The Arnhem Fallen Angels were pretty quick to respond. They apologized for the misappropriation of my artwork and said they’d add my name and the Naptown Roller Girls as artistic credit.
That’s fair enough for me.
A friend of mine pointed out not just a slight rip on one of my designs but a complete rip of an illustration I did. You might recall this illustration I did back in 2009/2010 as an exercise in Adobe Illustrator.
Jane Ire. Vector Drawing. 8″x10″. 2010.
Well, it turns out that a roller derby league in the Netherlands decided that they liked it, so they altered it and used it for a fresh meat recruitment poster. The Arnhem Fallen Angels are a flat track derby league that looks brand new from all accounts.
I don’t think this really bothers me, since derby is pretty darn DIY, and it really wasn’t an image I’d intended to do anything with. But here are a few things:
Just ask folks. If I say “no”, then it’s because I have my reasons. If I say “yes”, be prepared to ship me a t-shirt.
What follows is an incomplete philosophical approach to formatting CSS in a logical manner. I decided to finally post it after letting it languish after six years.
When working solo, it is easy enough to write your CSS in any manner that suits you. Naming conventions and style sheet structure are yours to command. There is nothing to worry about, as long as your mark-up validates and presents the page in a pleasing manner across compliant browsers. Who cares if your class names resemble abbreviations used for the Periodic Table of Elements and definitions for the header are a jumbled mess of properties in no particular order? As long as you can understand it, that’s all that matters, right?
The answer is, of course, wrong. CSS philosophers will tell you to use meaningful naming conventions for your class and ID selectors. They will go on to say that a style sheet should be organized with the framework or general elements of your website defined first; working down to the specific objects on your page. Inheritance by nature dictates the order in which we define our CSS. And when working in a collaborative environment, it is absolutely imperative that one developer be able to read another developers work and make sense of it all. This leads us to standardization, and standardization makes everyone happy. Standardization keeps us from tearing our hair out while trying to figure out what someone else has cooked up in their time with the style sheet, simply because we would all then speak the same relative language.
Enter the need for not only structure, but syntax as well. It is not enough to be conscious of how our style sheets are laid out. We need to also be aware of the declarations within our property definitions. In order for our CSS to be truly meaningful, the declarations should follow a standard method of formatting, a specific order of properties, and an understood method of shorthand. Formatting and shorthand are best left to the development team to decide which is best. Breaking lines, entering white space, and contracting long property declarations are exercises in visual readability, as well as methods for controlling style sheet file size. It is the declaration order which can further impact the true usability of your style sheet by multiple authors.
Declarations are, as W3.org tells us, “the part within the curly braces” of a style rule. A declaration is made up of two items: the property and the value of the property. There are well over 100 different properties that we could define for any given element. It is the nature of the functions of the properties that give the properties their importance. The properties of width and height will define the dimensions of an element, while the counter-increment property will generate content to be displayed when the page is rendered.
When we define our element declarations, we could literally start anywhere, with any property. Officially, style sheets do not require specific formatting when it comes to the order of the declarations contained “in the curly braces”. Some hacks will use escape characters to exploit browser rendering bugs, however those hacks usually involve repetition of the same declaration in a specific order, and are generally best implemented in a separate style sheet all together. As a whole, declaration order is not a technical requirement. It should, however, be a practiced requirement.
Content to come…
In defining an element, we should follow the age-old process of working from large, to small; from general to specific. In art classes, we were taught to work from light to dark; from blocking in patches of color and shades to fine lines and details; capture the entire scene first and then build up to the individual objects. The same applies to the structure of our CSS declarations as we define an element. In fact it makes even more sense, as we often only need the basic general declarations set, if at all.
The hierarchy of declarations begin with the most general description of the object and move inward and can include items contained within the object:
Classification Properties > Z Positioning (stacking order) > X/Y Positioning > Dimensions > X/Y Offset (container and content) > Decoration (box properties) > Contained Content Font Properties > Contained Content Decoration, Generated Content
Classification Properties
display, white-space, list-style, visibility, overflow
Z Positioning/Stack Order
z-index
X/Y Positioning
absolute, fixed, relative, float
Dimensions
width, height
X/Y Offset
margin, padding, clear
Box Decoration
background color, background image, border
Contained Content Font Properties
alignment, size, line-height, etc
Contained Content Decoration
weight, style
Generated Content
content, counter-increment, counter-reset
We may not always define a particular property, but instead we might allow for the inheritance to define the property. Even still we should follow the hierarchical order when listing the properties we do wish to define. For example, a single column container display would be written as such:
#columnPrimary {
position: relative;
width: 532px;
margin: 0 214px;
padding: 0;
background-color: #FFF;
text-align: left;
}
Here I have followed the hierarchy defined the column with its positioning first (leaving the z-index to its inherited defualt), the dimension of width (height is left as default), the offset of margin and padding next, a background color and then finally the alignment of the content within.
This is, of course, a conversation starter. I haven’t been able to find other discussions on this topic on the web.
And here ended my grand plan. With the introduction of CSS3, and boilerplate frame works, I lost sight of the direction for this method. I hope you’ve found it useful.
On June 23rd, I was a zombie for a day in the Run For Your Lives Indiana stop. It was awesome.
For a long time, I’ve done the “live action role playing” thing (yes – the “lightning bolt” guy stuff) and I’ve always enjoyed being a monster for such events. You lie in wait for the heroes of the game and you get to be a beastly bad guy, making their day as bad as possible. Acting the role is half the fun. The other half is running around like a ninny, watching what amounts to an adult game of “tag” turn into a life and death struggle. Anyone who thinks that fantasy-larp is all dorks in ren faire gear needs to play a game with me and my friends.
So when the zombie 5k trend reared its rotten head, I knew I had to do it. And I had to drag everyone I knew with me. My co-workers were mostly game, though they ended up wanting to run the darn thing. Idiots. They also signed up to run at a time when I would not be on the course as a zombie. I said “idiots” already, didn’t I? At least my girlfriend, her sister, and her sister’s girlfriend wanted to be zombies with me.
Here’s the short of it all: Runners wear a belt with three flags. They must complete a 5K rough-terrain obstacle course filled with mud pits, rope ladders, slides, tubes, electric fences, etc. In the meantime, the zombies, who are stationed along the course, must snatch the flags away from the runners in order to “eat” them. Lose all of your flags and you “die.” Zombies receive no reward for snatching flags other than the cold satisfaction of having made someone scream in fear. Which is enough to me.
If you need to know more, just hit the HotBot.
While I could find plenty of YouTube videos on what it was like to be a runner, I couldn’t find too much on what it was like to be a zombie. So this post is for the ages. And the curious. What is it like to be a zombie for the Run For Your Lives 5k event? Well, I’ll tell you…
Registering
Being a zombie costs money; not a lot – and not nearly as much as being a runner. But you do pay for the privilege. When registering, you pick a specific 3-hour shift (1st, 2nd or 3rd) and you can also give a group name, so that you can be a zombie with your pals. This is what my group did. And then you wait.
Your Costume
It’s no fun just being “average joe zombie”. Ok, maybe it is for you, but not for me. Remember, as a zombie, you were plucked out of your every day life (or death) wearing what you had on at the time and turned into a knight of the living dead. If you were at work, flipping burgers, then you’re stuck for the rest of your zombified existence in your polyester polo shirt and red and gold cap. If you were buried and dug your way out of the grave, chances are you were dressed in your Sunday best… from the waist up at least. There have been clown zombies, mascot zombies, doctor zombies, bride/groom zombies, military zombies, Michael Jackson zombies… the list is endless. So why not dress up as something fun?
We chose to wear hospital scrubs because a) the hospital is the most likely place for a zombie problem to occur, b) scrubs are dirt cheap and we didn’t mind trashing them, c) we’d all match and be a fun “group”, d) runners would know that there is no hope if even the hospital can’t save them, e) scrubs are pretty light-weight so we could move and breathe in them. I bought a surgeon’s cap so I could keep the sun off of my head.
To add the finishing touch, we came up with fun ID-tags for “St Barnabas of The Recently Resurrected” hospital. I was Dr Oliver Skinsgreen, a surgical technician assigned to neurology. It’s all about the little touches when it comes to costuming.
On the morning of the run, we woke up bright and early, had some coffee and donned our hospital blues.
Showing Up
Our Zombie Parking Pass took us away from the main line of cars where we joined our zombie compatriots. Spirits were very light among the newly walking dead. I dare say that the folks who came out to be zombies probably had a much better sense of humor about everything (even the port-o-lets) than the runners. It’s a wild assumption but I’ll just go on believing that I’m correct.
Initial check-in was easy. We didn’t need forms or even an ID. We gave our names and the group we’re with. Once we’re checked off the list, we’re given a small card listing the rules of being a zombie. I won’t tell you what those rules are, since they relate to the overall run. They did include things like “don’t be a jerk”, which is not always obvious to everyone. On the back of the card was our zone number and “C” for “chaser” (which is what I signed up to be) and “S” for “stumbler”. Randomly selected people received a “P” on their hand. It meant “prosthetic”. I could be given a big latex wound. Hooray!
Once checked in, we were pointed to the zombification center. Inside we could choose from ready-to-go zombie clothing or we could elect to have our own outfits artfully “shredded” by an enthusiastic crew. I opted for the latter. They left the shirt intact, but my girlfriend was having wardrobe issues due to some heavy shredding.
Next came the prosthetic application. Two gals did their best multi-tasking putting on small latex bits of gashes on faces, necks and foreheads for an ever growing line. Once glued up, I was ushered into the “chaser” line. Each type of zombie received a different kind of make-up. I think chasers were more “freshly” dead and bloody where stumblers were more corpse-like and ashy. Three artists were in charge of specific elements of the face make-up for me as a chaser. One worked over some foundation, the other touched up the prosthetic, and a last one did the blood. I think the stumblers worked with an air-brush artist or two.
We stepped outside of the building and were greeted by two gals with spray bottles. The bottles held some sort of red or grey liquid that they spritzed our arms and necks with. This gave us more of a diseased and dirty look. The next, and final, step was the body treatment. Two folks with pressure sprayers gave our clothing a misting of dirty-ish blood/make-up for a rotten look. Finally a blood-flinger flung copious amount of red goop at our chest and back, for a freshly splattered appearance.
All-in-all they did an amazingly great job of transforming a hundred or so people into zombies in a very short period of time.
Gathering The Horde
There was a short reading of the “rules” and announcing of guidelines. Don’t be agressive. Don’t be a jerk. Don’t grab/push/shove. Don’t take flags from downed players. Do scare the hell out of them. Do go for the flag when appropriate (I’ll let you figure out what “appropriate” is). Report cheaters. Report abusers. Report jerks.
The staff told us what I already knew. We were the “magic” for the event. Without the zombies, it’d be just another mud run. And this is what I love. I enjoy playing the part, acting the character and getting a real, honset response from the other actors.
We’re handed two bottles of water and a bag of chips. This was our food for the shift and all we’d get. Given the heat of the day, they should have been a little more prepared with water and other considerations for the people who’d paid to stand out in the sun for three hours in order to make their event fun and unique.
Enh. We didn’t care though. We’re going to get to be zombies.
The horde was divided up into groups, with a staff leader walking us out onto the course. Early waves of runners were a little shocked to see columns of fresh, bloody undead marching past them. We got to see, first hand, what being a zombie meant as flags were ripped from runner after runner by quick-handed ghouls. It didn’t take long until we’re led to our designated area and given a small briefing.
From Here to There
It was a little difficult to make out exactly where the course was. Stakes, strung with red tape, marked the boundary along a hundred meters of rough earth. Around one corner was a water/mud obstacle. At the other end was an opening in the trees with a rough path going up a small hill. An offshoot to the path was marked with a yellow “two lane” sign, positioned at a 90-degree angle so that the arrows on the sign pointed right or left. Right was a dead-end. Left took along the open course. These were our boundaries.
It was plenty of ground, too. With the mud pit in a swath of shade and the small hill in the trees also very shady, there was plenty of open ground for runners to get by without much of a challenge. I really didn’t want to be chasing people out in the full sun, so I stuck close to the tree-covered end of our zone.
The first zombie shift cleared the trail as the noon wave came barreling through the course. We did what we could to get into position to catch them, but didn’t do so hot. I gave chase and instantly the uneven ground proved a match for me. I turfed pretty damn hard. Right in front of the departing first shift zombies. “Dude” one said “something something something” while shaking her head. I really didn’t catch it but I’m sure it was something like “don’t be such a fucking idiot and take it easy or you’re going to hurt somebody or yourself.”
As I said, I really didn’t hear her. I was too busy digging dirt out of my ears.
Flaaaagz…
About every twenty minutes, from there on out, a wave would come through. First the fast, nimble track-stars. Then the masses of normal jogging thrill seekers. And finally the heavier and slower “I’m gonna do this or I’m gonna have a fucking heart attack” well intended stragglers. Each kind of runner demanded something different.
For the fast runners, I’d try to start running quickly as they passed me, hoping to match speed for the sprint. If I couldn’t catch them, I’d at least keep them moving to tire them out for the later zones. I hate them. I hate them all.
For the masses, I’d single out the jack-asses – the ones who smacked at other zombie hands or who were overly celebratory about dodging past a stumbler. I’d go on full chaser mode and single them out of the pack to snatch their flag. Joy would turn into instant sorrow! “That’s CHEAP!” one yelled as he ran down the path. I’d come up from behind and ripped the flag from his belt after he cooly sailed past the rest of my fellow undead. I just growled in triumph.
Often, a group of regular runners would get through the mud, down the path and up to the tree-line and rest. Rest? When there’s zombies? They’d stop and see me, with two other zombies and say “Shit! There’s more!” And they’d wait to catch their breath. Screw that! I’d give them a few warning growls, start shuffling and then tear into the pack, scattering them! Ha! They’d suddenly get their wind back. They should be thanking me instead of screaming in fear and pushing their boyfriends/girlfriends at me.
For the slower, adventure seekers. Well – you can be a zombie with a heart if you like. They all got a free pass, unless they were just being jerks. I’d take a moment to rest with them and give them some fun. I’d shut down, let the jaw slack and even maybe allow some drool to form. Once they regained their breath and started moving, I’d become more alert – “waking up” and smelling blood. They got around me just fine. I’m sure some other, less compassionate zombie went for the flags, but I’m not going to ruin someone’s already painful good time.
Terror!
Nothing beats getting a real and honest reaction from about two-dozen physically fit and bigger than me athletes. As they would climb out of the mud-pit or gather up at the trees, I’d shuffle forward and give them my best growling crazed chaser growl that I could. All the while I was targeting flags and where I should shoot for. They’d stop, reign up and step back. Just when they thought they had a moment to relax, that’s when I’d go in! Mwahahaha! The pack would be off and I’d pick someone out.
The real fun, after picking someone out, would be to find a real target. The first one would be a ruse, to lull the other runners into a sense of complacency. “Oh – the zombie is going after that guy, so I’m good,” they might think. Wrong! I’d peel away from the first target and try to take a different runner unawares. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes I could just run along with the pack and no one would notice because everyone else around them is running. Silly humans.
Cheaters. All of them.
A majority of the runners whose flags I tried to swipe were cheating. Cheating includes:
I saw all of this. I was hit plenty. I still kind of have a bruise on my wrist from one slapper. A girl clutched and shifted her flags past me twice. I had a grip on the flags a third time and she grasped them in a death grip. Runners would place the flags across their crotch, thinking that no one would grab there. They were wrong. We quickly all agreed that we didn’t care what we grabbed when going for the flag. The sheer amount of cowardice that the runners exhibited was astounding.
But I guess that’s human nature and I shouldn’t be surprised.
The Pain
I fell a few times. People running from me also fell, some with me going over on top of them. It’s those that I feel really badly for. I don’t want to hurt anyone, and I don’t want to see anyone hurt because of my actions. But darn it – shit happens. I still feel bad about the guy I fell over. He got up and brushed it off like it was no big deal but it really takes the wind out of your sails.
A friend of mine, who was running the race, ended up needing stitches because he slipped in some gravel. I’d rather not be the cause of someones hospital visit. I ended up giving a girl her flag back after she fell when I took it. I’m a sap.
From 11 til 2
By the end of our shift, we’re pretty tired. One of our crew had a bleeding toe because she wore the precisely wrong kind of shoe. They’d walked us through a shallow stream, her socks got wet and started rubbing up inside the loose canvas, causing an abrassion on her foot. Even though she expected her shoes to get trashed, better footware would have saved her. My wool socks mostly saved me.
I was reduced from being a chaser to a stumbler with the final wave. I just couldn’t quite get up and down the small hill, even though I wanted to so badly. My water was gone and my chips were long eaten. When our relief group arrived, we’re gathered up and waiting. “You’re supposed to be spread out!” said the official. “We were! But we’re tired and saw you coming.”
We managed to shamble back to Zombie HQ without much trouble though.
De-Zombification
The line to check back in was certainly a good time. You got to see how well your fellow zombies survived. One guys shirt was completely shredded. Another’s makeup was streaked with dirt and sweat. Everyone was smiling.
We’d assumed that there would be some sort of changing facility set up. But, no – those were far away, near the beer tents and stage. That was pretty stupid, so some of us changed right there. No one cared. We were zombies, fer Pete’s sake! I was hoping for some sort of misting shower tent and what we got was a gal holding a garden hose. Ok… I was hoping for make-up artists to be on hand to scrub down our faces in assembly line fashion, just as they had made us up. What we got was a table with some baby wipes, facial pads, shaving cream and make-up remover. The only reflective surfaces available were three mirrors.
Oh well. Whatever. Everything came off at least.
The Event
After shoving our clothing into some garbage bags, we toddled off to the event grounds to get our free beverage and use some cleaner port-o-lets. We climbed up a small goat-hill and sauntered down a gravel path to the main festival area. The tickets, it turned out, were only good for beer. The port-o-lets were clean. After paying $2.50 for a soda, I suggested we go find some cheaper food and drink before my legs gave out.
In The End
I had a great time. I think the event is unique enough to continue into another season, and there are plenty of imitators already. Here’s a good summary of the day:
The Run For Your Lives crew just needs to improve on about a dozen things for zombies. I’m sure the runners have feedback too.
This week I quit my job.
“Why? Why am I doing this?” I keep asking myself those questions. It’s strange that I just don’t know.
I’ve been with the company for thirteen years. Thirteen! I’d never had a job past a few years prior to landing the gig. And it was my first real world big-pants professional job. It was also in a field that I wanted to be in. It was a career. It was stability when, at the time, I was sitting right at poverty level.
It saved my life.
I started as a web designer right as the dot com bubble reached its apex. Within a year the bubble burst and all of those cool stories about how fun it was to work for a software company you heard in the ’90s passed into legend. No more parties, no more work trips, no more sushi in the break room. The economy mostly tanked and people were laid off. 9/11 happened and the economy tanked. More people were laid off. There was a recession and yet more people were let go. The housing market took a dump and the economy tanked yet again. All the while, my division had been made not just viable but necessary to the company as a whole. I got really really lucky.
So now I’m quitting. Why? What is so awful about the job that I should leave? I sit in relative comfort, in front of a huge monitor, with a view of trees (and a parking lot). There’s no physical labor and no one will die if I make a mistake. Stress is minimal (or what you make of it) and the personal growth has been fantastic. So… why?
It’s really a lot of things. Whenever someone quits (or at least when I have quit a job in the past) the assumption is that they’re unhappy. But I’m not unhappy. I’m not angry. There’s no middle finger in the air and a “take this job and shove it” bumper sticker on my car. I’m just not… happy.
I’m not happy with the way management works. I’m not happy with the way upper-management works. I’m not happy with the way upper–upper-management works. I feel like I’ve stated every case, made every argument, and dropped every hint that I wanted something more. Or at least I wanted something to change. And that seems to have either sailed over the heads of my up-line or they themselves felt powerless to do anything. If you can’t expect those you’ve worked with for years to champion your cause or believe in you, who will?
As an employee, you shouldn’t have to ask yourself this question. “Who is on my side? Who will approve this raise request? Who has the pull to do anything about recognizing my years of work, dedication and passion if not my immediate supervisors?”
It also comes down to respect. Respect for the discipline of the producers. Respect for the product. Respect for the customer. Without any of those things, any company should not expect to succeed. Or at the very least, the company should not expect to keep talented people. If mediocrity is a benchmark for your development team, then that’s just not for me.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no rock-star. I’m an artist who enjoys immersive tech. I have opinions about things that other people also have opinions about. The difference is that I don’t speak at conferences. I don’t write articles. I don’t subscribe to methodologies like they’re the new Atkins diet. I don’t preach. I’m not even that much of a whiz-bang visual designer.
I don’t code especially quickly. I have to look up the star hack to remind me of the formatting. I still don’t use a lot of pseudo selectors just because I haven’t had to. I don’t know how to properly use media queries. There are few moments where I say “Hey! Why don’t I use this really obscure but effective strategy or property and that will solve all of the problems!” No – there’s none of that. Sometimes I don’t even have a good grasp on all of the requirements and how they impact every single business unit in the company.
But I’m still better than some.
So I’m quitting my job. I’ll miss it. I’ll miss the people most of all. And I’ll miss the 30″ monitor and window cube.