I brought a dozen cupcakes. There were 3 carrot, 3 red velvet, 2 marble, 2 peanut butter fudge swirl, and 2 of some chocolate-chocolate-chocolate thing that I forgot the name of because it sounded so disgusting.
He had a romcom fantasy about her a year before. She did not live up to his expectations, so things went sideways.
Now she was having a romcom fantasy all by herself, waiting patiently for hours for him to do something in particular.
You could have graphed her hopes falling. In the end, she left dejected. He didn't understand why. Then he left town.
He was much more excited about the cupcakes than she was.
I go to a party, carrying two expensive bottles of liquor that I have acquired from faraway lands.
The hosts of the party provide a variety of liquors, snacks, and mixers.
Some neuro guy shows up, looks around, feels guilty, says that he should have brought something.
His friend shows up, bearing hot food. The neuro guy decides to contribute $7 to the purchase of food since he didn't bring anything. The friend then proceeds to charge us each $7.
No one else demands money for any of the other things being share and consumed by everyone. The hosts do not retroactively charge a cover fee for entrance to the house. No one else offers to pay anyone for anything.
The neuro guy attempts to wash some dishes before leaving, but is stopped by the hosts, because he is a guest.
I just had the best Valentine's Day ever.
Sophie stood before me. “I'm leaving with that guy,” she gestured.
“Yes, I thought that would happen,” I chuckled.
She hugged me. The guy, whose name we managed to never utter, did not hug me, though he usually does. They went home together.
That was the last time I saw Sophie.
The rest of us sat down, finished our drinks, and split up. I went with Sophie's ex-girlfriend and the guy who sometimes serves as her ironic beard.
They smoked their disgusting light cigarettes, the kind with very little tobacco but lots of horrible chemicals that make me cough and hopefully fail to give me lung cancer, because watching someone else die of that was excruciating enough.
So we get to our next destination and there is a Peruvian girl sitting on a stool and shopping for shoes on her phone. I am fascinated. Phone app developers had told me that people actually did this but I thought it was just wishful thinking on their part.
The Peruvian girl, who is named something that sounds like it was uttered accidentally by Tommy Gnosis, complains to Sophie's ex-girlfriend that some guy keeps harassing her. We instinctively form a human barrier to shield her from this alleged transgressor, who, it turns out, is the pompous drug dealer with whom Sophie's ex-girlfriend is just about to conduct business.
“I'll be right back,” she says. “Hit on her.”
“What‽ Why‽” I shout after her. There is no response.
Sophie's ex-girlfriend and the drug dealer return from the darkness, having swapped possessions.
The drug dealer is a blowhard and proceeds to regale us with stories so little interest to me that I can't even remember what they were about, but as drug dealers are wont to do, he abuses the power of his possession to maintain the delusion that people would tolerate his presence even if he didn't have illegal commodities to sell them.
When the beard and Sophie's ex-girlfriend go out for a smoke break, I went home.
Rhoda is guarded. She is secretly in love with her brother. When he gets a girlfriend, she finds a boyfriend. She tells no one what she's really thinking.
Rhoda likes to seize the day. In the midst of evening conversation, she will excuse herself to “use the bathroom” or “come right back”, then, within literally two minutes, she will go home with an acquaintance or stranger. Often these encounters or the aftermaths thereof do not go according to her liking, and she will make veiled remarks of hostility, should she see those people again.
Rhoda was unhappy so she changed “everything” in her life. Though multiple things remained constant, she concluded that she was, in fact, the problem.
Rhoda does not make enough money on which to live. She works part-time, and turns down all other job offers. Other people make up for her financial shortcomings so that she is not homeless and starving.
Rhoda is certain that it is more difficult to be female than male.
Now that I've almost caught up with life after an extended stint on the West Coast, it's time to play.
My GuruPlug (courtesy me) and my Excito B3 (courtesy the lovely people at Tor) are giving me a bit of trouble in different ways, so my intent is to decommission and give away the GuruPlug and Excito B3, leaving my DreamPlug and the Banana Pi to provide the services currently performed by the GuruPlug, Excito B3, and DreamPlug.
The Banana Pi is presently running Bananian on a 32G SDHC (Class 10) card. This is close to wheezy, and appears to have a mostly-sane default configuration, but I am not going to trust some random software downloaded off the Internet on my home network, so I need to be able to run Debian on it instead.
My preliminary belief is that the two main obstacles are Linux
and U-Boot. Bananian 14.09 comes with Linux
3.4.90+ #1 SMP PREEMPT Fri Sep 12 18:13:45 CEST 2014 armv7l GNU/Linux,
whatever that is, and
U-Boot SPL 2014.04-10694-g2ae8b32 (Sep 03 2014 - 20:53:14).
I don't yet know what the status of mainline/Debian support is.
Someone gave me a wooden cigar box to use as a case, which is not working out quite as hoped. I also found that my hack to power a 3.5" SATA drive does not work, so I'll either need to hammer on that some more or resolve to use a 2.5" drive instead.
Mem: 993700 36632 957068 0 2248 11136 -/+ buffers/cache: 23248 970452 Swap: 524284 1336 522948
Processor : ARMv7 Processor rev 4 (v7l) processor : 0 BogoMIPS : 1192.96 processor : 1 BogoMIPS : 1197.05 Features : swp half thumb fastmult vfp edsp neon vfpv3 tls vfpv4 idiva idivt CPU implementer : 0x41 CPU architecture: 7 CPU variant : 0x0 CPU part : 0xc07 CPU revision : 4 Hardware : sun7i Revision : 0000 Serial : 03c32de75055484880485278165166c9
Normally I'm disgusted by fangirling of jwz, but it seems that he finally wrote something I like.
For ages I've been advocating for the dissolution of the tech-ctte, one of the biggest bugs in the Constitution. However, for the longest time I was unable to suggest a suitable replacement; there will always be people whose characters are so flawed that they will appeal to authority as a matter of first recourse, and those people need some sort of forum within which to waste time.
Then the circus of #727708 came about, possibly the only useful thing the tech-ctte has ever done. Suddenly it became clear to me what would be a drastic improvement: replace the entire shitshow with a close analog of the Gowachin legal system from Frank Herbert's ConSentiency universe.
Sure, it wouldn't fix the structural problems of a self-selecting group, or the related problem of the wider community not understanding such basic concepts as nomocracy, conflicts of interest, separation of duties, separation of powers, accountability, responsibility, independence, oversight, due diligence, corruption, transparency, and egomania, but it would still be better in nearly every aspect.
Or maybe term-limit band-aids will magically fix everything.
Jebediah boarded the airplane. It was a Bombardier CRJ900 with two turbofan jet engines. Run by SPARK, a subset of Ada. He sat down in his assigned seat and listened to the purser inform him that he was free to use his phone door-to-door on all Delta Connection flights. As long as the Airplane Mode was switched on. Jebediah knew that this was why Delta owned 49% of Virgin Atlantic.
On the plane ride, a woman in too much makeup asked Jebediah to get the man next to him so she could borrow his copy of the Economist. The man said she could keep it and that it was old. He had stubby little fingers. She was foreign.
At Terminal 2, they passed by Kids on the Fly, an exhibit of the Chicago Children's Museum at Chicago O'Hare International Airport. A play area. Jebediah thought of Dennis.
The Blue Line of the Chicago Transit Authority was disrupted by weekend construction, so they had to take a small detour through Wicker Park. Wicker Park is a neighborhood. In Chicago. Jebediah looked at Glazed & Infused Doughnuts. He wondered if they made doughnuts there. Because of the meeting, he knocked someone off a Divvy bike and pedaled it to the Loop.
The Berghoff was opened in 1898 by Herman Joseph Berghoff.
Once he got to the Berghoff, he got a table for seven on the west wall. He eyed the electrical outlet and groaned. He had brought 3 cigarette lighter adapters with him, but nothing to plug into an AC outlet. How would he charge his device? An older gentleman came in. And greeted him.
“Hello, I'm Detective Chief Inspector Detweiler. Did you bring the evidence?” Said the man.
Jebediah coughed and said that he had to go downstairs. He went downstairs and looked at the doors. He breathed a sigh of relief. Seeing the word “washroom” in print reminded him of his home state of Canada. Back at the table he opened a bag, glared angrily at a cigarette lighter adapter, and pulled out a Palm m125. Running Palm OS 4.0. He noticed a third person at the table. It was the ghost of Bob Ross.
“Меня зовут кайзер созей,” said the ghost of Bob Ross. It was good for him to communicate telepathically with Sarah Palin.
“This has eight megabytes of RAM,” Jebediah informed the newcomer. Bob Ross's ghost right-clicked on his face and rated him one star. Jebediah looked angrily at the AC outlet and fidgeted with two of his cigarette lighter adapters.
DCI Detweiler said, “I had a Handspring Visor Deluxe,” and pulled out a Samsung Galaxy Tab 3 8.0 eight-inch Android-based tablet computer running the Android 4.2.2 Jelly Bean operating system by Google. “This also has eight megabytes of RAM,” he continued. “As you requested, I brought the video of your nemesis at the Robie House.
Jebediah stared at the tablet. He could see a compressed video file, compressed with NetBSD compression and GNU encryption. It was on the tablet. “Some bridges you just don't cross,” he hissed.
Meanwhile, in Gloucestershire, someone who looked suspiciously like Bobby Rainsbury opened up a MacBook Air and typed in a three-digit passcode. Across the street a wall safe slid out of the wall. And dropped onto someone's head. She closed the laptop. And went to Dumfries.
Not far from the fallen safe, a group of men held a discussion.
FBI: Why are we here on this junket?
CIA: Where are we?
DIA: We're here.
JIA: This is confusing.
NSA: I have to get back to that place in Germany where I don't work.
ATF: We're talking about giant robots here, people.
Giant robot spiders fought each other in a supermarket parking lot.
Detective Seabiscuit sucked on a throat lozenge. “Who are you again?” he asked the toll-booth operator.
“I said my name is Rogery Sterling,” replied the toll-booth operator.
“I said my name is Rogery Sterling,” replied the toll-booth operator. Again.
“Where am I?”
“Look, I'm telling you that that murder you're investigating was caused by software bugs in the software.”
“Are we on a boat?”
“Look at the diagram. This agency paid money to introduce, quite deliberately, weaknesses in the security of this library, through this company here, and this company here.”
“Library, oh no. I have overdue fees.”
“And they're running a PR campaign to increase use of this library. Saying that the competing options are inferior. But don't worry, they're trying to undermine those too.”
Detective Seabiscuit wasn't listening. He had just remembered that he needed to stop by the Robie House.