by Holly Jahangiri | Oct 27, 2020
Technical Writer Till the Day I Die
I'll admit it - after I bought my new Samsung Galaxy Note 20 Ultra, I had to search my own site for "can't answer incoming calls android." I figured out the answer, once - back when I had my Samsung Galaxy Note 9 and updated to Android 9 with OneUI.
And I guess I just assumed they would have fixed this by now, but of course not.
It's no secret that I spent the better part of my career as a senior technical writer. "Information Architect," if you prefer late 1990s euphemisms, but I prefer things that emphasize the "writing" part of the job. I didn't so much build data as untangle it and make sense of it.
It's also no secret that I like to play with SEO. And I do mean "play" - I have not made a serious study of it, nor read the blog posts of others who have made a serious study of it, and I have in fact turned off readers here by even joking about it openly (mea culpa, I apologize for the "meta blogging," but you know I'm weirdly competitive and I do love a silly challenge). I like to think that my own writing is as scattered and niche-less as my search engine queries. But that's not what you want, is it?
No - to be precise, it's what one family member, eleven friends and six random spammers who've kindly bothered to subscribe to this blog tolerate, while the rest of the visits come through direct links or "organic search" to older incarnations of this blog by way of the following queries:
Without further ado, let's just answer the question...
Samsung Galaxy Note 9 (Android 9)
Can't Answer Incoming Call from Lock Screen After Android 9 Update?
This is the original post. If this doesn't work for you, or you have a newer phone or Android version, skip to the next section.
Sometimes, you just need your mobile phone to act like a phone. After a recent update to the Android operating system – Android 9, July 1 security patch – on my Samsung Galaxy Note 9, I was unable to answer a phone call from the lock screen. I could press the call answer or hang up icons, and could see that the touchscreen was registering my touch by the expanding glow around each icon as I tapped or pressed it, but nothing else would happen! Also, I could not dismiss the incoming call screen, nor could I unlock the phone until the caller hung up.
My phone was possessed! I could answer calls normally if they came in while I was playing with another app on my phone. I could unlock my phone if there was no incoming call in the way. But if a call came in while the phone was sitting, idle, on a table or in my purse or pocket, I would miss it. I was about to do a factory reset – the only way to squash virtual gremlins with 99.8% certainty, but then that’s hours of reinstalling apps and files from backups and I wasn’t in the mood. Then, while waiting on @TmobileHelp (the best support staff EVER) to figure out what on earth might be going on, I found two threads on Android Central:
I am not sure whether this problem is unique to the OneUI overlay Samsung introduced, but something changed with the last update – even if you figured out that you needed to enable one of the accessibility features to make it easier to answer calls, you may have disabled what is now crucial to this feature continuing to work correctly, so read on!
How to Fix the Problem: Enable Assistant menu > Single tap to swipe
You’ll need to enable the Assistant menu. It’s not enough to have enabled it and turned on the Single tap to swipe feature, then turned it back off. You now need to leave it on, but you can still banish the menu after turning the feature on.
- Go to Settings > Accessibility > Interaction and dexterity > Assistant menu
NOTE: On Samsung Galaxy Note 9, a long press on Accessibility takes you to Interaction and Dexterity. Likewise, a long press on Interaction and dexterity takes you to the third screen, below. Slide the switch to enable Assistant menu as shown.
- Long press on Assistant menu, after enabling it.
- Enable Single tap to swipe.
- To lose the floating Assistant menu (the circle with four squares, shown below) without turning the feature off, go to the Home screen then press and hold the icon until an X appears at the top or bottom of your screen (hard to screenshot this one, so just watch for it), and drag the Assistant menu icon to it and drop it on the X.
I hope this saves you some frustration, if you’ve come here searching for a solution to “why my phone locks up when I get a call” or “why I can’t answer a call from the lock screen.”
Samsung Galaxy Note 20
How to Answer Calls on Android with Just a Tap (or, Google, if I'd wanted a @#$%ing iPhone, I'd have bought a @#$%ing iPhone!)
- Go to Settings > Accessibility > Interaction and dexterity.
- Toggle on the Assistant menu.
- Toggle on Single tap to swipe.
To get the floating menu out of your way, you can no longer drop it onto a big red X on the home screen and make it disappear. You must turn it on and leave it lurking there. But you can make it unobtrusive and harder to open accidentally. Toggle on Show as edge icon and that will move it off to the curved side of the screen. You can reposition it by dragging it right or left and up and down. I now have it on the upper right corner - a portion of the screen I rarely have to touch, so it doesn't pop open while I'm trying to do other things. You could make it invisible, but then you couldn't see where it's lurking, and that's kind of creepy.
You can also set the physical Volume up or Side key to answer calls. Go to Settings > Accessibility > Interaction and dexterity > Answering and ending calls.
Don't ask me why you can't customize this to use the Volume down key, three finger-taps and a nose bang, or a Judge-Judy eye-roll (the device has biometric options, right?).
Be sure to test it - have a friend phone you to make sure you've got your settings working the way you want them to work.
Now, Back to the Blog...
It's depressing. Is this all I am to you - a technical writer who can tell you, when Samsung won't, how to answer a phone? Why not read some fiction:
Or poetry:
by Holly Jahangiri | Jun 30, 2020
Their climbing tree stretched out its shady limbs to soak up the last drops of sunlight. Touched by a soft breeze, the sturdy sweet gum brushed its fire-gold and deep-green autumn foliage against the old slate roof. Ten-year-old Marina scrambled up the tree. Her long, tanned legs stood out in smooth contrast against the rough, weather-beaten crevasses of the bark that chipped and fell away under her bare feet as she climbed.
“Come on, Geordie!” she called, oblivious to her friend’s fear of heights. Geordie sighed heavily and pushed himself up from the ground. He was tall for his age. In a few years, he would be drop-dead gorgeous, but for now he was a lanky, slightly awkward lad of twelve. He would have followed Marina to the gates of Hell and beyond, had she asked him to. But Marina was as oblivious to Geordie’s devotion as she was to his fear. High overhead now, Marina shook a branch; several seed pods, their prickly greenish brown surfaces resembling tiny spiked maces, pelted Geordie from above. “Ouch!” Geordie ducked and dodged and momentarily forgot his fears as he grabbed a branch and brought his foot up to chase after Marina, who was perched in the forked branches at the very top of the tree. “I’ll get you for that!” Geordie warned, laughing.
“You’ll have to catch me first!” Marina said, teasing the boy.
Halfway up the tree, Geordie reached for an easy branch. It was one that Marina avoided out of habit, for it had scruffy brownish leaves— if it bothered to sprout any at all— even in the spring. It was grayish black, not the rich tarry brown of the stronger, healthy branches. And it creaked and groaned with even the lightest touch of a breeze. Conveniently situated it might be, but Marina— operating as much on instinct as understanding— didn’t trust it. There was a sickening crack of dry wood, followed by the sound of Geordie yelling as he flailed his arms and legs, desperately trying to catch hold of another branch on his way down. He smacked his arm on a gnarled, leafy limb, scraping away layers of skin and drawing beadlets of crimson through the dirty scratches. He landed in a heap on the hard ground, groaning softly as he rolled to one side and grasped his mangled arm.
The paramedics told him and his parents— just twenty or thirty minutes later, though it might’ve been hours for all Geordie could tell— that he was lucky his friend thought to call them so quickly, and especially fortunate to escape with nothing worse than bruises, scrapes, a fractured arm, and a dislocated shoulder. He didn’t feel lucky, but he was relieved to be alive. He was glad Marina hadn’t stuck around to see him discharged from the emergency room; he was too humiliated to look her in the eye.
* * *
Randy and Duane, dressed in their “stealth suits”— black jeans, black t-shirts, and black Nike high-tops— crept up behind Marina and whispered, “Boo!”
Marina whirled around and pulled her punch just before her fist connected with Randy’s six-pack abs. “Don’t scare me like that!” she hissed.
“You finished?”
“Rigging’s all in place, kiddo.” Duane unloaded a heavy backpack from his well-muscled shoulders and tossed it to the ground. “Don’t get caught.”
Marina laughed. “Hey, once I’m halfway across, it doesn’t matter. They’ll fine me, what, a few hundred bucks? Tell me I’ve been a bad girl, make me swear never, ever to do it again? You know, it’s ironic— you don’t bat an eye at the fact that I’m willing to risk my life for this, but you’re worried about my meager life savings? Duane, you’re a hoot. Just tell me the rigging’s secure.”
Duane nodded and looked to Randy for confirmation. Randy nodded. “All set. Ready when you are.”
“Okay, Duane, I want you to go around to the Canadian side and meet me there. Randy, you stay here—”
“Why, just in case you chicken out and head back this way?” Randy laughed.
“No, just in case I need a diversion.”
“Oh, so you are worried about the fine.”
“No, but it’d be more fun if I didn’t get caught, now, wouldn’t it?” Marina stepped up to Randy as if to kiss him; instead, she wrapped her long fingers around his ribs and tickled him mercilessly.
Life’s cruel irony wasn’t lost on Duane or Randy. They’d been friends with Marina since their freshman year in college. Each of them had a crush on her, but so far, all they had won was an easygoing, platonic friendship.
She hung out with them, went to all the hot basketball games, chugged beer and ate chips enough for two of them during Monday night football – though you’d never guess it by looking at her lithe, boyish figure. How could a girl who was such a guy— be so tantalizingly seductive? They’d gone skydiving together two years ago on a dare. Last summer, Marina had run off for a few months to join the circus— literally— and came back with a passion for tightrope walking and other aerial feats that gave Randy and Duane stomach-knots to imagine. But somehow, in their fascination with Marina, they had become her devoted servants. Which is why they were now standing at the edge of Niagara Falls, having jury-rigged a high-wire act for their friend’s amusement, and praying to a God they weren’t sure of to keep her safe and deliver her to the Canadian side in one piece. It crossed their minds, more than once, that they’d fallen for a woman who had more balls than the two of them put together.
* * *
Marina had plenty of suitors. She just hadn’t found one who could hold her interest or match her wild, reckless passion for life. She didn’t have a death wish at all; for Marina, the thrill of the ride was everything, without which life was meaningless. Just as one could never appreciate contentment without having experienced pain, or want, or despair, Marina knew deep in her heart that she could not fully appreciate life without occasionally looking into the eyes of death, staring it down, and laughing in its face.
She watched carefully for the signal from Duane that he had reached the Canadian side of the falls. At long last, she saw it— three short bursts of light from a high-powered flashlight at the far end of the sturdy cable the two engineering students had secured for her. Marina dropped her raincoat to the ground and stretched, knowing that it would be important to limber up before attempting the crossing. Piece of cake, she thought. After all, in 1876, Maria Spelterina crossed wearing peach baskets on her feet, for God’s sake.
“Marina?”
“Yes, Randy?” Marina paused, mid-stretch, and looked at her friend.
“I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I’m crazy in love with you—”
Randy paused, searching Marina’s face in the darkness, hoping to find encouragement there. “Mar, will you marry me?”
“I’ll think about it,” answered Marina, reaching around to the small of her back to locate a tiny plastic switch. “If you’ll meet me halfway,” she said, smiling and pointing towards the eerie mist that rose from the center of the chasm. “And ask me again, out there.” She flicked the switch, and a hundred tiny white lights sewn into the side-seams of her leotard and tights illuminated and outlined her perfect curves. She winked at Randy, and stepped out onto the cable.
Halfway across? Randy watched Marina as she stepped gracefully out into space, her feet wrapping themselves around the slender steel cable with steady confidence.
* * *
Working a U.S. Customs booth on the border of Canada and the U.S. was hardly a glamorous job, but it paid the bills and gave Officer Camden an opportunity to meet people from all over the world. People rarely bothered to smuggle things over the border here; more often than not, Camden found himself giving directions to the best observation point near the falls, or making dinner recommendations for newlyweds who couldn’t decide between intimacy or a spectacular view. And when his shift ended, Camden still enjoyed a leisurely stroll along the cliffs above the American Falls; he still marveled at the colorful lights as they played upon the mists rising from the Horseshoe Falls.
Tonight was no different from many other nights. Camden was in no rush to return to his empty home, where sleep would elude him for many hours. He preferred to listen to the thunderous rush of water cascading over the falls, to be lulled by the roar as millions of gallons spilled over the rocks each minute, as they had for 12,000 years.
He gazed out across the dark chasm of the Niagara River. Something caught his eye— something utterly unexpected that sent a little thrill of fear down Camden’s spine. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and looked again. Surely, he hadn’t seen what he thought he’d seen, or else it was merely the product of fatigue— too much work, too little sleep. Sweet Jesus, thought Camden. He began running; as he ran, he reached for his cell phone.
Camden didn’t take his eyes off the illuminated figure, walking through the darkness as if upon the air itself, tinted mist occasionally obscuring the daredevil and making him appear to be some otherworldly being. Camden didn’t see the man standing at the side of the falls, dressed all in black, watching the scene with his own desperate intensity. As he collided with the man, they landed on the ground and quickly scrambled back to their feet, both talking at once.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” demanded Camden.
“Aiding and abetting,” muttered Randy, as he reached into his hip pocket for his tattered wallet.
“Save it,” snapped Camden. As he watched, fascinated, he realized that the figure on the wire was that of a woman. Her movements were fluid grace; each steady step was even and relaxed. He and Randy both gasped as the woman bent to touch her toes, then executed a flawless handstand and held it to the count of five. “Holy Mother of God,” murmured Camden.
“Do you think she’ll make it across?” he asked, his voice hoarse and barely audible.
Randy shrugged. “I hope so.”
Duane was suddenly joined by several Toronto police officers, all of whom seemed more concerned with Marina’s safety than with slapping handcuffs on him or charging him with international lawbreaking. One of the officers called out to Marina on a bullhorn, strongly urging her to bring her little escapade to a safe, but quick, end so they could all go home to their families where they belonged. He couldn’t be sure that she heard him; just then, Marina leapt into the air and landed on the wire, testing its elasticity as she lowered herself in a single, fluid movement into a split. The men on both sides of the river gasped; one clawed at his chest and began to pray.
Although it wasn’t exactly cold, Marina had worked up a bit of a sweat, and now began to shiver in the chilly mist. Her muscles began to tighten and ache; she thought perhaps she’d pulled a tendon with that split. With a sigh, and a glance at the flashing blue and white lights at the Canadian cliff ’s edge, Marina decided to turn around and head back to the American side of the river. A sudden gust of wind caught her, tired and unprepared, and for a moment she wavered, moving her arms wildly to regain her balance. Marina let her feet drop to either side of the cable— she could straddle it and pull herself along, hand over hand, if necessary. But again, fatigue and a fickle wind conspired to knock her off kilter, and she flipped upside down, her right leg hooked over the cable, her head pointed down towards the turbulent waters below.
This can’t be happening, thought Marina. She reached up and grasped the cable, but it was slick with condensation and hard to hold onto. Well, dammit, she thought with a sigh. She tried to pull herself upright but couldn’t gain the leverage she needed.
Camden saw the girl fall. He didn’t hesitate for a moment, despite his stomach-churning fear of heights. Focusing on the girl, instead of on the breathtaking spectacle of the falls to his left, Camden stepped out onto the cable. He would have preferred to wear a safety harness but didn’t even stop to ask if one was available. Just a walk in the park, he told himself. One step at a time…
The cable was surprisingly sturdy and somewhat thicker than it appeared to be from a distance. Camden tried to imagine that he was simply walking along a curb or pacing the line that ran down the center of the bike path he liked to ride. Not too bad, really, if he thought of it that way. Don’t look down, a little voice in the back of his mind urged. He fought the temptation to do just that, and instead he concentrated on the girl desperately clinging to the wire just a few feet away. He had no idea how to help her; he only knew he had to try.
Marina couldn’t believe her eyes. As she tilted her head back to glance at the cliffs, she saw a man walking towards her! Surely Randy hadn’t mustered the guts to come after her and repeat his proposal. The thought made her giggle hysterically. Marina knew in her heart that she could never marry a man who wasn’t willing to walk a tightrope to win her love. After all, what was love if not a precarious balance on the high wire, without a net? How could she marry a man who was afraid to fall in love? As the man drew closer, she saw that he was strong and attractive— not terribly muscular, but amazingly calm and confident.
“Are you okay?” he called, his deeply resonant voice carrying over the rush of water.
“I think so,” Marina answered. The man stood over her now, and Marina could make out his features. “Geordie?”
Camden’s face registered surprise. “How do you know my—” He blinked and did a double-take. “Marina?”
“Oh, shit, Geordie—when did you take up tightrope walking?” Marina’s heart skipped a beat. She knew that Geordie was deathly afraid of heights; once he realized where he was and got over his need to be a hero, he’d probably pass out and plummet to the frothy deep below.
Geordie Camden lowered himself slowly, grasped the cable with both hands, and sat on it, letting his legs dangle to either side. He took Marina’s arm with one hand and helped pull her up to a sitting position in front of him. “Everything’s going to be fine, Marina.” He smiled.
“Geordie—”
“Shhhh.” Geordie noticed that Marina was shivering uncontrollably. The cable vibrated with her chills, and he wrapped his arms around her protectively. “How are we going to get out of this?” asked Marina. Geordie had never seen a trace of helplessness in her flashing green eyes, and it scared him to see it there now.
“Piece of cake,” he lied. Well, he hadn’t exactly lied, but they would have to wait for the real heroes to arrive, because Geordie knew he couldn’t stand up and lead Marina to safety on either side of the Niagara. It was all he could do just to hold on and not look down. “Hang in there, kiddo. They’re bringing a helicopter. Should be here any minute now.” He hoped that was true. Marina laughed, then. Her bright smile lit her face, and warmed Geordie’s heart. “Remember the tree?”
Geordie nodded. “You were so fearless. I was such a dork. I’d have followed you to hell and back, but I couldn’t even follow you up that damned tree. I avoided you for the rest of the year, and then you moved away.” Geordie shook his head sadly.
“Oh, Geordie.” Marina sighed. “I felt so guilty. I teased and teased until you came after me, climbing that stupid old sweet gum tree. I knew you didn’t want to, but I knew you would. It’s my fault you fell and broke your arm. I was the one who deserved to be ashamed. I was relieved when we moved away, because every time I saw you, I felt guilty. But I missed you, you know.”
“I missed you, too.”
“Ever since then, I’ve looked for a man who could measure up to you— a man who would follow me in some crazy, daredevil scheme, never stopping to think twice about the danger— just to be with me.”
It was Geordie’s turn to laugh. “All this time, I thought you thought I was chicken.”
“Geordie, you’re the bravest man I know.” Marina rested her head against his chest, drawing warmth from his arms around her. “I don’t think I ever stopped loving you, you know.”
Geordie drew back and gazed into her eyes. The naked sincerity with which she regarded him almost knocked him off balance; he grabbed the cable with his left hand and pulled her close with his right. “Marry me,” he whispered. He felt her answering nod against his chest. A searchlight swung round from above and landed on them; a rope and harness fell from the sky. Everything would be all right, thought Geordie as he strapped Marina into the harness and watched the rescue team reel her into the helicopter. As he waited for them to lower the rope a second time, he dared to look down.
by Holly Jahangiri | Sep 14, 2019
I have never understood the need to reinvent the wheel. To improve on it, perhaps. To modify it from a wheel suited to a dirt road to one suited to modern highway pavement, sure. But until the day a hexagon rolls better than a circle, the wheel will be round.
The same holds true, I think, for good manners. Do we really need a guide to “netiquette” or “political correctness” when such things all spring from simple consideration and respect for our fellow travelers on earth? Sure, cultural interpretations of how we manifest that vary, so codifying the rules – to some generally agreed-upon set of behaviors appropriate within a culture – is helpful. The old question of whether burping at the table is considered rude, or indicates compliments to the chef, is a case in point. Is it considered professional to put emojis in an email to executives, or is that career suicide?
But do we really need to regulate the minutiae of human interaction? Or is it enough to warn of the bigger pitfalls – social gaffes that might well start a war? Shouldn’t we also, each of us, think of compassion and understanding as part of our social duty to one another, and be quick to assume the other meant well even if they expressed themselves poorly? Must we impose rules on one another for the simplest communications? I know that I live in a Utopian fantasy that exists largely inside my imagination, but wouldn’t this be easier?
Since I wrote Rules for Blogging? NEXT TOPIC! the search results for rules blog* have grown from about half a million to 1,150,000,000. Why? Why in the name of God?
Wild West, Digital Style
If humans were reasonable, God would only have needed ONE Commandment: Be GOOD to each other. But no, we are wired to split hairs and look for loopholes, and to break rules whenever we find them, if we think we can get by with it. “Define ‘good,’ we say.” We love a challenge, and that may really be the bottom line as to why we need so many damned rules. Not because breaking them is all that challenging, but because enforcing so many of them them is damned near impossible!
I used to love Google, but ever since the introduction of monetized search and ad servers, the Internet has become a cesspool of utter garbage, along with a billion largely-futile rules attempting to control it. And now, even Google can’t tame the monster they helped to create. We used to have terms for empty digital space and code that pranced around signifying nothing – vaporware, for one. And blogs became the vaporware of words.
Thar’s Gold in Them Thar Blogs! (Or, Make Money Online Writing Blogs While You Sleep!)
Writers deserve to be paid. But most bloggers – probably all but a dozen of those 1,150,000,000 who wrote posts pontificating on the “rules” for blogging – are just regurgitating the same old tired lists composed by someone trying to earn money from what became a wildly popular search phrase, as if there should ever have been rules imposed on digital freedom of speech. Writers – and bloggers who actually write things – can be some of the most insecure people. How to write? How to blog? It’s not hard: Learn the basics, like spelling and grammar. Grab a pencil and paper, or a PC and any text editor, and start putting words down. Words you’d want to read if you cracked open a book.
Rules? If rules were followed, we would have nothing that could truly dare to call itself a “novel,” since novel means something new and original. If blogging is dead, it’s this kind of nonsense that killed it. Just keep writing the same thing over and over – oh, writers do this, too. Go to any bookstore and count the titles on “how to write.” I used to say that writing a book on how to write was what novelists did when they suffered from writer’s block, in order to keep food on the table. They know their target market well: insecure people who think they want to write, but convince themselves that some dark magic will be released from the page and smack them upside the head, recognizing them as the author-mposters they believe themselves to be, as opposed to the poor fools who just apply butt to chair and write, because it’s a thing they love to do. Those “fools” are the people who craft the dark magic that leave others feeling insecure! But the best “how to write” advice I ever got came from Tom Clancy: “Just write the damned book!”
Not all bloggers deserve to be read, let alone paid. There used to be a question of whether bloggers were also writers and whether all writers were authors. I used to argue they were synonymous: writers could blog, and provided it was original content they wrote and published, they were authors. And then I learned about article spinners and ways to manipulate affiliate links and found out just how many bloggers hated to write and would literally work ten times harder, and invest money they could ill afford, with text “spinners” and “systems” that promised “passive income” from whatever crap they vomited onto the page.
I waged war on in-context ad links a decade ago, refusing to be a cog in that machine. I wouldn’t leave comments on blogs that extended the links to the comments field, as links to my employer’s competitors might appear to be a conflict of interest, if people didn’t understand that commenters had no control over them. I argued that it was a copyright violation by the bloggers who ran such plug-ins, that if they applied them after the fact to my comments, they were creating an unauthorized derivative work. (Same thing for machine translations, unless a reader knowingly requested one.) Now, instead, we have ads on major media sites masquerading as “Related Topics” or “You Might Be Interested In” and they lead to trap doors down the rabbit hole of spurious links and ads that – very much against the terms of service for most ad servers – jump around as the page loads so that we can’t help but accidentally click on them. This, by the way, is theft – theft of advertising dollars that’s likely passed along to you by way of higher product costs. Advertisers deserve better, and don’t always realize that they are paying for clicks that merely annoy readers, or links that are served up on shady sites and mobile apps where their target market won’t see them at all.
Everyone Wants to Play Sheriff
Backlash was inevitable. Frustrated bloggers, as well as forum and group moderators are waging war on all forms of promotion that they cannot control or monetize, themselves, but are, I think, going overboard with it. This morning, a writer/illustrator posted a digital character image they’d drawn, and it was copyright watermarked with their Instagram handle. Leaving aside the dubious legality of a copyright claim based on an entity that, for legal purposes, may be entirely fictional – the use of an Instagram handle, with the @ symbol in front of it, was against the group rules as a form of “self-promotion.” The member changed their watermark to use only the © and not the @, and all was well. But given this is just a symbol – not a hyperlink, not a trap, and something someone would have to work to type into their browser if they were interested – why would using the @ pose a problem, where the same handle and a copyright symbol does not?
It’s a silly, arbitrary rule, in my opinion. But then, clearly, I find the spirit of the law much more interesting than the letter of the law. If anything’s going to get my hackles up and trigger my rebellious nature, it’s a typo in the letter of the law that thwarts the spirit of the law or makes a mockery of it.
So what is the spirit of the law, in this case? And why are there so many blanket bans on any form of self-promotion? Is it because we hate the competition and want to claim the spotlight for ourselves? I don’t think so. Is it because so many spammers have left group and forum moderators and writers of original blog content wary and weary and it’s just easier to enforce silly rules against everybody than to risk having to ban one person and deal with the ensuing arguments and blathering on about censorship? Yes. I think this hurts individuals and small business owners more than it does the nefarious spammers and scammers of the world. They build massive human and automated networks to promote one another, and no moderator is going to shut that down short of an IP address ban. But those individual writers and small business owners struggle to catch a break, and can’t build a good network of authority links that would help them to boost their online presence and credibility, or just allow them to gain a wider audience for their work.
Moderators gotta sleep, sometime… I do believe moderators and bloggers have crafted defensive rules so that they can appear to be fair and impartial to all – while what they’re really doing is trying to manage large a large member base and get time for work, family, self, and sleep. Who could blame them? The digital “West” was won, then tamed, then “civilization” moved in and ruined everything…
Respect your moderators. There is no point harassing overworked forum moderators by arguing over their rules. Just leave, if you don’t like the rules or think they’re infuriating (not just silly). If you don’t like the “No shirt, no shoes, no service” rule at your local diner, you wear a shirt and shoes, or dine elsewhere. If you’re a smart ass writer or lawyer and feeling particularly cheeky, you show up wearing nothing but a shirt and shoes. I get it, but life’s too short. I’ve reached a point where I’d rather just dine at home in the nude.
This is why I run my own site – so I can write nekkid and impose another set of capricious and arbitrary rules on you. I’m just kidding. It’s so we can have minimal, but sensible rules and ride around on ponies shooting each other with Nerf guns.
by Holly Jahangiri | Aug 16, 2019
Sometimes, you just need your mobile phone to act like a phone. After a recent update to the Android operating system – Android 9, July 1 security patch – on my Samsung Galaxy Note 9, I was unable to answer a phone call from the lock screen. I could press the call answer or hang up icons, and could see that the touchscreen was registering my touch by the expanding glow around each icon as I tapped or pressed it, but nothing else would happen! Also, I could not dismiss the incoming call screen, nor could I unlock the phone until the caller hung up.
My phone was possessed! I could answer calls normally if they came in while I was playing with another app on my phone. I could unlock my phone if there was no incoming call in the way. But if a call came in while the phone was sitting, idle, on a table or in my purse or pocket, I would miss it.
I was about to do a factory reset – the only way to squash virtual gremlins with 99.8% certainty, but then that’s hours of reinstalling apps and files from backups and I wasn’t in the mood.
Then, while waiting on @TmobileHelp (the best support staff EVER) to figure out what on earth might be going on, I found two threads on Android Central:
I am not sure whether this problem is unique to the OneUI overlay Samsung introduced, but something changed with the last update – even if you figured out that you needed to enable one of the accessibility features to make it easier to answer calls, you may have disabled what is now crucial to this feature continuing to work correctly, so read on!
How to Fix the Problem: Enable Assistant menu > Single tap to swipe
You’ll need to enable the Assistant menu. It’s not enough to have enabled it and turned on the Single tap to swipe feature, then turned it back off. You now need to leave it on, but you can still banish the menu after turning the feature on.
- Go to Settings > Accessibility > Interaction and dexterity > Assistant menu
NOTE: On Samsung Galaxy Note 9, a long press on Accessibility takes you to Interaction and Dexterity. Likewise, a long press on Interaction and dexterity takes you to the third screen, below. Slide the switch to enable Assistant menu as shown.
- Long press on Assistant menu, after enabling it.
- Enable Single tap to swipe.
- To lose the floating Assistant menu (the circle with four squares, shown below) without turning the feature off, go to the Home screen then press and hold the icon until an X appears at the top or bottom of your screen (hard to screenshot this one, so just watch for it), and drag the Assistant menu icon to it and drop it on the X.
I hope this saves you some frustration, if you’ve come here searching for a solution to “why my phone locks up when I get a call” or “why I can’t answer a call from the lock screen.”
UPDATE – Why Does Samsung Do The Things They Do??
At least as far back as the Note 20 (which I still have, since every hardware “upgrade” since the Note 5 has seemed designed mainly to appeal to people seeking status, rather than real, functional improvements and I’m not falling for it till at least next year), you simply cannot do this anymore. You can certainly enable the single-tap to answer feature:
- Go to: Settings > Accessibility > Interaction and dexterity.
- Toggle on Assistant menu, then tap the text to see detailed options.
- Find Single tap to swipe and toggle it on. The assistant menu will be enabled.
BUT, now you’re stuck with the @#$%^ floating accessibility menu that will get in your way at every turn. I’ve concluded that it’s just not worth it for most of us, and have learned to swipe the button to the right to answer a call.
Who calls, these days, anyway?
Samsung may be losing me to Pixel, next time I buy a phone. They’re camera is going to need to be a stunning improvement, and not just “AI enhanced.” I don’t use, need, or want AI filters unless I’m playing around after the fact.
NOTE: I’m still sad that this is still the post that brings so many new people to my blog. Please, stick around and read some of the more recent ones, too!
UPDATE: With the latest update to Android on Samsung 25+, I’m able to tap the phone icon from the lock screen to answer a call. Still not sure why I didn’t get the Pixel, though.
by Holly Jahangiri | Feb 14, 2019
There’s a little game I refuse to play. It’s called, “You can’t be friends with me if you’re friends with [fill in the blank]!” My stock answer to that is, “Fine, I’m sorry you feel that way. I guess we can’t be friends.” I don’t care if the person saying it is my best friend at the time, and [fill in the blank] is someone I hardly know.
I also learned, back in grade school, not to judge someone based on others’ opinions. Oh, granted, others opinions hold some sway; I may be more cautious in getting to know someone if I’ve been given specific reasons to be, or I may be more open if people I trust and respect speak highly of the person. I can also be persuaded by facts – like rap sheets. But opinions and hearsay have no power, and it’s always wise to consider the source of your information or your feelings about something, before acting on it.
The Witch
One Halloween, my friends and I dressed up and met on the road to go trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. It was a small, close-knit village; my mom had grown up there, too, and many of my friends were children of her school friends. None of us could make a move without it getting back to our parents, so we were all pretty well behaved. And the neighborhood was safe; we were allowed to roam, mostly unsupervised, for several blocks at night, ringing doorbells and begging for candy, provided we only went to houses that had their porch lights on.
Just around the corner from my house, there was an older wooden home set back from the road, almost within reach of the railroad tracks. I’d never been there before, on Halloween, but the light was on so I started up the sidewalk. My best friend, Mary, and her sister, Val, stopped me.
“You can’t go there!”
“Why not?”
“Because that woman’s a witch. She hates kids. She’s got a gun, and she’ll shoot you. And she’s got a guard dog. He’s mean. He’ll eat you.”
I thought this was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard, but they were quite serious, judging by their wide eyes and pale faces. They tugged at my sleeve and tried to drag me away from the house. “The light’s on,” I said.
“So?”
“Well, wouldn’t the light be OFF if she didn’t want us to come to the door?”
“She’ll shoot you with her gun. She’ll sic her dog on you.”
I pulled free and marched right up to the front door. Val hung back, on the road, ready to run for help. Mary timidly joined me. I rang the bell.
The door opened, and the woman who answered it peered out at us through Coke-bottle glasses that made her eyes seem three times larger than normal. “Hello,” she said. She looked like somebody’s grandma.
“Trick or treat!” I said.
“Oh, do come in. You’re the first trick-or-treaters I’ve had all night. I was afraid no one was coming!” Her dog, a tiny little bundle of energy and enthusiasm, pressed his nose to the door and wagged his tail. “I’m Mrs. Morgan. And you are…?” She opened the door and we introduced ourselves. We stepped into a well-lighted foyer, where card tables were covered with little cups full of apple cider and plastic bags filled with homemade cookies. There were enough treats, there, for all the neighborhood kids.
Mary and I looked at each other. How could we tell this sweet old lady that the other children wouldn’t be coming? That the word on the street was, she was a mean old hag who liked to shoot kids and feed their bones to her dog? I bent down to pet the vicious mutt. He licked my hand.
We couldn’t do it. We drank some cider, took a bag or two of cookies, and told Mrs. Morgan we had to go – but that we’d be back.
After knocking some sense into Val and goading her into walking up to Mrs. Morgan’s house for cookies, herself, the three of us made the rounds and told everyone that they’d better go to the “witch’s house” or be branded chickens and idiots for life. We showed them the cookies they’d be missing if they didn’t. We told them all about the nice old lady and her yappy little furball “guard dog.” I think we made her night.
Mary and I became frequent visitors at Mrs. Morgan’s house after that, bringing her flowers from our gardens: bright yellow branches of forsythia, fragrant purple lilacs, red and pink tulips, and the occasional sticky, ant-covered peony bouquet. She always seemed delighted to see us, and spent hours telling us about herself, her family, her dog, and the history of the little town we were growing up in. She had an old-fashioned crank telephone and lots of antiques. Her house was one of the original resort homes back around the turn of the century, when the whole village was a resort and amusement park.
I finally confessed to my mom that I had befriended the woman everyone had said was a witch, despite worrying a little that my mom would be mad I’d spent so much time talking to a “stranger.” She laughed, and told me she knew Mrs. Morgan – who, Mom said, seemed old back when she was a kid. The kids had called Mrs. Morgan a witch back then, too, and Mom was glad I’d discovered the truth for myself.
The Bitch
Each year, on the last day of school, we were told who our teacher would be the following year. I was delighted to be moving on to Second Grade, but terrified by the news that my teacher would be Mrs. Hansen.
“Oh, she’s mean.”
“She hates kids.”
“You won’t like her. She’s strict.”
I went home in tears and begged my mother to call the school. I just couldn’t have the dreaded Mrs. Hansen next year – for a whole year. After all, she was mean. And I had worked myself into a state: my eyes were red and puffy, my cheeks stained with tears, my whole body heaving with sobs at the utter injustice of it all. I knew my mom would come to my aid and save me from a fate worse than death. After all, we had moved so that I wouldn’t have my awful Kindergarten teacher in First Grade. (That’s another story for another time; suffice it to say that the woman truly did dislike me and actively worked to make me miserable. Furthermore, she “kidnapped” our entire class – okay, not kidnapped, exactly, but she took us on an unauthorized field trip to the donut shop on the city bus, because for some unfathomable reason she decided a class full of Kindergarteners needed to learn how to use public transportation. So yeah, my parents had reason to move when they learned she’d been “promoted” to First Grade at the same time I was.)
This time, though, my mom just smiled. “Have you met this Mrs. Hansen?”
“No. But everyone says she’s mean.”
“How would you feel if everyone said horrible things about you, called you mean, and people believed them, without getting to know you first?”
This was a trick. I knew it. I just wasn’t smart enough to avoid it. “Pretty bad, I guess.”
“Would that be fair?”
“No.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing to Mrs. Hansen?”
“I guess.” I sniffled.
“Do you think maybe you could just give it a try? Get to know her for yourself, see how it goes?”
“But Mom–”
“If it turns out that she’s really as mean as everyone says she is, I’ll call the school and insist they move you to a different class, okay?”
“Okay. I guess. You promise you’ll get me out of her class if she’s really mean?”
“I promise.”
I tried not to spend my summer worrying about it. In fact, I pretty much forgot about it until the first day of school. I went to class wary. But the blue-haired old lady known as Mrs. Hansen didn’t seem all that scary. She wasn’t particularly mean; she simply laid out the rules and expected us to follow them. But she smiled, too. She might be okay.
A few weeks went by, and I don’t remember much about them. They were unremarkable. Mrs. Hansen was just a teacher, like all the others, only older than most I’d had. Probably eighty, at least. And she had that funny, blue, curly hair.
One day, she gave us a worksheet. I don’t know if I was bored or what, but I didn’t bother to fill in any of the blanks. I hadn’t been paying close attention, and didn’t realize we’d be required to turn it in – or that we’d be getting a real grade on it. I turned it in blank.
And I got my first “F” the next day.
“F”? Oh, my God. My parents would be furious. I was horrified. Little Miss Smartypants got an “F.” I grabbed my #2 pencil and proceeded to grind “I hate Hansen” into the margins of my paper, while my classmates corrected their errors. Apparently, I’d missed the part about correcting errors and turning the paper in again.
“Five minutes,” called Mrs. Hansen. “You have five more minutes, then I want those papers on my desk.”
I was screwed. I didn’t know the word “screwed” back then, but I understood the concept, and knew I was screwed beyond redemption. I frantically tried to erase the hateful words. Not because I didn’t mean them, but because now I’d added insult to “F” and that would surely mean a call home to my parents. They would not be amused.
Have you ever tried to erase ground-in pencil marks from manilla paper? Hmm? It can’t be done.
I turned the paper in. I don’t remember breathing, after that. The phone became a deadly snake, coiled and ready to strike. My adoring parents were going to kill me for this one.
The next day, Mrs. Hansen passed our papers back to us. I still had a big red “F,” of course. But beside my horrible, half-erased sentiments, the woman had written – in bright red ink – “I’m sorry.”
What?
She was sorry? Oh, God, no one could be sorrier than I was at that very moment. What did Mrs. Hansen have to be sorry for?
Then the worst happened. Those of us who had failed to raise our letter grade would have to come up to her desk for a private chat. I stood in line. My feet were made of lead. I wished God would just strike me dead. And then it was my turn.
Mrs. Hansen stood up. Our eyes met. And she did the strangest thing: she hugged me. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“So am I!” I said. We both cried. The rest of the kids thought we were crazy, but in that fraction of a second, I had found my favorite teacher ever.
Mrs. Hansen never did call my parents. About a year later, my grandparents were throwing a lawn party some twenty miles away, and who should be there but Mrs. Hansen and her husband. I was still afraid she might call – what teacher wouldn’t? – but she hadn’t. I didn’t like her being there at that party at all.
“What is she doing here?” I asked my mom.
“Who? Mrs. Hansen? Oh, she and your grandmother have been friends for years. Didn’t I ever tell you? Mrs. Hansen was my Eighth Grade teacher!”
Uh, no, Mom…you omitted that little detail.
Once again, my mother let me discover the truth on my own. And years later, when I ‘fessed up to what I’d done back in Second Grade, my mother assured me that Mrs. Hansen had never betrayed me to her. “It was between the two of you. You resolved it, didn’t you? That’s all that mattered.”
I kept in touch with Mrs. Hansen until the day she died, sometime when I was twenty-one. Her son wrote to me and told me how much my friendship and letters had meant to her over the years, but words were inadequate to describe how vitally important her teaching and friendship had been to me over the years.
