I've been thinking lately about

I've been thinking lately about the assumption of trust in society, and how very little there seems to be of it. While innocent until proven guilty may be our constitutional right in the courtroom, the behavior outside of it seems to be more of the "we're going to assume everyone's going to attempt to do something bad" variety, especially when it comes to shopping. If you go in most clothing stores, you're very often asked to check your bag. The assumption: you'll stick merchandise in your bag if they don't take it from you. How about when you try something on? You're given a number so the attendant can count how many items you bring in to the changing room and how many you return with. And those plastic security tags, ugh, how many times have you tried something on and can't get a sense of the fit because a bulging piece of plastic is adding two inches to your hip? Or you've arrived home, only to discover that a salesperson failed to remove it? (Good luck trying to get it removed by returning to the store: "Uh yeah, they forgot to remove this..." Glaring salesperson: "Really. Do you have the receipt?" "Uh, no, I never keep track of those." Sirens wail in background...)

Anyway, I've been thinking of this lately because the other day as I was walking down the street, I observed someone purchasing a newspaper from a street machine. And I realized that those machines work exactly as they always have: once you put in the coins, the door is released and you grab the top paper from the pile. You could take all the papers, if you were so inclined. The assumption: people will only take one paper, for a variety of reasons. Now if you think about what I'm saying a little more, you realize that the cost per paper, and the potential loss, is far less than the potential loss to a store when an item of clothing is stolen. And that perhaps all the security measures are simply based on economics: the higher the value of the item, the more effort expended to prevent its theft (speculation: that's why there's very little security in the supermarket, although I think they have barriers to exit that are quite high. Ha ha, get it? Barriers to exit? Have you ever tried to get out of the supermarket without going through the checkout? It's damn near impossible!).

Conclusion and my original point: I like the implicit trust associated with the newspaper dispenser. I'd like to see more of that in society, but I fear we're going in the opposite direction, and the assumption that we're thieves to be thwarted is predominating our interactions. Can you think of more examples of implicit trust, or distrust, in our everyday lives? I'd love to hear more.

Some nights as I lie

Some nights as I lie in bed, I think I'd prefer the sound of crickets to the sound of sirens.

So it turns out that

So it turns out that not all EW's have the special Internet section. I think perhaps only people that subscribe get it, meaning the one I bought at the store didn't have it. I thought I was going insane, I kept flipping through, looking at page 18, re-reading the emails I'd received. Anyway, in case you even care at this point, here's a scan of it, sent in by Denise. Thanks Denise! [note: you'd think with all the Napster/mp3 rage afoot these days that EW would know the difference between QuickTime and mp3. I mean heck, they link right to the file, which has the extension mp3. Duh.]

Welcome Entertainment Weekly readers, click

Welcome Entertainment Weekly readers, click here for the Eminenya song. And let me tell you all that I didn't make the song, I just wrote about the idea. A megnut reader, Eamon Daly, actually created it and sent it to me. Enjoy!

Huh? What? Kristen says that

Huh? What? Kristen says that megnut was/is mentioned in the internet section of Entertainment Weekly. If you've seen it or have it, could you let me know, especially *which* EW it's in? I didn't see it in the one at the supermarket. Or maybe send me a copy? I'm very very curious to see what, if anything, they said.

While strolling about the Haight

While strolling about the Haight this afternoon in search of shoes to wear to a wedding next weekend, guess who we stumbled across signing autographs in Villain's? None other than Paul Frank! Younger than I suspected, and not a mega-conglomerate faux fashion house where all the clothes are manufactured in in the far East by horribly underpaid garment workers, he sported thick chops and a slightly SoCal tan. He lives in Long Beach (I and others had always suspected the UK for some reason). Anyway, totally cool, and I scored a free blue sparkly bracelet, a bunch of stickers, and I bought a t-shirt on whose sleeve he signed his name and drew a little monkey face! Syl and I chatted with him a bit and he was pretty cool. Now I can say, "Paul Frank is my friend."

There are all these thoughts

There are all these thoughts and little scraps of paper floating around on my desk and in my head, postlets waiting for attention from me so they can become something bigger, something more, but I don't have the time it seems, I don't even have the time for a weblog. What's the world coming to when even the easiest format isn't easy enough? Maybe the sky *is* falling. Or maybe it's the long long days cranking out something really cool and new and exciting (yeah, I asked for beta users on the Blogger site, want in?) that I can't wait to release, maybe it's adjusting to digging into code again and shrugging off the outside world: the people who speculate on my love life, the people who question the value of what I create in my work life. Maybe I'm too tired to lash out at everyone and answer any questions and I just want to focus and get some stuff done and not worry about all the talking. I want doing. I want to be doing. And now that it's Friday and it's done and I'm exhausted and my car is all crappy (and I hate cars for the most part to begin with and have no idea if I were to buy a new car what kind of car I'd buy anyway...) and a whole slew of other stuff that's not worth delving into (because hell this site is a *blog* right, not a journal, like there's some fucking difference or something) so maybe I'll just feed you some links, that's what your here for right? Links links links. Bitch bitch bitch. megnut apologizes for this episode, it contains no smiles.

For a long time, I've

For a long time, I've had a relationship with Jack. Some nights, I'd be so giggly and happy with him. The next day, I'd find myself questioning what I'd seen in him, wondering if the relationship was worth the time, the money, and the way he was making me feel. On-again, off-again, love-hate, it was the same thing I'd gone through with Jim for several years until a friend introduced me to Jack one evening. I realized last night that we've grown apart, our lives have moved in different directions. I think the affair has ended, we're just not compatible anymore. And just like I dumped Jim, I now must leave Jack. I'll always have the memories.

Doing business in the 21st

Doing business in the 21st century (if we assume 2000 is the 21st century and not the final year of the 20th, which since we're six months into it now, I'll say we're close enough) doesn't seem to be very futuristic. Wouldn't you speculate that one of the benefits of using a nationwide bank, e.g. Wells Fargo, would be access to more than 1,800 branches and in store locations in 10 states, presumably connected by a cutting-edge network of computers shooting your data every which way? So why can't I open a second business account at a different branch than where I opened the first one? If they have the necessary paperwork at one branch, and our account information in their computers, isn't that good enough? No, according to the woman who this morning thwarted my efforts to expand our banking portfolio. Now I have to return with our articles of incorporation and fill out a Business New Account Application, or return to the branch where I opened the account. Explain to me how this is different than using Joe's Sunset Bank or Bank of SOMA?

You know what's the weirdest

You know what's the weirdest part of this whole girl-on-the-bike crazy hoopla? Neither of my parents wrote to me asking: Meg, what the heck are you talking about? You got your first bike when you were seven, it was yellow, it had training wheels. By the time you were nine, you had a blue ten-speed you could ride no-hands all over the neighborhood. You *didn't* get your license at 16, it was 16½, after you failed your driver's test the first time. And you hardly ever got to borrow the family car because there was only one family car and I (mom) drove it to work every day. What on earth possessed you to concoct this story?

Got a bee sting? How

Got a bee sting? How about a bee sting cake to make you feel better?

Bees, bees in my tent!

Bees, bees in my tent!
I've been stung by a bee three times in my life. Once when I was six or seven, I was watching a parade and eating a jelly donut. My arm was raised, because I was taking a bite of the scrumptious doughy treat and as I lowered it, a bee stung me in my armpit. I don't think I've ever liked jelly donuts much since then. The second time I was fifteen, I was bushwhacking a trail in Vermont, some bees flew out of a hole in the ground and one stung my forearm. My arm swelled up like Popeye's. I don't think I've ever liked Popeye much since then. The third time was Saturday morning, camping alongside the south fork of the American river. I was climbing into the tent and had just sat down when I felt a stinging sensation on my thigh, and my brain working as it does on Saturday mornings thought, "Ow! Why are my pants stinging me?" When I looked down, I saw a yellow jacket, stinging me right through my pants. I'm wondering if I'll ever like my pants much after this?

Other highlights of the rafting weekend: 45 minutes into the trip, near overheat of my '87 Honda Civic in Richmond; two hours into the trip, realization that plates, forks, knives, pillows and sleeping bags were forgotten at home; twelve hours into the trip, the aforementioned bee sting; fifteen hours into the trip, a glorious run of class 2 and 3 rapids in the bright sunshine with a great group of friends; twenty four hours into the trip, s'mores around the campfire on the banks of the river. It was all worth it.

As I was walking home

As I was walking home this evening, a little girl was riding her bike in the middle of the street. She still had the training wheels on as she wobbled and struggled to peddle. It reminded me of when I was little and how badly I wanted a bicycle but couldn't get one. My parents wouldn't let me have a bike until I was 12; my mom was too afraid I'd hurt myself. I'd pass the bike section in the store and just look, having given up asking my parents about it long ago. I eventually did get one after much pleading and begging. Amazingly, getting my driver's license at 16 and the subsequent borrowing of the family car passed without incident.

Well I saw the Perfect

Well I saw the Perfect Storm, and it was just about what I figured it would be: lots of wave-crashing action sans the meterological data that made the book interesting and avec the cheese that Hollywood injects into every film to please god-knows-who. I guess I was hoping for something a little more documentarian: solid facts, nitty-gritty details, plus big-budget Hollywook special effects. It wasn't quite that, but it was still good. It's a typical Hollywood summer blockbuster film.

Ah Monday, and it's still

Ah Monday, and it's still vacation and the weekend continues and instead of parties and tete-a-tetes-a-tetes and tours and tastings, it's a sunny warm cinnamon roll morning with an unread Sunday Times and Super Mario Bros. on a borrowed Super Nintendo. Only one to-do scheduled on the whole day stretching before me: bake a blueberry pie and that's it and rest of the day a vast happy empty expanse with which to do nothing but smile.

Thanks to everyone who's written

Thanks to everyone who's written to tell me how to revise my Amazon recommendations, it turns out that if you click "Rate These Items" along the left, you can rate the items they've suggested and they'll generate more recommendations. I guess I didn't do much research before I shot off my mouth, surprise surprise.

Wouldn't it be cool if

Wouldn't it be cool if Amazon let you remove a book from its Book Recommendations? I really like the selections they recommend for me, problem is, they know my reading habits so well, they suggest things I've already read. So why can't I click someplace and say, "hey please don't show this to me, I've read it already"? That would improve my user experience and increase the likelihood I'd buy a book, which is what they're after in the first place.

office moving craziness = sporadic

office moving craziness = sporadic megnut access

[warning: the following entry contains

[warning: the following entry contains bad words, words that you ( ) probably don't want to hear me say]

I think I'm a little naive, at least when it comes to vocabulary, or bad vocabulary. Sure I know words like solipsistic and perspicacious, but it wasn't until twelfth grade that I learned the word twat. One of my closest high school friends had a terrible fight with her mother, a screaming argument in the kitchen as they sat drinking orange juice in the breakfast nook, a fight during which my friend's mother called her a twat. Huh? I said when she told me the details of the fight on the walk to school, What's that mean? Somewhat surprised at my ignorance, she explained.

Jump ahead ten years, I'm out to dinner the other night, a friend uses the expression Pussy Whipped. I don't say anything, I understand what she means from the context but this is new to me, pussy whipped? Oh dear...I ask around. Turns out lots of other people know this word, *lots* of people. Except me. I never knew that before the "whipped" I'd so casually used in reference to many a boy, there lay an unsaid, "pussy." I don't think I like that expression so much anymore.

The office is in chaos,

The office is in chaos, desks and papers and computers moving around, and today it's my turn: moving across the hall to a new desk with no drawers. Meaning today I have to empty my current desk, filled with papers from the past year, including data models for a web app I built for a client, which paid the bills for the company long ago, BB: Before Blogger. My new desk is a table top with legs. No drawers. Paperless world, here I come, with a big smile on my face!

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