I let CP go into my computer on Saturday at the terminal level. On Sunday, my iTunes family sharing was dysfunctional. Bleech! Two rules about computers:
1. If it doesn’t work, computer people always blame the computer or the users. CP blamed Snow Leopard for whatever it was that was irking him at Wee Sma Lex that started him crawling into Vegas Elvis in the first place.
2. If it doesn’t work, users always blame the computer or the computer people. At the DJ, for instance, everybody blames the Help Desk, which is in India, and then India in general, when something doesn’t work as they expected. (Makes you wonder if Pakistan also has its help desks in India. That would explain a lot.)
The fault lies not in our stars but in our selves, gentle reader. Except in the case I’m talking about, where it was CP’s fault. (Although I’m not quite sure how he also managed to screw up Little Elvis, who was back home all weekend, by tinkering with Vegas Elvis. Maybe it was the computer after all.) Anyhow, today’s tech tip, aside from that you should always RTFM, even if there isn’t one: if you need to fix family sharing, turn it off and on again.
Another rule about computers: if it doesn’t work, whatever it is, turn it off and on again. 99% of the time, your problem is solved. Wouldst that everything in life were so simple.
Other than the above, Wee Sma Lex went swimmingly, as always. The Sailors in attendance did well, for one thing, all with winning records and one winning her division. This latter was a nice plus, given that said Sailor hasn’t been around much, and this might swing her into more action. She also never ate either matzoh balls or corned beef before, which lacks we erased at Reins Deli, which is why we go all the way to WSL in the first place. (For the record, she did instantly recognize that matzoh balls taste like chalk, only without the yummy flavor, but that’s another thing completely.)
Additionally, CP and I got to hang out for a while, as he runs the Pfffters at the tournament. We did a lot of discussing of this and that regarding the college circuit and MJP and Disney World (major topics of our existence), and especially got to enjoy the phenomenon of the judges putting the forks into themselves because they’re done. Except, of course, they’re not. I’ve talked here ad nauseum about judges who somehow think that a little judging goes a long way, and since they are a short way from home, they decide that’s the way they should go next. This disease always seems particularly rife at WSL for some reason.
When things go awry at tournaments, people seem to think that the tab room can do something about it. Not as a general rule. We can only work with whatever it is that we have to work with. One parent told us how, before arriving that day, all she had been given was a minute of judging instruction, and she had told the coach she had had obligations that afternoon, and now she had to leave. This is not exactly a tab room problem, especially at a tournament with 0 extra judges. If she’s telling the truth, there’s no doubt where the blame should fall. First of all, what self-respecting coach gives parents who volunteer to assist only one minute of instruction? Hell, at the MHL and CFL we have whole tournaments dedicated to parent-judge instruction, not to mention the miles of material I’ve written on the subject. And then the same coach tries to pull a fast one on both us and the parent who was nice enough to help out by obligating her beyond her ability to fulfill the obligation? That is about as low as it gets.
Sigh.
But the biggest sigh of all goes to the magic number, which is 33. Which is what the Panivore was at Glenbrooks. I followed the tournament via text message, round by round. She got to the 5-2 bracket and then, by the proverbial hair, she lost out. Damnation! Of course, the P will immediately get back on the horse again (an exceptionally apt metaphor) and will probably be more determined as a result. A scary prospect, indeed. People were telling me, by the way, that she’s taken to adding a quarter of a teaspoon of cream cheese to her bagels lately. Another scary prospect. What’s next? Buttered toast? It could happen. Stay tuned. (I wonder if the whole family is panivorous. I can just see Dad at the table this coming Thursday, carving the annual Thanksgiving bagel…)
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