Engineering vs Design

Ran into the following comment today, and it becomes especially relevant to me because as of late, I've been tasked with much creative design work on client websites, despite the fact that my idea of design likely differs greatly from what was wanted.

I've been charged with making a specific user interface style guide for a suite of software by my employer. I'm not quite sure where to start

You don't know where to start because you don't work as a tech writer!

Tell your tightwad boss to pick someone more suited to the task - Even the weenies in Marketing can probably do the task better than an engineer (unless you just happen to have a background in technical writing, but it sounds like that doesn't fit into your job description/requirements).

Geeks can do anything - That doesn't always make us the best person for every job even tangentially related to "computers". If you want me to design a website, I can make it do anything HTML supports, but prepare for a color scheme that makes most people's eyes bleed...

I think that management at my company could use this advice.

I build websites & user interfaces the way I build furniture.

Out of Logs.

It's big, it's clunky, and it works well for its intended purpose, even if it is a bit over-engineered for the task at hand.
While this can be a beauty of its own when building furniture, it is quite something else when it ends up as a user interface.

Artificial Traffic

My morning commute is usually not too bad. I go to work pretty early specifically in order to avoid traffic. If I leave home at 7AM, I'm usually at my desk by 7:30. If I leave home at 8AM, I'll be lucky to make it to work by 9AM.

I included the qualifying phrase "usually" primarily due to one thing: Artificial Traffic.
Artificial Traffic is a term that I invented to describe when there are a fair number of cars on the road, but not enough that there should be significant delays in traffic, yet the delays exist anyway.

There are a few causes of Artificial Traffic, such as rubbernecking at a vehicle which has been pulled over by the police, some event off the highway attracting attention, etc...
The most frequent and enraging cause of Artificial Traffic is some cell-phone yakking idiot who has parked in the left lane doing 1.6 Miles Per Hour faster than the Dump Truck in the next lane over.

These idiots are completely oblivious to the 2 miles of traffic which has backed up behind them despite the 2 miles of open freeway ahead of them.

In my not so humble opinion, these bone-heads are the number 1 reason for road rage.
The dumbest road-rage things I see people do tend to take place not when everbody is going slow, but when there is some total jerk causing Artificial Traffic.

A special place in Hell is reserved for anybody causing Artificial Traffic.

Way to go, NBC!

I don't watch much television. Aside from catching the news, there are few shows I watch regularly, and none that I deem worthy enough to sit down and watch live except sports.
That being said, this last couple of years has truly sucked. I haven't been watching much football since the college teams I watch have been taken away from me by that brilliant idea of Comcast, called "The Mountain". Essentially, most of the games for teams in the Mountain West Conference are only available if you sell your soul to Comcast. I swore off Comcast years ago, so there goes most of the sports I watch.

But I digress...

The one bright spot I looked forward to, as long as I could find it, was Scrubs. I've been a big Scrubs fan from the first season. But NBC made it difficult, if not impossible to watch because they have never left it in the same spot for even a full season. The only way I've been able to fill in the blanks from the episodes I missed due to schedule changes has been the insane number of re-runs now in syndication, on Comedy Central and the local CW affiliate. I knew that this was going to be the last season, but now it sounds like even that will be denied - with the conclusion of the writers strike, NBC has not yet decided if it is even worth it to put the show back into production long enough to wrap it up.

Thanks for nothing, NBC. I guess that I should be grateful that you have given me one half hour of extra free time each week, but even that would be generous, given that you have done your very best to ensure that no one could ever count on that half hour being at a consistent time on a consistent day.

Thank Heaven for Four Wheel Drive

Last night, I found myself to be again thankful that I drive a four wheel drive pickup. It saved me from a half-hour detention in a drive through.
I went to Taco Bell for some food (I know, guilty pleasure), and upon reaching the speaker box the McEmployee told me "Just so you know, there is a half-hour wait." I said "Are you serious?", but got no reply. There were three cars ahead of me, and three behind me. The car at the window was being handed food, so I thought that maybe the McEmployee was just screwing around when she said that. The car at the window got their food, and drove off. I waited for another couple of minutes, and the McEmployee comes back on and said again "Thank you for choosing Taco Bell, just so you know, there is a half-hour wait." I again asked "Are you being serious?" McEmployee said "Yes, sir. I am being totally serious. It is going to be a half hour wait." Then she wouldn't respond anymore. I'm sitting in a drive through which is the kind that locks you in with curbs on both sides, cars in front of me and behind me, and Miss $7.00 an hour McEmployee has just told me that in essence I am going to be detained for a half hour.

Not This cowboy...

Instead of waiting around while Miss McEmployee earns $3.50 (And costs me $15 worth of MY time), I decide that, yes, I have enough ground clearance. I turned my wheels and Taco Bell employees grouped around the drive-up window watched as I drove up over the curb, across the snow covered grass and sidewalk, and out on to the street.

Thank heaven for Four Wheel Drive.

Screaming, Flying Chicken

Many, many years ago, I worked as a security officer at a department store. On one afternoon, while prowling the store with my partner, Jason, looking for shoplifters, another employee jokingly tossed a play ball at us from another aisle. There was some playful banter about how we would "get him back", but all in good fun. Or so it seemed at the time. From that point on, for a period of weeks, 'Jon' (the poor guy who had dared challenge us...) received a varied assortment of items from all directions, at any time. But he never saw who was doing it. He knew it was us, but since he never saw us, he couldn't really be sure. Being undercover security officers, Jason & I knew how to disappear quickly and quietly, so that Jon never actually saw anything at all. It wasn't very long before Jon began to exhibit signs of what could be mistaken for PTSD.

The final straw was reached when one afternoon, Jason and I spotted Jon hard at work in the sporting goods department, putting fishing lures on their hooks for display. Jason had earlier picked up a toy chicken, which when squeezed crowed very loudly "Cock-a-doodle-doo!!!" This particular toy was poorly made, so it took a second or two for the screeching to start once it had been squeezed. Once we observed Jon to be concentrating hard at matching the fishing lures to the correct location, we positioned ourselves in the nearby men's clothing department, and Jason let it fly. It was a beautiful flight, forever etched in my mind. The now-ballistic chicken reached the apex of its flight path just as the screeching "Cock-a-doodle-dooooo" started. Jon turned to look for the source of the awful noise just in time to turn his face squarely into the path of the chicken, which terminated its twenty foot flight right on his forehead. Once again, he never saw who had launched this latest assault upon his dignity. But he knew. We had been back in the sanctity of our office for just a couple of minutes before Jon came banging on our door. But since he never saw us, he couldn't even be sure if we were working that day. (Our schedules were varied, and never posted) We didn't answer, leaving him to question his sanity.

A few hours later, Jason was out walking through the store when Jon confronted him. Jon was all red, sweating, and breathing as though he had just ran a marathon. He said "Do you want me to quit? Because thats what I'll do, right now! I can't handle it any more. I think I'm going to quit right now!" Jason was able to keep Jon from quitting, which would have made us feel even more guilty than we did at the moment.

This incident happened over a decade ago, but was brought back to mind yesterday morning as I unwrapped a gift from my sister. Had these been on the market 10 years ago, Jon might have ended up in the hospital under heavy sedation. The accuracy and distance attainable from these is uncanny.

This thing screeches with a "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" as soon as you launch it. It was a good gag gift, made all the better because it reminded me of that story.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it. Before changing jobs last summer, I would have taken it to work & gotten a lot of mileage out of it there, but the people at my new workplace would never appreciate it. Maybe I'll use it as a punishment motivational tool for my kids.

Thanks sis!

The tale of the potato cannon...

I have been arrested just one time in my life thus far, and I plan to keep it that way.
About 10 years ago, I was arrested for firing a home made potato cannon.
My friend Aaron had come over one afternoon with the plans for a home built cannon which would shoot a potato a few hundred feet. We decided to build not one, but two guns using the plans. After all, we figured that this thing would be so cool that we would end up fighting over who got to keep it.

We set off for the local hardware store to purchase the ABS drain pipe, fittings, and gas grill ignitor needed. We assembled the two cannons quickly, and waited all afternoon for the cement to harden. That evening we felt we were ready for testing.
We started off simply shooting paper towels out of the guns, just to make sure that there were no leaks from the combustion chamber, and spent a fair amount of time trying various propellants. (For the record, starting fluid works much better than hairspray...)
Before long we had graduated to firing actual potatos. We were launching the flaming spuds straight up in the air, and laughing as they splattered on the street. Our friend Mike had joined us in the festivities, simply to watch. There was a gratifying "shhhhhhhthunk" sound generated each time a gun was fired.
For reasons he has never fully explained, Aaron launched a potato at a near horizontal angle, down the street we were standing on. The potato blazed gloriously down the street, and it crossed the intersection a half-block down going what seemed like Mach 9, just as a police car pulled into the intersection. It missed the front windshield by no more than 6 inches.
Lights now flashing, the police car wasted no time zipping up the half block to where we were. The officer jumps out of his car, and with a puzzled expression on his face asks "Ted?" While Officer Don Grothe was still standing there with a disbelieving look on his face, another police car comes around the corner and pulls up right behind the first car. Not missing a beat, Officer Eric Knutzen jumps out and with the same puzzled expression says "Oh no! Is that Ted?"
By this time I am walking over to Officer Grothe, who is sharing a look with officer Knutzen that I interpret to mean "Oh shit!". I said sheepishly "Hi guys. Sorry about that." Officer Grothe turns back to me and says "We've got a bit of a problem. Come over here and talk with me", then motioned me to follow him to the sidewalk. At that moment, another police car comes around the corner, lights and siren wailing. Officer Grothe said "THATs the problem." Officer Knutzen had grabbed Aaron, and had taken him over to the sidewalk to talk as the third officer jumped out of his car, grabbed Mike, and started frisking him for non-existent weapons.
Officer Grothe points that out and informs me that while this other officer was new to the department, he was a 15 year veteran of a rural sheriff's department & anxious to prove his worth to the supervisors in his new department.
"After my car was almost hit with that potato & I saw the three of you standing here, I called for backup because I didn't know what I was up against. Eric was coming to back me up when that other guy radioed in that he was close and would come as well."
I knew Officers Grothe and Knutzen fairly well because at the time, Aaron and I worked as security officers at a local department store. During the course of catching shoplifters, going to court, etc. we got to know a large number of officers pretty well. I had been on 'ride alongs' with Officer Grothe, and I had spent an entire day with officer Knutzen at a trial just a couple of weeks earlier, where we had been 'excluded' from the court proceedings - which meant we had to sit in the hall so we couldn't hear the testimony of other witnesses.
Officer Grothe was at this point almost talking to himself. He was saying "If it was anybody else, I wouldn't think twice about charging them... but I'm not going to charge these guys... how am I going to get away with not citing them while HE's here... but these guys are my freinds... but if it was anybody else..." I interrupted this internal argument by saying "Don, I don't want to get you in trouble. We screwed up, and we'll just have to take the consequences. Cite us like you would someone else. I won't hold it against you."
So, Officer Grothe wrote Aaron and I both citations for "discharge of a BB gun, slingshot, or other flipper device within city limits", which is a violation of city code.
A few weeks later, we appeared in court for our arraignment. City Prosecutor Steve Schreiner noticed me, and came over saying "Hey Ted, I didn't know that we had any of your cases on the docket today..." I said "Look at your arraignment schedule, Steve."
His mouth dropped open. After explaining what had happened, Prosecutor Schreiner offered Aaron and I a plea deal. In exchange for a guilty plea, the class B misdemeanor we had been charged with would be dropped to 'disorderly conduct', an infraction. (An infraction is the lowest level of criminal offense in Utah, on par with Jaywalking.)
As the arraignment proceeded, Aaron was called up first because his last name is first alphabetically, but Prosecutor Schreiner asked the judge if he could hear both cases together, then motioned for me to come up to the podium.
Prosecutor Schreiner explained the plea agreement to Judge Stott. (Judge Stott presided over the shoplifting trial I mentioned before, and I'm sure that he recognized me.) Judge Stott then asked Aaron and I if we agreed to the plea deal. After we both said "yes", Judge Stott then asked me HOW we built the cannons. After explaining the technical details, Judge Stott asked "Why would you do such a thing?" I said sheepishly "To see if we could, your honor." Judge Stott chuckled, then ordered that our pleas were to be held in abeyance. If we did not have any further criminal charges within three months, the charges would be dismissed.

Aaron and I each had to write lengthy letters to the Peace Officer Standards and Training Council explaining these arrests before either of us was allowed into the Police Academy, not too long after this incident.


Post Script: Telling this story makes me just a little bit sad now, as Don Grothe passed away after an accident while fishing on August 24th, 2005. RIP Don

The Rand-Aid

Yesterday I had an experience which took me back almost a decade and a half.
When I was in high school, I worked at a local grocery store bagging groceries and stocking shelves.
There were two men who worked there at the time named Randy and Roger. They were mentally impaired brothers who worked there full time bagging groceries, mopping floors, and other general tasks. They functioned at about a 12 year old level, so they were capable of quite a bit of work, as long as they had sufficient supervision.
These guys were incredible workers. They worked harder than just about any other employees.

When cutting open boxes & stocking shelves, getting a cut was an inevitable experience. On those not so infrequent occasions, Randy would not go get a band-aid. That would mean stopping what he was doing and going to find one in the first aid kit.
Instead, Randy would fold a paper towel into a small square to cover the wound, then use masking tape (from the pocket of his apron) to wrap around the wound which held the paper towel in place.
Before long, this was dubbed a Rand-Aid™.

After sustaining a cut yesterday, I found that I had run out of band-aids in the first aid kit I keep in my truck.
But I did have tissues & scotch tape...