Report A Site Bug

AquaMarine wrote:

Mr.Knightley wrote:I was looking at The team page, and I noticed a bunch of people who most definitely are not mods listed as mods. I'm not sure why, but I figured I'd point it out.

Are you maybe talking about the people who are moderators of usergroups?

It might be...but in that case, several people aren't up there.

Oh, and if I click a link on that page that leads to a group, this pops up:

Warning: strtr() [function.strtr]: The second argument is not an array in /home/admin/public_html/includes/session.php on line 2164

Fatal error: template->_tpl_load_file(): File /message_body.html does not exist or is empty in /home/admin/public_html/includes/functions_template.php on line 63

Scary.

EDIT: That message pops up when I click a link for a group (i.e. J-Mods, Big Brother, etc.) on any page, not just the Team page.

Still scary.

It just happened again! I found a typo in my article for the news section, clicked that little box that says, "Approve for front page status," and then it was suddenly the main article on the front page. I don't really mind, of course , but I really shouldn't be able to do that, don't you think? It should be Nate or someone else who decides.

Blah.

Just as a heads up, no need to report the bug from earlier today.

You probably know this by now, but for blogs I get this:

Script error: local_199977.xml does not exist. Please create a blank file named local_199977.xml.

Snoink wrote:You probably know this by now, but for blogs I get this:

Script error: local_199977.xml does not exist. Please create a blank file named local_199977.xml.

I was just going to post that, so yeah.

I keep getting this message when I try to view my own blog and several others. It isn't happening with every blog, just mine and Jennafina's

Script error: ../../../../home/admin/public_html/local_199977.xml does not exist. Please create a blank file named ../../../../home/admin/public_html/local_199977.xml.

(Just thought I should mention that I'm getting the same thing. But I figure you know/there's a reason.)

EDIT- I can now get to it, but can't post an entry.

(More of the same) I can view blogs, but I can't comment on them, nor can I get to my own. Tried clearing my cookies and it didn't change anything.

For once it's not a Safari bug.

Guys, if it's already been reported, then please don't report it.

The likes, they are gone! If this is maybe some kind of upgrade, please tell me. Otherwise, I can't LIKE or receive them or see how many something has gotten. The likes, they are gone!

TheNewHero wrote:The likes, they are gone! If this is maybe some kind of upgrade, please tell me. Otherwise, I can't LIKE or receive them or see how many something has gotten. The likes, they are gone!

Oh noes!

Not to worry though. They're getting an upgrade to make them more Facebook-like. Also going to be adding a Facebook Like button as well. So for now, they're disabled, but they'll be back.

Oh noes!

Not to worry though. They're getting an upgrade to make them more Facebook-like. Also going to be adding a Facebook Like button as well. So for now, they're disabled, but they'll be back.

Nate! How did the site get my real name?

TheNewHero: YWS didn't get your real name. Facebook has your real name. When you press the Facebook Like Button, you are using the Facebook Like Button. That's Facebook, not YWS. The Facebook Like Button is part of Facebook, not YWS. Information shared with Facebook is not shared with YWS. That's why we have two like buttons: one for Facebook and one for YWS. One is the Facebook Like Button, the other is the YWS Like Button.

*Manually (Copy and Pasted) Moved to the LIKE topic.*

This story looks weird on my computer! post697341.html#p697341

Mac OSX: 10.5.8
Firefox 3.6.3

It looks like this:

Text of story (with codes):

Spoiler

CodeSelect all

Hi all. I wrote this for my English assignment. You will notice the use of the poem 'London' by James Blake. This was because it had to contain intertextual references from a poem. Please enjoy, rate, comment...  :)

-----
The Slaughterman

The three men, not famed or affluent, would wreak vengeance upon their nation today.  Though vigilant, they moved innocuously alongside a horse- drawn wagon laden with hay.  Inwardly, their focus was clear; to overthrow those degrading their lives, and the lives of all lower-class citizens. The trio referred to themselves simply as La Résistance. They were determined not to fail.

No worker or artisan in all of London was immune from exploitation by the twin corruptions that were the aristocracy and church.  Social inequality in the city was everywhere and rising: children died daily from disease and hunger.  Still, hundreds of people poured into the metropolis, desiring the promises of the Industrial Revolution. The three men, however, were intent on inciting a civil uprising. They took inspiration from the recent success of the French Revolution, from the stories and rumours that had travelled from France to England. These stories told of upheaval, of killing those in power, of success and equality! To most, such visions were mere dreams, but today, this was going to change.

It was clear from their appearance that poverty stalked the three companions. One was a gravedigger, another was unemployed and the one who strode resolutely in front was a slaughterman. The gravedigger’s hands were permanently misshapen from the constancy of his work. The slaughterman’s name was Alger Hindley, a man many labelled as exceptionally cunning. He was a man of mystery, possessed of both intellect and charisma.  It was rumoured he was once a successful merchant or, some whispered, a former priest.

Alger pointed ahead, toward where the alley opened up into a squalid market- square. “Twenty others are to meet us there in half-an-hour,” he explained softly. The other men nodded, and carefully lowered the cart to the ground. Underneath the hay were concealed several ‘Brown Bess’ muskets, and small artillery devices. As organised by Alger, each conspirator would be armed with a musket, a grenade and a sword.

While his companions readied their weapons, Alger turned away, muttering.  To himself, he intoned the words of the unknown slave who had also dreamt of a day of mutiny and freedom. The slave’s lyrics had been chanted many times at the social gatherings of the poor, but Alger was determined to make it a reality:

[b][center]“I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.”[/center][/b]

 “Has it changed at all?!” he shouted helplessly to a women passing by, who glared fiercely at him. Like many, she was unconcerned with anybody but herself. Alger shook his head, as he surveyed the square. “Of course it has not,” he muttered. A blind woman, in rags, still lay on a merchant’s doorsteps begging for money, as a girl and her brother stole bread from a shopkeeper. Alger’s heart thumped at the enormity of what he might achieve today.

“Alger!” shouted one of his companions. “We must hurry to the Thames. The Royal parade is approaching.” Alger nodded, returning to his now larger cohort of men, women and children. His attitude reflected an era of change: it didn’t matter if you were not an adult male, it only mattered if you had the motivation and willpower to fight for justice.

Avoiding the attention of nearby guards, the Résistance moved swiftly from the square toward the murky Thames. Alger knew his party lacked the strength to revolutionise his country today, but he hoped it would encourage others to overcome their fear and join him.
Alger sprinted to the front of the motley group, bellowing orders. “Advance to your positions now! Be ready on my signal!” he shouted, punching the air. The revolutionaries shouted back in a single voice, accented by rage and the desire for a better life. Swiftly, they moved to their designated places.

Alger drew his musket, as the royal entourage approached. Fifty metres... thirty metres...twenty metres... Abruptly, the sound of an explosion erupted behind him. Alger was stunned that his group had fired shots before his signal. Unless... it wasn’t his group attacking! He dismissed the idea. Surely the King’s men had not learned of his plan? Alger, with his two original companions, jumped up and ran toward the sound of the gunshots. The parade was mere metres away. Not hearing a signal from Alger, many of the Résistance rushed forward. Though unified symbolically by flag and gun, the attack was no longer coordinated. The soldiers were prepared, raising their weapons and firing at will.  Several revolutionaries were felled by bullets, others returned fire, in retaliation, killing soldiers.  Alger realised that he had been betrayed.  Frozen in panic, he realised the convoy was prepared for the assault. The King and the Archbishop were not riding in the horse-drawn carriages, and armed soldiers were pouring down the Thames embankment, slaughtering anyone in their way. A young boy sobbed beside his dead mother, as she lay, battered and bloodied, on the ground. The Résistance was outnumbered with nowhere to run.

A young chimney sweep cried out to Alger as he was impaled on a soldier’s bayonet. Screaming in anger and pain, Alger charged, thrusting his sword up to its hilt into the soldier’s chest. The man fell, clutching his wound. Alger whispered again from the song of the slave.

[b][center]“How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.”[/center]
[/b]
Alger charged aggressively, attacking with what little power and control he still had. His revolutionaries lay dying beside the bodies of the royalist defence. Their blood pooled as one. Alger stumbled forward, clutching his thigh. He felt the warmth of blood on his hands. The last image he saw was a royalist soldier squeezing the trigger of his musket. The shot ended his life. The fighting ceased abruptly. The square, littered with bodies, fell eerily silent. No members of the Résistance survived.

***

Away from the River Thames, a pauper father recited the story of the unknown slave.
[b]
[center]“But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear”[/center][/b]

     A vast blackness covered London, with the soft, silver moon hovering above. Children newborn that night would not live a life better than a child born the night before, already imprinted with the misery and pains of the youthful Harlot’s curse. Unknown to the hopeful father telling the story to his children, the cry of the Harlot would continue throughout the night, as she walked condemned to a life of indifference and disrespect.

Supposedly, it looks fine to a bunch of people in chat.

Anyway, just though you ought to know! It's kind of funky.