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Throbber

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A few years ago, a co-worker approached me with a suggestion for the software user documentation.

“You should document that thing,” he said, pointing to the upper-left hand corner of our software’s graphical user interface, where an animated line of dots moves when the program is performing any action other than crash. “That way, users will know how to tell if the program is still working or if it is frozen.”

“Good idea,” I agreed, whisking out a sticky pad to write myself a to-do note to document that, um, thing. “What is that thing called, anyway?”

The co-worker paused. “I don’t know, it’s just the, uh–”

“The loader?” I ventured. “The loading indicator?”

“Not very user-friendly. How about the moving dots?” the co-worker suggested. He paused. “The magical moving dots.”

Later, I found out on Wikipedia that loading indicators are called “throbbers” by GUI and widget geeks, so I dutifully dotted the documentation with tips about the throbber. 

And if I ever needed confirmation that people are really reading the documentation, the widespread adaptation of the term “throbber” within the user community is a good indication. There’s no way anyone would know what to call that thing if not for me. Some people might smirk when they hear someone complain that “My throbber’s not moving. It’s totally frozen” or “My throbber’s been going for at least 5 minutes.” But me, I smile. I throb with pride.

Posted in The 9 to 5.

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Sorbet in the Rain

Some days I feel like flower that’s losing its bloom, with flailing petals drooping over a slack stem. I felt like this today, as I stood outside of Harvard Square T station, eating my free cup of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. It was sorbet actually, sweet and tart, cold and yielding. I spooned the sorbet in my mouth, watching the college kids saunter about in the light rain. It was not a good day for free sorbet, but some things we cannot control.

Posted in Existence.

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Violence Rules

Today is Patriots’ Day, that uniquely Massachusetts holiday commemorating the Battles of Lexington and Concord — the original “Shot Heard Round the World” (Did You Know? The phrase’s progenitor, Ralph Waldo Emerson, was referring to the Revolutionary War’s initial skirmish in Concord Massachusetts… before Franz Ferninand’s jugular was ripped open by a bullet, before the Aurora signaled the start of the October Revolution with a single blank shot, and long before Dick Cheney went hunting):

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood,

And fired the shot heard round the world.

-from “Concord Hymn,” Ralph Waldo Emerson

Boston celebrates Patriot’s Day by inticing the world’s most elite runners to come and run 26.2 miles in its ill-tempered early spring weather, and then shooting them… with cheers of encouragement, that is. 

Last week in my conversational French class, prior to the start of the class and the official prohibition of English speaking, I was talking with two older women about crime in the well-heeled suburbs of Boston. One woman lamented her perceived increase of violent crime in the area. The other woman said, “There may be violent crime here, but rarely is it random violent crime.”

I resisted the urge to quip “That’s right, the only people who get shot are the ones who deserve it” and instead said “Oh, but what about that man in East Arlington last month who was prowling the streets with a gun?” They looked at me with disbelief. “Oh yeah. He lived there for 10 years and it turned out he was one of those nuts with a huge cache of guns,” I added.

“Whatever was he doing here, in Arlington? Why wasn’t he in New Hampshire or Texas?” They chortled lightly, with distaste. 

I thought about them this weekend when hundreds of Revolutionary re-enactors descended on Arlington and its neighboring towns of Lexington and Concord with their fake muskets and cannons, eager to recreate this bloody yet victorious episode of America’s past during which the militia prevealed over the ruling forces. And we gentlefolk of Massachusetts, we applaud their theatrics for outcome that they espouse. We adore and honor our violent past with parades and celebration while clinging to our present-day moral superiority. We are the next revolution.

Posted in Americana, Culture, Massachusetts.

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Jehovah’s Rebels

After six months of winter weather, today Bostonians drank in weekend spring sunshine like dehydrated camels eager to stock up the balmy radiance for the inevitable bouts of foul weather that typifies our climate 90% of the time. I spent the morning in the laundromat — a hard place to cope with while the world frolicked outside. I had planned to spend my idle laundry moments strolling on the sidewalks, but my five separate loads were staggered in such a way that attention was required every few minutes.

I passed the time with the only reading material available: A Jehovah’s Witness Watchtower magazine. This Watchtower was from October 2001, and appeared to be in unread condition. The magazine may be dated, but its message? Timeless. On the cover, a middle-aged man adopts a close-mouthed zombie smile while holding a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses below the single headline: You can have true faith.

What impresses me most about the Watchtower is how nearly every sentence is appended with a Bible verse citation. Not only the direct biblical quotations, but also sentences like “Jehovah’s Witnesses strive to contact everyone they can with the Kingdom message. At times, it takes an extraordinary effort to reach those who are seldom at home (Mark 13:10).” I didn’t have my Bible with me, but I was dying to know how Saint Mark addresses the inconveniences of door-to-door proselytizing.

As creepy as the Watchtower is, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Gotta give those Jehovah’s Witnesses credit. By obstinately clinging to their rights to go proselytizing door-to-door, to be excused from military service on religious grounds, and to refuse to put another deity before God by saying the Pledge of Allegiance, Jehovah’s Witnesses have protected all of our civil liberties and speech freedoms — something not discussed in the Watchtower. Perhaps they should take their marketing to another level. Perhaps they should change their name to Jehovah’s Rebels.

Posted in Americana.

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De Rigueur

I knew about the French proclivity for America’s Funniest Home Video well before I met Mr. P. It was during a red-eye flight from Boston to Paris about 8 years ago. After the remnants of the evening meal was taken away, I swaddled myself in pillows and blankets and put my seat back, intent on grabbing a few hours of fitful sleep. Only… the big screen at the front of the cabin was showing non-stop episodes of AFV, and the French people on the flight were going nuts. There was no sleep to be had on that flight, not with the Gallic belly laughs induced by footage of zany pets, guileless babies, and American men getting hit in the balls with balls.

So tonight, I was not surprised to come into the living room to find Mr. P lounging on the couch, with the television tuned to America’s Funniest Home Videos. However, I was beyond disturbed to see that he was simultaneously watching YouTube videos of mimes on his netbook. Yes, mimes, including just about the creepiest mime I’ve ever seen:

Posted in Culture.

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Frenchified

I am making steadfast progress on my commitment to learn the French language.

Every day, I immerse myself in French-language podcasts while walking to and fro the subway. My favorite is the Dailyfrenchpod, which features an unfailingly cheerful French man named Louis who presents a 3-7 minute French lesson. The scope of the Dailyfrenchpod can range from a single word (“Le mot de jour”) to a scripted conversation between two rapid-speaking French natives.

I am picking up some unlikely slang words from Louis: “Le mot du jour est connasse… connasse… co-nass-uh… En anglais, bitch. Par exemple, c’est une connasse. She’s a bitch.” Apparently, Louis can have really bad days.

Once a week, I go to a local French conversation class for beginners of varying degrees of proficiency. I floundered for the first two classes, unaccustomed to having to produce French on-the-fly and without the aid of a textbook, but I’m beginning to find my stride. The teacher encourages us to “Frenchify” words if we’re stuck, a tactic that works — imaginez ma surprise.

The weekly pressure of “performing” in front a classroom of strangers is motivating me to try out my French at home. Pity my poor husband, who waits patiently as I struggle through spellbinding homilies like: “Aujourd’hui, j’ai vu un chat. Il est un mignon chat. Je voulais toucher le chat, mais non. Le chat regardait les oiseaux.” (Today I saw a cat. It is a cute cat. I wanted to touch the cat, but no. The cat was looking at the birds.)

Just saying that is intellectually exhausting. Luckily, the novelty of hearing me speak French seems to be compensating for the feebleness of my repertoire. Most of the time. Today we passed an accident scene attended by police cruisers and tow trucks. “Beaucoup de lumieres!” I exclaimed, and Mr. P laughed. “It’s like you suddenly turn into a 2-year child. ‘Lots of lights!'”

A 2-year old child!? That’s progress!

Posted in Existence.

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The Proverbial, Nonverbal Headless Chicken

Today I spent 9 hours generating massive PDFs from even-more massive Microsoft Word files. At first I attempted to do some web browsing while Acrobat churned away, but my puny laptop refused to walk and chew gum at the same time. So I sat and stared at the whirly Acrobat icon, contemplating life, love, and lunch.

It looked like such a nice day outside, with crystal blue skies and a strong sun. At lunchtime the streets were packed with people who had also looked out their office windows and decided to go for a walk to enjoy the nice weather. But you can’t see the cold bitter wind coming off of the harbor. Worse, you can’t make the wind stop. You can only shiver in your light spring jacket and long for better weather.

When the last of the PDFs finished generating, I wanted to smash something in triumph. Instead, I drank a hot chocolate and went to Boston.com, to look at pictures of a woman who was killed Tuesday night in a posh Boston hotel. She had advertised herself as a masseuse on Craigslist. She was just doing her job. We’re all just doing our jobs, if we have them.

Then I left the office and ventured back out into the cool sunshine. The wind whipped my hair around and it became stuck in my lip gloss. The sounds of the cars bother me — the roar of the trucks’ engines, the screech of the buses’ brakes. An ambulance trudges through the gridlocked traffic, sirens blaring. It bothers me like the wind bothers me, like the dead masseuse bothers me, because I can only shiver in my light spring jacket and long for salvation.

Posted in The 9 to 5.

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Would you rather be a Mormon or a Scientologist?

Point #1: Mormons believe that an angel named Moroni lead Joseph Smith to a stack of golden plates that contained the basis for their beliefs, which Smith translated and then returned to Moroni. Scientologists believe that humankind originated in outer space and were sent to Earth to solve an overpopulation problem, which we know thanks to the research of a science fiction author named L. Ron Hubbard.

Point #2: Scientology is more expensive than Mormonism, with people spending reportedly $400,000 to reach the highest spiritual level. Mormons have to live in Utah.

Point #3: Scientology seems to be more accepting of anti-social behavior such as drinking and smoking, while Mormonism seems to be slightly more accepting of mixing with non-believers and partaking of popular culture.

Point #4: Famous Scientologists include Tom Cruise, John Travolta, Juliette Lewis, and Kirstie Alley. Famous Mormons include Mitt Romney, Wilford Brimley, and the Osmonds.

All things considered, I’d rather be… Mormon (shudder). Join me next time, when I decide if I’d rather be dead or Catholic.

Posted in Americana.

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Random Memory Jarred by “Gimme Shelter” on iPod Shuffle

In college I was sitting around with some friends in a smoky dorm room, and someone threw out the general question, “Were your parents into the Beatles or into the Rolling Stones?”

The responses were evenly divided, but those who said “The Stones!” had wilder temperament than those who said “The Beatles.” Which makes sense, for surely a childhood of Exile on Main Street is more corrupting than one of Yellow Submarine.

I kept silent as everyone else enthused about their parents’ devotion to Mick or John, but soon someone called on me to answer.

“I don’t think they were that into either,” I said, mentally flipping through the stack of old records kept in our living room. “Certainly not the Stones. Maybe they had a Beatles album. I think they were more into folk like Simon and Garfunkel, the Mamas and the Papas, the Turtles…”

“The Turtles?!?” everyone screeched. Someone tousled my green hair, flicked my nose ring, lit my cigarette. “And look how you turned out.”

Posted in Nostalgia.

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Monkey Face

Last night, in a rare act of mental submissiveness, I flipped on the television. We had spent all Easter day eating and socializing, and it seemed cruel to subject my brain to French-language exercises. So I settled on the couch and looked in vain for the annual broadcast of the Ten Commandments. I remember watching the Ten Commandments when I was young, memories that cannot quite be classified as fond but are certainly vivid. “Those who will not live by the law…shall die by the law!” Cut to commercial.

Instead, PBS was broadcasting Suspicion, a 1941 Alfred Hitchock movie. It starred Cary Grant as a gold-digging gambling playboy who charms Joan Fontaine into defying her family and marrying him. But does he love her… or her father’s money? Right off the bat, Cary is upset that her father isn’t supporting the lavish lifestyle that he has imagined for them. And as the extent of his money woes becomes apparent to Joan, she begins to have… suspicions.

“Those who will not get a real job… shall kill their wives for the insurance money!” Like Joan, the audience is convinced that Cary will kill her. For me, the clincher was that Cary’s pet name for Joan is “Monkey Face.” In climax of the movie, Cary is driving them wildly along a coastal road when Joan’s car door opens. She screams. Cary reaches for her, seemingly to push her out. Instead, he closes the door and stops the car. Joan confronts Cary, and he has a pat explanation for his actions that make all those suspicions seem crazy and paranoid. Joan suddenly realizes that her husband isn’t a murderer… he’s the best husband in the world! (Ladies, aren’t they all either one or the other?)

Wikipedia says, “Suspicion is one of the famous examples where, in the process of rewriting the novel for the big screen, the plot was tampered with… Suspicion was supposed to be the study of a murder as seen through the eyes of the eventual victim. However, because Cary Grant was to be the killer and Joan Fontaine the person killed, the studio – RKO – decreed a different ending, which Hitchcock supplied and then spent the rest of his life complaining about.”

The ending of Suspicion displeased me on so many levels. First of all, it deprived the audience of the Hitchcockian moneyshot: when suave Cary Grant transforms into a menacing murderer! Second, it carried a subtle male chaunvinstic message (Ladies, your husband’s faults are all in your head). And third, it precluded Hitchcock from filming a sequel called Monkey Face’s Revenge.

Posted in Review.

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