Long Shrift

master of receipt

Ventured into Target to purchase saline solution, a cheap video cable and a bag of pretzels. Harried cashier asks if I need a gift receipt. I understand that she's in Black Friday mode, but I have to repress the urge to ask "What kind of gifts do you think I give?"

talking turkey

One of the wonderful things about Thanksgiving is that it brings family together, and give us an opportunity to, umm, explore our political diversity. Spend the day lazing about watching football, then gorge yourself... and it's the perfect time to talk about health care reform!

A good starting point is this video that compares health care reform to a massively obese pig - a surprisingly apt analogy. Of course, if you'd prefer the real thing, here it is. It's not the 2,000 page monster that people make it out to be - it's only 1,990 pages, and there's a lot of white space. Or there's the Cliff's Notes version. Or at least read up on some basics.

Perhaps the most annoying thing about this discussion (OK, maybe not the most annoying) is when people refer to this whole thing as "Obama's health care plan" or "Obamacare," as if he authored the thing. He didn't. He pushed to get the bill, after laying out some principles. (Next, I have to convince my dad to stop using the phrase "Obama's death tax.")

If the dinner table is split across party lines, you could always talk about the Republicans' health care reform plans. They're short, and there's a ton of white space.

Or you could talk about alternatives.

Or you could talk about something that everyone can laugh about.

getting a black eye

I haven't set foot in a record store in... well, the fact that I call it a 'record store' might provide a clue. When I opened the door, I was pleasantly surprised to hear music I know (Beck's Guero), and I felt a surge of confidence and familiarity. The place was almost empty, with more staff than shoppers. A little boy, perhaps three, was running up and down the aisles while his mom sifted through the bins. A sign of the times: I had to walk past half a dozen shelves of used DVD's before I even got to the CD's.

I was looking for a gift, and I wasn't sure exactly what to get. I found the A's and started scanning the dividers, hoping I'd spot something she'd like. One advantage to being so unhip is that all the weird band names are like jokes you're hearing for the first time: Arsonists Get All the Girls, Deleted Waveform Gatherings, Hellgoats, Killwhitneydead, Pants Yell!, People Eating People, REO Speedwagon, Star Fucking Hipsters, and on and on. It was good to catch up on some familiar names (I expect Kenny Rogers' The First 50 Years will sell better than the sequel) and maybe even fill in some voids (A limited German release of Legions of Astaroth's Rites of Somatic Death - I must have it!).

I found a Foo Fighters compilation CD, and twirled it in my hand as I peered through the bins. Somewhere around the M's I realized that there was a CD she wanted - the new Black Eyed Peas. You know, the one with that song. Granted, they're not the worst band, but I haven't forgiven them since My Humps.

I hesitated. Could I stomach being seen purchasing that CD? I glanced around. The 3-year-old seemed intent on something in his ear. The two guys at the counter were debating something. No one would know, I told myself. Then I realized: I am the consumer; any store is lucky to have my dollars. I don't care what these people think of me. It's not like that time I bought a CD just because the four chicks on the cover were hot.

And I'd be paying cash, so as to avoid having this particular purchase logged in a computer somewhere.

Of course, the Peas CD wasn't on the shelf: I'd have to ask for it. I trudged up to the front of the store, thankful to have the Foo Fighters CD, and handed it over the counter. The kid was just about to give me my total when I blurted out: "Um, do you have the new Black Eyed Peas CD?"

He regarded me for a fraction of a second. "Yeah, hold on." He walked over to another shelf behind the counter, grabbed it, and walked back. "This one?"

"Well, um, the new one, I guess this is it."

"The one with that song that's on the radio all the time?"

"Yeah, that one. I don't know what it's called."

And this is where the kid did something no record store clerk has ever done: he spared me the embarrassment of judging me by my purchases. He turned the CD over thoughtfully and said, "Oh, yeah, it's... um, hmm, you'd think there'd be a sticker on the CD. Oh, here it is. Yeah, this is the one."

I paid for my purchases and stepped out into the sunlight, thinking that maybe I should buy more CD's at the record store instead of just downloading mp3's. But I still tore up the receipt into tiny pieces, and paused every few blocks to throw a few fragments out the car window.

My wife's eyes lit up when she saw the CD's, but it was the Black Eyed Peas that got airplay first. Our little boy provided accompaniment on his guitar, and for the record, I may have bobbed my head a few times.

downpour on the farm

45 degrees and raining... a great day to take a pack of 4-year-olds to the pumpkin farm. It started with 23 K-4 kids and a dozen parents standing outside the school in the rain, waiting for a school bus to appear. It finally arrived, and we crammed ourselves in. The last time I had been on a school bus was for my bachelor party - and on that trip, there  was darkness and alcohol to distract me from the realization that a school bus is essentially a dilapidated greenhouse on wheels.

I was sitting between Quinn and another boy. We had plenty of time to draw smiley faces in the condensation on the windows. Someone got the kids started singing 'The Wheels on the Bus,' and I was suddenly grateful that my parents chose to drive their kids to school. I was going to write 'HELP' backwards on the window, then realized that would be inadvisable while Quinn is so typographically impressionable.

We arrived at the Green Meadows Petting Farm. Farmer Susan gave us the interary: we would be visiting the Small Animal Barn, the Pig Barn, and even the Kitten Barn, as well as milking a cow and, of course, picking our own pumpkins from the patch. Despite the weather, she was beaming, even when she told us that the two solid days of rain had turned the farm into a swamp. (I must say that every staff person I saw seemed relentlessly cheerful, but I assumed we would not be visiting the Herb Barn.)

In the midst of a particularly terrifying cold and flu season, what better way to start the day than with a hayride in the rain? Farmer Susan pointed out that we were on the first hayride of the day, which meant we'd get the dry hay bales. Given that we were facing inward, I was wearing a rain jacket with a hood, and that Quinn was sitting on my lap, it wasn't scenic. I saw occasional glimpses of the pumpkin patch, which went on forever - there were acres of pumpkins. The rain sheeted down on us.

The hayride ended under a shed. While the wagon unloaded, I had a chance to size up our surroundings, which consisted of the sprawling pumpkin patch and several haphazardly scattered barns. The rain had left small rivers running through the dirt and gravel, and a number of sheep, goats and miniature horses regarded us with indifference.

Next up was the Small Animal Barn, with several terrified rabbits, ducklings and gerbils. Following that, the pony rides. I had been told to expect that parents would be needed to help put kids up on the ponies, but the Green Meadows staff had it covered, leaving us parents to jockey for photo angles while somehow protecting our digital cameras from the rain.

Then came lunch. We were herded into a large, low-slung barn and seated on long rows of hay bales. There were easily a hundred and fifty children in there and a few dozen adults, and the din was nerve-shattering. As we ate our bag lunches, rain dripped down through pinholes in the roof. I credit myself for having the foresight to take the boy to the restroom before everyone had finished their lunches; as we left, we were nearly plowed under by a scrum of first-grade boys, rushing through the door, and there was a long line of cross-legged children waiting impatiently outside.

I wasn't thrilled about the prospect of visiting the Kitten Barn. (I was raised on a farm, and barn cats love you only as long as the saucer of milk holds out.) When we walked in, we were directed into a large cage, and then the kittens were brought to us. It dawned on me that this was to keep the kittens from taking off. The kittens, of course, were tame and adorable, which is more than I could say for many of Quinn's classmates, one of whom kept loudly asking why we were all in jail.

For a few minutes, the rain stopped. With an awesome nonchalance, Pearl the cow chewed her cud complacently even as dozens of children lined up to pull on her nipples. After Quinn had taken his turn, I asked him what it was like to milk a cow. "Like a penis," he replied.

As we waited for the other children to take their turn, the rain lashed down with a vengeance. Quinn had nearly lost a boot in the sucking mud outside the goat pen. A couple of kids were crying. Even Pearl had begun to lose her composure. Then another packed hayride went by, and I realized that at least the hay bales had been dry for our trip.

And then another barn, with chickens, ducklings and pot-bellied pigs. The kids were most impressed by the fake cow - a plywood cutout with a couple of rubber gloves hanging beneath. The gloves were slowly dripping water, and Quinn asked if it would be OK to drink the water that had pooled in the bucket below. For the record, I strongly urged him to reconsider the idea, but it was hard to keep track of him in the flurry of arms and hands, and there was another kid wearing a similar blue coat. I should point out that I'm not one to use an inordinate amount of hand sanitizer, but this was not a typical day.

And finally, the pumpkin patch, which was five acres of rolling, mucky hillside, peppered with dropped and rotted pumpkins. Better pumpkins were to be had if you were willing to walk, which Quinn was. But just as I had resigned myself to the muddy stroll, Quinn found a pumpkin that he liked. We plunked it into a pillowcase and headed back to the parking lot.

On the bus ride home, I was again in the middle of the seat, between Quinn and a tiny boy named Tyreeq. We had only been on the road for a few minutes when Tyreeq leaned his head against the back of the seat in front of us, and soon fell solidly asleep. I draped my arm over him to keep him from sliding into the aisle, and held on to him all the way back to school.

It had been a long, miserable day, but Quinn hadn't shown it once, even though his father had. He was a little quieter than he had been on the way to the farm, and he had taken on a look that might have been pensiveness. Then, of course, he was back to making handprints on the window.

Phishing with Megan Fox

I read an intriguing article about a service called SocialPET:

SocialPET (Policy Evaluation Tool) provides an automated process to test employees awareness of IT policies and common security risks. Email Social Engineering or "Phishing" is a common method used by attackers on the Internet to extract sensitive information, such as passwords, from people via email. SocialPET allows an IT or Security Administrator to craft an email with an embedded link to entice a user to supply their password. After the job is initiated, the administrator can view the results of how many people clicked the link in the email or even worse, disclosed their password.

I'm not sure if I'd want to use such a service, if only because it would confirm what I already suspect. But I watched the embedded YouTube video anyway. When it finished, YouTube helpfully suggested some other videos that I might find intriguing:

The video on the left is the company's video, followed by music videos from Primus, Keri Hilson, and the Manic Street Preachers; next, a video on Windows XP Tricks; and culminating in a trailer for Jennifer's Body.

Maybe I'm being too hard on these folks: using YouTube as a platform sure makes it easy to embed video, and the loss of professionalism might be an acceptable trade-off.

Or maybe they're tracking which video I click on.