Vote history username bug September 21, 2009 3:33 PM Subscribe
A bug in Projects: clicking on the usernames in someone's vote history leads to a 404 every time.
I'm using Safari 4.0.3 on OS X 10.4.11 and it gives me an error.
posted by zarq at 3:36 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by zarq at 3:36 PM on September 21, 2009
shmegegge - Hit the link in the post and then click on a username i.e. LongDrive. Fucked for me too.
posted by gman at 3:37 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by gman at 3:37 PM on September 21, 2009
Thanks for the heads up, should be working now. By the way, we added vote history a couple days ago!
posted by pb (staff) at 3:38 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by pb (staff) at 3:38 PM on September 21, 2009
Firefox 3.5.3 in XP; both skins. IE7 doesn't do it, however.
posted by Paragon at 3:38 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by Paragon at 3:38 PM on September 21, 2009
And yet... it doesn't give me an error using Firefox 3.5.3 under the same OS.
posted by zarq at 3:38 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by zarq at 3:38 PM on September 21, 2009
Yeah, works here. Oh, I see pb fixed it. Cool beans.
posted by mathowie (staff) at 3:42 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by mathowie (staff) at 3:42 PM on September 21, 2009
The other day, pb actually fixed a bug before I could find it. I looked and I looked, but it was nowhere to be seen.
posted by It's Raining Florence Henderson at 3:52 PM on September 21, 2009 [2 favorites]
posted by It's Raining Florence Henderson at 3:52 PM on September 21, 2009 [2 favorites]
You may have the Diebold plug-in installed in your browser.
posted by Abiezer at 3:57 PM on September 21, 2009 [4 favorites]
posted by Abiezer at 3:57 PM on September 21, 2009 [4 favorites]
Speaking of Projects, why does it have the voting function, anyway? Isn't it just a bigger, flashier implementation of favorites? I know it's a leftover from some Projects-based contest back in 2006, but it seems kind of redundant now.
posted by Rhaomi at 4:03 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by Rhaomi at 4:03 PM on September 21, 2009
Four? Oh, four errors!
posted by Blazecock Pileon at 4:30 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by Blazecock Pileon at 4:30 PM on September 21, 2009
My take on projects voting vs. favorites is that, as has been stated many times, favorites are whatever you want them to be, whereas a vote for a project is explicitly saying "Yes! I like this and think it is a good project."
posted by ocherdraco at 4:36 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by ocherdraco at 4:36 PM on September 21, 2009
By the way, we added vote history a couple days ago!
Very cool.
Thanks.
Wondering what kind of data is still sleeping under the floor.
posted by bru at 5:20 PM on September 21, 2009
Very cool.
Thanks.
Wondering what kind of data is still sleeping under the floor.
posted by bru at 5:20 PM on September 21, 2009
Wondering what kind of data is still sleeping under the floor. (bru)
Despite its zippy motion sensor lights that blink on and off to distract my already absent-minded attention and despite its other modern accoutrements the Flatiron Building has acquired over the years, you can still tell that this is an old building, at least by the standards of the ever-changing city. First, there's the old mail chute by the elevators (a relic from the days when the building housed a motley assortment of dentists, accountants and private investigators) with its little gold eagle boxes on every floor, the slots covered over by little metal strips. Then, there's the antique bathroom on the third floor, partially renovated sometime mid-century, that retains a few original fixtures, and after that the metal nub, last remnant of a ceiling fan from the days before air conditioning, in the middle of an exquisitely tall room on the 8th floor. But the best evidence of the building's age can't be seen, like those things, during the day.
On nights like these, when I'm still at my desk at 7:05, 7:30, jesus is it 8:22, 8:39, forcing my jumpy, uncontrollable, attention-deficit-diagnosed mind to stay fixed on the task of writing catalog copy for books I haven't yet read, I can hear a noise under my feet. During the day, it blends into the general din: the N/Q/R/W that stops right under the building, the tuneless man who brays with his guitar across the street, the sirens that are constantly speeding by (always, it seems, when we're on a conference call with England). But now, when I'm alone in the office and the intersection of Fifth Avenue, 23rd Street, and Broadway has calmed, the noise is there, a susurrus and a purr that I used to think was the building settling into itself, the way old buildings do. One night, as I stare blankly at my monitor, wondering if, really, I ought to call it a night (because at this rate, not only will I not get anything done but I won't get any sleep, either), the susurrus slowly raises itself to a rustle, and then a scurry.
I snap out of my stupor, suddenly alert and focused, because there's only one thing that kind of scurry means to an apartment-dweller like me.
Mice.
A darkness darts across the threshold of the publisher’s office and toward the room’s terminus, a rounded point overlooking the glittery thoroughfares of Broadway and Fifth. The motion sensor light clicks on. Its egalitarian blindness doesn’t know the difference between mouse and man.
I get up to follow it. George’s office is notorious for its piles of papers, on every surface including the floor, and if a mouse finds its way into one, I want to know where, since it is unlikely to be able to make its way out. I can’t see it at first, but then there’s a small, dark jerk near the radiator, and the small thing stops with its back to me, realizing I’ve seen it, and seemingly hoping that its stillness will make it invisible.
It isn’t a mouse.
When it turns around, I look it in the eyes (or what I suppose to be its eyes), and think, without knowing why, “James H. Wilson, a steeplejack, fell seventy feet on March 18, 1910, from a smokestack he was painting in Chicago. In 1907, when the Flatiron was five, he had tried to ‘shin up’ the building, and stopped at the 8th floor when the police ordered him to come down.” The datum (because that’s what it is), having relinquished itself to my mind, shivers into a sort of nothingness. After a moment, the light turns off, and I realize I haven’t moved, trying to understand what has just happened.
I walk back to my desk, and as I gather my things to head home (catalog copy is not going to get done tonight; it’s 9:12, and my mind is occupied by steeplejacks, whatever they are, not the marketing of books) I’m aware of the susurrus and the purr again, the noise of all the data that are still asleep under the floor, hidden away for who knows how long, and for who knows how much longer.
posted by ocherdraco at 6:16 PM on September 21, 2009 [26 favorites]
Despite its zippy motion sensor lights that blink on and off to distract my already absent-minded attention and despite its other modern accoutrements the Flatiron Building has acquired over the years, you can still tell that this is an old building, at least by the standards of the ever-changing city. First, there's the old mail chute by the elevators (a relic from the days when the building housed a motley assortment of dentists, accountants and private investigators) with its little gold eagle boxes on every floor, the slots covered over by little metal strips. Then, there's the antique bathroom on the third floor, partially renovated sometime mid-century, that retains a few original fixtures, and after that the metal nub, last remnant of a ceiling fan from the days before air conditioning, in the middle of an exquisitely tall room on the 8th floor. But the best evidence of the building's age can't be seen, like those things, during the day.
On nights like these, when I'm still at my desk at 7:05, 7:30, jesus is it 8:22, 8:39, forcing my jumpy, uncontrollable, attention-deficit-diagnosed mind to stay fixed on the task of writing catalog copy for books I haven't yet read, I can hear a noise under my feet. During the day, it blends into the general din: the N/Q/R/W that stops right under the building, the tuneless man who brays with his guitar across the street, the sirens that are constantly speeding by (always, it seems, when we're on a conference call with England). But now, when I'm alone in the office and the intersection of Fifth Avenue, 23rd Street, and Broadway has calmed, the noise is there, a susurrus and a purr that I used to think was the building settling into itself, the way old buildings do. One night, as I stare blankly at my monitor, wondering if, really, I ought to call it a night (because at this rate, not only will I not get anything done but I won't get any sleep, either), the susurrus slowly raises itself to a rustle, and then a scurry.
I snap out of my stupor, suddenly alert and focused, because there's only one thing that kind of scurry means to an apartment-dweller like me.
Mice.
A darkness darts across the threshold of the publisher’s office and toward the room’s terminus, a rounded point overlooking the glittery thoroughfares of Broadway and Fifth. The motion sensor light clicks on. Its egalitarian blindness doesn’t know the difference between mouse and man.
I get up to follow it. George’s office is notorious for its piles of papers, on every surface including the floor, and if a mouse finds its way into one, I want to know where, since it is unlikely to be able to make its way out. I can’t see it at first, but then there’s a small, dark jerk near the radiator, and the small thing stops with its back to me, realizing I’ve seen it, and seemingly hoping that its stillness will make it invisible.
It isn’t a mouse.
When it turns around, I look it in the eyes (or what I suppose to be its eyes), and think, without knowing why, “James H. Wilson, a steeplejack, fell seventy feet on March 18, 1910, from a smokestack he was painting in Chicago. In 1907, when the Flatiron was five, he had tried to ‘shin up’ the building, and stopped at the 8th floor when the police ordered him to come down.” The datum (because that’s what it is), having relinquished itself to my mind, shivers into a sort of nothingness. After a moment, the light turns off, and I realize I haven’t moved, trying to understand what has just happened.
I walk back to my desk, and as I gather my things to head home (catalog copy is not going to get done tonight; it’s 9:12, and my mind is occupied by steeplejacks, whatever they are, not the marketing of books) I’m aware of the susurrus and the purr again, the noise of all the data that are still asleep under the floor, hidden away for who knows how long, and for who knows how much longer.
posted by ocherdraco at 6:16 PM on September 21, 2009 [26 favorites]
Niiiiice.
posted by It's Raining Florence Henderson at 6:27 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by It's Raining Florence Henderson at 6:27 PM on September 21, 2009
Oh, and for the record, I did finish my catalog copy tonight. Booyah.
posted by ocherdraco at 7:29 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by ocherdraco at 7:29 PM on September 21, 2009
ooh. That was my very first MeTa. I feel so special now.
[ ] Ignore
[ ] Ban
[ ] Fix
[ ] Overthink Ticket
[x] Close Ticket
posted by niles at 7:38 PM on September 21, 2009
------------------
Ticket #13166 (New Feature)
Opened 2 years 9 months 24 days ago
what projects I have voted for
------------------[ ] Ignore
[ ] Ban
[ ] Fix
[ ] Overthink Ticket
[x] Close Ticket
posted by niles at 7:38 PM on September 21, 2009
Can you unfix it for a while so I can see it with my own eyes.
posted by pwally at 9:53 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by pwally at 9:53 PM on September 21, 2009
ocherdraco, that's fucking beautiful. Can't believe you banged that out that quickly.
posted by empath at 11:28 PM on September 21, 2009
posted by empath at 11:28 PM on September 21, 2009
/applauds, throws roses and bats eyes at ocherdraco.
posted by Jofus at 1:40 AM on September 22, 2009
posted by Jofus at 1:40 AM on September 22, 2009
I would kill* for an edit function. A typo in the first sentence is boring a hole in my skull.
*read: make the mods cookies and send said cookies to Oregon, Vermont, and England.
posted by ocherdraco at 8:19 AM on September 22, 2009
*read: make the mods cookies and send said cookies to Oregon, Vermont, and England.
posted by ocherdraco at 8:19 AM on September 22, 2009
Also, thanks for your kind words, everyone. I was just blowing off steam after staying late to write catalog copy at work.
posted by ocherdraco at 9:11 AM on September 22, 2009
posted by ocherdraco at 9:11 AM on September 22, 2009
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oh, maybe it does for you. what are you running? it works for me with firefox on snow leopard.
posted by shmegegge at 3:35 PM on September 21, 2009