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Today is Pungenday, day 59 in the season of Bureaucracy, 3167.

Gah. Yesterday was just a giant bundle of joy. Ever notice how everything that can go wrong, does...all at once? As one of my sweeties said once:

isn't it a funny thing, how life-when-you-watch-it is a cute little caterpillar, slow moving and quiet, almost boring, but life-when-you're-not-looking turns into a Caterpillar, the big noisy metal yellow kind, and rolls you flat from behind?

(no subject)

Woohoo! My copy of Dreamweaver I got from eBay just showed up. It's even still shrinkwrapped. Score.

And Orbital tickets are in our near future.

talk about hardware fetishes

Urf? I think I'm vaguely disturbed by this. It's the Raycom Personal Massager Springboard module for your Visor.

Like I could make this kind of thing up.

(no subject)

There's just something disturbing about realizing that a former "boss" of mine who ended up replacing an entire web team with a copy of FrontPage is now considered some sort of expert on, of all things, application development methodology. I put boss in quotes because we all worked in VA and he was out in Pasadena, and really E. was the person running the show. On the org chart though, he was up at the top I suppose. I don't know what his problem was, but in team development meetings when he actually happened to be in town, he seemed to think that the useful role for me was fetching him his fscking coffee. Wasn't just me though, he was pretty obvious about ignoring the input of the (female) team lead too.

(no subject)

I was just reminded of The Chronicles of George.

George is, quite simply, the worst helpdesk technician ever.

His grasp on the written word is shakier than a canoe full of epileptics. His knowledge of computers is thinner than a Vegas dancer's chiffon underpants. He is, by all standards of intelligence, a rock.

While we worked together, George was responsible for turning out some of the most mangled, garbled, and just plain screwed up help desk tickets ever before seen by mortal man. I have taken these tickets and collected them, and I present them to you as a cathartic expression, a venting of fourteen months' pain and frustration (George's employ and my own overlapped by that amount of time).

Mean? Perhaps. Spiteful? Probably. Funny? Oh, most definitely.