Mishap – Walt-O-Matic

A-w-k-w-a-r-d

As I was leaving the water fountain and returning to my office, a young woman on crutches popped out of an adjoining hallway in front of me. Normally I, and others, would tend to step around — and having been on crutches myself, I can say that I didn’t feel the least bit offended. But, I had read that sometimes this bothers people, so I figured I’d just catch up and slow my pace.

That’s when she noticed me and in the brightest voice said, “Good Morning! How are you doing?”

Surprised, I equally met her energetic tone and responded “Good Morning to you too! I’m doing well, thank you for asking! How are you doing?”

She sighed, “Not that well, actually.” And I took it to mean her foot, so I opened the conversation.

“Oh no! What happened to your foot? Did you slip on the ice?”

She paused and then explained, “No. I had a stroke when I was a baby. I’m like this normally.”

An expensive TV recommendation

So, I’m at work and we’re discussing addictive television programs.

My co-worker turns to me and says, “Have you seen Breaking Bad?”

I’m like, “No. Is it any good?”

He says, “It sure is!” And then he goes on to tell me how it’s on AMC, and that’s it’s about a chemistry teacher that turns into a drug kingpin. The how and why are part of the enticing drama.

So, I pull out my little scrap paper and write ‘breaking bad‘ in my notes to remind myself to TiVo it.

Normally the story would end there, but my wife happened to empty out my pockets, saw the note “breaking bad,” assumed my spelling was atrocious, and concluded she needed to take my car in to have repairs done.

$230 dollars later I’ve got shiny new brakes. “Funny thing is,” I’m told, “the shop didn’t think they needed replacing.”

Policy Backfires

Ever wonder how a well-intentioned policy turns into a horrible nightmare for the very people it was designed to serve? I found the perfect example at Apple’s WWDC where going to the restroom isn’t permitted for adults.

Ever wonder how a well-intentioned policy turns into a horrible nightmare for the very people it was designed to serve? I found the perfect example.

Let’s take the case of Apple’s technical WWDC ’09 conference in San Francisco. Brilliant talks. Amazing speakers. Fantastic audio and video. It’s good stuff.

Now Apple is a company that is on the forefront of user experience, they pioneer usability and design, and their big presentation this year is on efficient resource and queue management. You’d think this innovative thinking would hold over into how they actual manage crowd control, but you’d be wrong. Apple has totally missed the mark. I know, it seems impossible.

There’s an absolutely stupid policy that’s being enforced, and while the best of intentions are there, the policy isn’t helping anyone. It actually makes things worse. Follow this.

You’ve figured out your course tracks for the day, bunkered down to do some work on your laptop, and are watching a series of presentations being held in that room with your development buddy. It finishes, and so you tell him “Can you watch my stuff, I’m going to hit the restroom before the next presentation.” He says ‘sure’ and you leave. After all, being a convention center, the restrooms leave little to be desired in terms of personal space.

On the way out, you’d tell the Apple guy at the door “be right back” and empty handed you walk across the hall to the restroom, return in minute, and reclaim your equipment-occupied seat. At least that was how it was at the start of the conference. All was fine. Things ran like clockwork.

Mid-conference someone revised the policy. Instead, if you leave, you now have to go wait in line to return.

Why did Apple do this? I asked. Two reasons.

First, by only letting people out and not back in, this is supposed to make things easier for the presenters to set up.

Second, it’s supposed to establish an order of fairness for those people coming into line.

On the surface it appears to make sense, but what this policy really does is prevent grown adults from being able to go to the restroom. Instead, you’re standing there with a full bladder and Apple’s staff is literally telling you that you’ve got three options:
a) Hold it until the session starts.
b) Abandon your equipment (as you might not have a buddy to watch it), and then wait in line to see if it’s there when you get back.
c) Go get your equipment and hold it while you do your business, and potentially miss the session (although you already had a seat).

Let’s examine this.

1) Does the policy improve seating fairness?
No. There’s equipment, and most likely a person, reserving the seat until you return. No one standing in line is going to benefit whether you reclaim it now or later. And, realistically, every talk that has been “filled to capacity and people were turned away” had plenty of chairs mid-row, plus people are willing to stand.

2) Does this improve the line?
No. It actually makes them longer, meaning Apple has more to manage. And, as the lines wrap all over the halls, it makes them more cramped, confusing, and uncomfortable.

3) Does it make conference attendees happier?
No. It’s annoying, bordering on rude, telling someone they have to return to their seat and wait for the presentation to start in order to relieve themselves. It’s a frequent conversation topic to overhear, Apple is putting a lot of people off.

4) Does it make Apple look corporately smart?
No. In fact, even its own employees are mocking the policy behind Apple’s back, all the while blindly enforcing it (most of the time), at the door. Even their own realize how ludicrous it is. This makes Apple look bad in a very self-aware Dilbert way. Of course there’s an insulting double set of standards, as the guy managing the gate preventing people from using the restroom calls on his buddy to take his place while he goes to take a piss.

5) Does it make the presentations go smoother for the presenters?
No. In fact, worse. Now one has to wait for the presentation to start, interrupting the speaker, and by going in and out letting more light in the room. It causes distractions. Plus I’ve seen one attendee fall over a chair during a presentation, and two people trip during a presentation, all trying to temporarily exit.

6) Does it make viewing the presentation go smoother for the attendees?
No. Being seated in the middle, one now has to navigate over other people who are trying to watch the presentation. I’ve had my equipment kicked as well as my foot stepped on by someone telling me “whew, now I can go.”

7) Is it safer?
No. There is now less room to get out, where before the row was empty. Plus, there are power cords, laptops, cases, drinks and other obstacles to navigate, crush, and trip on.

8) Does it provide accurate metrics for seating?
No. In re-entering you get counted a second time. This messes up Apple’s counts and artificially makes room seem more full, turning away people who could be viewing.

9) Does it make it easier for the presenters to set up?
No. The presenters are up on stage, a good distance from the audience. No one is trying to interact with the presenters before the talk.

Got more reasons it’s a bad idea? Let’s hear them.

So, what starts as a “good idea” ends up impacting far more people than it should. Compare this to a simple first-come first-serve policy, which would allow everyone to get settled before a talk begins. If seats are full, stand; if you don’t want to stand, sit; if you don’t want to sit, find another session; if you don’t want that to happen, get there on time or before, just like everyone else does. It’s acceptable to leave a session during Q&A in order to find a good seat at the next session.

Unfortunately, as with most failed policies, the solution usually is to add more policies (rather than correcting the root problem). Kudos to Apple for not going this extra step. The slippery slope would be to kick everyone out in order to have them stand in line again; that however would be truly idiotic, especially given the equipment people carry and set up to attend these things.

Expensive Pizza

It’s not often you get to walk away with a thousand dollar charge for ordering a small pizza.

The largest pizza bill I ever covered was $300 at Pizza Hutt when I decided to throw a party for a number of friends in high school. Since then, I learned you always go Dutch, even with folks that have the best of intensions, and you always order more plain cheese than anything else, because people like to mix toppings, but hardly do people consume what they create. Toppings are expensive.

But my all-time record almost got blown the other day, when I went to order a small cheese pizza and was charged over $1,000 for it.

The cashier fumbled the entry trying to enter a one dollar coupon and a fifty cent topping, only to miss the add button and pressing seven instead.

I caught the mistake, and we all had a good laugh. The date on the receipt was mere coincidence.

The story doesn’t end, as I kept this little token of amusement in my wallet for some future use.

While visiting Potbelly’s I happened to order a drink, cookie, and pickle, but no sandwich. This greatly confused the cashier who questioned me about why I didn’t order a meal.

The truth was I had just eaten and was meeting a friend, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Normally, I would, but I’m broke.” I pulled out the receipt and handed it to her. “See? I was charged a thousand dollars for a pizza topping.”

The girl looked at the real receipt with total amazement and shock on her face. “What topping did you order?” And before I could answer, she offered, “Was it mushrooms?”

So, I kindly fed into her misguided fantasy. “Yea. Those suckers are expensive,” shaking my head in sad disbelief that if only I’d known….

I now wish I could be the fly on the wall the next time someone tries to order a pizza with mushrooms with her. You know she’s going to intervene. Or, at least, go Dutch.

So, that, you understand?

This evening a few of us went out to eat. As we walked in the front door the hostess smiled at us, escorting us to a booth that would accommodate our party’s size.

“Excuse me,” I said to her as she was seating us, “which way to the restrooms?”

She looked at me very confused. But, being sure they had some, I deduced what we had was a language barrier.

So, I tried again with a different term. And, briefer. “Bathroom?”

Again, she shook her head indicating she had no clue what I was saying.

Never to be discouraged, and with an audience of many patrons, I said in a baby voice: “Pee pee?”

She instantly smiled, holding back a laugh, and pointed down a hallway. That, she understood.

Never hand someone with a crush a hose.

Never, ever hand a small child with a crush on you a hose.

Elizabeth H. Elizabeth and I go way back, in fact, so far back, that in current day as a teen she has little recollection of events that took place between us, although for me, they seem like they just happened yesterday.

When Elizabeth was a little girl, I worked with her mom and like all happy co-workers, we’d socialize after hours on occasion. Quite often Elizabeth got to tag along. Her mom educated her with an impressive vocabulary and incredible set of social manners; thus it was very much a treat to see her. Although, as I’ll reveal now, even back then as a little girl she was still quite the flirt.

One summer day her mom came over with Elizabeth just as my wife had asked me if I could water the yard. Elizabeth wanted to help in order to spend time with me, so I pulled out the hose and we sat on my front steps talking while I sprayed the lawn. It wasn’t long before she asked if it was her turn, so I let go of the squeeze nozzle, shutting off the water, and handed it to her. In retrospect, that was the key mistake.

I recall Elizabeth was about 5 or 6 at the time. But, she engaged the conversation as all women do: with an entrapment.

“Walt?”

“Yes, Elizabeth?”

“Whenever I come over, Tamara is always here.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Does she live here?”

“Yes, she does.”

It was evident that she was not fond of this answer, as she put her little fists on her hips.

“And why is that? Are you married to her?” Her little eyebrow went up.

“Yes, she’s my wife.”

At that point, Elizabeth scolds me, “You Never Told Me That!!!” and she points the hose right in my face and unleashes gallons of cold water all over me in an instant. And doesn’t let up.

Apparently, Elizabeth’s mom caught a flurry of activity through the storm door and came running, “ELIZABETH!”

Elizabeth shut off the hose, and looked at me expectingly, “Tell her what you just told me.”

And so, I had to apologize to Elizabeth, and her mom, for my big secret.

Home Improvement Goes Horribly Wrong

Anyone who knows me is aware that power tools and I do not get along. At all.

Perhaps it seems from the time my dad handed me a huge power drill with a circle cutter bit on it with instructions to drill holes in dry wall so he could blow insulation into the wall. “What happens if I hit something, inside the wall, like a wire?” was my first question.

“Then, you simply let go. I can replace the wall, I can’t replace you.” Kind words, but seconds later I was about to learn it was a lie.

The first two holes went just fine, upon the third, I hit a stud, the bit seized up, but the torque on the drill was quite strong an unexpected, wrenching my arm in the opposite direction. So, I let go, and now the drill’s free weight on the bit snapped it, as the circle blade caught the dry wall and tore a huge hole in the wall. He wasn’t pleased.

Or, there was the time I went to vacuum up grout after laying tile. When I was done, I discovered I couldn’t hear — the noise of the shop vac had damaged my ears.

Hand held tools aren’t much better.

Hammers hurt when you miss the nail.

And there was the time I went to help climb a ladder and pry off the shutters with a simple screw driver to bring them down for painting and replace them, only to discover a wasp nest behind them, dropping the shutter, which was made of fragile plastic, shattering it.

Even something as simple as attaching stereo speakers can result in a bloody call to 911.

I’ve been instructed by those closest to me that I’m to always ask for assistance, and my job is to either boil water and tear sheets (though I don’t understand how this helps, but it does keep me busy in the other room away from the project) or go order a pizza.

Given the colorful language and injuries that would often happen from the wood-shop in the basement, even as a child, I knew that despite every safety precaution, tools were cursed. I hated assisting for this reason. Supervision didn’t help. Shop classes in high school only increased the danger. And the expanded vocabulary wasn’t one I was allowed to use anyhow.

Apparently there’s some code of honor, that it’s more important the project survive than the repair person. This difference of opinion is where I and those of the trade-craft part ways.

Do-it-yourself home projects are quite possibly the sole reason I chose software development as a career profession and then pay other people to risk life and limb. I won’t even go into what happens if I attempt to change the oil in my own car.

So you think I would have instantly known better than to freely offer assistance when my friend was trying to install a new oven ventilation fixture. However, this looked pretty safe, hold the unit in place while he manually screws it in. What could go wrong? Indeed.

In all fairness, I did explain my history with tools before we started. So, it turns out he was prepared to deal with my “assistance karma.”

The first step was easy: do nothing and watch. Observing that he was putting wire nuts on exposed wires, I asked the obvious question: “Is the power off?”

The answer was no, as that would impact other places in the house, such as the kids watching television. No problem, I’ve seen it done this way before, and I took a healthy step back anyhow. And, of course, for him, there was no shock or sparks.

Now it was my turn. Lift the unit up, and hold it in place. This, of course, required a gingerly touch as the wires were still hanging out of the wall. So as I slid the unit upwards, and he reached in with his hands and pushed the wires back into the hole.

Except that his hand didn’t fit. So he grabbed a metal screw driver and started jabbing at the wirenut, which promptly fell off.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, it came undone,” I exclaimed as I was now holding a large metal box inches from a live wire while grounding myself through the gas stove with my groin.

We lowered it, tried a better wire nut, and I lifted it back into place. We used the unit itself to push the wires back, and now I’m holding a metal housing with heavy fan in place with outstretched arms, and it’s getting heavier by the second as muscle fatigue slowly sets in. Meanwhile, he’s got to go look for a longer screwdriver. In the garage.

I’m still good for holding, but not for long, and as he’s getting the first screw aligned, I start to smell gas. Then I hear a clicking sound. Then I hear a whoosh. I look down and I see that not one, but both burners on my side have kicked on, and my shirt, which is hanging over them, has flames shooting out of it.

“Need to stop, I’m on fire.” I say this calmly, trying to suck in my gut, but can’t let go because his head is under this metal box which is going to electrocute us both if I let it slip.

“Just a moment,” he tells me, “almost go it.”

“No, no, no. I’m on fire. Seriously, I’m on fire!”

He looks over sees what’s happened, and it would have been nice if he turned off the stove and then put me out in that order. But the stove gets turned off, and he holds the unit in place, and I go to extinguish my shirt.

Checking for damage, I see none, and it must have been the gas cloud that had ignited that shot flames out of my chest.

“See, you’re not on fire,” he reassures me, but I’m still checking for scorched cloth. I smell it.

Turns out, in order to catch any fallen screws, he put a towel over the burners. We lift it and discover two large round scorched circles. Had that not been there…

And just as I’m thinking that, he pulls it away so it won’t catch fire, should I unknowingly bump the easy-lite controls again.

He got one side in and switched to the other side where I was holding it. It looked like a vertical men-only game of Twister. This time, however, he brushed against the switch, and flames shot out under me again.

“Fire!”

He quickly turned it off, “wow, it’s easy to do that, huh?”

“Yeah. Screw.”

Anyhow, we get the fixture up and stand back to admire our work.

I’m not kidding, but about 30 seconds after that, we hear a large klunk, and the think falls on one side a few inches, wedging it in at an odd angle. The glue which held the screw support had given way.

He looks at me, “lets go watch a movie.” And we give up for the evening.

Of course, the next day I come over to see how the project is going, and this time he’s got bolts coming down from the top shelves. Brilliant. He’s going to lift it and push it into position, so while he’s doing that I get to push the wires back into the wall and then guide the bolts into the screw holes.

Only, I don’t get that far.

Just as I get my hand back there, “Bzzzzzt!” and I feel a familiar electrical shock — kind of like the time I tried adjusting an old fashioned television antenna but had my bare foot touching a heating vent on the floor. Apparently those are grounded, despite looking like they sit in carpet.

I pull my hand back, “I’m pretty sure a wire nut wasn’t fastened very well.”

“You get shocked?”

“That’s how I figured out it wasn’t fastened so quickly.”

So finally tally, to get it hung, I was set on fire twice and shocked once. This could have very well been one of my smoothest projects ever.

Now that’d be funny…

So, we’ve just finished eating at Arby’s and are backing out of the parking space when suddenly we see white van whip behind us at incredible speeds, clueless that we were in motion backing out.

“He almost hit us!” exclaimed our driver.

I looked out the rear view matter and read the sign on the van, which as now in drive thru. Point it out to the others, I stated “wouldn’t have mattered, it’s a Progressive auto insurance evaluator — we’d be reimbursed on the spot.”

What I meant to type was…

I just had another keyboard mishap moment this afternoon.

A keyboard mishap moment is when you go to press one key, and you get two. Or you type one letter, and you’re off by a keystroke. Or, perhaps, you press the key, but it doesn’t register. Either way, you’ve hit the return key and the message is sent before you notice what actually was typed.

eMail saves us from such events. Instant Messaging, however, makes such mistakes permanent.

Here’s my earliest KMM memory, followed by today’s.

Back in college we had a classic computer room, with a mainframe sitting behind glass, run by operators, while the students were at lab benches working on terminals. I was friends with a number of the assistants. Of particular notice was one named Shelaine, who was a good computer scientist and an even better biologist that happened to have long blonde hair, legs to match, and who was one of the few people I ever knew who’s figure made spandex look good.

Each time she’d sit down at the console, someone would come up to the divided door and ask for a printout off the line printer. This continued for a quite a while, and at was apparent we were not going to be able to hold any real-time conversation at the time.

What I meant to type was: You look busy!

What actually happened was… my finger hit the Y key just to the left, and what I ended up typing and sending was: You look busty!

Of course there was no undo, my face turned red, and she grinned as she erected the most perky and flattering posture in my direction. She knew exactly what had happened, and played up every moment of it. Pretty evil, as neither of us ever had a thing for the other.

Today’s KMM might have been worse.

I work with an intern named Paul, and he’d been tasked with a very demanding job and and even more demanding deadline.

So, rather than bothering him for a status report, I thought I’d have a co-worker check on Paul without disturbing him.

What I meant to type was: How’s Paul doing?

What actually happened was… my finger hit the key, as I rolled off the O, but it didn’t register, and what I ended up typing and sending was: How’s Paul dong?

The answer I got back was along the lines of, “I don’t think that’s a very appropriate question for a work environment.”