Tag Archives: robot

Disney 2009 – Dining

Travel


img_0904I have nothing new to report about Disney, per se. Yes it’s still the pinnacle of customer service. Yes the rides were just as fun. Yes, Stacey was the first person you saw when you turned on the hotel TV. It was all the same yet the familiarity was like going to a friend’s house who has 1000% better home electronics than you do. 

Not much has changed since my last vacation there, except for a few tweaks (for the better) to their services and a couple new rides. I won’t repeat myself for the sake of old time readers. Know that while there wasn’t any bed-jumping videos of excitement, the emotion of being there was just as strong.

Collectively between three cameras (not including the Photopass service Disney provides), I estimate we took close to 2500 pictures. I’ll be posting some here but the brunt of them from my camera will be on Flickr for your perusal. Don’t expect captions for all!

Now, on to the subject at hand: Food!

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Know that we had absolutely NO bad meals on any of the Disney properties (including third party chain eateries). That isn’t to say all our meals were perfect: when we discovered that Oh Boys! on Colonial Drive in Orlando had been closed for a while (update your website you dicks! That includes you, Google Earth!), we motored back to Downtown Disney and still managed to have a great meal – at twice the price, unfortunately. My only complaint is that all manner of food at Disney World is shockingly expensive. While we were eating in moderate to “classy” places like Coral Reef Restaurant at EPCOT (blackened catfish!) or The Crystal Palace (Character Breakfast with Eyore!) at Magic Kingdom, I still dreaded the bill at the end of the meal.

The only time I noticed a staff, err… Cast Member not entirely in tune with a high level of good service output was at the Beaches And Cream Ice Cream Parlour. See video below. I think this was her one thousand time serving up this kind of sundae just on this day, to screaming over-sugared children, made evident by the robotic delivery of the room-stopping announcement (but she does save herself at the end with the “young” comment, blessherheart):

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The most surreal meal we had was at The Grand Floridian – Afternoon Tea in the Garden View Room. The room was Mary Poppins Perfect: vaulted ceilings, Victorian styling and proper china tea pots. No fart jokes here. I found the atmosphere a bit intimidating, like walking into a $100/plate restaurant wearing Old Navy. Actually, that’s exactly what I did. But the waitress never made me felt like I had. Her timing was infallible and her service top notch.

The other patrons made me think of bored, rich  housewives having to actually socially interact with their immaculately dressed children while the husbands were off avoiding their kids playing golf and the nanny had the day off. Oh no, no rides for these tykes! They had to enjoy liver sandwiches with no crusts and were ordered to sit on their hands until the meal was finished.

At least that’s what I imagined going on at the table beside us.

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At one point Sharkboy decided to let loose with a bawdy, off colour joke and proceeded to laugh heartily. Suddenly he stops and says in his best educated voice:  “Pardon me. Ha. Ha. Ha.” We all snickered like kids in school.

Our last meal was a pizza on our hotel bed, tired out of our minds from 9 days of walking, riding, laughing and just having fun. It was the perfect last meal for all the sensory overloading.

Full Circle

Personal Bits

The phone rings last night and it’s the Old Audio Dude (my third in line brother), he’s coming to Toronto with Heather and The Mop, my incredibly thick-haired nephew. No really, this kid’s hair is incredible considering he came from our gene pool of hairy backed, thin-on-top family. He can take solace (or sadness?) in knowing that no Mii editor, no Xbox avatar creator, no PS3 Home builder, will every be able to recreate his large, unruly mane.

I digress.

He’s here in town and to give Heather the day to herself, SharkBoy and I are going to treat him to a march down Queen West and a movie (Marley and Me). I think there might be robot shopping involved. Expect pictures. What makes me feel incredibly old and expectant, is the fact that he’s the exact age when I started to come with my Dad to Toronto on business trips and run around alone on the subway downtown (yeah, they use to let 13 year old kids wander the streets alone back in the 70s).

I’m slightly weirded out that this is how the legacy is passed on – trips to the Silver Snail with $20 in his pocket, a ticket to a movie and popcorn, chased down with big gulps of sugar water. That arcade is closed so I can’t show him that – he’s voiced his desire to plug into our PS3/Wii/Xbox combo until his eyes bleed, anyway. If I had more time I’d take him to the Science Centre but that’s too late. Oh well, we’ll teach him the fine art of shopping. Every young lad should learn that early.

Lay Down Sally

Work

So the last couple days have been shitty at work. Wait. Let me refine that:

Shitty

Ah, how firm and absolute words are when you capitalize them.

Wednesday, last week, I was informed that I would have to let one of the design team go in my department (new readers to Dead Robot should know I’m a team leader of a graphics department at a large-ish travel wholesaler). I wasn’t surprised by this. A constant barrage of bad news nightly consisting of economic doom and gloom steeled me to this event. I have watched the company’s website hits drop off and I knew that translated to a slump in sales. Plus the fact that the owner would walk the halls of the office with a face like a cat’s ass.

I made my recommendations as to each staff’s workloads, attitude and abilities and then left it with upper management to decide. Not to be a martyr but I even suggested my position be shitcanned, which was met with a “We’ve invested too much in you” kind of comment. Nice! The next day, Thursday, I was told which would be leaving, but they’d be let go on Monday, in the morning. Whuh? Not Friday? I shrugged and then asked if I could be present for the despicable conversation. I then spend the next couple days pretending to be upbeat and happy while inside, I knew we were letting go one of the more funner people in the department.

Just before Xmas.

Yeah.

A hero is me.

Monday comes and I am working hard and didn’t notice the unlucky person getting called away into the marketing manager’s office – people are in and out of our cube constantly so I missed them walking past my desk. When they came out of the manager’s office, freshly unemployed, I didn’t notice them grab one co-worker and leave the cube. Frankly it happened so quick I thought they were discussing something over a smoke-break.

The manager then calls me into their office and informs me that they had done the deed and all was ok. As “ok” as can be.

I stammered. “You did it already?”

I leave the office and find this person already gone. No goodbye, no explanations, not even a look in the eye.

I wasn’t happy.

Then an hour later we are informed by email that our company has applied for “WorkShare”, a little known mini-bail out package where most of the staff drops to a 4 day work week with their wage adjusted appropriately. Staff then can claim some measly percentage in Employment Insurance back (I’ve always laughed at the doubleplusgood think of the name of our UNemployment insurance program), something like 55% of the day’s wages. While it’s not much, I bless the socialist lefty that thought that program up. However, I am unable to work part time and claim it, creating an almost English DHSS-style catch 22. If I work part time, I don’t get EI, but I get taxed to the same level as the EI benefit. I don’t work I get EI and play video games and generally not contribute to anything other than a Homer Simpson-esque rut in the couch.

So with two swift kick to the nuts I am left with less money, a demoralized staff who weren’t all that moralized in the first place and an opportunity to work at Starbucks one day a week.

Yay global economy!

Ya Burnt! Or How I’d Donate My Own Plasma For This Damn Thing

Tech

Now, Dead Robot, don’t step out into the street or you’ll be hit by a bla bla bla mer mer mer.

Don’t stick that in the toaster, you’ll fry your blee blee blee!

Catch this sharp free frew fraw!

It’s apparent that some days I don’t listen. When faced with a big shiny thing in my face, the world drops away and my eyes become saucers. Cherubs anoint my forehead with myrrh and lyrical lutes can be heard over the choir of (hunky) angels.

Just like the day we decided to purchase a plasma TV.

You’ve heard the #1 downfall of plasma TV: Image Burn In! The current level of technology for plasma is that it’s a “manageable” risk, meaning if you read the instruction book, you should have no worries at all. Of course, as a guy, I ripped open the box and started licking the remote in anticipation.

In the days we were researching which TV to buy, I didn’t hear (or chose not to hear) was that for the first 100 hours you must do all you can to avoid stationary images on your screen: No CNN, no Logo branded channels more than 30 min, no 4:3 aspect tv viewing (all the sites recommend viewing a squished image for this period!).

I am sure the sales agent said that nugget of information while we were in the store but all I heard was “Bler bleg bloo!” while I was saying to myself “HolymotherofbabyjesusLOOKATTHATSCREEN!” Of course, we took care when we started to watch but we weren’t diligent, apparently.

Last night while watching You Only Live Twice, during the helicopter duel, we noticed dark lines in the sky, next to James Bond’s head. Uh oh. Closer inspection of the screen on an all white channel we found this bizarre hieroglyph:

Oh. My. God. It’s the “Position #1” icon from Mario Kart! Has SharkBoy been playing it THAT much?

Number 1 from Mario Kart Wii (image enhanced)

Number 1 from Mario Kart Wii (image enhanced)

Quick! To the internet!

After a ton of reading on various web forums, including the Samsung sponsored CNet Gadget forums, I’ve en massed a few tips:

  1. The first 100 hours are critical. Do not leave anything sit on the screen longer than 30 minutes. We’re talking games, 4:3 Aspect black bars on the left and right of the video(some TVs have a “gray” option – choose that), Widescreen bars on top and below the video, any news channel with feeds. Even our Rogers Channel Guide is culprit. Note to SharkBoy: No more surfing the guide and then absent-mindedly start watching the PIP image of live TV, leaving up the guide!
  2. Check for firmware upgrades. It might be a pain to root around the back of the TV with a thumb drive, but it’s worth it.
  3. Most TVs (plasma or LCD) ship with their contrast rate blasting so that if they become floor models in stores, they look sharp and good. Surf to your settings and turn this down. Check out the brightness/sharpness too. Sometimes they’re jacked up so high your eyes bleed in oblivious bliss when you first turn on your new TV
  4. Our model (and most new plasmas) come with a few tools to prevent burn in. Scope them out as soon as you open the box. Ours comes with a nifty option that every 1-2 minutes shifts the screen around in random directions by 4 pixels. It also comes with the option to display a whole white screen or a scrolling black to white gradation bar. Samsung recommends running that for an hour at least. Don’t have any of those? Choose a blank static screen, but make sure menu items, like channel displays are turned off.
  5. There are “screen savers” out there that claim to wipe out burn in, but depending on the length of burn by the age of the TV, they might not be any help

This whole ordeal hasn’t turned me off my TV choice (ha! make funny me!). I did the research and knew the options, I just didn’t heed them, so I have no one to blame but myself really. The way I see it is that it’s new technology and sometimes you make concessions as an early adopter. With that said, this TV is still my most favorite gadget in the house.

iPhones don’t count. They’re mobile.

Catastrophic FAIL

Personal Bits

Last night I sat down to my computer and noticed an odd message, saying that one of the “files on the disk” failed to initialize, resulting in my Taskbar changing itself to look like Windows NT.

Uh. Oh.

Restart.

After a very long time past the BIOS screen, nothing. No log in, nothing.

Restart. Oh god please restart.

Nothing. Dead black screen.

Thankfully I have all my files on a completely separate storage drive. But it looks like a night of disk-humping reloading, rebooting and calling Windows Support to obtain my serial number again. Who’s up for a call to India? Then after that, drivers, applications and preferences. Finally, all my email is gone (take note friends/family!) and I’m hobbling along on web-based interfaces.

If any of you people wish to donate to my “Get an iMac Fund” my Paypal account will be available at the bottom of your screens. Call now!

I don’t know if I got a virus or something from all those old iPhone hack programs were to blame. I do know that if I can’t get it started/fixed, then this will be the most expensive summer I’ve had in a long time.

But, still no ads on Dead Robot Heavy Industries, my readers!

Update:
In some sort of bizzaro world, I wonder if the Large Hadron Collider had anything to do with this? I’m actually one of the “push the goddamned button and let’s see what this baby can do!” kind of people. The web is ablaze with speculation today and all they did was turn the thing on. The actual collisions will be happening later in the year. Doesn’t this whole uproar/hype/geek celebrity suddenly feel like the last 20 minutes of Contact?.

In Which Dead Robot Turns Chrimson With “Gwarsh!”

Celebs and Media

Robert, who has been coming around this here blog for a couple months now, recently started up Canada Blog Friends, a review site of Northern webzines (ha! when was the last time you heard that? Webzines! hmmm…) that:

…is a celebration of life in Canada, as manifest in many different blogs, across many different genres from every part of the nation.

The coolest Canadian blogs are profiled here, and sometimes extra passionate posts are condensed in compelling story briefs and further digested in comments.

Well I got featured yesterday and I have to tell you, I’ve never had a stranger say such nice things about my blog/hobby who didn’t want money or sex. Go read the review. I rarely toot my own horn on here but the post is so well written I feel like a proud parent at a grade 2 musical and my child just nailed “I Don’t Know How To Love Him”.

Thanks Robert!

Tacky Website? Must be Gay

Distractions, Hobbies, Travel

Why are all the gay campsites we looked into for Long Weekend so incredibly hideous?

Well it’s bitter time here at Dead Robot Industries! I’m going to review them and hopefully give you, dear readers, insight as to why gay campsite websites are uglier than drag queens left out in the rain. (SFW means Ok to open. MNSFW means “maybe not safe for work” – Stay out of the “Gallery” sections. NSFW means don’t open it at work, ok? Just don’t)

The Cedars (SFW)
What? A nice layout? A picture that doesn’t shy away from showing the camp area? Photos that are up to date and actually show people having fun? Google Earth map link? On every page? I’m in shock! Oh wait. The Event’s page is fucked – I knew it was too good to be true. Clicking on a date gets you nothing. Nice that they have a Forums and a Guestbook right out there for all to see – very Web 2.0.

It gets a 4 out of 5. No crap and no animated gifs makes me want to visit!

Campit Resorts (SFW)
Okay first off: Frameset: the “Blink” tag of page layout. The Gallery page link at the bottom of the home page frame is dead so click away all you like, however the Gallery link in the nav bar frame leads to images 3 years old. Take that as you will. Table on the right side with the border set to “2”. Classy! The map is in the “links” section and buried within the About page. Whatever that means. I would think that you’d want your guests to find you easy.

To it’s credit, the site is packed with lots and lots of info (I dare to say “dense”). Other than the riot of things going on, I’d have to say I feel comfortable scooting around this site, but the layout is brutal. I’ve been to Campit, and I can say that the website is like your crazy cousin you don’t talk about: nice to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live with it.

I give it 3.5 out of 5. Lose the frameset.

Rainbow Ridge (SFW but rainbowy)
I… ah… oh god… My eyes… I’m blind… I feel sick! Okay enough. You get it. Like an aluminum bat to the bridge of your nose, we’re treated to rainbows on black throughout with white centred text that dissapears as you read on into the flag colours. Ow. Non-tiling backgrounds. Classy!

The site is entirely in long form: nothing in point form to quickly identify what you’re looking for. The photo gallery is a little app that pops up microscopic pictures of other people’s tents, with barely any of the facilities. Hrmmm… And what would a gay campsite website be without it’s own section dedicated to “dancing” (which explains their rec hall – isn’t that a “facility” feature?). The reservations form looks like it was laid out by Robin Williams on a cocaine bender. The Events section proudly announces no new events, sealing my non-desire to spend the $5 to use their rec hall.

I give it 1 out of 5. It makes me want to visit only to see if they’ve painted the trees rainbow colours.

The Hillside (MNSFW)
Oh another black and rainbow motif. How clever. Okay people there’s a lot of stuff to get through here so lets… No… Wait. It’s crap, you know that just by the home page. I’ll save you the trouble and just jump right to the batshit crazy:

Houseboy Needed!
TO APPLY send an e-mail with the requested information & picture(s)…
A slim GWM between the heights of 5’4″ to 5’11” is a plus. This doesn’t mean men with other physical descriptions won’t be considered, however height and weight are important.

Include work and personal qualifications including age, height, weight and full physical description. A photo is a must.

…it’s faster to reply by clicking on the button below to send an e-mail that includes complete qualifications (note above) and photo(s) if possible.

THE MORE INFORMATION YOU CAN PROVIDE THE BETTER.

One word: Yikes.

But it gets more batshit as you go deeper: on the Camp Map and Security Section:

HILLSIDE CAMPGROUNDS DOES NOT INCLUDE A CAMP MAP ON ITS WEB SITE FOR SECURITY REASONS. HILLSIDE’S OWNER DOESN’T WISH TO SHARE SUCH INFORMATION WITH SOMEONE WHO IS NOT AT CAMP. ANYONE WHO VISITS HILLSIDE CAN SEE A HAND-DRAWN MAP IN THE REGISTRATION OFFICE. HILLSIDE IS A VERY LARGE CAMP WITH MORE THAN THREE MILES OF ROADS WITHIN ITS GATES. WE INVITE YOU TO VISIT HILLSIDE TO LEARN MORE ABOUT THE CAMP’S LAYOUT.

Uh. Okay. If I want to visit, I guess I just use a psychic tuned to batshit crazy? Where the fuck is the logic in that? What the hell happened that the owner doesn’t want to divulge to new clients where to spend their money?

0 out of 5. As inviting as going to a creepy, sweaty co-worker’s halloween party by yourself.

Teen Confession Day at Dead Robot:

Personal Bits

• Just after getting my drivers license, a girl ran into my dad’s car while on her bike when she was cycling the wrong way along a one way street. I moved out into the intersection and she t-boned the side of the car, sliding across the hood. She got up and continued without comment. I nearly never drove again after that.

• I had to shoo a bat out of the TV room because my two older brothers were too scared to.

• I once tried to convince my mom that the pot plant in my bedroom was “a vine” I got from my sister.

• I would talk to an abandoned car while walking home from school. Thankfully it never talked back.

• I wanted Michael Shilkin to actually die from the cancer he lied to us about having.

• Of the three female nipples I’ve tasted, two were alarmingly odd in flavour.

• I suspected my parents of having elaborate dinner parties to swap partners, not actually to advance their social standing in backwater Brockville.

• My brother’s girlfriend once called my ass “Cute”. In my entire life, my ass has never received any higher compliment other than “cute”.

• As a teen, I didn’t mind chores. But I did try constantly to get out of them.

• From ages 15 to 17, I had Star Wars wallpaper. One girl I dated and invited up to my teenage smelling room, gave me such grief for having character-based decorating skills that she let slip that our class president at the time, had Batman pajamas.

• It wasn’t until my 43rd birthday that I realized the slut I dated in high school knew that the class president had kiddie pjs by way of spending the night at his place somehow.

Devil May Care

Celebs and Media, Distractions

Devil May Care CoverMy review for the Mini Book Expo

Devil May Care
Sebastian Faulks writing as Ian Flemming
* Hardcover: 304 pages
* Publisher: Doubleday (May 28, 2008)
* ISBN-10: 0385524285
* ISBN-13: 978-0385524285

Shipping sponsored by RandomHouse.ca

I’m not a big fan of authors taking over a franchise after the death of the original author and have regarded books like this as “authorized fan fiction”, not unlike the pornographic fanfic you discover on the web. I usually find these types of novels are soulless copies of the originals. The essence of the series the author cultivated throughout his career was always somehow missing when handed over to a young buck, much like several Issac Asimov 3 Laws of Robotics books. The ideas are there, but there’s no “life”. However, after reading DMC, I find that Faulks has created a story that is very much like an Andy Warhol print: not the original but important and to be revered just as much.

The Ian Flemming Foundation decided to release a new novel on the 100th birthday of Flemming and choose Faulks, a popular British writer to do it. Set in 1967, just after Flemming’s last (posthumous) book Octopussy, DMC has every element a great Bond story should have: a curvaceous, mysterious woman, Bond jetting off to exotic locales, car chases, a colourful screw-loose villain with a sadistic, quirky henchman and (out-turned pinky to bottom lip here, people) a world domination plot. In lieu of an arsenal of gadgets (which Bond claims to not like using), Faulks pulls one giant ‘gadget’ out of the history books which I won’t spoil, but yet made me geekily excited when I realized what it was. Faulks’ story is set mostly in the Middle East, late 60s where he manages to draw parallels to current issues with an air of foreboding which surprisingly made it extremely readable.

The book isn’t without it’s quirks: Faulks seems to pepper in too many “gourmet dining” scenes for my liking to establish that Bond runs with the rich and cultured. Several instances in the book has our hero eating while spying: Bond meets Scarlett Papava and has a late supper in Paris with her; Bond eats a lot of room service eggs while waiting for appointments; Bond dines in a Tehran cafe with his Middle Eastern contact; Bond eats cheese in Moscow. Every chapter has a few pages devoted to what the characters are eating or drinking which becomes distracting after a while. If this was a metaphor or a theme, it was lost on me – refueling? The music of life? Food seen as information stimuli? Faulks does detail the clothing and outfits of the late 60’s, but without designer label name dropping, which I thought would have placed more emphasis on the character’s rich lifestyles.

What Faulks lacks in setting, he makes up in action. His scenes of conflict are extremely well orchestrated and visual. He writes with such specialized detail that I had no doubt in believing what he was offering in way of guns, machinery or fighting technique. Faulks sets Bond’s initial contact with the villainous Dr Gorner in a tennis match so wrought with skill and minutiae that I may never look at another game the same way. His fight scenes are so clearly controlled, it’s cinematic (hint hint, Hollywood!).

Which brings me to the villain, Dr Julius Gorner, a rich pharmaceutical genius, hellbent on destroying all things English. Like every Bond villain, Gorner has one physical flaw: a deformed “monkeys paw” of a hand, which he embarrassingly covers with a white glove. It’s obvious that Faulks made Gorner a nod to Dr No: the original Dr No was named Dr Julius No; Dr No lost his hands in an attempt to send a message to other criminal rivals, where Dr Gorner cuts the tongues out of his insubordinates as a message to other informants; Gorner tortures Bond in a “cigar tube” escape attempt, much like Dr No does with Bond in air shafts. The similarities were a bit too close to Dr No, so much so that I found myself reading Gorner’s conversations in my head with the same clipped way Joseph Wiseman delivered his lines in the movie. Yet Gorner stands out on his own as satisfying as any Flemming creation when his hubris is served up to him at the hands of Bond.

If you’re like myself, a mild Bond fan (read 2 books, seen most of the movies, some twice) then you’ll enjoy DMC. If you’re anything less, you may not get the culture. But I am sure you’ll enjoy the ride! I would recommend Devil May Care to anyone looking for a little action in their summer reading.