Greetings to all,

Do you remember the joy of a puffy pan pizza as your ultimate reward for a personal dedication to reading? Then you remember Book It! The edible bonus was of course secondary to the personal enrichment you must have felt after blazing through such classics as “Superfudge” and “Five Children and It.”

Recently it has become apparent to me that we would do well to recapture the spirit of this bygone era by establishing such a stimulating reading programme for the upcoming year. I have run this idea by a few of you already, and I’d be honored for as many people as possible to take part. Essentially I would like to establish an agenda of reading 12 books over a 12 month period, and holding a meeting each month for discussion and general merriment—so yeah, a Book Club. At the end of the 12 months, we could then decide if we want to “renew the contract.”

…

But the big thing is keeping it informal. These are just ideas, and mostly I want it to be dang fun. And I want it to be low-pressure. Don’t feel the need to read every page of every book if you don’t want. Pick out the parts that seem intriguing and be on your way. I want this to be something we will be quite glad we did when we look back on it.

Drawing obvious inspiration from The Inklings of Oxford, the goal for our group was similarly informal and straightforward. And thanks to the recommendations I received from the others, we began with arguably the best possible selection by reading Chesterton’s famous work, which was even regarded by C. S. Lewis as a chief inspiration for his own thoughts on Christianity and history.

Chesterton is the sort of witty and enthusiastic writer that anyone would do well to emulate, even if you don’t agree with his philosophy. For my own part, I can’t say that it was so persuasive that it changed my mind forever about any one thing, but I must agree that its stated mission was accomplished. Written in response to H. G. Wells’ The Outline of History, the book aimed mainly to demonstrate just how unique is this religion called Christianity—how it cannot be subject to simple studies in comparative religion because of the special claims it makes, and how Christ himself must not be merely admired as a capable moral teacher when he balanced those teachings with specific proclamations about his deity and his life’s purpose for all of humanity. It is a convincing case, and the author chooses to make his point by framing man’s entire history around those outrageous events in the Roman Empire two millennia ago, when mythology and philosophy were finally joined, and the course of history truly changed drastically. Jesus spoke aptly indeed when he said, “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.”

It is not my place to convince anyone reading a summary blog post of anything contained in the book, so I would merely encourage each individual to read it for yourself, as you are at least guaranteed to be entertained by such a sweeping look at the world’s past. And from so grand a starting point as this tome, any reader could then springboard to any number of subjects. For The Applebiters, we’ve got our big sticks ready for this month’s entry, The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt.

Watch Conan’s farewell speech here.

Thanks for doing what you do, Conesy. Karma will always be on your side!

Whose life wouldn't change at such a sight?

The plans began innocently enough, as they always do. The four of us would enjoy a week-long vacation in glorious California, backpacking fifty miles in one of nature’s treasures, Kings Canyon National Park. We would behold the grandeur of the High Sierras, relax among vast and tranquil lakes, and encounter a delightful array of woodland creatures. With nothing but our packs and our inalienable right to liberty, we were about to pursue more happiness than you can shake a trekking pole at.

Or maybe I’d end up praying for the sweet release of death.

What? How could such an experience be anything less than invigorating, enlightening, and thrilling to my very soul? The answer, my friends, came only too swiftly and vividly in the days that followed our arrival. Here now, after two months of gradual mental and physical recovery, I am ready to recount this dark episode of my life and its lone valuable gift: a clearly defined limit of bodily stress to which I am quite sure I will never again submit voluntarily.

This is not a gift I accept lightly. Indeed it has opened my eyes to a new way of living. No longer will I feel the anxiety of “missing out” on some sort of personal enrichment when some zany scheme is suggested as a preferable alternative to maxin’ and relaxin’. For now I know better. Now I know my limits. Now I know myself.

I shall recount the five-day affair by providing a brief description of each day’s activities followed by the type of breakdown I suffered somewhere along the way. Together these breakdowns combined to tear asunder the illusory ideal that such an excursion is somehow to be appreciated and treasured for its own sake. No, such a trek instead provides a harsh reminder from nature that frail man is but a fool.

Day One

It didn’t take long for me to realize I had made a mistake. Sure, everyone always says day one is the worst, but that is when one’s mind is still sharpest. Were we to heed its advice, we might spare ourselves future agony. Within the first mile we were hiking upwards at a severe grade and with maximum weight on our backs. I was quickly losing steam. Not only the obvious physical steam, but my mental motivation was nowhere to be found. I have a terrible lifelong habit of constantly asking, “Why?” and tragically no answer was forthcoming on this day. Any sense of adventure and anticipation was swiftly replaced with dread within the opening stages of our jaunt. I found that walking in quick bursts and stopping for frequent rests of less than a minute was my best course of action, but before I resigned myself to that fate, I suffered my first breakdown.

Breakdown Type: Threatening to Turn Back Immediately

The other three gents were eager beavers, ready to put aside their discomfort and forge ahead. This was the spirit of adventure! Who could know what astounding sights were just around the bend? These lads weren’t the least bit concerned with such trifling questions as “Why are we doing this?” They were doing this because this is what needed to be done! At some point they crested a hill, then I didn’t see them for a long while. My mind had already resolved to walk right back down that hill and drive to the nearest hotel while the rest of them played out their fruitless fantasies. At last I caught a faint glimpse of our fearless leader hurrying back along the trail towards me. When he finally arrived, the words were simple and pointed: “This isn’t going to work.” In my mind I concurred. The only way this was “going to work” was for me to exit stage left. When we met up with the others I announced my grandiose plans to leave and wished them all the best. Then something happened. Rational thought gave way to whimsical ideas of “trying harder” and “pressing on.” I had been on hiking trips before—even one that lasted just as many days—so I foolishly convinced myself that I could establish a more reasonable pace. I assured them that I would not fall behind like this again. And perhaps in this I succeeded. But when we arrived at our first campsite, the concept of success could not have been further from anyone’s mind.

Day Two

Oh, did I leave you hanging? Then allow me to explain the scenario when we arose at dawn. Only two of us had brought tents, and for the rest of my life I will thank God that I brought mine. The morning greeted us with its sky blurred by a vast swarm of mosquitoes. The very same hell-spawn had driven us to our premature slumber the night before, after a truly miserable dining experience. And now they threatened to keep us holed up forever on this freshly rain-soaked hill out in the middle of nowhere. My fellow travelers were beginning to see what truth this portended: this hike was destined to break us, one by one. We needed to dispatch any romantic notions of strolling comfortably over snow-capped peaks while friendly marmots chirped happy songs in unison. This “vacation” was to be our ultimate trial. When we finally emerged from Mosquito Valley, we merely found ourselves marching under sweltering heat and fording absurd streams that could not possibly be part of a trail intended for recreation. Right? Day two’s frustrations boiled over into a momentous outburst.

Breakdown Type: Yelling and Cursing at the Top of My Lungs

The itinerary called for one last extreme elevation gain before setting up camp. But it would not come to pass. Driven to the brink of insanity, I pressed onward towards the others with the assistance of a series of adrenaline boosts wrought by extreme anger. When at long last I happened upon their crude forms, I aimed my head low and prepared to unleash my fury. There they sat as I slowly removed my giant backpack and threw it to the ground. What happened next would help define the terms of our subsequent agenda with startling clarity. I clinched my fists, opened wide my maw, gazed toward the heavens, and roared with a great and primal force. Sustaining an incredible volume I bellowed my displeasure at the false gods whose will it was to see me sacrificed on this mountain. Your unholy plans be damned! Curse all of it! And curse those who led me astray! My body shaking, my mind reeling, I brooded for the remainder of the evening. Not only was my mental state in utter disarray, I felt as if my kidneys were caught in a vice. For some reason, I could barely breathe. Slumber took hold of me, and I wished in vain that the struggle would soon end.

Day Three

The slight adjustment to our schedule meant that the aforementioned dramatic ascent was our first challenge of the morning. My mind was in a markedly improved condition, so I decided to get a head start on the others and plow ahead while motivation could still be summoned. My pace was steady and deliberate, dotted with short rests. I was able to progress several miles before we all met up for a lunch break. As the day wore on, however, my resolve devolved into an incessant recitation of that foreboding question, “Why?” Today’s campsite destination was Evolution Lake, and as the hours rolled past, I imagined myself plunging into its watery grasp, having resigned all hope. My last few miles consisted of prolonged periods of rest as I ruminated at length about the life I left behind.

Breakdown Type: Utter Despondency

Dusk had nearly arrived by the time I shuffled into camp. I gently removed my bag and sat down on it, placing my head into my hands. This lake was no respite. This sunset no reward. None of this mattered. Why was I here? I thought back to all those moments of uncertainty prior to getting on that plane and flying myself into this chaos. They were perfectly legitimate doubts! My hesitance was not baseless! The previous two years I had been part of groups that flew out west for voyages that involved hiking. But hiking had never been the sole purpose of our endeavors. Time was set aside for casual pursuits as well: restaurants, museums, landmarks, big cities. As my memory alighted on each treasured experience, I knew that I had committed a gross error by agreeing to a trip wholly devoted to rigorous labor and without a hint of precious leisure.

Day Four

Believe me, I tried to spin the present situation in any way that could uplift my beleaguered spirit. The majority of this forsaken trail is done! Our packs are a little lighter! Our legs a bit stronger! But as day four unfolded and we traipsed across craggy terrain, I suddenly found myself consumed with sorrow. As I repeated the same questions to myself—questions that could not be sufficiently answered—all traces of willpower vanished, and under the unrelenting fire of the sun, my feet barely moved. My eyes firmly affixed to the ground before me, I removed my pack almost unknowingly and sat gingerly upon a large rock. This could not continue. This will not continue. I leaned back slowly and tilted my head towards the sky, my eyes overwhelmed with the brightness of the sun’s rays. Was this the end?

Breakdown Type: Blubbering Like a Baby

The tears came quickly and boldly. My spirit had been broken. What more did you want from me, Earth? I readily admit defeat. I freely defer to your awesome majesty. I am not your equal, nor even close. You are the breaker of bones. You shatter the souls of the prideful. What right have I to tread your mighty shoulders? Look upon my bitter weeping with pity. Release me from this bondage. Suffer no further affliction upon my weakened husk! Alas, so did my cries echo across this vast canyon. And this Earth did hear my entreaty and did placate this lost man. I wiped the tears from my face, arose from my seat, and walked not ten paces before I saw it—a roof at first, and then a quaint stone hut, there waiting to take in the sick and the weary to give them rest. Upon entering I noticed my companions had already partaken of its salvation. After about an hour of napping, eating, and self-examination, I was sufficiently recuperated. With a new energy I proceeded with haste along the remainder of the day’s trail until we finally arrived at our communal campsite. We exchanged stories of glee and woe with our fellow adventurers. Then we slept.

Day Five

This was it. The last full day of the hike. It would cover more miles than any day heretofore, but once we reached camp, it would only be another four or five miles the next morning to reach our long-awaited destination. But something happened on the way to this goal, and it happened early on. A foul temptress would beset me with promises of instant relief and unvarnished joy. Freedom, she vowed, was only a mile or two down the trail. This black-hearted witch took the form of that most sacred of shrines: the ranger station. If only I could make it there, she would deliver me from this debilitating charade! Her chosen sentry, the ranger, would escort me from the premises with due haste, and I would finally taste again the freedom of a life worth living. Oh, I could hear her calling me closer. I am almost there, my sweet…

Breakdown Type: Intending to Leave the Trail Ahead of Schedule

Sure, we were close to 80% done with our trek. All it would take is a modicum of focus to see me through to the end. Why allow myself to be enticed by thoughts of a swift and preemptive exit? Ah, but the reasons are only too easy to recount! We had encountered an unrelenting barrage of mosquitoes throughout the week. We had sizzled in the harsh summer heat. We had been rained upon during the night. We had grown sick of crumbled granola and melted Snickers. And we were mystified by countless creeks that could only be crossed with perfect precision. In short, we were fed up. Or perhaps more critically, I was fed up. Any sense of accomplishment had long since been abandoned. Only a fool would undertake a quest like this, I thought, and only a fool would feel any sense of achievement in its completion. This was brutal torture that had to be stopped, and the earlier the better. When I saw the ranger station, I glided towards it on clouds of hope. A veritable Mecca, it seemed. Freedom regained at last… One problem though. No one was at home. And who knew when anyone ever would be? I stewed there for several minutes, appraising the environment: a wheelbarrow leaning against a tree, a clothes line with undergarments on display, a sign that warned against stealing any of the trinkets on the lot. Soon enough it became clear that this place was not to be my final rest. Dejectedly I set out for the last leg of our journey, looking back frequently on that sturdy log shanty, wishing beyond reason that I would spy her tenant returning so I could dash down the mountainside and into the welcome release she had promised me that morning.

The End

Were you a dream? A test?

The climb immediately following the ranger station was mean. Further and further, higher and higher we marched. But eventually, it leveled off into a quiet wooded area that was all too dreamlike. Along the way, I met people of all ages and all walks of life who were each drawn here for one purpose or another. There were couples on missions to conquer trails together, college students who were convinced that the sensation of pain was nothing more than a mental illusion, and a few old timers who had been here many times before and continued to challenge themselves anew. Everyone seemed at peace here and quite comfortable with their decision to be here. I knew I was not like them, but I surely admired them. These monstrous pillars that touch the sky are not where they discovered their limits as I had discovered mine. No, these were their solace. Their limits were likely of an entirely different stripe than my own—perhaps academic, perhaps social, perhaps financial. As for me, I was heartened by the realization that I had discovered my limits here among these peaks. It seemed to me the sort of profound epiphany one hopes to experience in such a place, even if the revelation is a bit paradoxical. “I am not meant to be here.” It was a liberating truth.

The rest of the journey was not so bad. Soon I was walking alongside mammoth lakes, their waters undisturbed but for an occasional fish leaping near the surface. The light shone brilliantly off the ripples and against the mountainside. Earlier our group had met up and decided to finish this unforgiving trail on this very day, forsaking our prior plan to camp one more night. We were all ready to be done with the whole affair. The last couple of miles seemed especially long, but the promise of finality bore us along. Once I climbed that last flight of stairs, I found myself in one of nature’s most wondrous gifts from man: a paved parking lot. My cohorts and I boarded a red Dodge Charger, and before long the four of us ended up at a place that felt a lot like heaven. The folks out west just call it The Pizza Factory.

The other imminent launch is that of AirTran Flight 121, departing from Atlanta and arriving in Los Angeles tomorrow. On board will be a group on a mission—a mission to conquer the “Classic Sierra Hike” at Kings Canyon. Yours truly will be joined by three others on this week-long trek, and much like the two prior editions of the Chuck Norris Memorial Hike, this one promises its share of bizarre photos and ridiculous anecdotes. You have been warned.

This new “activation model” is patently insane and just made my life 100 times more difficult. If someone were to create a fork of Firebug 1.3 that preserved domain whitelisting/blacklisting, I would pay $50 for it easily. johnjbarton [the resident firebug developer], since you seem oblivious to how the new version is problematic, let me spell out some common scenarios I have tried:

Previously I enabled firebug for localhost, since that’s where I do most of my testing and developing. Then I would browse from page to page (without the panel open) until the “script error” message came up on the status bar. Then I’d open the firebug panel and troubleshoot. I’d fix it then perhaps browse around a few more pages, with the panel still open. When I was happy I’d solved the problem, I minimized firebug (back in those halcyon days, I could click the “x” button or the little firebug icon to remove the panel—it didn’t matter). But firebug stayed active, so I would be alerted to script errors if they happened.

Fast forward to today. Seems firebug now remembers panel position PER PAGE, which is ludicrously stupid. So as I browse from one page to the next, the panel is randomly disappearing and reappearing. And of course I can no longer simply tell firebug to be active only for localhost. WOW, WHAT SOME GREAT NEW FEATURES, GUYS!

The new system is completely absurd, and I hope now you can begin to see why. When a tool as ubiquitous as firebug gets changed so drastically, the question is WHY? We all loved it before, so please stop butchering it. And again, I put out the call to some developer out there who would want to continue the awesomeness of firebug 1.3 and perhaps rename it. That person would be regarded as a hero at this point…

I received an immediate response that at least acknowledged the legitimacy of my point of view:

Work on Firebug 1.4 is complete. Your scenario description is a good one, I wish we had it back when we were working on this feature. I’d love for Firebug to be perfect for everyone, but in every change there will be some winners and losers I guess.

The activation model in 1.4 was designed to allow extensions to provide special activation solutions.  If anyone wants to create one for this use case we’d be happy to give advice. (Just to set expectations, I have no plans to do any more work on activation myself).

As you can see, it seems this train is already moving at full speed, and those of us who loved the way Firebug formerly behaved will unfortunately have to endure (for the time being) the headache it has become. We can only hope a proper “extension” is released that brings back the wholly intuitive domain-based activation scheme that worked perfectly before. Until then, a single tear shall roll perpetually down my cheek.

So close, yet so tragically far away

I recently endured one of the most cathartic, heart-wrenching, emotionally taxing experiences in my entire life. I am of course referring to the 1999 World Series, wherein my beloved Atlanta Braves delivered one of the great pathetic performances in sports history. Why do I allow them to tear at my very soul with their clumsy and uninspired playing style during their most critical match-up of the year? The answer, my vassals, requires a stroll down memory lane.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. More specifically, it was 1987. I had just survived a three-year vacation in Germany. I say “survived” because I somehow lived through a variety of life-threatening injuries, such as completing a 360-degree back flip off a playground swing and slicing my lip open on the concrete below. I also endured a series of high-speed bicycle wrecks, which involved my attempts at advanced trickery on my “freestyle” machine of greatness. I would love to speak more of my vaunted Huffy, but this story is about the Braves, so stop interrupting me!

Anyway, in 1987 my family settled in the culturally intriguing state of Louisiana and made a key purchase once we moved into our new home: Cable TV. This was quite a change from the channel selection overseas, which included a grand total of one channel—the Armed Forces Network, which I recall showed plenty of WKRP in Cincinnati reruns in addition to the Mutual of Omaha nature show. So as you can tell, I was more than elated with our all-new cable system. Among the many stations available was WTBS, which televised the professional baseball matches of the Atlanta Braves. At this time, I became absorbed in the various aspects of baseball culture: I played little league, I collected cards, I impersonated star players during heated wiffle-ball competition between my next-door neighbor and myself. Also, I purchased a jock strap. I say all of that to say this: I loved the Braves, specifically their power-hitting right fielder, Dale Murphy. I had my team, I had my hero. I was set. Except for the fact that the Braves were a horrendous team during the late 80’s. Yes, I was scoffed at by my peers, who were fiercely loyal to their respective teams, namely whatever team was in first place that year. I know you are shocked to find out that most people change their favorite team from year to year, but it’s true. So I was basically the lone Braves fan outside of Georgia until 1991, when they miraculously finished first and began an unprecedented streak of success lasting the entire decade.

I should mention that the Braves traded my hero, The Murph, to the Phillies the year before their run to the World Series. Thus I harbored some significant feelings of resentment that season, even though I was beyond gleeful when the Braves accomplished the impossible—they were in the World Series! It was with much anxiety and trepidation (Can someone tell me what that means?) that I intently watched each chapter of this riveting saga, and it would all come down to Game 7. Without drudging up any long-buried and painful memories, suffice it to say that the Minnesota Twinkies prevailed via a valiant and courageous effort that involved high levels of cheating. I was deflated, muttering under my breath, “If they hadn’t traded Murph…”

Throughout the decade the Braves continued to win abundantly, but when they reached the playoffs, the thing was a crapshoot. Their lone championship came in 1995, otherwise known as the greatest year in world history. Well, maybe not, but how glorious it was! My team, the team that used to be Dale Murphy and a bunch of would-be plumbers, the Braves had finally won it all. John Smoltz and Tom Glavine were my link back to the old days, but the rest of the players were all-new and all-talented. Guys like Dave Justice, Marquis Grissom, Greg Maddux, and Chipper Jones constituted the new-look Braves, and suddenly everyone was on the bandwagon. Like any other gracious and welcoming life-long fan, I wanted to bop each new fan on the head with my aluminum Easton and tell them to get away from my team. But I learned to put up with this type of mindless, leech-like fandom.

I would later learn to cherish this World Series victory all the more, because the remainder of the decade was filled with heart-breaking collapses during the most important games. The 1996 Series is still such an aberration that I now consider my memory of it to be a side effect of my wisdom tooth removal surgery.

The Braves were not even featured in the next two World Series. 1997, as we all know, was the year of The World Series That Absolutely No One Cared About Or Acknowledged. I believe NBC promoted it this way, which explains why it was the lowest rated championship since that obscure contest in 1616 between the Jamestowne Scurvy Survivors and the Atlantis Fame, thusly named because of their well-known city slogan, “Fame—we’re gonna live forever!” The victors in both the 1616 and 1997 World Series have long since been forgotten. Curiously enough, if you add together the individual numbers in these years, you get 40, which is also the name of a popular style of alcoholic beverage. Coincidence? You wish.

At any rate, the 1998 Series was equally pointless, featuring a match-up akin to a game of chess between the IBM Deep Blue and Bubbles the Chimp. I believe the New York Spankies may have been the first team to win a World Series game via the Mercy Rule.

The stage was set in 1999, then, for a titanic clash between Atlanta and New York which would decide the Team of the Decade. At least that is what Sportscenter told me, so I was geared up for the games. Well, consider my transmission officially stripped. The Atlanta Braves displayed all the talent of a box of toothpicks in this World Series. In fact, I am calling for a government probe into the possibility that the Spankies may have swapped the Braves’ bats with these toothpicks. Basically my team could not hit a ball, field a ball, or run the bases with anything resembling skill. The pitching was spectacularly mediocre, and the entire squad seemed as if they were stricken with Fred McGriff Syndrome. This is the syndrome whereby a player will put forth the absolute minimal level of effort towards playing baseball. Don’t get me wrong, I am a huge fan of McGriff, but generally speaking, any given team can only afford to have one such lackadaisical player on the roster at a time. Therefore the 1999 Braves doomed themselves from the start, while New York did everything right. They achieved key strikeouts, key home runs, key base running, key defensive plays, and the keys to the Atlanta clubhouse, allowing them to purloin key statistical data that we were hoping to exploit against them.

Being the gracious and sportsmanlike baseball fan that I am, I will admit that the Spankies swept my Braves in the World Series only because we were without three of our best players, namely Andres Gallarraga, Javy Lopez, and Kerry Lightenberg. So don’t think for one minute, New York, that you actually accomplished anything special. Let’s see how well your team plays without Rivera, Martinez, and Leyritz, you noony-heads.

Whew. Anyway, my opinion is that we could have avoided a lot of post-season disappointment by hiring Dale Murphy as the hitting coach immediately after his playing career ended. Have you ever heard of the Curse of the Bambino? Well, I’ll have you know that the Babe and the Murph both wore number 3 on their jerseys. That sounds pretty peculiar to me. Let’s not take after the Red Sox. Let’s nip this problem in the bud.

I also want to remind the Braves franchise that my wiffle-ball skills are second to none.

An application I’m developing at work runs critical code in beforeFilter() that checks if a user is logged in and uses the results to set the website title and which links appear in the main menu. So you could say that’s fairly important. But on my error pages, Cake would conveniently display no title or main menu whatsoever. Because no debugging messages were displayed, I thought the issue might have been a minor case of a different layout file being used for error pages. But after a thorough combing of Cake’s library code, I discovered the ugly truth within the cake/libs/error.php file: the CakeErrorController class, which is used by the accompanying ErrorHandler class, never calls the beforeFilter() function. This contrasts with the Dispatcher class in cake/dispatcher.php that is responsible for most normal pages—this code eventually runs beforeFilter() within the controller’s _invoke() function, but before that it also calls the controller’s constructClasses() function, which turned out to be a critical part of my solution to this now unwieldy problem.

After attempting several ways of making the error pages run my beforeFilter() code, I found that simply adding $this->beforeFilter(); as the last line of the CakeErrorController constructor seemed to work. The problem with doing this, however, is that I had to change a core file within Cake. As my fellow developers know, this is not an option, so I had to make it work from within my own code. But luckily I was on the right track: the constructor inherits from the AppController constructor, which I was free to modify. So within my application’s app_controller.php file, I added a constructor and copied the code from CakeErrorController, making sure to add my call to beforeFilter() at the end. Amazingly it seemed to work, so I then proceeded to see which lines I could safely comment out, until I was left with just a few lines of code. The constructClasses() function in particular seems to be Cake’s succinct way of loading the components used by the application. After testing several normal pages and error pages alike, I feel fairly confident that I have solved my initial problem. Here’s the code I added to app_controller.php:

function __construct() {
    parent::__construct();
    if ($this->name == 'CakeError') {
        $this->constructClasses();
        $this->beforeFilter();
    }
}

Since I was forced to put the code in the main AppController class, some side effects may exist: beforeFilter() is potentially called twice on standard pages and perhaps earlier than normal. From what I can tell, this doesn’t affect the application’s performance or behavior. So hopefully this solution will help other CakePHP developers who want their error pages to behave as expected. But surely I am not alone in hoping that future versions of CakePHP will make this workaround unnecessary.

UPDATE: I tweaked the code to include an explicit check for CakeErrorController before running the extra lines of code in the constructor. I found a fail case that had to do with adding new users via the Auth component—new passwords were being hashed twice. So this new snippet should successfully eliminate the possibility of code running twice needlessly.

• MLB Extra Innings
• NHL and NBA playoffs
• Worms HD on PS3
• An insistence upon not writing superfluously

But fear not, for there are a couple of drafts in the works, one entitled “Alice in Plaid,” the meaning of which you are free to guesstimate.

Above all else, I try to make decisions based on logic and common sense. Many people corner themselves into doing things solely because most others do them or solely because most others don’t do them. I see both of these as entirely simplistic, even though the former faction thinks the latter weird and freaky whilst the latter thinks the former mindless and shallow. Those who show up at the school prom because “everyone’s going” are just as flawed in judgment as the person who gets multiple piercings and tattoos simply to “stray from the norm.” This has led to a situation wherein I am the guy few understand most of the time, even though theoretically I should be the easiest to understand. People have sacrificed so much of their potential because of their concern for how others perceive them—the one type wants to be loved, the other type wants to be hated. Why not live based on your own sound judgment, without regard for the reactions of others?

I have an idea for an invention called the Discussion Light. It would be a light on a bracelet or necklace that people could wear to indicate whether they want to be talked to. Green means I want to be talked to. Red means do not talk to me right now. Yellow means I do not care one way or the other. Good idea, right? Then we could avoid all those stupid times where we say “hi” to someone just because we know them. I am a guy who does not need to be acknowledged every time I see a familiar face. Unless we have something to discuss, let’s not waste time with a meaningless conversation. This could also apply when you see someone you know in a store, restaurant, or doctor’s office. With the Discussion Light, awkwardness is avoided.

The above is an example of something that would be considered odd by many people, even though it is a fabulous concept. I am a person with immense confidence in myself, whilst fully recognizing what my limits are. Any reluctance to share ideas comes not from a lack of self-confidence, but from the knowledge that everyone has not adequately trained their minds to react without pretense and predictability. It’s like laughing at a sex joke. Are you laughing just because sex is being mentioned, and you do not want to be deemed a “prude” or “religious right” by not programming yourself to laugh regardless of the actual existence of humor? Or are you laughing because it genuinely is funny? Here we have the perception issue again.

We have been called a selfish society, but in a way we are only selfish in the wrong way. We all seem to be immensely unselfish when it comes to formatting our personality based on who we are around. This is precisely the occasion where we do not need to make such a sacrifice. Our society uses the catchphrase “be yourself,” but they seem not to have the slightest idea what it means. To most of them, it simply means “be rebellious, make people mad, be different for no reason other than to be different.” Until this simple-minded and incorrect thinking discontinues, our world is stuck in Lameness Mode.

I am someone who manages to get along great with others by actually “being myself.” No, I won’t laugh at 99% of your sex jokes. No, I won’t go to that party with you and enjoy a beer or two. No, I won’t rent a tux and go to a formal with you. These are things that have proliferated not because of any logical reason, but simply because society feels they need a few things to proliferate in order to be considered a society, regardless of how truly dumb said things are. It is all part of crafting our “culture.” Ah, now this is a loaded word, and one I tend to despise. Culture mostly applies to the predominant behaviors of a society, but the vast majority of these behaviors become predominant for the reasons I mentioned above—simply because society is always feeling this need for a common behavior rather than a preference for autonomous thought. It is here where I could dive headfirst into religion, and describe what kind of common behavior is the intended ideal for humanity as a whole, but I am all too sure I would receive resistance from someone who is too “open-minded” for me. Be aware that society’s current definition of open-minded actually teeters between closed-minded and half-minded. Thus I will leave this topic at present.

So are others important? Absolutely. I have an intense affection for humankind. I want to see them happy. But our current society is set up in such a way to guarantee that will not happen. The concept of rebellion as voiced in such loaded terms as “open-minded” and “be yourself” depends on the perpetual existence of a large faction of society to “rebel” against. Rather than seeking to throw off our simplistic concepts of “culture” and actually attempt to reach a true harmony in humanity’s existence, we are still too wrapped up in the wrong kind of selfishness. The kind based on a primitive sort of competition. The kind based on a few being better than the rest. The kind based on excess, without regard for the condition of others—be this in the form of actual contempt for those others, or the idea that someone else will take care of those others.

For reasons mentioned in my long-lost essay The Final Echelon, this world is not designed for perfection—death and harbored emotions are the key reasons. Our intellect and basic emotions must coexist. Far too often we use the terms “what I think” or “my opinion” or “what I want” without realizing that our intellect and emotions often conflict with each other. What seems to be what you want may simply be what one aspect of your self wants, but not the other. A million problems have been caused by this lack of recognition—in fact, any problem not based on pure accident. Having sex prematurely, taking your first drug, killing someone—all these are based on what your immediate emotions told you that you wanted. You failed to engage the intellect. In the opposite way, the intellect can override the emotions of love and compassion. You may not logically see the need of saying a nice word to this person or buying a gift for that person, but emotionally you know it is right. Without emotion, we may not have murder or rape. But we would also not have laughter, crying, joy, and contentment.

This leads to the obvious conclusion. The world is based on balance. A balance of selfishness and unselfishness. A balance of intellect and emotion. A balance of culture and individuality. The problem with our society is merely that different people place far too much emphasis on one or the other in each pair. I do not claim to have figured it all out myself, but by recognizing the problem and keeping my eye on the solution, I feel I am making adequate headway.

My main fault is communicating with others as though they possess the same mindset as I have. That is why I have previously used terms like “scum,” “pathetic,” and “poison-tipped thumbtacks” while addressing others, when I definitely should not have. If that person were another me, he or she would take no offense, recognizing that I said those words out of my perception of their relative insignificance. But this tendency must be tempered until all of us are on the same page. In the meantime, I would best be served by writing something like this very document, which attempts to relate my thoughts to any and all readers.

I still hold out hope for humanity. Maybe we will learn to exist together without war and disregard for each other’s feelings. But in the ever-important spirit of Balance, I must also realize that we could simply continue to fail.

I had a pretty good feeling about things the moment I landed in the midst of pristine weather on Sunday evening. My hotel, which I chose seemingly at random, was situated a stone’s throw from South Beach. But the room itself was distinctly lacking in frills—an unassuming king-sized mattress bore the weight of my imminent slumber, and a clunky television relayed lackluster imagery from a limited supply of channels. I half expected Max Headroom to show up on this war-torn monitor, but before he had the chance, I was out cold. The operative word here is “cold,” for I awoke a bit earlier the next morning than I would have liked, thanks to the icy air flowing freely beneath my sheets. Next stop: free breakfast in the lobby.

The impressive stage of the main conference

I have to say that the bagel and cream cheese were exemplary, though the same cannot be said of the coffee. Soon enough I called for a cab to take me to the main venue, and whilst waiting met Baltimore’s own Javie Rios, a web designer who, I discovered, shall attempt to represent the U.S. in the 800 metres at the next Summer Olympiad. We arrived at the Adrienne Arsht Center and began our first of two workshops for the day. I really had no clue which of these workshops I would be attending, but eventually ended up at the one concerning the Social Web, specifically the paradigms of OpenID, OAuth, and Activity Streams, among others. This proved quite valuable for me, a bemused veteran of the current OpenID system, a noble concept that is racked with irritations. But I greatly enjoyed hearing David and Chris explain where they’ve been and where they’re going—how such stalwarts as Google, Yahoo, and now Facebook are all on board with this emerging system of ubiquitous user management, and how it will one day be much easier for all of us to log in and share information easily between all of our websites and services. The standard interface for logging onto sites using OpenID has been admirably refined, although pop-ups are still favored over AJAX boxes so that the user knows precisely which URL is asking for his password. An idea that popped into my head at this time was that no source is more trusted than the browser itself, so I would love to see OpenID login integrated with the major web browsers as soon as possible. The ideal scenario for OpenID would certainly make life vastly easier for both users and developers on the web.

At this point the conference attendees were rewarded with a yummy box lunch featuring a sandwich wrap and other trinkets. During the break, I met Sam Thomsen, a .NET developer from Denmark who, along with his coworkers, had parlayed his visit to Miami into a full-blown vacation. Good call, huh? I then ran into Nikki Scoggins, a sprightly gal who works for Vans and is responsible for their various social media efforts. In the midst of our discussion, a friendly gent by the name of Ryan plopped down beside us and expressed his keen interest in the Vans brand, himself wearing a distinctive green pair from the venerable shoemaker. Only after a couple of minutes did I realize that this Ryan was the selfsame Carson who is responsible for the entire event, so I credit that to his approachable and friendly nature (and a bit to my own obliviousness). I was able to talk to him a little about my employer Merge, and how I left in the midst of a site launch to be here, a fact he duly appreciated.

Now it was time for workshop number two, a presentation from Wufoo’s Kevin Hale about how to convert free customers to paying customers on our web applications. A few things stood out to me here. One: display all paid functionality on each page, even to free customers. People won’t buy it if they’re not aware of it. Two: try to stay away from coupon codes. Studies show that people will abandon their shopping carts when they see a coupon code box, because it clearly shows that they could be getting a better deal—those shoppers may leave to find a code but won’t return if they don’t find one. Additionally this workshop also provided a good synopsis of analytics tools like Crazy Egg and ClickTale that can effectively show how visitors are using your site. And perhaps most enlightening was the comparison of the relationship between your business and your customers to the marriage relationship, specifically the theories of Dr. John Gottman and how you can greatly enhance your company’s reputation by engaging in open and honest communication with your users, a strategy employed with great success by Zappos.

Day one’s official events had drawn to a close, but there was more to be done. In the Arsht Center lobby, I met Romain, a web developer from France who has worked on a pretty nifty app that lets his customers provide precise feedback by clicking on specific areas of a screenshot and leaving relevant comments. I spent a fair amount of time with Romain and really enjoyed discussing the differences between our countries and the challenges of working for a small business that are specific to each. (Special note to Burger King: you are greatly missed in Paris and would be welcomed back with open arms.) Before heading back to my hotel, I joined Javie, Romain, and Avin for some quality grub at Mike’s at Venetia—I devoured my “dolphin sandwich” with a true sense of purpose. We enjoyed an hour or two of excellent conversation, capped by my request for some bands that I should be listening to (American Head Charge, Switchfoot, and The Used, apparently). My suggestion for them? Plaid’s Double Figure.

I was definitely ready for sleep, and sleep I did. But the next morning, things would take a turn for the weird. My room phone rang a little after 7:00 in the morning, a half hour before my alarm was set to go off. I ignored it, but then it rang again. Bemused and confused, I answered. “Hello, sir,” said the lady at the front desk. “I’m sorry to bother you, but the gentleman next door to you needs to get into his room, and his door lock malfunctioned. Would you mind if we came through the connecting door in your room?” Before I had a chance to consider that opening his connecting door from my side might prove just as challenging as opening his main door without a key, I agreed. Within minutes, the woman and the guy in question, both likely in their twenties, entered the room and began discussing the situation in Spanish. As I stood beside my bed with mussed hair, raggedy shirt, sweatpants, and doubtless a face betraying extreme befuddlement, the guy opened my connecting door then proceeded to launch a full shoulder charge into his connecting door. He repeated this about twelve times, with brief interruptions punctuated by additional Spanish dialogue. Eventually the door cracked then burst open, presumably solving the immediate problem but creating a new one for future concern. Now that I was fully awake, I showered, dressed, and went downstairs to enjoy another scrumptious bagel.

Puerto Sagua = Best. Cuban Food. Ever.

Javie and I caught a taxi again and arrived for the start of the main conference itself. The auditorium was impressive, and the audience was eager for the show to start. Ryan came on stage for a brief intro, and before long we had our first speaker, Jason Fried of 37signals. Jason has a penchant for making controversial statements on his company’s blog, and while I disagree with him about half the time, I appreciate his willingness to take a stand on things. His major point during his speech was that web developers should stop giving away our work for free. Open source software is a popular movement, and it’s not going anywhere, but just because a big company like Google or Mozilla can give away stuff for free doesn’t mean the rest of us should necessarily follow suit. Even if our direct competition is open source, the market is still big enough for companies that charge—there are plenty of customers for everyone. Also we should look for opportunities to sell our “byproducts.” In the case of 37signals, these take the form of knowledge shared in books and conferences, each with price tags attached.

Next up were Ben and Dion, a couple of guys from Mozilla who talked about the future of the web browser. They discussed a quartet of exciting features, some of which are already in place for many browsers: Canvas, fast Javascript, web workers, and desktop integration. Following them was Dan from Yahoo Developer Network, who discussed such technologies as the YUI library and YSlow, the latter tool which I have consistently found very useful. We were then dismissed for a lunch break, so after a quick trip to Burger King, I returned to the facility and crossed paths with the lovely Jeile Marie, host of Go Live Miami, a series of fun webisodes about the plethora of events in the area. Jeile had actually come by our table the previous night at Mike’s and told us a little bit about her site, so I enjoyed the chance to have a longer discussion about the event and our respective backgrounds. I’m still cracking up as I think of the “Hot Lips” shirt she was wearing. Hopefully I was able to give her a few good pointers as she continues her video projects. (Hint: start networking with iJustine if possible!)

The next wave of speakers began with Joe Stump from Digg, who had some nice ideas about how to construct development teams—holding them to under 10 people is a start, but of course you can have multiple teams. He also implored us to use version control if we are not already. I myself have used Subversion in the past but would love to start using Bazaar at Merge. Also heavily endorsed was the concept of unit testing, a bridge I have yet to cross but am sure to encounter at some point. Next on stage was Kristina from Brain Traffic, who expounded the importance of good web copy then initiated a discussion about the still lackluster presence of women at web conferences. She had a good attitude about the matter, but all agreed that it will take continued effort to get more female voices on stage. Really though, this is a problem that has been a part of all computer science industries since day one. There may be something more physiological at play here that none of us fully understands yet.

Aza from Mozilla was our next presenter, who talked about the “chaordic” workflow (ordered chaos) that drives innovation at Mozilla. He identified five directions the web browser space could take in the next five years: people will become more important than technology, common tasks will become more ambient/low-cost, the browsing experience will become more continuous between desktop and mobile, tabs will graduate to a more user-friendly “2.0″ interface, and functionality will be customizable by the use of technologies like Ubiquity. Our next speaker was Dave Morin from Facebook, who touched on Facebook Connect and outlined three features of the social web moving forward: identity (give users control and trust), friends (give users the power to connect with each other), and feed integration (promote openness in your web applications).

What happened next could be classified as the obligatory dud of the conference, and appropriately enough the hapless Microsoft found themselves at the center. The company put on some sort of web app design challenge about space travel called Phizzpop, and we the audience witnessed the presentations of the two finalists. The first was a group apparently comprised of college students, with the peculiar brand of awkwardness that can be expected from this age group. Still, they achieved more success than the second group, which was made up of what might be considered the stereotypical programmer types. There’s really no need to say too much more about this contest, because none of us really knew what was going on or why it was happening. But a hearty congratulations to group one for emerging victorious.

Joel Spolsky then took the stage and delivered a somewhat dry and wry speech about “development team nirvana” and how his company has structured its office space to promote this goal. The key elements of this initiative were separate offices for each programmer, snacks always within a close radius, and ample money spent on proper chairs. Team lunch outings were also heavily endorsed, so it’s nice to know that Merge is doing its part to help me achieve self-actualization. Next up was Dave McClure, who was not afraid to perpetrate garish fonts and colors on the audience in order to make his point about how to grow and maintain your user base: acquisition, activation, retention, referral, and revenue. Concentrate on executing your plan in that order, and you too will find multicolored success… or something. Rounding out this portion of the lineup was Alex from Virgin, a company with a truly distracting name that yet manages to plaster it on every conceivable type of product. Needless to say, this presentation was about the importance of your brand. Key point: in the age of the web and social media, more people than ever are equipped with B.S. detectors (and I think mine may have started going off).

The Nikki Beach after-party. Good times.

Okay, only two speakers left, and by all accounts they were the stars of the show. First, the initially unassuming Francisco began talking about his company 280 North but in no time flat was bringing the house down in uproarious applause. The reason? Atlas, a graphical IDE front-end for Cappuccino that allegedly allows developers to construct layouts and incorporate logic for instantly cross-platform web applications, potentially alleviating developer frustration with tweaking apps for IE and iPhone. The demo was admittedly impressive, and I for one wish them nothing but luck in bringing it to fruition. I asked Francisco later about back-end database support, and he indicated they would be aiming to ship Atlas with some built-in database management, but it’s still unclear right now how much code the developer will be required to write by hand to hook into, for example, existing MySQL tables.

The last man to take the stage was someone whom I had only seen previously on Late Night with Conan O’Brien as a whacked-out “wine expert” who wanted Conan to eat dirt and other miscellany in order to develop his palate. Yes, friends, I speak of Gary V. Apparently he also has a thing or three to say about making your mark in your chosen industry and taking advantage of trends and opportunities in business. His basic advice is to hustle (or more creatively, “crush it”) if you want to succeed. “Passion is undefeated,” he says, and with this I agree. He said several other things, and said them as colorfully as possible, so if you’re ready for an aural assault, feel free to check out his pep talk for yourself.

Whew. I certainly was not alone in feeling like I had just absorbed a heapin’ helpin’ of quality information that would last me for another year, so the rest of the evening was dedicated to relaxation and fraternizing. Romain and I walked over to the bus station, where we combined forces with Nikki (with whom I might have the opportunity to collaborate on a project—stay tuned) and our new friend Victor from Philly. When we got back to South Beach, I discovered that Victor had a significantly superior hotel room despite paying a similar rate. Sure, it was a little farther from the major clubs and such, but it had a widescreen TV and a box full of assorted sweets and treats! Anyway, whilst Victor met up with another friend, the remaining three of us ate at a wondrous Cuban cafe named Puerto Sagua, where I feasted on a mixture of Spanish ground beef and rice, with black beans and fried plantains on the side. This meal was approximately 100 times better than my sole previous Cuban dining experience, and I would recommend it to anyone visiting Miami Beach.

From here we eventually made our way to the official FOWA after-party at Nikki Beach, a place which I’m fairly certain would possess a slightly different atmosphere on nights when a swarm of web developers have not descended upon it. I say this because I had been informed earlier by Jeile that their standard dress code falls squarely into the category of posh. Speaking of Jeile, we were able to meet up again here, and she kindly expressed her gratitude for my helping her get the lowdown earlier in the day about the conference happenings to that point. We talked a little more about the stuff she was shooting for the event, and I helped her track down Jason Fried for an interview. I do believe the resulting video is now online at Go Live Miami, so enjoy! Meanwhile Romain and I started a table that progressively grew in size so that it eventually resembled a giant poker game. Thanks to to Nik and Chris from Enso CMS, Avin and his wife, and everyone else who dropped by the best table at Nikki Beach!

Couldn't complain about this

Luckily my flight out of Miami the next day was scheduled for the afternoon, so I was able to spend a lazy Wednesday morning walking up South Beach and savoring the cool 71-degree temperature and sunny skies. As I paced barefoot through the sand and the water’s edge, I began to notice a particular feature of the beach that I had not anticipated. Indeed I speak of topless sunbathing, an activity enjoyed by no less than four participants during my roughly 45 minutes spent patrolling the area. It must be pointed out that each of these women was equipped with surgically enhanced wares that she was probably eager to showcase for others, and given the price tag of these acquisitions, such motives are understandable. Still, I think the ladies of the world may benefit from the observation that most guys, myself included, would prefer your natural beauty unretouched by scalpels and silicone.

At last it was time for me to leave this vacationer’s paradise, to bid Miami and its beaches and its hot pink signage adieu. Romain and I caught a cab back to the airport, ate some deliciously greasy American pizza, and lounged at the terminal until my flight was ready to board. I took my seat on the plane, broke open my recently purchased copy of Dante’s Inferno, and was impressed by a few recurrent themes from the conference. Fellow developers and entrepreneurs, I leave you with the words of Dante’s Virgil:

What is it, then? Why stand here, why delay?
Why let such cowardice come take your heart?
Why are you not afire and bold and free?

And Dante’s response:

Your words have put my heart in order now,
kindling so great a longing to set on
you’ve turned me to our first intention—go!

Short for Dennison Q. Jefferton III

You may remember that during a recent foot-ball match on television Denny’s advertised free food if you showed up at one of their locations the following Tuesday. A few friends and I took them up on this fine offer but assumed a perfunctory wait in line was all but certain. Fortunately it didn’t take us long to meet Bruce, whom one of our party properly referenced later as a true urban philosopher. Bruce was a forty-something-year-old black guy who immediately initiated a conversation that centered around rock music hits of the 1970’s. And he found like minds in the two white ladies ahead of us, who were also well-versed in the specifics of the subject. My friends and I were able to keep up pretty well, our frequent sessions of Rock Band finally paying off in a real-world application. However, it didn’t take long for Bruce to revoke my “white man’s card” for admitting that I hate the Eagles. I was disappointed but assured in the knowledge that I’m not the only one who shares this sentiment. You may wonder how a black man (or “cinnamon” as he would prefer you think of him) has the authority to issue such a verdict, but I learned later that his favorite group of all time is Genesis, so that should sufficiently answer that question.

There is so much to tell about our time in line—the pop quiz about Freddy Mercury surely stands out. We were to guess from where Queen’s front man hailed, and Bruce assured us that if we just “look around” we would have our answer. It took about a half a second for us to realize he was referring to the three individuals who likely hailed from India—they were in line right behind us. After trying to be coy and deflect the situation, Bruce loudly reprimanded us for not guessing “India, man! I told you the answer’s right in front of you!” I’m pretty sure those folks didn’t speak English and that there would have been no harm in our simply replying “India,” but the situation was too weird to process correctly at the time—I blame the complimentary “pancake puppies” that were handed out once we entered the restaurant proper.

We ended up sitting at the same table as our three new friends, and it was filled with too many comedic moments and trivial music nuggets to remember. Maybe Dave and Tom can shed some light in the comments? Ah well, the event was one we shall remember for perpetuity. And I am pleased to report I reacquired my “white man’s card” near the end of our meal when I admitted to an equal appreciation for both U2 and Rage Against the Machine for their ability to challenge our thinking while having obviously distinctive styles and philosophies. Then I snarfed down a final mouthful of bacon and pancakes, content with my life and quietly acknowledging the ingenious maneuver by Denny’s to bring disparate Americans together by way of a free and tasty breakfast.

1. Retweets — The concept of retweeting does not bring me joy but unfortunately seems to be an accepted practice. It occurs when people post another individual’s Twitter message verbatim, typically adding the letters “RT” to the front, which at least alerts me to the distinct probability that I have read this before. You see, the likelihood is all too high that the “retweeter” and I both follow the same person, rendering the repetition pointless. Plus I have a long-held belief that the world needs more original thought, and retweeting obviously flies in the face of that. I want to read YOUR thoughts, Twitter friends, not rehashes of someone else. If you would like me to follow someone whose tweets you think I’d enjoy, feel free to suggest. But please stop liberally borrowing their work for your own entries! And lest I forget, retweeting has an even more gruesome manifestation where people actually repeat themselves, typically within a day of the original tweet. This, ladies and gentleducks, is unacceptable.
2. Syncing Twitter with Facebook — Folks, folks, folks… This one falls directly under the category of “Cool! This can be done, so I’ll do it!” We human beings are prone to engaging in numerous activities solely because they are technically possible, regardless of how pointless they may be. Proofs of this theorem are readily available. In all likelihood the amount of overlap between your Twitter friends and your Facebook friends is inordinately high, meaning most of us are getting a double-barrel blast of your latest thoughts. Now I know this repetition could prove valuable if I’m ever tested on my memory of transient thought-nuggets generated by all my comrades, but really, people. Unless an online version of Don’t Forget the Lyrics: Social Network Status Edition happens to sprout from the ether, all of this doubly generated text will probably serve no ultimate purpose. (Note to self: create Don’t Forget the Lyrics: Social Network Status Edition to profit from this annoyance if it continues…)

Anyway, these are my two cents on the matter, and I do realize that these oddities happen primarily because they are allowed to happen. The situation reminds me of the ferocious Worms 2 matches of a bygone era—one day I realized that it was possible to kill an opponent’s worm in one move merely by the skillful placement of a common red grenade. This wrought much consternation from my ill-fated adversaries, and they pleaded with me not to resort to such “cheap” tactics. “But the game allows it, and you can do likewise,” I retorted. Granted, I still feel this way, but I exhort you, Twitter user, not to follow in these ill-begotten footsteps. I encourage you to do what is right and rise above the game.