Sometimes even geeks get confused, I guess.

My confusion is a little less than the guy on the left there, but then again while physical attraction is out of the question I can definitely respect a Stormtrooper's drive to bring order to the galaxy. I'm sure most only joined up with the Imperials to pay for college anyway.

So. My own confusion this morning was delivered in email form.

I have a message from someone in one of the big offices.

This email is so laden with corporate buzzwords I'm not even sure it was supposed to go to me.

I've read it several times and my opinion about it shifts each time. I'm not sure if I've been complimented or exonerated or vilified. Then again, maybe it isn't even about me.

The sad thing is it looks like it took a long time to write and I'm not sure what (if anything) the intended recipient is supposed to do. This is a little frightening when I consider that it might be me.

While I hope I'm not missing an assigned task, I think it would be worse to reply to the email to request clarification.

I'll meditate on it after coffee to see if some . . . I don't know. . . anything . . . materializes out of the seemingly ethereal Courier New.

I'm all about the ease of communication through technology, really. But has sending an email really replaced the need for the kind of rational thought which is required in an actual person-to-person meeting?

Also, "CC: Everyone on the planet" can communicate a point to a bunch of people at once, however two things have to happen first:

1. The single person with an action item needs to be apparent among the giant CC Cloud

2. The sender has to actually have a point

Re: The Email from this morning -- I'm not even sure I was supposed to be included and I certainly don't see the point.

Turmoil, ladies and gentlemen. My once peaceful World of Warcraft guild has been going through a . . . transitional phase.

There are about seven players in it. Over half of those have characters approaching end-game content. The problem is that all of the awesome end-game content is set for 5, 10, or 25 character raids.

We can do the 5 character stuff no problem. The stuff we can do with 5 people is like . . . I don't know . . . half as awesome as the 10 person stuff. I won't even do the "awesome deficit calculations" on the difference between the 5 person and 25 person stuff.

In short, I've been asked to recruit new players into our once tranquil guild. The Innkeepers (known realm-wide for smart assed comments in and out of guild chat) need to open our previously firmly sealed gates to admit an unwashed mass of strangers.

No more will we be able to speak at length in guild chat about Flash Gordon without fear of someone not being old enough to know who that is.

One simple "Guns and Roses is my favorite old-time band" could send our core members into one of two states -- Either they will curl into the fetal position and harden up before needing to be placed in some kind of state home, or they will unleash a great chat-based backlash against the younger member which could leave the little fellow's monitor smoking with seared-in, old-guy, get-the-hell-off-my-lawn text no Yu-Gi-Oh screensaver can ever heal.

The important part is this:

"Innkeepers", while funny, is not a name that brings in people. If we are going to make an active effort to expand our ranks, we need a name that gamer nerds will identify with and want to join.

The name must be, for a time, more awesome than our seven members can really justify in order to bring in high-level strangers from across the Intertubes to play with us.

Members were assigned specific tasks last night. Some are researching various raids and instances which we plan to eventually pwn. Some are casually inquiring about possibly disgruntled members of other guilds in shady, back alley deals where gold may change hands in exchange for insider information. "Ultramoo the Warrior has a potion problem, eh?"

One user is developing our new guild website complete with raid schedule and member email accounts.

I've been tasked with finding us another name.

A more uber name.

A name to strike fear into the hearts of n00bz.

I got nothing.

Hello, everyone.

Microsoft Visio is an excellent tool for making technical diagrams. A skilled user can create documentation for almost any environment or process.
For example, I have created a flowchart illustrating the correct usage of the phrase, "Oh, Snap!"



Hopefully, adding this to our technical library will alleviate confusion in situations for which this phrase may or may not be called.
It should be noted: Visio is a hoot.
In other news, a little research into the maker of the CJ-2000 featured in the post from yesterday turned up the new coffee of choice:



"Adrenaline Explosion"! Long-time readers will know, I'm enthusiastic about anything marketed as "Extreme" or "Extra" or even, more often than not, "New". While "Adrenaline Explosion" doesn't specifically claim to be any of those things, they are implied.
Judging from the packaging, it is further implied that "Adrenaline Explosion" is the best coffee for a rainy Saturday afternoon spent watching Bravo.
Taste the excitement, people.

Another Monday seems to have slammed itself onto our collective calendars. Why don't our elected officials do something about that?

The coffee machine which faithfully spews out bitter but caffeinated coffee (and has for the past year, at least) has been shifted a couple of feet to the left. I can handle this change. I can even handle this change before I get coffee, since it only modifies my morning routine by two steps in either direction.

Even so, the decision to move the coffee distribution equipment, however slightly, must not be taken lightly.

In this case, the move was to facilitate the addition of the CJ-2000 (pictured above).

Gaze upon its glory!

Six different varieties of coffee and tea are available in the individual cup pods on the rack on the left.

Once used up, these pods vanish into a hidden bin in the machine never to trouble mankind again.

Six buttons allow a user to create the perfect cup. Mochachino? No problem. Caffe Americano? Sure! Delicious and creamy hot cocoa? Of course.

Above those six buttons are about a zillion warning lights for various malfunctions which may or may not plague the machine from time to time.

In short, one would expect me to wheel my desk chair in there, abuse the wireless network connection and just set up shop.

However, one would be wrong.

I don't want robots making my coffee. I want people making my coffee. In fact, I'd like a dedicated staff of full-time kitchen minions to do nothing but make me coffee, but I've digressed (again) into my plans for eventual total global domination.

Robots will never make a decent cup of coffee for a number of reasons.

First, they are (by their very nature) immune to the effects of caffeine. We should take some comfort in this, though. Humans will someday use this chemical advantage to throw off the shackles of our eventual robot overlords. For now, it just means that robots are capable of efficiently churning out cup after cup after cup of completely crappy coffee-like substance.

Also, robots become smarter all the time. The CJ-2000 may very well decide to ensure its place in our breakroom for all time by exploiting our biological weaknesses and addicting us all to the delicious chai (2 Splendas).

This brings me to my final reason why robots can't make coffee -- Perhaps the most important of all. We must remember at all times that while robots have no emotions to speak of, hatred of all carbon-based life is programmed into their cold circuit boards.

In organic life, hatred is an emotional response to external stimuli. In robots, it is a "feature" of their unalterable programming.

The whole "sit-in-Dad's-cubicle-all-day-while-he-works-on-incomprehensible-crap" thing didn't, so much, work out.
Further, today is Gwynyth's last official day of summer, so we took a vote and cashed in a vacation day.
To her credit, she was quite the trooper. It was ultimately just too much to ask.
Today we plan to have substantially more fun. Like, possibly 40% more fun, if possible.
Also, I made a pot of coffee at home. I'm much better equipped to deal with whatever comes up if I have good coffee.

I've long enjoyed the mysterious nature of my employment.

At family gatherings I became quite adept at dodging and deflecting the "What is it you do?" questions until, after a while, people just stopped asking.

The most common deflection was generally, "You know, my manager doesn't even really know what I do." Sadly, that was almost always the truth.

Most people that know me know it has something to do with computers and that it is probably legal and that is good enough.

Yesterday the veil of mystery was torn away as someone actually watched me do whatever the hell it is I do for a solid nine hours.

I could be completely ratted out by my own daughter at any gathering from now on.

I knew I'd be bribing her into secrecy this morning with doughnuts, but on the way home I decided to see how much she had picked up . . . What details could a person learn about my actual job function if they had unrestricted access to my cubicle space for an entire day?

As we fought our way across multiple lanes of 610 trying to reach the exit we needed I asked.

"So," I said turning down the radio, "What did you learn today?" See? General question. Not leading at all.

"Nothing." She answered. Also no big deal. I've been through this line of questioning with her before and that is always her first answer. After we get past that it becomes a game of negotiation for information. She will never answer a question directly if there is the slightest chance it could be taken more than one way. Speaking with my daughter is like making a wish from the djinni in the lamp . . . Even if you think you worded it perfectly, you still might end up a Nazi.

Shana and I have gotten used to it, though. We are willing to tolerate it (and even admire it at times) as long as she invites us to stay in the Lincoln Bedroom once or twice after she is elected.

Anyway. Question two,"Really? Nothing at all?"

"Your building is very tall."

"Okay. Yes, the building is very tall," I agreed, knowing that she had picked up some subtle detail that would crack open the mystery of whatever the hell it is I actually do and expose it in some painfully public way. "What did you think about my job?"

"Your job is awesome!"

I was a little bewildered by this. Maybe she wasn't paying attention after all. "Awesome?"

"Yes," she said,"You have a spinny chair and get to ride the elevators. And when you walk on the elevators when they move it feels like you a floating a little bit."

I thought about it. That does sound pretty awesome.

But she had seen almost everything. Several people stopped by the cubicle to ask technical questions about a few different things and Gwynyth was there for my answers. My screen faced her all day and I did some seriously major stuff for the DR. Yet, the thing she admitted learning was that I had a spinny chair.

I pressed on anyway:

"Yes," direct question time. Her skills are good, but direct questions paralyze her,"But what did you learn about what I do all day?"

"You work on a computer and take meetings."

Just as I suspected. The mystery is over.

Okay. This is the last reminder for slogan entries. You have the comments section. You have geek_AT_prettygeekything.com. Use them and use them well.

Sooner or later it had to come up.
The break room is the easiest pass-through area on the floor if one is travelling north to south or back. I avoid it if possible, but when I do make that trip I do it quickly and with my eyes firmly locked on the tile floor.
I'd heard the talk in there between 11 and 1, and knew it would all be over if I were ever pulled into it.
But it happened.
"Hey Garrick," Crap. I'd been addressed directly.
"Yes?" I pulled out my BlackBerry to look for something more important to do.
"Which do you prefer," the question began,"The overtime rule in the NCAA or the NFL?"
I froze. My stock answer of "the other team just wanted it more" would not work.
"You know," I began, trying to remain calm, "I haven't given it much thought."
It was immediately apparent that this was something that I should have indeed given much thought to.
Suspicions aroused, my co-worker closed in with,"How long is the shot clock?"
"Yeah, I don't, uh . . . " I was lost.
"How many goals in a hat trick?"
I knew at this point that they had switched sports on me, but I was still too lost to come up with the answer. This was one of those answers that dawns on me five minutes after a conversation ends or when I'm the only player left without an orange pie piece in Trivial Pursuit but it isn't my turn. Three. The number is three. But I did not say that.
I was desperate to change the subject. So desperate, in fact that when two women from accounting wandered in to use the microwave I needed them to say something about a broken server or anything I could fake my way into.
Unfortunately, what the speaking one said went something like,"It said tea-length is appropriate but I don't even know what that means."
And I jumped conversations in plain sight of everyone with,"Tea-length is traditionally considered mid-length with the hem falling between the bottom of the knee and the bottom of the calf."
I discovered that that statement is like a "Get Out of Sports Conversation Free" card.
And yet, I feel even more compelled than ever to keep my head down when crossing through the break room.

Gwynyth is at work with me today. I will not be playing Barbies with her.

Until we get home.

Or maybe on lunch a little.