blarg?

May 26, 2014

This Is My Bag

Filed under: awesome,documentation,interfaces,toys,want — mhoye @ 11:18 am

I bought a new bag.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I shouldn’t buy anything in the wintertime; I spend too much time indoors and it’s bad for my head. After a while I start believing that I should start having things that are nice, and maybe even – dare I say it – fancy, and when you’re a guy in the throes of middle-age that can end poorly.

As a side anecdote: my personal canonical example (is “headcanonical” a word?) comes from late winter about two years ago, when I mentioned to an old friend that I’d been (at 37, with two kids; painfully trite, I know) casually window-shopping for motorcycles. She’s known me forever, and her reply slid in flat between the ribs that special way only an old friend’s can.

“So did your dad ever hug you when you were a kid, or are you going to get one of the really loud ones?”

Painful wince, scene.

Gentlemen, having women in your life who will call you on your bullshit is invaluable. I’m not getting a motorbike.

Which, in fact, is great – all that cabin-fever stir-craziness ends in the spring, because what I really want, every year, isn’t fancy shoes or a motorcycle, it’s to get back on my bike. A few weeks of summer commutes has cemented it, too; I fly past a lot of expensive European metal on my ride in and your Porsche or Ducati doesn’t matter much if everyone in front of you is parked. But on a bike I can blow through traffic like the wind, and in rush hour traffic – and that’s most of the time, downtown – I’m far and away faster than anything else on the road.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand: after a fair bit of screwing around trying to turn my venerable old laptop bag into the messenger bag I actually wanted, I’d decided I needed to solve the problem once and for all.

I’m partial to messenger bags as because of the kind of riding I tend towards is the “playing-in-traffic” kind, and for that you need any weight you’re carrying to sit as high on your back as possible. It’s hard to cinch the load on a backpack up over you, and the lateral stability on them is usually iffy. They’re just not meant for this kind of work. I love the look of Saddleback Leather’s bags – so beautiful, so utterly impractical – but when spring rolled around I had to own up to the fact that they’re not right thing. I’m the semi-mythical Scofflaw Cyclist that comes up whenever people talk about traffic, and I needed something for the aggro bike commuting I do every single day. So I laid out my criteria and broadened my search.

My needs turned out to be pretty straightfoward:

  • Waterproof for real. Not “resistant”; clean-it-with-a-hose waterproof.
  • Holds a 15″ laptop plus the usual nerd fixins’ plus two days’ clothing.
  • Replaceable straps – that is, the straps can’t be sewn in to the bag.
  • Quick-adjust straps. Gotta be able to cinch it down and step out of it easily.
  • Second support strap, ideally also quick-adjust.
  • Side pockets I can reach without opening the whole bag.
  • Little or no velcro, just because it annoys me.
  • Being able to clip stuff to the sides is a plus, and Molle webbing is nice and everything but
  • if the word “tactical” appears anywhere in the product’s page, close the tab. “Tactical” has become shorthand for “substandard gear aimed at the macho bullshit market”, so when you’re in the market for sturdy, dependable gear this is a huge timesaver. Remember: amateurs study tactics, professionals study logistics.

The replaceable straps part is really important. They’re generally the least-thought-out part of the bag, despite being the most important. Being able to either get them just right or replace them is a deal-breaker.

As beautiful as they are, the Saddleback bags – any leather bags – were disqualified early on, and the strap criteria ruled out all of Crumpler’s products. Maxpedition bags are solid, but they suffer from that mall-commando velcro-and-tiny-pockets-everywhere aesthetic that makes you look like a deflated Rob Leifield character, so that’s that. They’re like some of the better Targus bags, in that sense; all the ingredients of a great product are there, you can see them, but nobody with any taste cared enough about how they worked or fit together.

I had a couple of strong choices, though. The last candidates to get cut were:

  • The Tom Bihn Ego/Superego, cut for the straps. It’s a nice bag and Tom Bihn sees a lot of love around the office, but bags that hang low off clips generally seem to be designed for casual cyclists and pedestrians.
  • I spent a very long time looking at Acronym’s Third Arm products – this one is just so close to perfect – but $1100 for a messenger bag is utterly indefensible lollerskates.
  • The MEC Velocio, a very strong contender particularly for the price, maxes out at a 13″ laptop and was cut for size & strap reasons.
  • Chrome’s Buran looks great and is well-reviewed, and the seatbelt-buckle strap is compelling. but falls down on the side pockets and removable strap questions. Chrome makes great bags in general, and the Buran was the last cut. [UPDATE: This was an error – the Buran has removable/adjustable straps that are equivalent to those on the Timbuk2 Especial, and if I were doing this again it would be a tossup; the Buran also meets my requirements.]

The winning candidate was the Timbuk2 Especial Cycling Messenger Bag, which is as close to perfect as I’ve seen. Sits high on the back. waterproof, the strap is great and the magnetic-clip latches are good enough that I find going back to the old kind pointlessly cumbersome now. Fits a lot if it has to, cinches down if it doesn’t, comfortable and lifts off the back a little bit to air out which is quite nice. This plus their extra 3Way phone case for the strap has been making me very happy for about a month now.

There are a few caveats::

  • I generally dislike velcro, but Timbuk2’s “silencer” straps aren’t worth it. A yard of velcro does the job for a fraction the price. If those straps had incorporated some extra molle-style gear loops I’d have jumped at them – some extra clip-in points under the flap would be welcome – but you’d need two sets to quiet this bag, so I wouldn’t bother.
  • I’ve replaced the stock support strap with $5 worth of straps and buckles from MEC so that I can loosen it up or cinch it down as easily as the main strap. This isn’t a big deal until you’ve got to wear a jacket, but it was worth it. Likewise I’ve added a small strap to the main buckle so that it’s easier to unlatch with gloves.

… but that’s not much, and the result is exactly what I wanted.

May 21, 2014

What Better Place Than Here, What Better Time Than Now

Filed under: awesome,doom,lunacy,music,vendetta — mhoye @ 3:07 pm

I was in an Ikea last weekend, when their background music system started playing Rage Against The Machine.

I was actually paralyzed for a moment. I found myself looking around, thinking “Am… Am I just old? Is this old-person music now? Or is it finally time? Here? Why here, now?” I felt, briefly, like I was revisiting a scene from They Live, entirely in my own head. Am I the only person who can hear this? Doesn’t anyone else know what comes next?

I took a minute to look around; I expected to see at least one other person trying to decide whether or not it was time to start flipping stuff over and setting it on fire, but nope. Not a one.

UPDATE: A cölleägüe pöints öut thät there ären’t enough ümläuts in this pöst, which I will äddress directly.

May 18, 2014

Optics

Filed under: awesome,fail,interfaces,toys,weird — mhoye @ 1:25 pm

Well, we have to get back to making jokes at some point. I bought some glasses from the internet.

I bought new glasses from the internet.

It didn’t go exactly as I’d hoped.

May 13, 2014

Saying Goodbye

Filed under: interfaces,life,vendetta — mhoye @ 11:23 pm

My father, David Hoye, died on Sunday at about 5:30 in the morning. He was seventy years old; he’d been married to my mom for the last forty-five.

He had his own ideas about what was right and how things should be done, and though he’d always listen he didn’t much care who disagreed with him. He was impractical and idealistic and stubborn and if you know me at all I’m sure that comes as no surprise whatsoever. We were differently stubborn people with different ideas though, or perhaps “of course”; finding a common language, much less common ground, was never all that easy. It took me a long time to recognize what I’d decided in my teens was overbearing micromanagement for the uncomplicated thing it really was: caring. Lots of it, all the time. I’ve inherited that too, to my chagrin. And it never goes away and I can never turn it off and if I’m lucky someday my kids will hate it just as much as I did. If I’m really lucky they’ll eventually feel the way I feel about it now, but who can say?

He never complained about pain, ever, so when he had to cut a March visit short because his back was “bothering him”, that was worrying. He was diagnosed with prostate cancer shortly afterwards, and it took longer than we would have liked to get him on a treatment program and a pain-management regimen that seemed to be working. But prostate cancer is one of the ones we’re supposed to be able to manage, right?

It looked that way for a while; the numbers were moving quickly in the right direction, and though he was still weak from the medication and radiation treatments he was lucid, could still move around with some effort and things seemed to be moving in the right direction. On May 5th, though, he was checked back into the hospital in considerable pain, where we found out that whatever he had had metastasized and by that point was basically on fire.

All of his kids got a chance to talk to him while he was still lucid and fully present, for which I’m grateful.

It wasn’t a good week; cancer doesn’t give out many of those. But he was himself, right to the end; stubborn, determined and caring deeply about his wife and family. Another thing I’ve apparently inherited from him is that painkillers don’t work for shit; on Friday I watched him, in a body that barely worked at all, fight his way up past enough morphine to put down a mule to tell my mom he loved her. On Saturday with the painkillers running as hot as the hospital staff could set them he was still struggling to talk, but the only thing we could make out were the names of his wife and kids and him asking us to take care of each other.

I want to tell you a story about him.

This happened in mid-November, I think, when I was seven or eight years old. We’d had a warm, dry lead-up to winter, and though the leaves were long off the trees we hadn’t seen any snow yet. But that evening while the temperature dropped on our calm one-block street, we got about a quarter-inch of freezing rain on top of everything.

Dad woke us up for this; it gets dark early in the winter so I have no idea how late it really was but it felt late. Dad woke us up and got us dressed in our snowsuits and we went out to the front porch, where he helped us put on our skates.

In hindsight, I doubt we were out there for more than twenty minutes. But how can I describe those twenty minutes, through an eight-year-old’s eyes? Everything I’ve grown up around suddenly made of crystal, the whole world from asphalt to the treetops shining in the old yellow streetlights like one diamond. Skating up and down the street, arms out like a superhero, stumbling over exposed pavement and turning around to try again. Ruining our skates, I’m sure, for a few minutes of surreal, magical flight up and down our block.

We were the only kids out there that night of the dozen or so young families on the block, and this is what I wanted to tell you about my Dad: he found this for us, this moment that was as close to magic as anything I’ve ever seen. And anybody else could have done that, sure. But nobody else did, and I doubt anybody believed me when I told them about it the next day or any day since, and I don’t care. I had dreams about it afterwards for years; to this day, sometimes, I still do.

He died early Sunday morning, slowing to a stop after his first decent, painless (I think, I hope) night’s sleep in a long time. And I’ll miss him, and I hope that when my time comes that I can show my family a fraction of the love and dedication that he did.

Goodbye, Dad. I love you.

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