Terrible Analogies

It’s amazing how poorly Californians react to bad weather.  If we get more than an eighth of an inch of rain we firmly believe the world is about to end; that we stand upon the precipice of painful inconvenience and total annihilation.  We’re unsure which direction in which to fall, often opting for the worse of the two as we blindly thrash and gnaw in the unfamiliar confines of our temporary misfortune.  

Take me for instance.  I awoke this morning at 5am for the sole purpose of getting into work at 6am just so I could leave early to avoid the afternoon traffic and predicted early evening squalls that would surely portend our certain doom.

Man, we’re a weak, reactionary lot, we Californians.

And as I write this, the end times have yet to befall our tiny corner of reality.  The rains have not carried us away to our ultimate reward.  Though a severe bout of fat rain and a bit of hail have managed to visit us, we’ve yet to see the thunderous hell storm that the news has been projecting and carefully nurturing in our tiny little brains these past few days.  I can’t tell you how used I feel.  Like a one night stand forced to endure the walk of shame down the dark, narrow hallway of some anonymous fraternity, mocked and scorned for fervently believing every sultry, filthy lie I had been told, my skin crawled with humility and remorse for unquestioningly swallowing their lies.

I don’t think I’d fare well in a state that had actual seasons.  Snow would definitely send me over the edge…

Personal, Random Personal, Random

Well, that title might be stretching the truth just a little bit, but as I write this post we’re smack dab in the middle of three major storms.  The worst of the lot is expected to plow into southern California sometime Thursday morning.  And as the stereotype goes, Californians simply can not drive in the rain.  Some of us can’t figure out that when it’s raining you should slow down, turn on your headlights, and increase the buffer zone between you and the car in front.  Otherwise, this is bound to happen:

This was one of five accident scenes I passed by going home yesterday after work.  Geniuses are at play on the freeway, my friends.  The older I get the less sympathy I have impatient, discourteous drivers darting in and out of traffic when conditions take a turn for the worse.

For all of you loons out there who can’t seem to be able to get a grip and go with the flow during times of inclement weather, here…I made you a sweater vest.  Now, will you calm down already?

Some People Are Jerks Some People Are Jerks

Being the last.fm junkie that I am, I find it humorous how many people tend to pick up on the latest soulless musical trends, only to obediently drop them on command when corporate America shoves something else bright and shiny in their collective faces.

As a prime example, let’s take a look at the latest list of songs most frequently removed from last.fm users playlists:

Now, I’m not the musical fashion plate that your kids should look up to, and I don’t pretend to believe that my musical tastes are inherently superior to most everyone else (even if they are), but at least I’m not listening to pre-packaged “artists” such as Lady Gaga, or insiped noise such as the Black Eyed Peas. This sort of music is targeted at the lowest common denominator who is either incapable of tracking down music worth listening to, or doesn’t have the desire to do so. This is music that can conveniently be swapped out with whatever MTV or Billboard says is the “hottest ticket in town”, and by definition is complete trash.

But hey, if you’re big on Britney Spears, and think that Lady Gaga really has something important to say, then by all means stick with your corporate concoctions. I admire your loyalty, even if there is a sort of sick sadness to it.

As for this chart, I’m not quite sure how to interpret it; either people are waking up to the fact that these cash cows are nothing more than fictitious talent posing as the real deal, or they’re simply following the normal cycle of disposable music and are ready for the next wave of plastic tripe to spill out of the agitated, enflamed bowels of the music industry machine.

But then again, I could be wrong about this whole thing. It could be that I’m tragically mistaken about the entire concept of art, and that folks such as myself should just shut up and listen to what we’re supposed to.  Perhaps I should just keep my vapid opinions to myself?

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah, ga-ga-ooh-la-la indeed.

Music Music

The crows fell out of the sky, ignoring our angry arms and curses.  They swooped down with terrible speed, angry and determined to pull us aside and violently interrogate us about our pedestrian choice in food products.  ”If we don’t like what we hear,” they cawed in unison, “we’re going to have to take you downtown.”

They jumped on and around our picnic table.  A tribe of forgotten pygmies performing an ancient dance meant to awaken the gods for virgin sacrifice.  Loud and furious, they staked out territories and shored up borders.  The Bread tribe eyed the Hotdog tribe closely, noting the weaknesses in their defense.  Soon a scout was sent hopping over, but was pushed back by the meat-loving horde.
Stabbing at their prey, they ripped apart the thin plastic skins and exposed the soft innards.  Bread crumbs bled onto the grass.  Salty hotdog juice seeped into the earth.  The tribes screamed and flapped with feathers now soaked and covered with food.  Pacing at the fringes, the largest of the crows paused and slowly, delicately, lifted a wing towards the sky, then dipped it down into a pool of ketchup and painted a fine line across its face.  A bright red streak glowed off the polished black of its beak.  A sign of dominance.

The war-painted leader ordered his troops into the air.  With beating, thrashing wings they took flight.  Dingy, charcoal feathers pealed away from their inky silhouettes, pirouetting in the sky as they tumbled, and littered the ground around us.

The picnic table was empty.  We sat on the wet grass, hands bound, mouths gagged, stomachs empty.

My Dream My Dream

Q: What happens what a rat gnaws through the wires leading to a live circuit breaker?

A: You get one very dead rat, and one very dark data center.

Six months ago this very scenario occurred, forcing us to tap into a “temporary” power feed.  This past Saturday we finally began the process of moving back on to the main power supply.  Working in conjunction with several groups, we managed to gracefully power down all 600+ servers, enabling a complete power outage of our building.  General Electric was supposed to have their portion of this monumental undertaking done in 8 hours.

As I write this post it is now Sunday evening, and there’s no word on when GE will have the power back online.  Needless to say, this does not bode well for anybody involved.

And so I sit here with phone in hand, waiting for the panicked “all hands on deck” call, ordering me into work to assist with bringing all of our systems back online.

…And this event was so well planned, unlike the initial unexpected rat BBQ that initiated the original emergency power cutover.  This is shaping up to be one exciting week.  *sigh*

Computer, Work Computer, Work