Slash and Burn

One should always strive to maintain a tentative peace with the neighbors, but as I’ve complained about before, I really dislike how a certain hippie neighbor (The Landscaper) pays no regard to his feral children running through my yard.  Still, it’s a minor concern, so I let it go.

The Landscaper is a landscaper, so he told me.  I don’t know when he landscapes, because I never see him leave his house, and his yard is maintained by said feral children.  There are indications of professional landscaping, like the ornamental grass and the lilly of the valley patch, and his battle with BP that ultimately concluded in him getting to keep his oak trees, but that’s about it.

On one occasion, I spoke with him as he was outside spraying the property line with what I can only assume was Agent Orange.  There’s even a patch where he had a 10-foot wide swath of barren and poisoned wasteland, because I guess he got overzealous–but it was all on his side so I couldn’t really complain.  He dug a large hole there, which I had hoped was for a screening bush, but that was seasons ago and the hole still sits there, so I’ve taken to using it as a waste bin for everything his kids leave in my yard (footballs, golf balls, empty beer cans, etc.)  At the time of his war on weeds, he had offered to spray my side, before BP defoliated the area themselves, but I had politely declined.

On another occasion, I saw him up in one of his oak trees with a chainsaw.  A storm had broken a branch and it was dangling precariously, and he was dutifully addressing the hazard by cutting it down…3 weeks later.  He had successfully sawed through the branch, but rather than dismount from the arboreal giant and then pull the branch away, he was attempting to throw the branch away from the tree while he was in it, but the branch was long and he couldn’t accomplish the task because he lacked the leverage.  Rather than witness The Landscaper’s untimely demise at the limbs of a tree he fought so hard to keep, I helped him remove the branch, which he then ultimately threw into my yard–ironic, as I’ll explain, since I then cut it up and burned it.

I’ve split all the wood from my own oak trees that physics would allow, yet I’m left with a pile of tree branch joints.  I can’t split these, because any way I strike them, the axe blade starts to go against the grain.  So I’ve taken these chunks and sequentially thrown them into the fire pit, where they gradually burn away over the course of multiple fires.

One weekend day, as I was engaged in my general assortment of outdoor gardening/landscaping chores, I had such a fire going.  Then, from The Landscaper’s house, I heard the screeching of a harpy:

“Put that fucking fire out!”

It gave me pause, not simply due to the rude nature of the comment under any circumstances, but also because I wasn’t certain if it was The Landscaper’s wife, or one of his kids.  Either option would be a tad appalling, but I concluded it was one of the kids, because what adult would really speak in such a manner, unprovoked, to a neighbor?

The Landscaper’s wife

Ultimately, I shrugged it off.  I’m fairly accustomed to rudeness, having spent about 13 years in the service industry, besides which–I don’t answer to other people’s children, or anyone shouting from the window.  I continued my practice of frequent fires, perhaps more frequent than before, for after all, I’m a suburbanite, and I default to passive-aggressive retaliation, because that’s what keeps me out of prison.

besides which, I had checked the city’s ordinance on “recreational fires”, and mine always adhered to the requirements.  So were I a total dick, I could light them as much as I wanted.

Then, recently, as I was ripping out my dead pumpkin vines and throwing them into my yard waste pile by the fire and chopped wood, I saw The Landscaper.  He was approaching me, rather deliberately I might add, and without any indication from me that it was okay, crossed the property line (I now see where his kids get that from).  His gait was more purposeful than I had witnessed previously (as on the rare occasions in which I do see him, he stumbles around slowly), which concerned me, but he’s an emaciated hippie, and I was holding a garden hoe at the time, so I suppose I could have just whacked him across the head were things to escalate.

But violence did not ensue.  He announced his concerns: “Your fire…I have a problem with the fires.”

I waited, patiently, for further explanation.  His initial statement had been blunt, and a tad rude, so perhaps he was revising his next words.  I watched as the two neurons in his skull synapsed and he elaborated: “The smoke blows in our windows and it stinks the place up.  I get having the occasional bonfire, but a fire for the right reasons, and not with anything wet.”

I considered.  A bonfire would be against ordinance.  And I wasn’t burning anything wet–maybe he thought I was burning the pumpkin vines.  And what exactly were the “right reasons”?  But rather than instigate an argument, I replied with the appropriate amount of fabricated concern to end the conversation as quickly as possible without appearing dismissive: “Oh, I wasn’t aware it was bothering anyone.  I’ll be more mindful of that in the future.”  I glanced past him at the smoldering stump, which was currently only emitting the tiniest wisp of smoke.

But The Landscaper continued: “Because it’s blowing into the house and it stinks the place up.  It’s the wet stuff.”

I reiterated: “Okay The Landscaper, I wasn’t aware it was causing anyone problems.  I’ll be more careful about that from now on.”  Maybe he didn’t hear me.

“Because it’s blowing in the windows and it stinks.  So…if you could just…not the wet stuff…”  His train of thought had apparently exhausted itself, and he turned and left.  I resumed weeding, having instantly pushed the conversation from thought.

But The Landscaper turned around as he approached the property line, and returned.  “I dunno if we’ve met before, I’m The Landscaper.  What’s your name?”

I paused for a moment.  Not only had we met at least 3 times prior, but I had used his name in this current conversation.  That, and introductions are usually given at the beginning of a conversation.  “Simon,” I said.

“Nice to meet you neighbor.  I’m not trying to be a bad neighbor, you know, it’s just that the smoke comes in the windows and sticks up the place, so if you could not burn the wet stuff, and, you know, I understand the occasional bonfire for the right reasons…that’s a nice garden you have…”  This went on for several minutes, but eventually The Landscaper left.  I resumed weeding, this time musing on what those “right reasons” might be.

A few minutes later, The Landscaper returned with something in his hand.  “Hey, I want you to have this.  I have a tree that grows these.”  He held out a paw paw.  I had picked them in the woods before, sometimes when hunting.  The gesture amused me, but I thanked him for it.

“Ah, a paw paw.  These grow around here don’t they?”

“Yeah, we have a tree.  They’re pretty good.”

“Thanks, The Landscaper.”

“Yeah, it’s just that the smoke blows in the windows, and…”  He reiterated another version of the above monologue, apparently using the fruit as a peace offering and excuse to express his concerns yet again on the smoke, the wet stuff, and “the right reasons”, but eventually The Landscaper left.

I recounted the story to Liz, and we revisited the plans to create some type of impassible barrier against that property line.  Next year’s project–a survey and raised gardens.  Hopefully raised beds will avoid the Agent Orange, and serve to further minimize unwanted conversation with a particular neighbor.

–Simon

Certificate Renewal #3

In accordance with Lets Encrypt’s 90-day certificate expirations (as mentioned previously), this site’s TLS certificate has been updated.

SHA1 Fingerprint:

11:F9:27:44:67:C8:F8:F6:F2:A3:51:53:1E:1E:38:32:4E:24:1F:C3

SHA-256 Fingerprint:

86:3E:0A:94:2D:35:43:2D:81:81:6F:32:BF:F9:3B:82:CB:09:C5:96:72:D4:F7:01:AD:FF:53:91:91:A0:22:F1

The new expiration will be 12/15/17.

–Simon

Autonomous Automobiles Auto…(something alliterative)

The car broke.

To clarify, Liz’s car broke.  It had chronic problems with the O2 sensor and electrical system shorting out, then she broke two axles and potentially the transmission.  In short: definitively kaput.

I had previously told her that it was my turn to get the next car, and I had long fantasized about buying my first new car, fed by rental experiences, because as with any form of technology, what I currently have immediately becomes obsolete and I grumble with jealousy as each new feature hits the market.  My car doesn’t even have a working radio anymore–a problem the kid has been consistently pointing out as we cruise down the road to my tech news podcasts playing from my phone on the passenger seat.

Yet in her impatience, Liz violated the arrangement and purposely broke her car so she could get an upgrade first.  That’s what I accused her of anyway.  She denies it, but I’ve also noted how her phones keep mysteriously breaking each year, hmmm.

An explanation more grounded in reality, however, is that her commute is much longer, and cars break down quickly.  AAA calculates the average cost per mile of driving to be 59.2 cents, so it costs her somewhere around $58 per day.  With most of that being highway driving, I’d say she uses 3 gallons of gas per day, which I’ll estimate as $6.87.  Therefore, let’s round it off and say each day, after subtracting gas from the total, she racks up $50 worth of wear and tear on her car.  So it’s easy to believe that within the year that she’s had the job, say 260 work days, minus vacation, benefit time, work at home days, I dunno, wild guess of 160 work days…that’d be $8000 worth of wear and tear–more than the vehicle was even worth, and probably consistent with the price of repairs for axles and a transmission, unless my math is totally off.  And of course, expenses aside, I’d rather not lose my wife to a horrific highway accident when something finally broke catastrophically.  So, it was off to the dealership.

When I bought my car as an unmarried young 20-something, the dealership ran a thorough background check on me before I was even allowed to touch a car, and when I did get to drive one, they accompanied me.  Now, as married 30-somethings with kid in tow, they just chucked keys at us for any model we asked about.  And upon the day’s conclusion, home we went with a brand new Honda CR-V.  I had never seen an odometer in the single digits before.

So there’s the lengthy backstory.

I went to move the new car from the driveway into the garage.  A lot has changed in vehicle design since I bought my car 10 years ago.  No more are quaint mechanical keys.  Rather, they’ve been replaced with digital transponders.  I entered the car, which had sensed my presence and unlocked itself, and pressed the ignition button.  The car did nothing.  Hmmm.  I felt the remote in my pocket, so I wasn’t missing anything.  I pushed the button again, then again and again, varying the delay and time of push, similar to my method for getting touchless faucets to provide water in airport bathrooms, except I was pushing a physical button rather than waving my hands around like an epileptic Jedi (that’ll be the future of cars when they get rid of the button).

I’m sorry Dave

The car still didn’t start, but it did fall into gear, despite the shifter being firmly still in Park.  As a consequence, the car was now rolling backwards down the driveway.  Reflexively, I push the break pedal, and the car stopped–which is fortunate, because the car was very obviously fully drive-by-wire, so there must still be a physical connection to the calipers somewhere.

I pushed the button again and the car started immediately.  Curious, I parked the vehicle in the garage and turned it off, but other distractions soon occupied me and I forgot all about the strange experience.

A couple days later, I went to pull the car out of the garage.  The scenario played out as before, except since the garage was level, the vehicle didn’t begin rolling away.  This time, however, I noticed the dash flashing a message:

TO START VEHICLE, PRESS BRAKE PETAL AND PRESS START BUTTON…IDIOT!

It was something like that anyway.  The realization finally sunk in.  I had started the car last time when I pressed the brake to stop it from rolling into the street.

I dwelled on this experience, thinking that even the humble automobile was outpacing my ability to intuitively operate it.  It was a scary thought.  Amidst news of autonomous vehicles and companies promising the eventual obsolescence of the human driver, perhaps I was already seeing the beginnings of my own obsolescence.

Then, yesterday, I was walking from the parking lot and to the office entrance.  In the guest parking, there sat a black Nissan of some sort.  A young Asian lady, wearing an outfit which exceeded business casual, complete with tight black skirt, stood next to it with an armful of paperwork.  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have given it much thought, as we meet with clients regularly and our other offices travel here for meetings.  This lady, however, waved and walked up to greet me.  She explained her plight: she had accidentally popped the hood of the rental and didn’t know how to close it, and did I possess such knowledge?

And so, very politely (as I didn’t want to make her feel dumb), I felt along the hood’s gap and explained that all cars generally have a little latch you just have to feel for, subsequently found said latch (except it was slightly different than any other hood latch I’d encountered–what the hell, Nissan?), and explained that you just drop the hood to close it.  She felt a little sheepish and said that she couldn’t believe she had driven all the way here like that.

I feel better now, realizing that we’ve reached a point where each generation is now less knowledgeable about their vehicles than the prior.  It was an inevitability, since the operator no longer controls the vehicle directly now–they send input into a computer which then determines what action to take.  It’s less important to know the physical mechanics of a car now, since if anything breaks, the proprietary systems that control the vehicle would also be affected, and would therefore have to be fixed by a technician anyway.  The future will indeed deprecate human input.  Whether or not that’s good–if software will ultimately prove safer and more reliable than the person–will be left to history.

My daughter is still going to learn how to change a tire before she can drive though.

–Simon

WordPress Comment Spam

For those who don’t know, WordPress has a comments option.  In practice, reading article comments is generally of very limited value, but depending on the type of article and the people it attracts, the comments can at times still prove to be thought-provoking.  And what writer doesn’t appreciate the occasional thumbs up?  So I leave them enabled.  However, in order to ebb the potential abuse of said comments option, WordPress has various controls in place.  I keep the defaults enabled, which require the user to self-identify.  Obviously, there are problems with that policy.  But, the defaults also require the admin to personally approve each initial post from an individual.  Consequently, I’ve gotten some spam comments, but I haven’t approved them.  For amusement though, I will post them here, with all information which could prove beneficial to the spammer appropriately redacted.

The first comment I received was from a “Jean Miller” in response to S/MIME Email Encryption:

Emails stored on some third party servers can never be secure. [REDACTED COMPANY NAME] on the other hand bypasses cloud storage servers making it very safe to send secure email. See [REDACTED URL].

There’s a lot wrong with this.  First of all, unless you’re self-hosting email, all servers are 3rd party, or 2nd party if you’re considering the relationship between yourself and the email provider.  In any case, you can’t generally determine what security measures are in place beyond the company’s privacy policy, and even that isn’t a guarantee.  And any email you send is going to someone else’s email provider, which is beyond your control as well.  And the communication protocol behind email itself doesn’t enforce encryption–that’s the problem with email as a whole.  Also, “the cloud” is just internet servers, sooooo you can’t bypass cloud storage for email, unless you’re considering self-hosted to not be cloud per se.

The second comment I received was from a “Web Scripts” in response to Pumpkins!:

i love funny stuffs, but i specially like funny movies and funny videos on the internet**

I read once that spam intentionally utilizes bad grammar.  The concept is that an attentive reader will immediately identify the message as spam, and thus ignore it.  This is to mitigate wasting time of the spammer, for presumably the attentive spamee in this instance would more readily identify a scam, whilst the non-attentive reader might not.  It sounds like a good theory anyway.  And what’s with the double “**”?  Is there more to follow?  Are there specific conditions under which this spammer likes humor that I should be aware of?  If nothing else, they at least honestly self-identified as a bot.

Lastly, I received a comment just recently from a “private event security services” in response to “Mantis“:

My family members all the time say that I am killing my time here at net, however I know I am getting experience every day by
reading such pleasant posts.

It almost sounds like a believable comment, as the grammar could be attributed to the “.de” domain, except I’ve never heard someone mention that the Scandinavians have any trouble with the English language (also, there’s the name that was used).  I’d like to think that someone somewhere just wanted to compliment my writing.  Except, who has family that actively criticizes one’s internet usage, unless they’re an adolescent?  On a related topic, France and Denmark are the only two foreign countries that I whitelist (after receiving numerous attempts by Russian and Chinese IPs to brute-force my mail server) because I had family over there for a time.  Interesting that a bot there found this site.

So there we have it.  I’ve turned an irritation into entertainment.  Only humans and fully-autonomous AIs may leave comments.

–Simon

Escape (Part 2)

I’ve accumulated some more photos, thanks to Bethesda’s ongoing pandering to my sense of humor.  In the wake of Fallout 4, I’ve picked up Skyrim again.  After all, I had grown weary of shooting rabid wildlife and disagreeable people, so I transitioned back to stabbing and chopping rabid wildlife and disagreeable people.  Variety.

Here are some photos of both:

Someone very lonely was anthropomorphizing
An amusing in-game “don’t drink and drive” PSA
Nose to the grindstone–what a way to go
Why did someone die on this desolate rock, clutching a flag?…also, I’m not sure why Aela is wearing that while we explore icebergs…she’s an usual NPC for an in-game wife…who accompanies me everywhere to kill things…I like the woad though…did I mention she’s a werewolf?…who also turned me into a werewolf?…it’s a complicated relationship
This was a simple joy–by chance I shot him through each nostril

–Simon