Bad Touching
In writing an extension for our cat, Ada, I've created a class which
inherits privately from std::map. In other words,
internally, to itself, it looks like a map object, while to everything
else, it looks like some other kind of thing. The design is beautiful.
It's simple.
However, it won't compile. Some client code is trying to access the class is if it were a map. I hold my nose and expose that part of the map interface.
But it still won't compile. Now different client code wants some other part of the map interface.
I enter using map::this; and using
map:that;, but it never successfully compiles until I've exposed
the entire map interface.
The beautiful, simple class design is now violated and hideous. I'm totally helpless to do anything about it; it's the only way it will run.
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Grogan
I'm in a house that is best described as swanky
. There's shag
carpet on the floors, mod furniture, indirect lighting, and dark wood
accents. The exterior wall of the den is a huge window that looks back
over some woods and a creek. It's overcast out, chilly and misty, and
the view is obstructed by a big, brown dumpster that's filled to
overflowing with debris blown out of the trees.
Several people live in the house, and one of them is a tennis pro. He's giving lessons. I watch for a while. (We're outside now. The courts are clay.) It looks like fun, batting the ball back and forth over the net. I haven't played tennis in a long time, but before I give it a try, I have to find my tennis racket. It's been so long, I can't remember where I left it.
After walking for a while across a grassy field, I find a bag with a racket in it. It's a racketball racket, but I'll be able to make do.
Coming toward me from the courts is one of the people from the house.
The person tells me, You might want to come back. Someone's asking for
you.
Together, we hurry back to the courts. As we get closer, I see that the group is standing around a figure seated on the ground, with his back against the fence. He's grown his hair out again, and has a horseshoe moustache, but it's clearly my old friend Michael Farrar. Even from this distance, he seems withdrawn. People are talking to him, but he's not saying much back.
Hey!
I call to him from an appropriate distance. It's
good to see you, Mr. F. What are you doing here?
He looks up at me. You'd better call me
Grogan
.
What do you mean?
He seems tired. Turning his eyes back down at the court, he scuffs at
the clay with his shoe. The
Michael
identity is pretty worn
out.
I can't think of anything to say.
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Another Hotel
I'm driving a large car, a convertible, with Barbara in the passenger seat and Caitlin in back. We're on the outskirts of some city, and a pickup truck belonging to some lawncare company is in the other lane. The interstate is getting more and more complicated, looping back on itself, exit and entrance ramps sprouting to the left and right, and over and underpasses braiding their way across the urban landscape.
Without warning, the left lane changes direction, and the broken
white line dividing it from the lane we're in abruptly changes to
double-yellow. The lawncare pickup swerves to avoid on-coming traffic,
and I have to hit the brakes to keep from rear-ending it. Barbara and I
agree: it would be prudent to get of the road. I take the next exit,
which is marked Downtown St. Louis
.
St. Louis,
I declare. I love St. Louis.
I don't love
St. Louis, particularly. I've enjoyed St. Louis when I've been there,
but I wouldn't say I loved it. But I just did say it. I wonder
why.
The town isn't much like the St. Louis I know. (It's like a different
city standing in for the real St. Louis.) When we get downtown, we find
a hotel and pull into the parking garage. The parking garage is crowded,
and the layout is nearly as complicated as the interstate system. We
spiral up, following PARK
signs, passing row after row of cars,
looking for an empty spot. After a few circuits of the garage, we're
forced to leave the keys with the attendants. One of them, a grad
student at the university, shows us the way to the hotel lobby.
After checking in, we board the elevator. It's big, as big as a whole room, itself. In fact, it's appointed like a room, with framed prints on the walls, a desk and bed, and guests staying there. They don't seem to mind that we've come in to be taken to our room. There's no elevator music, but the TV provides background noise during the ascent.
Our room, when we get there, is unsatisfactory. It's a hotel room, but subtley and indescribably off. There's no way we can stay there. Barbara mentions a room we passed on the way up, one with an open door. We gather up our luggage, and make our way back down.
The room is empty and acceptable, though we worry that the hotel may assign it to someone else while we're staying there. The student who had showed us the way to the lobby tells us that it will be no problem.
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The Radio Is On
It's dark in the house. It's not my house, but not wholly unfamiliar. It's old, with dark wood trim, red carpeting, and patterned wall paper.
Somewhere downstairs a radio is playing. It's on a talk show, and male voice talks about military history in a British accent. It's late, though, and the radio should not be on. People are trying to sleep.
The floorboards creak as I make my way down the dimly lit hallway. I walk slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. At the end of the hall, around a corner, is the long wooden stairway down to the first floor, where the radio is playing. Each platform complains as it takes my weight, amplified by the quiet of the house as is the voice on the radio, now talking about the battleship Bismarck.
When I'm about halfway down the stairs, the radio stops. The house is silent for just second, then another radio comes on, this time upstairs. It's playing classical music just loudly enough to hear.
I'm in bed, and I can hear music which seems to be coming from outside the house, this time my house. I climb out of bed, but the sound moves as I do. Is it a voice? I stand for a moment in the dark trying to get my bearings.
What is it?
Barbara asks.
Do you hear that? I think I hear something,
I whisper.
Oh,
she says, more wakeful. I think I left the radio on
downstairs. Sorry...
She's right. I can tell now that the sound is coming from downstairs. I go down and turn off the radio.
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Nerd Dreams
This is the first dream that I've remembered vividly is months. Unlike most dreams, though, it was conceptual, rather than visual with some kind of narrative.
The dream unfolded as a debate about the configuration of listboxes
and the items presented in them. The idea was that one would establish
styles applied to the items in the listbox by other items entered in a
special listbox. In the sample, there were three styles: red, yellow,
and green. However, instead of being named red
, the red style was
named oranjeboom
.
It was hard to formulate a coherent thought about this method of
configuration, because I kept getting distracted by
oranjeboom
.
Comments: 1