to hope, I grabbed my filthy lung defilers and headed to the leper zone. There were a few other Tech chaps there. I decided you can tell who really cares at times like this. They are the ones steadfastly trying to kill themselves by any legal means. I smile at one who has the dull vacant lifeless eyes one associates with prisoners of war. It’s a mistake, he obviously thinks I might know something he doesn’t and like a shipwrecked man trying to clamber onto a tiny raft asks, “how’s the systems upgrade going”
“Oh its challenging” I say. We both know full well that this is tech speak for totally balls’ed up
“What’s your plan?” He asks
We’ll I was going to hide under my desk and hope no one noticed, or sacrifice a goat to the elder gods in the hope they would intervene, but the first was undignified (and my leg hurts) and the second would probably contravene a HR policy. So I’m going for the traditional one. Head for the nearest source of water armed with mankind’s oldest brewed beverage and not come out till the bottles empty and I’m full.”
He nodded thoughtfully “I think that’s the best plan I’ve heard all day”
So at least I can say my day wasn’t totally wasted. I brought some order to chaos, hope to the bereft and beer to the proximity of a large pool.
But the next time they want to upgrade my systems, I think I’ll plan some recreational leave. My sanity is fragile, and like windows, I fear each new upgrade will bring it crashing down.

Evidence of a shed goddess cult in contenporary Australian culture.

Hi Folks,

I found myself discussing with a good friend the way sometimes archeologists make a find and jump quickly to the conclusion it had religious significance. A bog man is found and of course he was sacrificed, a building whose function is unclear must have been a temple and art on cave walls is clearly magically intended. Similarly it can be amazing to see the pages written by modern heathens on topics that have very scant primary references. Which is not to say that the archeologists are wrong, or that the heathens aren't using upg (unsubstantiated personal gnossis) to good effect, but it does sometimes seem a bit much. anyway I found myself using an analogy of what these same standards might "reveal" were the same "assumptions" applied to our modern lives. Imagine the curious and misleading outcomes we would get if we started to assume that all things unexplainable were clearly religious. And being a tongue in cheek sort of lad I put finger to keyboard and came up with this. A nonsense article entitled ...
Evidence of a shed goddess cult in contemporary Australian culture. its not intended to be serious or particular enlightening, just a bit of fun.... so with no further ado....

Evidence of a shed goddess cult in contemporary Australian culture.

"a modern rite undertaken by men involves retreating to a special ritual place called a "shed." This structure was often placed away from the main living areas thus showing it had religious purposes and was “set apart” for this reason. The main area of the shed is often warded with various items such as old car parts, vinyl record collections, old sporting trophies and lawnmowers that don’t start, among other items of little practical use. From this we may deduce that their function was ritualistic and served to hallow the space for ritual and to discourage intrusion by the uninitiated. Women folk were actively discouraged from entering the shed, though various magazines and calendars have been found suggesting a pervading belief in a shed goddess whose worship may have occurred there. It may be deduced that these relics relate to the goddess aspect as the depictions are stylized with body shapes not representative of real women and clothing is either absent or of a clearly ritualized nature. The postures of the goddess’s suggest some sort of fertility role though in some depictions the figures are seen holding power tools or adorning vehicles of one sort of another. It is reasonable to assume therefore that the shed goddess was related to sexuality, power tools and all things mechanical.

Often a beer fridge is a central feature and stored here to ensure informal blots could be performed and this relic was of singular importance. Men visiting another’s shed to partake in ritual will bring offerings for the fridge and it is considered a mortal sin to remove the last alcoholic beverage from another’s fridge.

Specific clothing was often worn in the shed, old and treasured garments and the ritual nature of these robes may be determined by their holy state and that they were not worn in public. Men attempting to wear shed clothes out in public were often admonished by their family’s and told “your not wearing that out in public!”

Anthropologists have also noted that dogs were often welcome in sheds, where other family members were not. This has lead some to suggest that dogs were linked closely to the shed cult and may have been perceived as companion animals to the shed goddess. Primary sources indicate that the dog was considered “mans best friend” and many a man was known to retreat to “the doghouse” during inter household arguments. It is possible that the shed was a later extension of the doghouse but this doesn’t match archaeological evidence that doghouses and sheds seem to have coexisted in even the earliest of Australian excavations.

Men use shed space to seek answers to questions, undertake private worship of the goddess and attempt to auger answers on why their car (or lawnmower) is not working properly. Given the lack recorded incidents of lawnmowers becoming functional it must be concluded that their use in this manner was mainly symbolic and it has been speculated that they served as a way of containing evil spirits and the numerous curses that were often directed at them. A variety of ritual objects are used in a shed ritual, including specialized tools including hammers, and galdor (spoken magic) was used to evoke the gods, shed wrights and spirits of the machine, (whose parentage was often questioned.) During the particularly potent “Ah F*^&$%& it” rite the hammer is struck onto the supporting hand of the practitioner which leads to an altered state of awareness and particularly potent form of galdor. Variants of this rite are recorded using shifters and bringing the knuckles into contact with metal surfaces. There has been speculations as to weather this blood rite is a variant or evidence or part of a separate cult.

The shed formed a vital role in the household, used for cementing relationships between the men of the community and served as a sanctuary in times of household strife or war."

Now all I need is a university willing to offer me a phd studying the phenomenum, a big shed and of course lots of ice cold "offerings" ;-) hey weirder things have been funded before :-)

I hate the Traffic

There are few things that I can truly say I don’t appreciate. Most of life’s little annoyances I can handle if not with grace, with a certain stoic fortitude. But I’ve decided that I hate the traffic on the gateway motorway...

I have just posted my entire rant on Neshamah Comments - so check it out.