Is it really MY Space?

Yes, I have a MySpace account. I know...hang my head in shame and all that. I originally created it after seeing 3 reports in the same week about pedophiles getting access to kids via MySpace. And while Ryan is only 5, there will come a day when he will "have to have" an account. I want to be more informed than many parents are. I want to know what is possible and what isn't. What information is shared or not on a "private account."

Anyway. I have (I think) 14 "friends." Although I quotated that, all but Tom are actually friends of mine. I don't add lightly, and that is what brings me here to type. I get anywhere between 2 and 7 friend requests per week that all turn out to be porn-spam. They lead to an account with the same stupid profile, the same stupid claims, and the same stupid link to "my pics that MySpace won't let me post here."

Sometimes, it amuses me; usually it annoys me; occasionally it really chaps my buns. I mean, really. If someone is looking for porn, they'll find it (I know, I do). There's really no need to solicit random folks by the thousands. Particularly in a venue that specifically prohibits it. What's the freaking point?!

I do occasionally get a request from a stranger that doesn't appear to lead to porn. It's almost refreshing. I usually respond with a polite message saying that I don't normally add strangers ("but if you're a friend of a friend, join the party"). I don't think I've ever gotten a response.

[shrug]

There's always tomorrow.

Welcome to my brain

Two items today:

First is The Gazebo Story. If you've ever played D & D, this will be hillarious. If you've never played, but understand the basic concepts, it will be hillarious. If you've no idea, well, you may still find it hillarious (but probably to a lesser extent). The Gazebo Story is the first on the page, but the others are quite good, too.

Second is a stray thought I had today. I never hear about biker gangs anymore. When I was growing up, one of the most fearful things in the real world was a "Hell's Angel." Now it occurs to me that I haven't even heard the term in 20 years. Could it be they've all just "grown out of it?" It's fun to imagine a pack of 70 year-old dudes in leather on Harleys cruising down the interstate at 35 miles an hour. Every single one with their left blinker on.

I'm not leading THAT witness!

Today, I got to see a Court Martial. It took pretty much the whole morning. No more than that because the accused pled guilty. So, they spent 90 minutes essentially going over the incidents in detail so the judge could satisfy himself that the accused knew what he was admitting to and that he was indeed guilty according to his story.

Then, the judge says "we'll take a 15-minute recess and return for sentence." I figure this has just gotten really short - he'll take 15 minutes, come back in, sentence the guy to this, this, and that, and we're outta here. Nope. Turns out, sentence is where the "trial" really happens in a case like this. Essentially, here are the character witnesses, the extenuating circumstances, the "I was neglected as a child" stuff. Now the lawyers get to do their lawyer things.

They introduce many sheets of paper as evidence. Defense objects to some of them. Prosecution objects to some others. Prosecution calls someone to the stand; defense objects to virtually every sentence he utters. (Counsel literally hovered over his seat because he knew he'd be standing to object very shortly.) Then, after another 15-minute recess, closing arguments.

Having been a forensics nerd in school (no, not Quincy...look it up), I had much appreciation for the process. I actually wanted to applaud when Defense finished his closing, though it didn't do him much good: kid got much closer to what Prosecution was calling for than what Defense was (rightfully so, to this not-completely-unbiased observer).

No Color for Stupid

I realized this just today on the drive home from work. There is no color for stupid. Colors represent all sorts of other things. You can be green with envy, yellow-bellied, red with anger, yell until you're blue in the face, be in a black mood, have the blues, or even be so full of sh*t your eyes are brown (guilty). But there's no color for stupid.

I'd like to think that it's because stupid skips past all boundaries. It cannot be contained in a single color. It will not stay with a single race, or creed, or religion, or sex, or nationality; not even income levels, or careers can claim immunity. There are stupid people in the intelligence community for crying out loud!

Even within a given person, there is no refuge. Everyone has stupid moments. I'm sure Stephen Hawking has had an incident or two. Albert Einstein had problems with basic math, or so they say. I've often said that Homer Simpson is the modern-day Everyman: everyone has been Homer at one time or another. And if there's a more compelling example of stupid, I'd like to see it (on second thought, I probably wouldn't).

So I guess I'm glad there's no color for stupid. That way I can have any color I want.

2 Days a Week

On Tuesday, I toured the USS Montpelier, a Los Angeles class fast attack submarine. That was entirely too cool. I actually enjoyed it on a level completely different than most of my compatriots because I've played 688i Attack Sub, in which you can use that very sub. It was really sweet to compare the instrumentation and controls from the game to the real thing. I only wish I could have taken Ryan with me. He would have gotten such a kick out of it. So, now I've toured an aircraft carrier and a submarine. I guess if I can tour a battleship and a destroyer, that'd make the set, right?

Yesterday, we had what is called a "fun run." I'm not sure who first thought to pair those two words, but if there is any justice, he will spend eternity having tender body parts removed hourly. It wasn't far (thank goodness), and even my recovered crippleness was able to keep up and finish with my coworkers. And what do you do after such a healthy morale event? Serve burgers, hotdogs, and pulled pork barbecue, complete w/ baked beans, potato salad, and macaroni & cheese! At least I stayed with water for a drink. (For those of you who are now concerned that I've been mindwiped by some alien species, it had something to do with the fact that the only sodas they had were Shasta.) But the real upside is that I had the whole afternoon off. On payday. On Friday. Dude.