Like fried squash, deer meat, and iced coffee I have now tried the public beta of Safari. Just like all of those other things it left a nasty taste in my mouth.
I don't know what I expected really. I guess I was hoping for some sort of jazzy Mac'd up version of FireFox but I was wrong. I have used Safari on a Mac before and just assumed that it was crippled because it was on a Mac. I was hoping that maybe a Windows version would "fix" it but not so.
The install was very fast and it played nice with my PC. When I uninstall it I will get to see if it goes quietly into the night or if it tries to rip out files it did not put there like iTunes used to do.
The first thing I noticed was that it screwed up every single font on the page. I guess it is some sort of "softer side of the internet" approach but I don't like it. It is like there is a thin film of goo over the window.
The next couple of items maybe dismissed by those of the Mac cult as things I only think I need but I don't have to live like that. Where is the Back and Forward drop-downs? Why can't you kill the search box? Why does the address line assume I want it to auto complete something there with no way to kill this feature.
The only feature worth noting is shot in the foot by the developers. The Private Browsing mode has potential. It cloaks your browsers from the junk trying to pry at your machine. Sadly the auto complete address line is still there no matter what you do and once you close and reopen the Private Browsing is turned back off again.
I have to say that I would consider using IE 7 before I would use Safari on a regular basis. The funny thing is that I won't be using IE 7 or even allowing it to be installed. I am a FireFox guy for now.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
Your life has changed. Do you want to save the changes? Yes, No, or Cancel
Sometimes even the strong buckle under the crushing weight of the world. What chance do I have?
I think I am still running from the past couple of years. Rita, the baby, and a strike to build your dreams on. Sounds like a movie you would find in the cheap bin at Wal-Mart but it has been my life for almost 2 years now.
Some thoughts from the past 2 years:
1. You can never have enough insurance
2. Medicare part D has to be the most complicated garbage I have ever seen.
3. ICU is not a happy place
4. Alabama truly is a nice place to live
5. Nomex has to be the worst fabric ever made
6. You can never depend on the government or the Red Cross for ANYTHING.
7. News of a baby turns your home into a dumping ground of baby junk from other recent parents
I think I am still running from the past couple of years. Rita, the baby, and a strike to build your dreams on. Sounds like a movie you would find in the cheap bin at Wal-Mart but it has been my life for almost 2 years now.
Some thoughts from the past 2 years:
1. You can never have enough insurance
2. Medicare part D has to be the most complicated garbage I have ever seen.
3. ICU is not a happy place
4. Alabama truly is a nice place to live
5. Nomex has to be the worst fabric ever made
6. You can never depend on the government or the Red Cross for ANYTHING.
7. News of a baby turns your home into a dumping ground of baby junk from other recent parents
Sunday, April 29, 2007
A perfumed city
Spring is setting in my lovely town. A heavy flower powered perfume fills the air. Sun rains down and the peoples are a-buzz like there is some sort of carnival in town.
The reality is that I am allergic to most everything I encounter. I sneeze until I bleed and then sneeze some more. The sound of sirens of all type are everywhere. And let me tell you about the buzzing people: They are insane!
Today we all went to the playground. My son is five years old so playgrounds are great for him. When I was five I would have given up a lung to get to leave the dregs of the side of highway suburbs to go to a playground. Of course I outgrew playgrounds around age ten. Apparently the thought that swings and tiny slides are for small children is just another of my old fashioned notions.
The park today was filled with teens and near teens. In fact, there was a "Happy twenty first birthday" sign posted for all to see. I don't think the sign was a joke. Some kids I could have mistaken for the starting defensive line of the school football team were playing "you're it" in the "Tyke's Area" of the playground.
I was amazed to see a 13 year old girl on top of a 15 year old boy in the slide outlet area. They had apparently made the 3 story tall slide trip down together headfirst embraced as they were. I won't say that I am shocked but it was not what you normally see at a playground. At least they had their clothes on.
Well I have jury duty in the morning. I am sure something interesting will come of that.
The reality is that I am allergic to most everything I encounter. I sneeze until I bleed and then sneeze some more. The sound of sirens of all type are everywhere. And let me tell you about the buzzing people: They are insane!
Today we all went to the playground. My son is five years old so playgrounds are great for him. When I was five I would have given up a lung to get to leave the dregs of the side of highway suburbs to go to a playground. Of course I outgrew playgrounds around age ten. Apparently the thought that swings and tiny slides are for small children is just another of my old fashioned notions.
The park today was filled with teens and near teens. In fact, there was a "Happy twenty first birthday" sign posted for all to see. I don't think the sign was a joke. Some kids I could have mistaken for the starting defensive line of the school football team were playing "you're it" in the "Tyke's Area" of the playground.
I was amazed to see a 13 year old girl on top of a 15 year old boy in the slide outlet area. They had apparently made the 3 story tall slide trip down together headfirst embraced as they were. I won't say that I am shocked but it was not what you normally see at a playground. At least they had their clothes on.
Well I have jury duty in the morning. I am sure something interesting will come of that.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Eye See You
Hospitals suck. I am sitting in the ICU waiting room in a big ugly hospital. I hate hospitals but this one has several qualities that make it tolerable. I am sitting in a huge leather comfy chair. It is nice enough. I am drinking free coffee. This is a positive considering how much I love coffee. I am also blogging using the free guest Wi-Fi internet. All of these are positive things.
The negatives are easy to discern. I am here for a reason. The reason is that my Dad had a heart attack, balloon angio-something or another, and the subsequent few days in ICU. This stinks.
Dad is going to be okay but it is still not fun for anyone involved. This place is crazy. A line forms at the door for visitation time. We all line up and wash our hands in turn like we are in elementary school. We put on our name tags and file into the ICU secret special area. There are no chairs in ICU apparently. Your entire visit is conducted standing. Very strange.
I have no larger than life lessons drawn from this experience so far. I also don't have any advice for those going through what we just went through. I have no profound statement to make. This is all I can say about things.
The negatives are easy to discern. I am here for a reason. The reason is that my Dad had a heart attack, balloon angio-something or another, and the subsequent few days in ICU. This stinks.
Dad is going to be okay but it is still not fun for anyone involved. This place is crazy. A line forms at the door for visitation time. We all line up and wash our hands in turn like we are in elementary school. We put on our name tags and file into the ICU secret special area. There are no chairs in ICU apparently. Your entire visit is conducted standing. Very strange.
I have no larger than life lessons drawn from this experience so far. I also don't have any advice for those going through what we just went through. I have no profound statement to make. This is all I can say about things.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Jimmy and the Broom
I met a guy today. His name is Jimmy. He lives in the woods. At least that is what he said. I don't see any reason why Jimmy would lie to me. He just met me today when he asked me for $6.85 so he could buy some smokes and a beer. I paid him to sweep the sidewalk. I don't know what to think about this.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Alphabetically Speaking
I used to deride products with nonsense letter-number combos like the V2100 or the GX260. I now take all of that back. The names of cell phones like Chocolate, Pearl, and Blackberry drive me crazy.
The names are not descriptive and they are not usually something you want to talk about with other adults. I can not imagine being a sales person and having to ask a grown man if he would like a Cryzr, or Roker.
My phone is a Cingular 3100. That is a solid name and one that I am not embarrassed to say.
The names are not descriptive and they are not usually something you want to talk about with other adults. I can not imagine being a sales person and having to ask a grown man if he would like a Cryzr, or Roker.
My phone is a Cingular 3100. That is a solid name and one that I am not embarrassed to say.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Days gone by
Mrs. Jackson's kindergarten class had one entire wall of nothing but closets. In the far corner was the coat closet. The teacher would pick some suck-up to be the person to stand on a chair and put the coats on the rack. I don't remember ever having the honor of coat hanging person. In today's world of ORM and ergonomics I am sure they have replaced the pig-tailed class tattle tale on a metal folding chair with some age appropriate coat hanging solution.
I mention this because I was a spacey kid. As the third of four kids at home, I was content to sit undisturbed for hours. I would day dream about dashing into the coat closet to find the hidden door that led to a room with a vent that led straight out the top of the building. The process involved putting on some sort of suit with a cape and flying out of the closet and around the play ground. I kid you not. This is real and vivid still in my memory.
In the first grade we had a substitute teacher for most of the year. A temper filled red headed woman that happened to go to my church. I had a Kool-Aid backpack with a Velcro flap that would never stay closed. I thought that if I jumped on it that it would eventually close tight enough so as not to spill out. Mrs. Jones thought I was insane for jumping on my backpack and suggested to my parents that I needed some help.
In the third grade my teacher believed I was retarded from the start. Why else would a kid wear camo t-shirts and have an official G.I. Joe fan club belt buckle. She tried to have me put in "special classes" so as not to deal with me. My parents would have nothing of this.
The freak, I mean teacher, decided to take matters into her own hands. She brought a refrigerator box from home and cut out the back and top. She put my desk in the box and there I stayed next to the actually retarded kid in the washing machine box in the back of the class. I pretended the box was the inside of a tank and accomplished even less work than ever.
The third grade had an economy of sorts. You could earn stickers and display them on a plastic box. I had one sticker for every 15 that my peers had on their boxes. When I would earn one it would not be a "scratch and sniff" one because those were for the good kids. I don't think I learned anything that whole year and my cursive handwriting and multiplication skills prove it.
In sixth grade I named my backpack Mr Picasso and made him talk to the other kids. I even had a voice for it and everything. I tape-recorded T.V. shows on cassette for later consumption since we were not rich enough to have a VCR. I never learned the board-foot formula and clearly failed 7th and 8th grade English and Math while still advancing to high school without a single repeat.
All of these stupid memories were brought to mind while I went through a box of school records my mother had kept. This all makes me realize that I don't have to worry about my son. He is goofy and a day dreamer. He has funny voices and silly dances. He likes Lego and stuffed monkeys.
I don't have to sweat his phonics or attention span too much. If I can make it through 12 years of bottom of the barrel teachers, never doing homework, and day dreaming the day away then my much smarter son will do just fine.
I mention this because I was a spacey kid. As the third of four kids at home, I was content to sit undisturbed for hours. I would day dream about dashing into the coat closet to find the hidden door that led to a room with a vent that led straight out the top of the building. The process involved putting on some sort of suit with a cape and flying out of the closet and around the play ground. I kid you not. This is real and vivid still in my memory.
In the first grade we had a substitute teacher for most of the year. A temper filled red headed woman that happened to go to my church. I had a Kool-Aid backpack with a Velcro flap that would never stay closed. I thought that if I jumped on it that it would eventually close tight enough so as not to spill out. Mrs. Jones thought I was insane for jumping on my backpack and suggested to my parents that I needed some help.
In the third grade my teacher believed I was retarded from the start. Why else would a kid wear camo t-shirts and have an official G.I. Joe fan club belt buckle. She tried to have me put in "special classes" so as not to deal with me. My parents would have nothing of this.
The freak, I mean teacher, decided to take matters into her own hands. She brought a refrigerator box from home and cut out the back and top. She put my desk in the box and there I stayed next to the actually retarded kid in the washing machine box in the back of the class. I pretended the box was the inside of a tank and accomplished even less work than ever.
The third grade had an economy of sorts. You could earn stickers and display them on a plastic box. I had one sticker for every 15 that my peers had on their boxes. When I would earn one it would not be a "scratch and sniff" one because those were for the good kids. I don't think I learned anything that whole year and my cursive handwriting and multiplication skills prove it.
In sixth grade I named my backpack Mr Picasso and made him talk to the other kids. I even had a voice for it and everything. I tape-recorded T.V. shows on cassette for later consumption since we were not rich enough to have a VCR. I never learned the board-foot formula and clearly failed 7th and 8th grade English and Math while still advancing to high school without a single repeat.
All of these stupid memories were brought to mind while I went through a box of school records my mother had kept. This all makes me realize that I don't have to worry about my son. He is goofy and a day dreamer. He has funny voices and silly dances. He likes Lego and stuffed monkeys.
I don't have to sweat his phonics or attention span too much. If I can make it through 12 years of bottom of the barrel teachers, never doing homework, and day dreaming the day away then my much smarter son will do just fine.
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