Holy Spunt!

Wow. That's possibly the strangest email problem I've ever wrangled.

As mentioned before, I've been using a lovely little email client called 'Foxmail' for about ten years. It's simple. It does what it's supposed to do. It works. It's free. What's not to love?

However, migrating to this new machine and Windows 7, I had to jump up from Foxmail 4.1 to Foxmail 6.5, and in the process, I had to figure out how to change its default setting from Chinese language to English. Fortunately, the Interwebs are good at finding clues to things like that.

Unfortunately, once I got it all set up, I couldn't for the life of me RECEIVE email. I could send, sure, but not receive.

Puzzle.

Eventually, I downloaded Mozilla Thunderbird, and set it up. Thunderbird promptly did the kind of thing that gives me the screaming shits with Windozeware in general: it decided to 'read' all my info and set up my email accounts for me. Of course, it couldn't account for the fact that I use a router off a Satellite modem, and that I have maintained a cheap, minimalist Ozemail account for the last ten years precisely so that I haven't had to change email addresses. In other words, I get mail in via the ozemail POP server - but I send it out via the satellite provider SMTP server.

No worries in Foxmail. All I've ever had to do is simply configure the two processes separately. A no-brainer. But Thunderbird insisted I was using some kind of IMAP server, and kept over-riding all my choices. Still, I kept at it, occasionally swearing and hitting it with a stick, and eventually I got it set up. Or so I thought.

What I discovered was that I could RECEIVE email on my new Thunderbird software, but I couldn't goddam well SEND it.

So now I had a Foxmail setup that could send emails. And a Thunderbird setup that could receive them. And all my email addresses, current files, etc, were in the Foxmail system.

Not a tenable situation. And a deeply goddam irritating one at that.

So I went outside for a while. We had a long, slow, roll-around-and-ricochet thunderstorm this morning. There was rain, and even hail, and the weather since has been threatening. However, it cleared up for a bit, and I figured I'd spent enough time fragging around with the Big New Toy. Especially as I was getting frustrated enough to think about kicking holes in the wall.

I fired up the mulcher, and put a huge pile of branches and trimmings through it. Then I took the resulting mulchy goodness and spread it around the place, over the new plants and gardens and stuff. Then the rain came back, all threatening-like, so I returned to the embrace of The Computer.

And in pure desperation, I tried something on Foxmail I've never tried before: Remote Mailbox Management. Lo! The moment I opened it up, it promptly noodled its way onto the 'Net, and declared I had two new emails. I had to figure out how to execute a 'fetch-and-delete' routine to bring them to my machine -- but it worked!

So that's one more small piece of progress. I can once more send and receive email to my longstanding address, using my favourite email client. Yay!

...in other news, Smaller Son wants to undertake his Cooking badge in the world of Cub Scoutery. Ergh. And so I shall be overseeing his efforts at Thai Fish Stew, and Custard with Shortcake and Blackberries this evening.

Sigh.

Aaargh.

Okay.

I've moved all my photos, video clips, music and documents across to the new machine. I've put Google Chrome in place, and migrated my bookmarks.

I've reinstalled Irfanview, Audacity, Abiword, OpenOffice, AVGfree, GIMP, ImageForge, Dogwaffle, Monkeyjam, Noteworthy Composer, Yeah Write, Foxit Reader, and VLC player.

I've taken the opportunity to add CCleaner, DeepBurner, Recuva, and Zipgenius.

I've hooked up the D-link router, and made my 'Net connection sit up and do tricks. I've even purchased a wireless D-link receiver for my old computer (now the new computer for the boys) and ensured that a 'net connection works for them too.

Everything is looking groovy, yeah. Except...

For years, I've used a nifty little email client called 'Foxmail'. It's very small -- maybe a couple MB in size -- but incredibly efficient and stable. I love it. It does all the stuff you WANT an email client to do, and none of the bells-and-whistles bullshit you get from the big boys. It doesn't autolaunch. It doesn't demand to be integrated with anything. It just fuckin' well receives and transmits email, keeps address books and directories... and that's about it. Brilliant.

Except, of course, that I was using version 4.1. And the only version now available is 6.5

So let's start with the fact that Foxmail is Chinese. I put my old 4.1 version onto this Win7 machine only to see it crash and burn. Okay, fine. So I downloaded 6.5 and installed it... except that it was all in Chinese.

Shit.

I did some research. Turns out that if you dig through the installation files, you can find a file called "Chinese.lgb" and delete it - and after that, Foxmail speaks English.

Okay, sweet. I did that. And lo! There it was -- a lovely, shiny version of Foxmail, complete with all my old address books and files and inboxes and everything. And when I used it to send email, it did so without complaint.

But when I use it to receive email?

Nothing. I get a brief note that says 'Idle'... and then nothing. Nothing at all.

Now, I know the password and userid is right. It's the same one I used on the old machine just 36 hours ago. And I know that the SMTP and POP servers are right, for exactly the same reason. And I can send and receive webmail. And I can use Google Chrome just fine.

So... What The Fuck is wrong with my goddam email client all of a sudden?

Aaargh!

Dull Computer Tasks

Well, I'm typing this from the floor of my study, where I've set up my shiny new computer. The old one isn't really powerful enough (memory or speed) to handle animation work for/with the school, and the boys needed a replacement for the ageing and temperamental laptop that they've been working from here at home. The connection was obvious: update time.

Of course, it's never so simple as that, is it?

I sent out a half-dozen requests for quotes, to a range of Launceston-based suppliers. Three of them actually replied. Of the three, two completely ignored every word I wrote about "please don't bother trying to sell me security-ware or antivirus wares. I will manage that for myself", and tacked prices for enormous, kludgy Suites for the Lazy Brain-Dead User onto the quote. (Yes, Norton. I'm looking at you.)

That left only one. They seemed good -- the quote was very reasonable, the machine fit the specs I requested, there was some useful advice and alternative suggestions attached. There was something that struck me as odd about the phone number, though. When I rang them, I figured out what it was: they're based in Hobart.

Naturally.

Still, they offered a three-year hardware warranty, and they do have a Launceston office to handle service issues. And they were truly helpful. So -- faced with such a mighty plethora of choices, I got up at 0630 this morning, and made the drive to Hobart. I was there for about fifteen minutes, picking up the system and handling the paperwork. And then I turned around and drove all the way back again.

Three hours either way. Eh. You get that. I liked the people I dealt with. I'm confident that if something goes astray, I'll get help out of 'em.

Of course, that doesn't alter the fact that migrating all of my working software and documents from one computer to another is a big, fat, hairy job. And on top of that, I've allowed myself to be persuaded to try Windows 7. (According to all sources, it's what Vista was supposed to be. Except functional.) But this system has a dual license. I can revert to XP if Win 7 sucks.

So far, so good. I've set up the browser. I've hooked up the network cable: no troubles getting online. I've ported my weird little email client through, and made it work. I've brought trusty old Yeah Write across, and installed Abiword. I've transferred tonnes of old documents and photos without a hitch.

I reckon I've got about two more days worth of this kind of work before I can hand the old machine over to the lads and plonk this one down on my desktop. Boring, boring, boring...

So It Goes

Yesterday was supposed to be a special event. Yesterday marked a sea-change, an alteration of my circumstances such that I could at last begin the transition away from Near-Total Parent back towards something approaching Human Being.

It was, in fact, the day that the Mau-Mau went to school, and both boys went to school, and Natalie went to work, and my parent(s) were back in North Queensland.

I guess you could say I've been waiting nearly nine years for this one. Certainly, I've been actively anticipating it since before Christmas last year -- savouring the prospect of a day largely to myself, to focus on the things I want to achieve in writing.

That's how it was supposed to be. Me. My computer. And six whole uninterrupted daylight hours in which to work. Nobody shouting and arguing. Nobody watching movies outside my study. Nobody demanding food, drinks, resolution to arguments, answers to ridiculous questions. Just me, and the muse.

And so, of course, at roughly 0930, the power went out.

I connected the old-style phone we keep for precisely this reason. (Walkie-phones die when their mains power goes.) I rang Aurora, the power company. No -- no power losses in my area. I pressed buttons, and eventually spoke to a nice lady. She made me go through a complicated and -- to my mind -- rather stupid routine of shutting off everything in the fusebox, and then turning it all back on again in a very particular fashion.

The power did not come on.

She advised me to ring again in an hour. There might be news.

I rang a neighbour. He didn't have power either. So it wasn't a fault at my end. Good.

An hour later, there was no news.

I read some books. I worked in the garden.

There was no news two hours later.

At 12.30 or so, the phone rang. A cheery woman on the other end asked me if the power was on. It was not. I went outside to the fusebox and performed the Pointless Ballet Of The Power Switches once more, and the power resolutely remained non-existent.

Ah, she said. Obviously the crew hadn't located all the faults yet.

Oh. Fucking great.

At a little after two, just as I was packing up to go shopping and fetch the kids, the power came back on.

I don't really think I can convey how angry and disappointed I was. I know -- I should probably take it all in my stride. Power outages happen when you live in the bush, yeah.

But... I was really, really looking forward to yesterday.

Now all I want to do is kick someone.

S ! C ! I ! E ! N ! C ! E ! SCIENCE!! YAAAYYY!!

Ladies and gentlemen, once again the world of science has finally begun to catch up with one of the idle-moment outputs of my mighty brain. I remember some twenty-five years ago, living in a noxious, ugly flat in the Fairfield river-flatland area of Brisbane. I recall lying awake at night, sweating like five pigs in a one-man sauna as Brisbane worked its summery magic on my stifling, stuffy little bedroom. I remember opening the windows, in the vain hope of catching some sort of leaden, humid, corpse-breath breeze from the stinking, turgid river...

... and then I remember the whining. The terrible, shrill, vicious whining of the clouds of Brisbane summer mosquitoes charging into my bedroom, sharpening their goddam nano-tipped bloodsucking probes, and diving straight for my fucking earholes. FUCKERS! FUCKERS!

In the end, I recall I pulled the sheet all the way over myself, leaving only my nose exposed so I could breathe. And of course, periodically one of the little bastards would have a crack at spelunking, and I'd get mosquito up the nostril, whereupon there followed much sneezing and snorting and swearing, and very little sleep. Christ on a flaming jet-propelled crutch, I hated those little bastards.

In the quieter moments of that night, I dreamed up a device. I designed it in my head. I dwelled on it at length, envisioning exactly how it would work. It would have three lasers, at least. Little things. Not too powerful. But they would be controlled by a computer, and a couple of high-resolution, motion-sensitive cameras. And whenever the cameras picked up the movement of a mosquito, ALL THREE GODDAM LASERS WOULD HOME IN ON IT -- and there, in the crossfire, the intensity of the three or four beams at once would be enough to ANNIHILATE THE FILTHY LITTLE BASTARD IN A BLAST OF SUPERHEATED LASER-DRIVEN MOSQUITO VAPOUR!

It was a Fine Dream. It made me happy. And I took it to bed with me on many long, sticky, filthy, vermin-ridden nights in South-East Queensland... at least until I could afford a proper mosquito net.

And now, ladies and gentleman, it is with the greatest of delight that I can tell you that Science has finally understood my needs, and come out swinging. Check it out: http://www.physorg.com/news185463943.html

There's even mosquito-zapping footage up on the website. Oh, and the scientists in question reckon they might be able to bring the per-unit cost down to maybe $50.

It's just a shame there are bugger-all mosquitoes here where I live. But if they build one that will take out those awful little fucking flies that you bastards breed on the mainland and send across the Strait with the northerlies every summer, I will buy at least one for every room in the house. In the meantime: YAAAAAYYYY SCIENCE!

Unmotivated

That was a big two weeks.

My dad came a-visiting from the Deep North, along with my stepmum. They're great people, and it was wonderful for the kids to hang out with 'em for a while. Both of them, however, are busy folk. As in: constantly active.

Over the two weeks, Stepmama managed to clean most of the house within an inch of its life. I managed to draw the line at the study door, purely by virtue of increasing the chaos within my study to point where even I was appalled. (It's a little better now. I made a show of tidying it a bit every day...)

The cleaning and rearrangement was generally a very good thing. Natalie has a tendency to get 'stuff' for the kids, and let them accumulate it. And I don't have the heart to randomly throw out the sixty percent or so which is pure junk. So having Grandmum on hand to take charge was fine. I'm quite surprised, really -- the boys' room is pretty much tidy. They lost three garbage bags of beloved 'stuff', and not a single word has been said. Shows how often they used their 'stuff', I guess.

The Mau-Mau also has her own bedroom mural now. It's not quite as epic as the coral reef scene the boys got last time Grandmum came visiting... but the Mau-Mau didn't want epic. She wanted flowers, and a fairy, and that is precisely what she got. It's lovely, of course.

Meanwhile, my dad hit the gardens and grounds. Trees were pruned. Trees were outright lopped and removed. Piles of rocks were shifted. Sheds were tidied. Giant skip bins were dragged to new positions, as was the rotary hoe which we never use. (Point to note: this guy is sixty-seven, and has had three spinal vertebrae fused. Yes, I know -- our rotary hoe isn't particularly large. But he dragged it a good twenty metres over open, stony, grassy ground to its new position. I could do that, yes... but I'm damned if I know anyone else his age who could.)

He also cleaned and painted the trailer. Oh, and pulled out the old bathtub in the ground in the orchard, and filled the hole with rocks. Admittedly, he got some help from me on the bathtub. It was cast iron, and full of rainwater, so he wanted some extra muscle involved. But the bathtub is now down the hillside next to my greywater outflow tub, and as soon as my pumpkin vines have finished their activity for the year, I'll dig a trench, place the new tub - and have twice as much storage for my greywater, for gardening.

This was all on top of daytrips here and there, occasional movie nights, the return to school and ju-jitsu, etc. So... yes. The last two weeks have been a bit draining.

I bought a shredder, mind you. That was fun. It's electric. I turn garden clippings and moderate-sized branches into mulch with it. That's very useful, because it has allowed me to mulch the two mulberry trees I just planted. And the orange tree. And my fig trees. And I'm in the process of mulching the hell out of my herb garden. Given the amount of branches and clippings available to me, I may well be able to mulch the entire property, if the shredder doesn't die on me first.

Anyway, the Parentals took off this morning. It's a hot day, with strange winds and the distant threat of storms. I'm feeling very tired and lacklustre. The Elder Son has his best friend visiting overnight, so I'll cue them up in the Movie Zone later with 'Underdog', and enough popcorn.

As for me? I've got a lot of work and writing to catch up on. But at least I'll have a bit more time for it now, I hope.

Oh, Dear. It Seems To Be Starting.

The following is not a news article, nor intended to be taken seriously by anyone. (Except maybe me. And a certain primary school teacher.) It is published here by permission of its author, who happens to be my Elder Son.

Alan Sconat Sparks Revolution In Winter Games

‭ ‬In Vancouver,‭ ‬Canada,‭ ‬the winter Olympics were being hosted with pride.‭ ‬Although many participants were satisfied with their results in the contests,‭ ‬some like Dale-Begg-Smith and Alan Sconat were not very enthusiastic.

‭ ‬When Alan was asked to participate in a specific contest,‭ ‬he rebelliously declined.‭ “‬I don’t think that EVERY game should be life risking and likely to kill me‭! ‬Why can’t we do some lighter games like a snowball fight marathon‭?”

He registered his complaint to the people who were hosting the games at Vancouver,‭ ‬but was excruciatingly cold-shouldered.

‭ ‬Finally,‭ ‬someone paid attention and gave him a protest positioning court.‭ ‬Alan presented his argument in court,‭ ‬but when the judge denied everything Alan said,‭ ‬the flames started to rise.‭ ‬For half an hour the judge and Alan battered each other with strong intimidation,‭ ‬verbal and emotional blackmail and annoying insults.‭ ‬Finally,‭ ‬a spectator told them to settle down and come to an agreement‭; ‬but they weren’t finished yet.‭ ‬When the Judge stated that he reckoned Alan didn’t like dangerous games because he probably had a low self-esteem,‭ ‬Alan leapt up at the judge and thrashed him like a rabid dog.

‭ ‬Alan eventually lost the argument and was evicted from the winter Olympics for‭ ‬3‭ ‬days at maximum,‭ ‬and Alan decided he wouldn’t come back until they got a better judge,‭ ‬which was never going to happen,‭ ‬so he also said he’d never come back.‭ ‬But...

‭ ‬Many fans of Alan were outraged when they heard he was going to be evicted from the winter Olympics,‭ ‬but the stubborn Judge would not let him back:‭ “‬I will not,‭ ‬I repeat:‭ ‬NOT,‭ ‬let that him back‭! ‬Is that so hard to understand‭?” ‬asked the Judge.

‭ ‬But this time luck was not on the judge’s side.‭ ‬At midnight there was a gargantuan crowd of winter Olympics fans thundering at the judge’s door.‭ ‬He asked his secretary to see what all the fuss was about‭ (‬which he suspected was about evicted Alan.‭) ‬A few minutes later the hysterical shrieks of the secretary were coming down the corridor.‭ ‬The secretary came rushing back,‭ ‬his tie ripped,‭ ‬and his coat in tatters.‭ ‬It turns out they wanted ridiculous winter games,‭ ‬like a snowball fight marathon.‭

A massive vote took place in court to determine whether or not the ridiculous games could be allowed,‭ ‬and the vote was won‭; ‬there are ridiculous games for willing participants now‭; ‬Alan’s dream had come true.‭

I am quite disturbed by this. He isn't yet ten years old. I'm not certain I could have done this at his age...

...poor bastard. Another writer? Oh, Cthulhu.

EDITED TO ADD: And why the hell AREN'T there any Olympic Snowball Fight events, anyway?