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About Ramblings of a Hopeless Khowaga

Welcome to my Web site. My name is Chris, and I’ll be your host. I\'m an opinionated, snarky, gay academic with a predilection for the history, the Arab world, languages, photography, food, and music. I live in Austin, Texas. You can read more about me, learn 100 random things about me, and if you’re wondering what the heck a khowaga is, click here. Feel free to browse, read, and leave comments!

Tag: ‘evil’



The next newest sign of the existence of evil in the universe

Wednesday, May 20th, 2009

I’ve ranted before about Microsoft and Adobe products.  Between Microsoft Word (and whatever the hell it does that makes text so unusable that you can’t cut-and-paste text out of Word into many other programs, including Microsoft’s own Entourage e-mail client for the Mac) and the unbelievably convoluted POS that is Adobe Acrobat, I’ve often said that the two companies are the surest sign of the existence of Satan.

Adobe gets extra points for removing support for right-to-left languages from the products it got when it bought Macromedia (Dreamweaver, Flash, etc.).  Mind you, they did this so that they could introduce it only in special “Middle East” versions of its software–which cost more, natch–that, as far as I can tell, can only be purchased in a single store in Dubai.  You sure as hell can’t buy them through the Adobe Web site.  Not living in Dubai, I have coworkers that have resorted to laying things out in PowerPoint.

However, after yesterday, I’ve got two new one candidates for evildom: eBay and its bastard offspring PayPal.

My friend Natalie went to London two weeks ago, and she borrowed the old Sony Ericsson T68i cell phone that I got second-hand specifically to use on overseas trips.  I have a generic “world SIM” card that’s not the cheapest thing to use, but works just about anywhere and is useful for business trips when I’m in a different city every day.  For longer stays in one place, I tend to get a short term pre-paid SIM card from the local mobile company, like Telcel in Mexico or Vodafone in Egypt, which gives me a local phone number of my own, and offers the advantage of letting me make phone calls home in idle moments while I’m sitting on a bus somewhere.  As an added bonus, the World SIM that I have carries a UK number, so for Natalie it was perfect since she was going to the UK.

When she got back, she broke the bad news to me: “Your charger’s dead,” she said.  She thought this was a bigger deal than it was.  For the record, this is actually the second charger I’ve owned for the phone.  The first one died an undignified death in Cairo when Ray tried to plug a 110 volt power strip into a voltage adapter and then plug it into the 220 volt wall socket and blew out the power to half of our floor of the hotel.  This necessitated purchasing a charger from the cell phone-and-shwarma kiosk down the street which meant that, uniquely, I had to use an adapter to plug it in when I was home in the US.

After three years of being wrapped up in my luggage or a drawer at home, the wires were fraying.  I had wrapped the cord with electrical tape, but Natalie reported that when she went to plug it in, the wires just sheared off.  “I tried to replace it,” she said, “but apparently the phone is too old and none of the shops we went to carried anything that will fit.”

“Don’t worry,” I said.  “This is why God invented eBay.”

Clearly, Satan was offended by this statement.

Yesterday morning, I hopped on eBay and discovered that one could, for the low low price of $4.50 (including shipping) purchase a replacement wall charger.  I said it wasn’t a big deal.  The trouble began when I clicked on “sign in” in order to start the purchase.

“Your password is incorrect,” eBay informed me.  I only have three passwords.  I use the Password Hash extension on Firefox that makes my life much easier because I can use the same passwords over and over.  When you push the F2 key before entering the password, it converts the password you type into a unique password based on an algorithm of the Web site address, the original password, and Oprah’s weight on a random date in the late 1990s.  Hence, if someone snares your password on Site A, it won’t work on Site B.

However, none of them were working on eBay.  After several go rounds, I admitted failure and clicked on “Forgot your password?”  It offered to e-mail me my password.  I clicked OK.  Nothing happened.  My e-mail inbox sat there and looked at me expectantly.

eBay then instructed me to enter my mother’s maiden name, my ZIP code, and my phone number.  I did so, and clicked “continue.”  It then made me fill out a captcha form, which I did, and then hit “continue.”

Your answers are incorrect, it told me.  Interestingly enough, it said that I had entered the right ZIP code, but that I had entered the wrong phone number … and also that my mother’s maiden name was incorrect.  I’m pretty damned sure that last one was a mistake on their part.

The other problem is that I registered with eBay several years ago, so I can’t actually remember which phone number I would have put down.  I put a few ones in, triple-checked the spelling of my mother’s maiden name and was eventually rewarded with a nasty message informing me that I had exceeded my attempts to verify my identity (but only after filling out the form and captcha … again.)

At this point, I decided that I needed to get to work and turned off my browser.

At home last night, I decided to try again.  Browsing eBay one more time, I discovered that for even less money–$2.50 including shipping–I could purchase a USB charger for the phone.  That’s even better — I’ve already got a hydra cord that simultaneously charges my iPod, GPS, and a couple of other things off of the USB.  I can plug the phone in at the same time and then I only have to bring one adapter for the wall socket.  Brilliant!

eBay was still unhappy with my attempts to login, so I just broke down and created a new login for myself.  That done, I clicked on “Buy it now.”  We’re in business!

The seller said that he would only accept PayPal.  I’ve used PayPal far more recently than I’ve used eBay … however, PayPal turned out to be even more problematic.  I logged in, and it immediately spat a message at me: “Your primary credit card has expired.  Please enter a new one.”  I did so, and noticed that the billing address listed was the address of the apartment where I lived for the two years of grad school and the first year of my job here in Austin (and where I haven’t lived since 2001).  I clicked to update it, and from then on, it was all downhill.

When I clicked on “Confirm purchase,” a screen came up with bright red letters.  “Your account access has been suspended.  You must verify your address to unsuspend this account.  Click here to continue.”  I did so.  “Please enter the telephone number associated with this address.”

I paused.  I don’t have a telephone number associated with this address.  We got rid of the landline nearly a year ago because we never used it.  I entered my cell phone number, which is what the credit card company has as my emergency number anyway.

“You cannot use a mobile number to verify your address,” it informed me.  “Please verify your address.”

At some point, I was given a phone number that I could call, but in my poking around trying to get the system to work, that screen vanished and I was never given the option again.  Fifteen minutes later, I was back staring at the same screen that informed me that my account had been suspended pending verification of my address.

Underneath the angry red screen there was a smaller link.  “Alternate methods.”  I clicked on this.  I was then given the option to confirm by mail.  OK, let’s do that.

It turns out that this option means that they’ll mail you a letter and you have to send it back along with a photocopy of some sort of official piece mail in which your address is confirmed.  Um, no.

The other option was to confirm my credit card.  OK!  Let’s do that.  In this instance, my credit card was charged $1.95 that would be refunded when I entered the correct four digit statement off of my credit card bill into the PayPal Web site.  I used my debit card and immediately logged on to my bank where, for once, the transaction was immediately visible.  I copied the four digits over, clicked enter, and, lo and behold, green text!

“Your address has been confirmed.”

At this point, I had to go back to eBay, re-log in, and initate the whole process all over again.  This time, it all went through.

I estimate that, all told, it took me 45 minutes to complete a transaction worth $2.50 so that I could get a lousy charger for my cell phone.

And that, children, is why eBay is the surest sign of evil in the universe.

What’s in a Burger?

Sunday, May 3rd, 2009

OK, this post is a little bit of an experiment.  I’ve been meaning to expand my genre writing, by which I mean, “posting about things other than whatever rant I have parked in the back of my head at the moment.” This, by the way, has nothing to with our friend Lee, who started up a food-and-restaurant blog a couple of months ago and has already managed to score invitations to all sorts of closed-door events they seem to hold just for people who blog about food.  Really.

I’ve feared for a while that Ray and I are stuck in a restaurant rut whenever we go out, because, well, we are.  So, when I was at Costco last weekend, I discovered the second edition of Fearless Critic’s guide to Austin restaurants, and I decided to buy it because … well, sometimes I’m in the mood for Thai food and pho just won’t serve as a decent substitute.  (According to the Guide, the situation is more grave for those seeking Italian.)

Friday evening, Ray had managed to score us tickets to Death Cab for Cutie’s show at Austin Music Hall (and I do mean score – the tix were for the VIP section.  Working for evil corporations does sometimes have its perks).  After I got home from work, we headed downtown where I similarly managed to score a parking spot at a meter barely three blocks from the venue.  For those unfamiliar with Austin, this is in the heart of the Warehouse District, where meters–which stop working at 5:30 pm–are now nearly impossible to find, and most lots and open parking surfaces have been co-opted by the Ethiopian Mafia, which charges a flat rate for the evening that increases by the hour – $5 if you get there early, but as much as $10 or $15 if you try to arrive around peak clubbing time.

Where this is all going is that we wound up stopping for a bite to eat at Hut’s Hamburgers, a local institution that I’ve never actually been to before.  We had walked past a series of restaurants overflowed with the Young and the Pretty, not that we don’t enjoy that scene … mainly for the viewing … but we didn’t time our arrival downtown well to have enough time to wait out a table and still get to the show on time.  In the midst of a Friday afternoon around 6:45 pm, Hut’s was able to seat us right away.

Perhaps this was a sign.  Perhaps it was just because Hut’s doesn’t have a patio or a huge selection of alcoholic beverages beyond beer, and is therefore not a popular destination for after-work Happy Hour.

The place is in what appears to be, for all intents and purposes, an old gas station from the 50′s or 60′s.  It’s been a restaurant for several decades, but there’s still something offputting about opening the door to a restaurant that you can’t see inside of.  “What am I getting into?  Will I be able to leave?”  It’s kind of dark inside, and the decor is somewhere between “cute retro” and “hasn’t been cleaned since 1981.”

Hut’s is an unapologetic burger joint, and when you’re at a burger joint you shouldn’t do something stupid, like order a salad.  This is fine.  Ray and I both ordered burgers, and a basket of fries and rings to split.

The burgers all have cute names.  Mine was “The Wolfman Jack,” which comes with too many diced green chiles (canned), sour cream, and bacon that was so limp I could actually fold it.  I’m a bit of a bacon purist – if it bends, it ain’t done.  Ray ordered “Mr. Blue,” with bleu cheese crumbles, swiss cheese and bacon (and lettuce, although he asked them to hold it, much to the satisfaction of the guy who brought the food out and declared lettuce “green water.”)

One of my basic tests for a restaurant is, “Could I have made this at home?”  In the case of the Hut’s burgers, the answer, sadly, was “yes.”  I’ve had better hamburgers.  Sorry, guys.

The french fries were … well, I could fold them, too.  This is not good.  Limp, damp fries are the culinary equivalent of the limp, damp handshake.

The bright spot of the meal were the peppered onion rings.  I was disappointed to see, when the tray arrived, that there were only four onion rings (there’s always a disappointing onion-ring-to-fry ratio whenever you order a combination order).  However, the four that arrived could have been worn as anklets – they were massive, thick, and wonderfully crispy.  Ray questioned whether there was too much onion in the onion rings (ha!), but I quite enjoyed them.

Would I go back to Hut’s just for onion rings?  Oh yeah.  I might be tempted to order another burger, too.  After all, Fearless Critic seems to think they’re great (Hut’s is #3 on the list of burger joints of Austin, after Phil’s Ice House — with which I wholeheartedly agree), and Fearless Critic hates everyone.

Domestimplicity

Tuesday, November 25th, 2008

Tuesday morning, back in the office.  It’s a bit chilly here in Austin, but it’s nowhere near as cold as it was this weekend in DC … not that I’d really know from the handful of times I actually got out of the conference hotel.

I got home late Sunday night expecting to find the house quiet and Ray and the dog sleeping, and was imagining how badly the dog would protest when I moved her out of my spot on the bed.  To the contrary, I found Ray still awake and ready to show me stuff.

He had cleaned the master bedroom while I was gone.

I’m aware that no one, whether you know us personally or not, will fully appreciate the impact of that sentence.  I can not overstate the mess that the bedroom had become over the years, mainly because both of us are quick to buy new clothes and slow to cull out old ones from the wardrobe, so much that the easy chair had become the unofficial drawer for our jeans, and there was always a laundry basket full of (clean) socks and underwear somewhere in the room.

We’re not talking Clean Sweep messy, but … phenomenally disorganized kind of captures the idea. When Ray opened the door to the bedroom, my first thought was, “Wow, it looks like a whole other room!”  followed by “Is *that* what color the carpet is?”

The sad truth is that the house is a little big for us to keep up with all the cleaning and the bedroom, with its door that closes to keep guests out, became something of a second tier priority behind the areas that guests tend to frequent like the living/dining/kitchen area and the den upstairs. We have a large pantry that doubles as Ray’s “shop” and storage room that is also a holy mess, and that will take longer.  It’s the kind of thing where you walk in with the intention of starting the process of organizing and cleaning, and the mere sight overwhelms you, and then you walk back out thinking that your time might be better served doing something … anything … else.

So, cheers to Ray for making it happen.  He’s still being rather vigilant about it, too (“Are you going to wearing those jeans you just tossed on the chair tomorrow?  Because, if not, there are going to be dire consequences.”)

Maybe later I’ll see if I can figure out what those dire consequences are :evil:

Rising to the Challenge

Saturday, October 18th, 2008

Sam memed me.  What the heck, I was feeling short on inspiration.  I’ll deal with the psychological ramifications of responding to a challenge from a lad nearly half my age in therapy  :)

The challenge is simple: you’re supposed to list five things you’re addicted to.  

#1.  The Internet.

This one goes right at the very top of the list.  I’d never heard of the Internet when I first got to university and my World Politics TA, whose name I do remember but won’t list here, made us all learn how to use something called “e-mail.”  I learned how to use “e-mail” in October, but didn’t actually know anyone else who had it until the following spring.  

Nowadays, I get e-mail on my cell phone.  I actually find this annoying, because I don’t always want to have e-mail coming in on my telephone, especially on weekends off.  You can tell I find this annoying when I take my phone out of my pocket every time it gives that specific shudder vibration that indicates a new message has come in.

My mail is online, my photos are online, I’m connected to half of the known universe by blog, facebook, and flickr.  Friend me!

Yeah, I definitely think that qualifies as an addiction.

 

#2.  Shoes.

My name is Chris, and I’m a shoe whore.

I think I’ve admitted this before — I seem to recall having a length discussion about Danny’s inner Aztec goddess who threatened to eat his still beating heart right out of his chest if he didn’t purchase a pair of shoes.

I don’t actually buy shoes that often, but I have been known to purchase a pair and get home only to realize that I already own them (fortunately on all occasions I’ve been able to add “in another color.”)  The shoe section of our closet — which is far too small–is overrun.

 

#3.  Books.

“You know, you can get those for free at the library,” my mother is fond of saying, every time she comes over and sees the bookshelves.  She’s so not an addict.  The first time as an undergrad that I walked into a professor’s office and saw every wall lined with shelves sagging under the weight of books crammed in every which way, I thought, “I’m not alone!”

At this point, I have most of my academic books at work and my fun trashy books at home.  I’m starting to grow short on space for books at work, though, because I spend part of my budget on books for research. Granted, I haven’t picked up David Cook’s Martyrdom in Islam yet (I really can’t for thelife of me remember what I was doing that I thought it would be useful), but some of the others–Desiring Arabs, Ornament of the World, Muslins in Spain 1492-1611–I have devoured as quickly as humanly possible.  Hey, I’m a history geek.  I like this stuff.

At home, on the other hand, I’ve got The Devil Wears Prada on my night stand.  Granted, at the moment, I’m reading a trashy Egyptian novel by an author you probably haven’t heard of, but trust me: it’s trashy.

 

#4.  Food.

I know, we all need food to live.  If I’m an addict, we all are, right?

Well, here’s the thing.  There’s food, and then there’s food.  I am loathe to refer to myself as a “foodie” because a former coworker used to proudly call herself that.  Mainly, I think it was so that she could excuse her own bizarre tastes and self-diagnosed food allergies under a mask of snobbishness (“I’m a foodie” sounds so much better than “Eating onions gives me explosive diarrhea”).

Natalie’s friend Jacques–the one who took us to Teotihuacan and then out to dinner with his partner where I learned many interesting Spanish words–asked me if I was a foodie, and I said, “I wouldn’t say that I’m a foodie.  I just enjoy eating.”

“Well,” he said, “That’s what being a foodie is.”

So maybe I am a foodie.  I don’t know.  I like trying new recipes in my kitchen, and I like trying new foods when I go out.  Our pantry is stocked with spices I’ve only used a handful of times, and on very rare occasions we have to have a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner because a recipe I’ve tried has turned out very, very, very badly. 

But at least we tried it.  ;)

 

#5.  Photography.

I dithered about putting this one up here.  Am I trying to sound cool?  I wonder.  Then I think about all of the meetings and places that I have wandered into with my camera to the consternation of colleagues, my parents, my boyfriend, and people who have decided to just pretend they don’t know who I am.  I’m usually gracious enough to respond positively when they ask if they can have some of the photos later.

I don’t tend to take a lot of photos at home (although I think Ray would dispute that).  When I’m traveling, however, my camera is always with me.  Always.  We can be just going to dinner, and I’ll bring it along.  Something might happen that I’ll want a photo of!  When Natalie and I went to Puebla, I didn’t bring my camera to dinner and missed getting a photo of the chiles en nogada that we had for dinner the night we arrived.  I may never forgive myself.  We were seriously tempted to have them again just so that I could have the chance.

As much as I’m addicted to photography–and believe you me, when the Adorama weekly specials arrive in my inbox or the quarterly B&H catalog arrives in the mail, it’s like pornography–I still question whether or not I’m a decent photographer.  I’ve taken my share of decent photos, some of which I’ve liked enough to put on the wall in my office or at home.  But then I look at the photos of the pros–some of whom are barely out of high school!–and I feel inadequate. 

And then I pick up my camera and keep trying.

 

I think at the end of this, I’m supposed to tag others for the meme, but I don’t like doing that.  So, here’s the thing: if you do this, leave a message and link in the comments so I can keep track!

The Blame Game

Tuesday, September 30th, 2008

First off, I need to correct something that I said in my last post. If split between every man, woman, and child in the country, the financial bailout package would come out to $1,200 per person after taxes, not $120,000 per person. This correction was sent out by the person who forwards everything (even though I have asked her to stop repeatedly, only to be told that it’s too much work for her to delete me from her mailing list and it’s just easier for me to delete her messages) because she can’t do or check math, which is interesting because she’s an accountant.

Saturn Devouring His SonWhich leads me to my next point: what’s up with this financial bailout thing anyway? Heather was distressed at my quietude over the DNC and RNC (seriously, what could I say about Sarah Palin that everyone else in America hasn’t said already, and that Tina Fey hasn’t said much more eloquently?), but I will weigh in on this.

$700 billion dollars–that’s $700,000,000,000 so you can see it in all of its dizzying, multiple-zero glory–is one hundred times the amount of money that the United Nations can’t get the G8 countries combined to donate to aid and relief for Africa. Our economy has swallowed the entire continent of Africa whole … one hundred times. It brings to mind the entirely nauseating Goya painting of Saturn devouring his son that I saw in the Prado. There’s our financial system for you in a nutshell. A deranged god devouring a helpless infant.

I’d rather have my tax dollars going to help Africa than going to bail out Wall Street. I know that makes me a heartless pig, and believe me, I am not blind to the suffering going on. My own retirement fund had lost the equivalent of two months’ worth of contributions the last time I checked–and that was in June, before the current mess really got going.

What I am certain won’t help, however, is the blame game that the presidential candidate who “suspended his campaign” decided to engage in after the bailout plan failed. It’s apparently all Obama’s fault, says John McCain, whose leadership on the bailout didn’t actually include a visit to Capital Hill — you know, where the work was actually being done on the plan?

So, I’ll do the same thing I did after 9/11: we need someone to blame for it? It was Bob in Accounting. He’s the evil mastermind behind the failure of the plan. Blame Bob, stop bitching, and get to work.

And while you’re at it, throw a couple billion Africa’s way. They could actually use the money.

 

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