Erinn writes of her trip to San Francisco, which gave me flashbacks of something that happened to me in San Francisco.

I was in a car, allegedly on my way to dinner. The driver abruptly put the car into park, leaped out of the vehicle, shouted that we should park the car, and sprinted into Herbivore. One of the passengers calmly got out, got into the driver's seat, drove car around the corner, and parked it. We all reconvened inside Herbivore, then left to go get dinner somewhere else.

I have left a few important details out of this story in order to foil poetry attempts.

!

From the streets of old Oz comes the keeper of britney
With demands for retraction and rhythm like Whitney

Perceiving a challenge he rose to the bait
And this brief but strange tale which I did recite
With interspersed rhymes did he variegate
Bypassing the foils of which I did write

The end of the poem is triumphant and haughty
The lyrical prince has been just a smidge naughty
To call me a name is the act of a churl
Amphibian? No.  Bitch, this frog is a squirrel

I was disappointed when I met Rick Cruz.

Epochs should be a mark of shame, like participating in planet memes or continuing to “maintain” a package after it has been NMU'd several times in a row.

« How goes the vampire hunting? » she asked.

« Exhausting, » he replied. « It's like I've been sent to the land of bitterness... from the bitterest city in America, to the bitterest country in the world, where no one seems to develop emotionally over the age of 13. They all think I'm chinese. »

Twice upon a time, there was a corporation called Company B. Ironically, their bugle player quit two days before the beginning of this story.

Two days after the bugle player quit, something sinister was happening at Company B. To better understand it, we need to go back in time a bit. So this next part happens well before the beginning of the story.

Once upon a time, Company B was run by a middle-management team known as Team Alfalfa. These guys were young and naïve and inexperienced, but idealistic and somewhat morally pure. They certainly didn't expect the bugle player to quit. They were surprised by almost every one of the things to come. When they hired a Belarussian, they were surprised when he quit shortly thereafter and moved to Hampshire County in Massachusetts. They were surprised when the owners of Company B hired Team Buckwheat.

Team Buckwheat was a group of power-hungry jerks, who were hired because they had Experience and Vision. Company B needed to grow, because Progress is important, and anyway, how else would the owners be able to bilk the company of millions of dollars through fraud and mismanagement if the company didn't grow big enough to amass millions of dollars in the first place?

The thirst for power was great within each member of Team Buckwheat, and they collectively vowed to take over the company. Through trickery and deceit, they sabotaged Team Alfalfa. Team Alfalfa mistakenly believed that its power hold was strong and that it could threaten to hold the company's business hostage, but it was very much mistaken. Slowly but surely, Team Buckwheat started to drive Team Alfalfa out of the company until only two members remained.

In fact, their lust was so great that they began vying for power amongst themselves before they had succeeded completely in their purge of the ranks of Team Alfalfa. They employed evil and complicated manipulations and machinations, until only two of them remained as well. As only two, they were much less powerful, and as they saw the danger and became afraid, they clung to one another and allied.

Losing faith in Team Buckwheat, the owners of Company B hired the Grey Knight to continue the work of rapidly growing the company in order to make enormous profits. The Grey Knight came in and exuded Calmness and Rationalness, and provided a stark contrast to the meanness and cruelty that Team Buckwheat inflicted upon its subordinates.

So some unlikely bedfellows among the grunts and peons formed an alliance, and with the reluctant aid of the Grey Knight, they had the remnants of Team Buckwheat fired based on flimsy pretexts, while the remnants of Team Alfalfa watched from the sidelines.

The peons and grunts were naïve and overly hopeful in the Grey Knight, who was not as noble as he seemed. After a few months of everything functioning better than it had ever done before, he brought in his friends, Team Corn. Team Corn was power-hungry as well, but more patient. Unlike Team Buckwheat, which had been cobbled together from strangers, Team Corn stuck together and moved from company to company, leaving waves of disgust and resentment in its wake.

These people immediately took steps to secure their power base. Where things had been transparent and group-oriented before, they were made obscure and individualized. Each project was assigned to a single person. All communication regarding each project was required to go directly and privately to the responsible person. Discussing a project with anyone else was a breach of protocol. If the responsible person fell sick or left the country for mysterious reasons, all activity on that project would cease. Accomplishments were discouraged, and simulating the appearance of much effort and progress was encouraged.

The members of Team Corn were stunted in their moral development. They believed that one was either with them or against them. Those who chose to be sycophants were given rewards and promotions, no matter how incompetent and unqualified they were. Those who did not were oppressed and punished. Objections and questions to ill-advised policies were met with hostility, and if anyone ever took a principled stand, Team Corn became fraught with confusion; they could not conceive of a reason one might act for the greater good or based on conscience rather than to do what would advance one's own interests.

After a very long time, this fundamental lack of comprehension of their own evil led to their downfall, but that small bit of justice was tempered when Team Durum came in to replace them. Team Durum wasn't as bad as Team Corn, but boy did it suck.

Andres, Ari really likes ping-pong balls.

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Order by February 10 and get
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We accept all credit cards

« Wow, » I said. « Do they really do that? »

« I don't know, » she replied, « but I really want to go to Hooters and tell them it's my birthday now. »

In the sack: Spruce. Some kind of conifer. No; sandalwood. Is it sandalwood?

Wet: Sandalwood. Some kind of wood, anyway. Probably wood.

Dry down: Sandalwood with an undertone of wet dog. How disturbing.

The touch: Okay.

The feel: Okay.

The magic of our lives: I don't know.

Final verdict: This is more difficult than being a pretentious wine taster.

In the sack: Talcum powder. No. Yes. No.

Wet: Cocoa butter and wet dog.

Dry down: Cocoa butter and vanilla.

The touch: Oily. Really oily.

The feel: A third of the way to channeling Tom Waits.

The magic of our lives: Moreso.

Final verdict: Maybe too oily. Not sure. Good thing this isn't final.

Peter: Sabena rocked. I'm bitter about that too.

Martin: Do I have a better chance of getting into Club Swiss Gold if I blog about how much Swissôtel sucks?

In the sack: A hippie store and sporadic clove.

Wet: The outside of the hippie store.

Dry down: Weak.

The touch: Oily and chunky.

The feel: Halfway to an outdated travel brochure.

The magic of our lives: Not there.

Final verdict: Too oily. Too inferior.

CAPPESANTE DEL NANTUCKET A ‘LIDO VENEZIANO
Marinated Nantucket bay scallops with Osetra caviar, lemon, chives and extra virgin olive oil
2003 Soave Classico, Leonildo Peropan, Veneto, Italia

PROSCIUTTO ‘LA QUERCIA’ CON BURRATA E PUREA DI DATTERI
Cured Berkshire pork with burrata cheese, date puree and wild arugula
2003 Chardonnay, Viberti, Piemonte, Italia

ARAGOSTA E PAGLIOLAIA CON PUREA DI FAGIOLI
Braised lobster and crisp dewlap with Umbrian white bean puree and spiced vinegar syrup
2004 Saint George-Moschofilero Rose, "Zoë!," Domaine Skouras, Argos, Greece

CANNELONI DI FAGIANO CON CASTAGNE
Handcrafted pasta filled with braised pheasant with Parmigiano Reggiano and toasted chestnuts.
2004 Charbono “Villa Andrianan-Napa Valley,” Summers Winery, Calistoga, California

TAGLIATA DI MANZO CON FEGATO ALLA GRIGLIA E BALSAMICO INVECCHIATO
Wood grilled prime strip steak with grilled calves liver, slow cooked cippolini onions, trumpet royale mushrooms and 50 year old balsamic vinegar
1999 Barolo, Vietti, Castiglione Falletto, Piemonte, Italia

SELEZIONE DI FORMAGGI
A selection of fine cheeses
10 Year Verdelho Madeira, Henriques & Henriques, Portugal

CREMA TIEPIDA DI CIOCCOLATO E CAFFE
Warm chocolate espresso cup with whipped cream and raisin pasticcini
2004 Dolce Stilnovo Rosso, Cantina Aurora, Piemonte, Italia

In the sack: Fruit roll-up hand cream.

Wet: Sweet strawberry candy. Not strawberry or sweet or candy though. But.. informer? boom boom? down? what?

Dry down: I couldn't care less.

The touch: On the cusp of being too oily.

The feel: Two-thirds of the way to Bill Withers on morphine.

The magic of our lives: In the same dimension.

Final verdict: This one's the best.

But today there is no day or night
Today there is no dark or light.
Today there is no black or white,
Only shades of græy.

Dear Geoff,

Hi there, thanks for the email...and although this seems ridiculous, I have a rule against dating Aquarians.

Nothing personal (I know, right, HOW can it not be personal?)

It's just that every Aquarian I've ever known cannot seem to handle deep emotional intimacy.

More thinkers, more logical than I tend to be.

I wish you well.

Zen rocks.

~Charlie.

When you are alleging that something has a citrus flavor, you should consider that peach, apple, guava, and pineapple may undermine your position.

Christine, reading only the first three Wheel of Time books seems like a pointless exercise in suffering.

It was wintertime somewhere in the Ozarks, in the days before the Soft Scape. A young boy named Timmy was born unto a poor family that already had one son. When that brother was killed in an accident, the parents boxed up all his possessions and hid them deep within the attic, not wishing to be reminded of his former existence. Some said that it was the only healthy option open to them, and some said that it was an ill-fitting tribute. In any case, Timmy barely even found out that he had had a brother, and any memories he developed of him were false.

As Timmy grew, he sprouted hair, and learned to speak, and learned to pray. Every night, before going to sleep, he petitioned God, « Please keep mommy and daddy safe. » If he had had a brother still, he would have prayed for him too.

The years went by, and Timmy went to school, and someone surprised him with the claim that he had once had a brother. He asked his parents about this when he got home, and they rather loudly instructed him not to discuss such things. He dropped the matter, but remained perplexed and afraid to ask any more questions.

It was a long time before his explorations of the attic yielded the discovery that precipitated a great big scene. When his father saw that he had retrieved some of his brother's possessions, he beat him, and his mother screamed that if he ever went up to the attic again, she would cut off his “pee-pee”, and everyone was upset for quite some time.

Mistaking this parental love for abuse, he drew away from them, and began to wander and drift. In the summer of his fifteenth year, he learned that love was a hobo's hand. Then, that winter, he left his parents' house for the last time.

Finding himself overwhelmed by the eternal struggle for food and shelter, he started turning tricks for small change. This proved to be a dangerous occupation, and Timmy's life was rife with anxiety for quite some time.

Presently, Timmy came to a little town, and in that little town lived a fireman and his wife. The fireman felt that it was time to experiment, and and inquired if Timmy would accomodate him. Timmy was more than happy to oblige for a reasonable fee, and the fireman was more than happy to continue to pay it. His wife was less than happy about the whole affair, for she felt that it reflected poorly on her as a woman, and she feared that if word got out, she would be the laughingstock of the town.

Timmy was unconcerned with such issues. Some said that he was morally bankrupt, and some said that he was a practical businessman. In truth, though, the money became utterly unimportant to him, as he spiraled toward a psychotic breakdown. He had developed a fantasy wherein the fireman would leave his wife and take Timmy away, maybe to somewhere like Alabama, where no one would oppress them. As he obsessed and clung to this dream, he pulled farther away from reality and other human beings. The fireman was relatively unconcerned, but the fireman's wife grew more worried by subtle nuances that she noticed over time.

« You must stop this! » she insisted.

« Give me my space! » he insisted.

The ongoing argument devolved into citations of marriage vows and Biblical passages, which were conveniently inconclusive. The fireman's wife was a God-fearing woman, and she knew that she could not violate “'til death do us part” without being struck down, and that she could not invoke the old “'til death do us part” loophole without violating “thou shalt not kill” and being likewise smitten. Thus she was at an impasse. Some said that she was a victim of a bad situation, and some said that it was her own fault for letting it happen.

Timmy's relationship with God was much more complex, though now almost completely forgotten. He had also almost completely forgotten the existence of the fireman's wife, else he might have thought to plot against her.

This memory lapse was abruptly corrected when the fireman's wife threatened Timmy. Timmy was upset and distraught and threatened her back. The fireman announced that he was tired of them both, and moved to Alabama on his own. Some said that it was irony, and some said that it was an owmen of things to come.

I had to release zomg 0.1.3 because last.fm started sending

HTTP/1.0 200 OK

where it had been previously sending

HTTP/1.1 200 OK

She called him because she had had a big fight with her boyfriend and asked if she could stay with him if she needed to. He told her that she could. He cleaned his place like a man possessed. No one had ever seen him that driven before and no one would see it ever again. When she made up with her boyfriend and decided to stay at home, the embers of hope within him died.

Normally he dated women who were contrary. They liked to fight with him and he liked to whimper and whine. There was a great deal of manipulative behavior on both sides, and a lot of emotion and intensity. He did not fight or squabble with her, but he loved her deeply.

She got married shortly before he did. He married a girl with whom there was almost no passion at all. Some people cried at that wedding.

KILL ELMO

« This isn't the hotel lobby! » she exclaimed.

« Up! » I retorted, though I was not Sunny Baudelaire.

They giggled.

« What's with all these internet suicides in the news? » she asked.

« It's like Heathers 2000! » he answered.

In the sack: Cocoa butter and sandalwood

Wet: Sandalwood and eucalyptol

Dry down: Sandalwood

The touch: A solitary bud

The feel: Staring into the mortality divide

The magic of our lives: Fleeting.

Final verdict: Robbed of a fair shake by environmental crisis.

In the sack: Talcum powder and jasmine In the sack: Eberhard Faber eraser and some flowers. Wet: Jasmine and talcum powder Wet: Eberhard Faber eraser and some flowers. Then the Großwörterbuch.

Dry down: Eberhard Faber eraser and jasmine

The touch: Greasy goodness

The feel: That guy needs to get off Elphaba's dick while I sing “Edelweiss”.

The magic of our lives: Probably half the reagents.

Final verdict: I do not have a cultivar.

In the sack: Lestoil and citrus.

Wet: Citrus and Lestoil.

Dry down: Opted-out and slammed.

The touch: Oilily fine.

The feel:

Vous comprendrez
Qu'j'préfère rester
Au fond d'mon lit
A méditer
Avec ma mie
Qu'est bonn' comm' du
Pain pas béni
Du pain perdu
A la myrtille
Qu'j'préfère visiter quêques endroits
De paradis
Du bout des doigts
Dans des pays
Tout en dentelles
Et qui tout droit
Vous mènent au ciel.

The magic of our lives: The transcendence is not of itself.

Final verdict: Too many variables spoil the objective.

'Twas the end of times
And he did wonder:
Doth she strum those amber chords for me?

The waves rose up, all filled with bream
The gulls circled, looking for the skirt of Olympus
Their cries echoing along the length of that sunlit sea.

Pandemonium erupted, and the shepherds tending their flocks
Saw through the dreary haze
A butcher, a baker, a mover, a shaker
Investigative reports

Spectral nightingales performed a mating dance
While far below, a foolish mendicant
Did sup on what seemed to him as the food of gods
Then queried an odoriferous prevaricator as to
The nature of one substance:
This milk is salty and so very sweet
Whence doth it come?

The other smirked and spun forth a mendacious tale
The likes of which no one had heard in many minutes
And though it never reached completion, a stray gull
Flew by and interjected:
You don't know the half of it.

The young in the dale longed for
The young in the dell
Who, in turn, longed for
Some old guy in the mountains
With poor hygiene and a
Goat that wouldn't quit
Said he: O, bitches!
Verily, thou art not shit.

Though no one could understand him
For he had no teeth.

• Brokeback Mountain

• Munich

• Capote

• Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

• Da Vinci Code

• To Kill A Mockingbird

• Microsoft

• Beep

Sometimes, when there are what one might term “charged discussions”, I like to play a little game. I sample a few of the people who are shooting their mouths off and check to see how they're contributing to a certain project about which I might have some opinions. In some cases, I find that they are not worthless blowhards as one might conclude from the inanity of their speech and actions, but actual contributors who just happen to be terribly, terribly incorrect. In other cases, I discover that they have shown a grave lack of judgment in prioritization. Let's stereotype some of the charming winners.

The worthless blowhard: This person has a contribution-to-noise ratio that is infinitesimal small. Perhaps he believes that by expressing himself, he is making the world a better place. Perhaps he thinks that his opinions matter. He is mistaken.

The arrogant egoist: This person also does very little. She believes herself to be supremely qualified to dictate the way in which others make their contributions, or at least moreso than the people who are actually doing the work. She is quite often mistaken, and should be ashamed of being such a control freak.

The catamite trainer: This is a version of the arrogant egoist who betters the world by taking on an apprentice. The Master supervises the Apprentice's contributions, and continues to dictate how things should be done despite being unwilling to actually contribute himself. One notable difference between this and a respectable mentorship relationship is that the Apprentice is aware that he is more qualified to make these decisions than the Master, but feels that it would be socially inappropriate to shake off the yoke of oppression. He is mistaken.

The possessive stoner: This is someone who is lax in her responsibilities but means to correct these deficiencies as soon as humanly possible. If anyone offers to help her, she says, “No! I'll do it myself this weekend.” Then she does something else. The offer is repeated a month later, and she replies, “No! This weekend for sure, Rocky!” Two years later, people are still fuming that the work hasn't been done. She is a flake.

On a completely different subject, let's talk about Debian. I recommend the expulsion of anyone who posts more than 5 mailing-list emails or newsgroup articles in a 24-hour period. I recommend the expulsion of anyone who finds out about Debian votes by reading Slashdot. I recommend the expulsion of anyone who reads Slashdot. I recommend the expulsion of anyone with subpar personal hygiene. I recommend the expulsion of anyone in Project Scud. I recommend the expulsion of anyone who employs statistics in a dishonest manner. I recommend the expulsion of anyone who tries to impose the values of a particular subculture that is not Debian on an international project. I recommend the expulsion of anyone who uses cdbs. I recommend the expulsion of anyone who likes tarball-in-tarball. I recommend the expulsion of anyone who makes lists. I recommend the expulsion of anyone who contributes more to Gentoo, Mandriva, Red Hat, SuSE, Ubuntu, or Xandros than to Debian. I recommend the expulsion of anyone who ever wrote an autobiography. I recommend the expulsion of Mos Def and Talib Kweli: best expulsion in hip-hop. Y-O.

zomg 0.1.4, featuring a Random fix.

In the sack: Tang

Wet: Lemon-lime soda with a splash of Tang vomit

Dry down: OOS with eXtreme Ray of Prejudice

The touch: Sharp and pointy. Slightly oily. Perhaps not enough.

The feel: Oh my god, it's full of stars.

The magic of our lives: Ow, ow, ow.

Final verdict: What a lousy party.

In the sack: eraser, but not Eberhard-Faber.

Wet: eraser with a slight touch of paint thinner

Dry down: OOS3

The touch: Oily, but not enough

The feel: Eh.

The magic of our lives: Fuck Glinda.

Final verdict: What's the point?

« Bubba Yaga, » he evoked.

« Bubba cuts your hair in the holler, » I observed.

« Do you know what a holler is? » he asked.

« I think so, » I replied.

« I asked once, » he continued. « Answer: a holler place between two hills. »

« You asked Bubba? » I inquired, wild-eyed with wonder.

« I have family in Kentucky, » he explained. « One uncle lives in a holler. I think I'll make soup this weekend. »

« I am totally quoting you in my blog, » I warned him.

« Cool, » he grunted, expanding to fill the room.

He said, « People are so, so stupid! If you let the government tell you what you can do in regards to abortion, how long until they tell you how much sleep you have to get or who you can marry? »

I quipped, « I hear that slippery slope arguments are invalid these days. »

She noted, « Ever since Vatican II. »

Disney is releasing the 50th Anniversary Edition DVD of Lady and the Tramp on Feb. 28.

Anthony, you and Ryan behaving like snarky assholes looks to me to be in direct conflict with the #debian-tech charter.

The fact that at least one of the channel ops considers this to be acceptable behavior is a perfectly valid reason for people to refuse to participate.

In the sack: rose

Wet: rose and citrus

Dry down: OOS4

The touch: Oily, almost enough.

The feel: She's a rambunctious little switch.

The magic of our lives: Piece without an overview.

Final verdict: May excel with accompaniment.

In the sack: Lemon

Wet: Citrus overload. The Colon Blow of Citrusland. Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball.

Dry down: Nothing? Could it be nothing? It's nothing.

The touch: Very slightly and pleasantly oily.

The feel: The false Capped are doing the Tripod Timewarp again and there is some clutching at Toys ’R Us.

The magic of our lives: A good start.

Final verdict: Repeatable.

It has come to my attention that AJ has made some updates. He says,

Of course, the two responses above are fundamentally contradictory: if Clint's right a ban (or similar) would've been appropriate, in spite of Joerg's claim. On the other hand, Google's sole definition of "snarky" seems to be "A colloquialism meaning short-tempered or snappish." which doesn't seem terribly applicable here -- however short tempered anyone was, anon left before anyone had a chance to lose theirs. Sadly, the rest of Clint's epithet assumes you've got some idea what the problem is in the first place.

Apparently I've been too cryptic, so I will attempt to rectify that slightly.

The episode begins, I believe, with Anthony invoking a reference to “secret changes”. Ryan perpetuates the joking. Matt acknowledges the Sneakers reference, though it could have been interpreted as approval of the discourteous and disrespectful banter. “anon” expresses his confusion about this apparent disparity between the charter of the channel and what is occurring in practice. Ryan implies by inquiry that no such discrepancy exists. “anon”, clearly frustrated, storms off in a huff. Anthony cites this occurrence in his blog. As far as I am aware, none of the channel moderators listed on the Charter have made their opinions known publicly.

In other examples, we see Anthony wielding the Charter as a threatening weapon. In this case, we see a failure to self-censor. It does not surprise me at all that someone would not want to put up with this.

So I am not saying that either AJ or Ryan or Matt should have been banned for this; that would seem rather extreme and unproductive. I am saying that I have little faith in the #debian-tech team to enforce things fairly.

Alexis writes that we should just ignore trolls.

Some people use the word “troll” to refer to someone who makes provocative utterances in a dishonest manner in order to elicit excited responses, usually of a particular sort. Some people use the word less specifically, and view the motives and execution of the “troll” to be largely irrelevant. Others use the word to denote anyone who disagrees with them.

I think that such labelling of anyone who is not being malicious is generally counterproductive, as it leads to division, conflict, dehumanization, and high blood pressure.

Is it really that much easier to write someone off as hopeless than to attempt to understand foreign viewpoints?

Incidentally, this whole Teletubbies metaphor doesn't wash. Teletubbies don't preach harmony while trying to control or expel people overtly. They say « Big hug! » and « Aww! » while psychically nullifying your mind.

Tinky-winky for DPL.

In the free space, between the notility and the wire
Did a spot cam be apple day
Yet urging on, like wind and fire
Reigned spotted chains of stained McCrae

In the sack: Mango vomit

Wet: That's right. Mango vomit

Dry down: Yes, yes, mango vomit

The touch: Slight greasiness

The feel: Little eddies. Dragons and a cloaked Death. The kissing of lips, the kissing of toes, the smelling of armpits, the coming to blows. The kissing of toes, the kissing of lips, the smelling of armpits, the coming to grips.

The magic of our lives: Must be a coincidence, but I don't see a gollywog on a pin.

Final verdict: Nah.

In the sack: Sweet strawberry ammonia candy

Wet: Bread-in-a-can. You remember bread-in-a-can, don't you?

Dry down: OOS with reluctance

The touch: Crazy oil goodness

The feel: Orange groves, lemon groves, lime groves, but no citrus to be found. Tonsils, sweet tonsils. A frozen banana.

The magic of our lives: Homegirl done grunted at the maksha router.

Final verdict: To be stapled in.

Steve, I think this is a crock. We have enough uninformed voters as it is; encouraging more people to vote without caring does not seem like it would have positive effects. At the very least, I would expect it to elicit more “protest votes” than we've had in the past.

Joey Schulze conspiciously omits the reason that James Troup gave him in response to his recent request to become an ftpmaster.

I'm betting that it has to do with separation of duties. Joey is already a member of the Debian System Administration team. Having a member of DSA also be in ftpmaster would be very dangerous and is not a risk that Debian should ever take. Who knows what could happen?

Jörg, your use of ASCII confuses me. Do you mean ⅔, 2 ÷ 3, 2 ∕ 3, or a relative pathname called 2/3 ?

Unicode solves all communication problems.

I think one of the devotee hobbyists should set up a survey to help debunk the myth of monoculture and illuminate some potentially-depressing patterns that may live in the cracks between tribalist boundaries.

I suggest something like this list of hostile acts.

- - -=-=-=-=-=- Don't Delete Anything Between These Lines =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
deadbeef-1550-53xy-114d-490b20ec1fe3
[   ] 1: Alice makes fun of Wally for writing terribly broken patches (to his face)
[   ] 2: Wally makes fun of Alice for writing useless bug reports (behind her back)
[   ] 3: Alice sucker-punches Wally in the gut.
[   ] 4: Wally calls Alice a useless, scabies-infested neo-conservative
[   ] 5: Alice calls Wally a retarded troll version of Michael Milken
[   ] 6: Wally tells lies about Alice to everyone, pitting them against her
[   ] 7: Alice emails Wally some questions, with M-F-T and Reply-To set to Wally
[   ] 8: Wally willfully ignores all communication from Alice
[   ] 9: Further disthrustion
- - -=-=-=-=-=- Don't Delete Anything Between These Lines =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

One could do all kinds of fun stuff with this, adding and removing context for actions, since that type of thing matters to some people, even some of those fine people in the audience with some sort of borderline personality disorder.

I might rank number 8 as “most epicly-proportioned hostility” and number 3 as “least epicly-proportioned hostility”, whereas my friend Alpesh, who claims to be a pacifist, but refuses to acknowledge that verbal abuse is violence, might do the exact opposite.

Somewhere in the vast and unspoiled natural beauty that is New Jersey, right around the corner from K-Mart, lived a man named Stellan Andrews. He lived with his wife, his enormous children, and a host of psychotic delusions.

Stellan had always known that he was special. From a very early age, it was clear to him that he was superior to the other children, and as he aged, he discovered that he could employ his above-average intellect and cunning to manipulate social systems to his advantage. By the time he was 18, he thought himself invincible.

His ambitious and power-hungry nature was tempered by a fair amount of social ineptitude and an utter lack of empathy for anyone who was not similarly power-hungry and evil as he. This led to a perception of him as bright and eccentric at best, or more frequently as one of them there smartypants weirdos who thought that he was too good for his neighbors in the mobile home park. His friends were few and tended to be outcasts with sociopathic tendencies. These friendships were intense and codependent until abrupt ends; one person would demand too much, the other would demur, the first would stand firm and uncompromising as this would now become a significant issue about loyalty and value and importance, and after a short-lived blowup, they would never speak again. Throughout, extreme amounts of jealousy would rage in both directions, and so Stellan never had more than one friend at a time.

In between friendships, though also during them, Stellan spent much of his time tinkering with technology. He dissected and rebuilt radios, televisions, computers, and anything else he could get his hands on. He played with model rockets and explosives of many types, though without fail it was his friends who were more interested in these types of activities. With them, he also played with guns, but he never had any interest in doing so on his own.

After high school, Stellan enlisted in the Army, despite a fundamental distrust of government and a lack of passion for most of the various relevant interests of his now-forgotten friends: guns, history, tanks, U.S. Cavalry catalogs, and dolls that were called “action figures”. However, he did enjoy strategy- and war-games, which never had any relevance to his military career. The only aspect which appealed to him was the power hierarchy, and this seemed more natural to him than any other social structure he had experienced.

He was stationed in Laos for a time, and that is where he met his wife. She was a Chinese rabbi, and since she spoke no English, they hit it off smashingly. With not much to go on about her personality, he romanticized her into his perfect woman, and by the time his delusions were shattered, they were raising children in New Jersey. Neither was particularly happy. She sublimated nearly all of herself into her work at the local pan-Asian synagogue, and he, now more social than he had ever been in his life, entered into a sinister and twisted game.

It was called Perfidy, and there were a couple hundred participants across the entire country. These players had a few things in common: they were moderately sociopathic; they harbored great contempt and resentment for the average citizen, whom they characterized as a stupid sheep or cow; and they believed that they, as superior creatures, were entitled to control the proletariat for entertainment purposes.

The game, to boil it down to some sort of boiled-down nutshell, was the structured use of random and unwitting people as pawns in a giant and complex strategy game. The players who excelled were accomplished manipulators and liars, or, as they preferred to call themselves, social engineers. They were also cold and dispassionate.

Stellan lost his head. He had just been outmanœuvred by Jack Breig from Delaware, and he was livid. As the bile rushed into his mouth, he lost his firm grasp on strategery, and succumbed to vengeful instincts. Within days, he and Jack were getting far too personal. His rage abided when he succeeded in triggering Jack's divorce. In response, Jack proved once again that he was Stellan's better. The next day, Stellan was arrested for a crime that he did not commit. He was sentenced to eighteen months in prison. His family was not pleased.

He returned home a felon. No longer able to get credit or a job, he reacted in the most natural way possible: he joined the local Plan 9 Users' Group.

[To be continued...]

All this niggling about delegations disturbs me. You would have thought that Ian Jackson would have cleared this up but he seems to have confounded the issue by paragraphs of equivocation after a firm and sensible statement.

For someone used to nearly-nonexistent labor protections, the idea of not being able to fire someone without due process is one step away from a totalitarian dystopia.

Americans look at European employment laws with amazement and horror. The employees might see the added job security as comforting, but the knowledge that one can quit on 5 minutes' notice is comforting as well, and it is not a freedom that most would sacrifice. Employers see the added security as a potential nicety, but also as a terrible burden. « Not only do we have to keep paying them after we fire them, we have to give them places to sit! » It's tantamount to Evil Communism.

I'm sure you can guess what Europeans think of American labor laws.

Anyway, having anyone with augmented privileges not be fireable at the drop of a hat seems like madness to me. So I'll continue to believe that we can can anyone on the “org chart” any time we damn well please. Any other situation would mean that they have too much power.

Wouter, I don't know what's not ideal about this.

I was led to believe that one was required to give 2-3 months notice in either direction, regardless of cause. Here, actually serving one's two weeks is considered slightly beyond responsible and polite. What are the standards in Belgium?

ZOMG 0.1.6 will now prefer Mutagen to eyeD3 if it is installed.

In the sack: A cluster of conifers huddled together in the midst of a scary deciduous forest.

Wet: Rosemary with oil of baby.

Dry down: OOS6

The touch: Oleotastic

The feel: The push and pull. The tease and coax. The rapture. Russell. Chmmr. Shofixti. The shimmering of alibis.

The magic of our lives: Lumps from without

Final verdict: Deism is overrated.

There were cufflinks again, but the cycle is broken
It's been quite a few days since the last time we'd spoken
For if I must shoulder the onus inventive
To entice and allure and provide an incentive
Mayhaps I'd rather be writing in ballad meter

As EMF wavicles fly through the air
Bouncing off objects with nary a care
Getting fractured in the echo and sway
But it's so hard to dance that way
(when it's cold and there's no music)

Turn the midnight radio up for that sweet sound
For they might play Bowie, I to thee propound
It's not really work
It's just the power to charm
I'm still standing in the wind
But I never wave bye-bye

But I try
I try

And straight from the 80's rings out the refrain
With magic and sadness and heartbreak and pain

And we danced.

I used to be into quotations.

There was a guy. He was very Jewish. He had bad skin. He was morally bankrupt. He was ugly. He smelled bad. As you might imagine, there was an entire gaggle of girls trying to get into his pants.

They were a bunch of Christian fundamentalists, affectionately called the God Squad by some, malevolently called the God Squad by some. They wrote him the scariest love letters and poetry I have ever seen.

Finally, he had to choose one, and I was relieved that he did not choose the one who had adapted Culture Club lyrics to express whatever foul sentiment she was trying to express. Instead, he chose a sweet girl who lived with a crazy, flat-chested, exhibitionist midget hooker who claimed to be allergic to marijuana and aspired to be an architect.

Now the evil boy and the sweet girl with a tenuous grip on reality performed the proper rites of the barnyard dance and became officially socially-ensnared. She drafted a timetable by which they would traverse numerous stages of physical intimacy. She showed him this timetable. He deluded himself into thinking that this timetable was much more volatile than it was. Much later on, he dumped her for a girl that was much less Christian.

In the meantime, though, their dry-humping was interminable. He very quickly earned himself the nickname "Sticky Shorts", which, come to think of it, was far better than most of his other nicknames.

Then once, for a moment when her legs weren't spread, she mentioned to me that she had heard that I was into quotations. I acknowledged this and she became very excited. She was into quotations too. She felt the need to prove this to me. It was rather close to that time when I concluded that quoting was lame and that I would stop living vicariously through the words of others and idolizing ink and all that other stuff from that GNR song.

You should know this house by now
Broken-down and unkempt somehow
Tree sways like a dancer
God bless the cancer inside me
While I wait

And I remember the bakery
With the cinnamon buns
And I remember the apple tree
In the backyard
But now I feel I've lost myself
Things aren't how they seemed they'd be
Still I lie awake and alone
God bless the cancer inside me
While I wait

I miss the days when people would get fired for this level of incompetence.

On 2006-03-30 the developer CVS server had a substantial system failure. Due to the implementation of the CVS service, there is a single point of failure with multiple points of recovery (there is more than one data source we could potentially recover from if there is any data loss as a result of the failure). This outage currently affects developer CVS access directly, but we have disabled tarball updates and data syncs from the developer CVS server to the anonymous pserver/ViewCVS hosts as an additional level of precaution. Our main focus since the outage was detected has been to safegaurd all data on the developer CVS server as well as possible. We are currently attempting to backup the data on the host, which is taking longer than we initially anticipated it would, but is a necessary step to fully safegaurd the host's data. Next, we are going to perform some data validation to ensure the data set appears valid. Pending successful completion of those steps, we'll reenable developer CVS access. A few days after, we'll reenable CVS tarballs and syncs to anonymous CVS. In the mean time, we're currently advancing plans for a CVS architecture change based upon the knowledge we gained during Subversion deployment to eliminate the single point of failure that developer CVS currently has, add horizontal scalability and overall service resiliance. However, we still do not have an estimate on when developer CVS services will be restored, but we have been, and currently are actively working to restore access to CVS. We appreciate your patience with us while we work to properly resolve this major outage.

On 2006-03-30 the developer CVS server had a hardware issue that required us to take the service offline. We are actively working on this problem and hope to have it back up soon. There is not a current estimate for the duration of this outage, but when we get one, it will be posted on the site status page (this page). We currently expect this outage to last 48 hours, at minimum.

Matthew, you are violating my Grand Unified Code of Conduct.

I am reminded of a story from a long time ago. A fascist authority figure wanted to incite his wards to support a war that was somewhat controversial. He knew that if he insisted directly that all display support for the war, there would be some backlash. Therefore, he announced that whether or not someone supported the war (and that it was okay to have opinions either way), one thing that they could all be unanimous about was that they supported the brave and heroic members of the armed forces, and since this could not possibly be controversial in any way, arguing against it would be an indication of insanity. So the chorus mooed and baaed and appreciated the excellency of this logic, and by the next day most were parading about with signs and ribbons and shouting about how the troops were great and how they sure hoped that they'd win the war quickly. It did not end well for the small minority that did not support the armed forces.

So the political aim was achieved with just a little bit of trickery.

The one clear thing that we can draw from the thread on debian-private is that a bunch of hysterical people are perfectly willing to act without thinking. Maybe we're talking about different threads.

It is offensive to offer condolences on behalf of the entire project if said offer is controversial. It is offensive to pressure people to observe one, two, three, or fifty minutes of silence to make some political statement. It is offensive to derogate the objections of an individual in such matters. It matters not whether the objection is grounded in religion, spirituality, politics, culture, honor, integrity, or an unwillingness to be insincere. Don't fucking speak for me.

Matthew, you continue to be disingenuous. If you, in your official capacity as Debian representative, expressed condolences to the GNOME advisory board with regard to the death of GNOME's UI, I bet that some of the people not laughing might be angry with you.

Now how many of them need to speak up before you'd acknowledge them as people and not rabid stick figures?

Matthew,

1) I say "The Debian project believes that works under the GFDL, with invariant sections, are non-free". Someone is insulted, because they believe otherwise. Is my statement incorrect? Should that person feel insulted?

That statement would seem reasonable given the outcome of a project-wide General Resolution. If the individual believes that the process by which said outcome was reached was flawed beyond a reasonable point, that person might feel frustrated. If it is widely held that such was flawed beyond a reasonable degree, and the speaker advancing that position were widely regarded as being obviously deceptive, then that person should feel insulted.

2) I say "The Debian project believes that it is a shame that a member has died". Someone is insulted, because (for whatever reason) they disagree. Is my statement incorrect? Should that person feel insulted?

If you are basing your statement on a mailing list discussion in which no one was obliged to participate; which excluded anyone who didn't subscribe to that mailing list, anyone who refused to participate in said discussion for whatever reason, and anyone who quite correctly failed to recognize said discussion as a decision-making process; and which was generally shameful and embarrassing; then you are manufacturing consensus out of your ass. Yes, that statement is incorrect. Yes, we should all feel insulted.

Trying to argue that we should just spout meaningless platitudes (no matter how strongly a tiny minority might mean them) at a whim is insane. The Debian project condemns the U.S. head of state for being a retard; everyone with whom I discussed this today agrees. I know that Debian's about technical excellence, but what harm can a simple political statement do? Maybe we should darken our website to show our support for those who died at the Gulf of Tonkin.

If it's in poor taste to vote on whether or not the project believes something is a shame, then I think it's probably in poor taste to pretend that that was decided in some other manner.

Matthew, are you suggesting that all the heated discussions and flamewars about how to respond to the deaths of developers didn't happen, or that they were caused by three insane weirdos who are technically part of the community we love so much more than Ubuntu, yet not reeeeeally part of the community?

Do you recall discourse about certain actions potentially cheapening our honoring of the memory of Joel Klecker? Which position then fell in the realm of this common sense to which we should aspire?

Ride the apologue beam под скрантонем.

Up in the Catskills, the sun sometimes shines on a cairn. Sometimes it shines on people near that cairn. Sometimes people roll cigarettes while eying that cairn suspiciously, and sometimes one of those people has two eyes whose colors differ.

This person may like David Bowie, and he may be from eastern Massachusetts, and he may like to regale his ex-girlfriend with stories of the Japanese girls he conquers in Canada.

All that happens in the shadow plane, with the pale shapes, and time will not be what it seemed. Yet closer to the center of the Earth runs a stream, the centerpiece for a suffusion of lush, vegetative growth. That place in the forest, devoid of signs of vertebrate life, transcends time in a much different way.

There are other places like it, but they lack one important factor. For if I am to ask the question to bring it full-circle, who is left to answer me but the dead?

I was reading a Gregory Maguire book. I won't say which one; that would be telling. A man, perhaps 45 years old, with a shaved head and a bit of drunkenness, informed me that he had just been mugged. I did not care in the slightest. He then commented on the anthropomorphized animal depicted on the cover of my book, and went into some detail about the creature's inner thoughts. He was still boring the hell out of me.

Then he caught me off-guard. « You ever read the Foundation series? » he asked.

« Yeah, » I mumbled, wondering where this was going.

He proceeded to ramble on, inching closer and closer to me. Perhaps he thought that my name was Harry. It was not. The drunken spray of his saliva became more excited, and then he made his most impressive confession.

« I'm the Mule, » he announced confidently.

While I pondered this fact, he made sexual advances.

Luckily, Arkady Darrell and Bliss and that little hermaphrodite girl swung by and rescued me. Well, no; I only wish it had ended so well.

She bragged, « I speak French, so I could communicate with the Canadians. »

« Canadians don't speak French, » I corrected her.

« Ah, yes, that's true, » she conceded. « They don't speak English either. »

I lost my composure.

Do you remember the time that Kenneth Branagh was supposed to serve me tea and scones? No? Well, I do. What I remember most about that is that he never did. Seeing Roger Moore in a dress made up for having to pay $1 to see Roger Moore in a dress, but did it make up for the lack of scones? I don't know.

Jaldhar, I won't be able to go to Debconf 6 either, because your sombrero just gave me an aneurysm.

Have a nice day. May I please have the aneurysm?

This makes a great metaphor.

Dude, there are fawns.

« Call her an ignorant slut, » she suggested. « That's my new favorite thing to say. »

« Only if it has merit, » he replied.

« Especially if her name is Jane, » she countered.

« So, that was a productive walk, » he said. « I went to Isaac's at 9, bought pot from his mom, got high with them, discussed moving to foreign countries to avoid the draft, was given a cookbook, went grocery shopping, and bought turtle food. »

« Mmm... turtle food, » she said.

La lune,
sourde comme tes reins,
s'est enveloppée dans
son toile nuptial
de suages. 

Réfléchissant la
lumière empruntée de
ma soeur qui brûle,
ceux auquels elle
est l'abeille
t'attendent,
encore l'ouverts.

Récouvre-les,
Albern Ahn,
et par là
commence ta
retraite
de cette
verre tor-
due.

Joey, zsh does the subshell on the left side of the pipe. This is aggravating in far fewer cases than the right-hand way.

In times past, this would lead to confusion when one would try piping the output of the jobs builtin to, well, anything. That's why jobs is now special-cased to magically work in a subshell.

At the door are two pronouns. She runs, fleeing into the sentence. One pronoun kills the grammars who am helpless to prevent their deaths as the other chases her. Guillemets are heard, and he resents as the two resend.

I got my new 85lb. portable configured with a custom hybrid of Gentoo and Sourcerer GNU/Linux, cobbled together by Mark, the mentally-handicapped child who sells pickled vegetables at that stand on the road to the dairy. I can now blog at lightning speed, thanks to Mark's old-school compiler enhancements.

More updates when I learn how to reboot.

Then he turned into a hippo and ate clowns while basking in a jello mold.

If you install zsh-beta 4.3.2-dev-1+20060608-1 or later:

% zmodload -i zsh/system
% print $$/$sysparams[pid] && (print $$/$sysparams[pid])
13764/13764
13764/13765
% print $$/$sysparams[pid] && (print $$/$sysparams[pid])
13764/13764
13764/13766

If you're wondering what the hell Bernie and Vecchio were doing at Lincoln Center with a bunch of teenagers, then this has nothing to do with it.

Wouter, why haven't you ranted about deficiencies in denemo?

« Where's the nearest liquor store? » she asked.

« You're asking a homeless guy where the liquor store is? » he gasped incredulously. « Come on, I'll show you! »

« I think the Sherriff's Department is looking at my myspace page, » he said.

In the Year of the Mezcal, a prophecy was fulfilled. Don Gusano de Azúcar sired a critter the likes of which the world had never seen. This mahdi could not dispense honey, milk, orange juice, or ghee from his fingers. In point of fact, he had no fingers. What he had was the burning desire to liberate his brethren from the iron yoke of the She-Beast.

He set up a vast terrorist network, the likes of which the world had seen many times over, for it was basically just a phone tree, a couple of code phrases, and a bunch of dullards. Then, having forged his legacy, he perished, suffering a series of strokes brought on by being forced to watch an episode of “Full House”.

His minions bided their time until the coming of the Summer Solstice, and though they did not know how to say it in Portuguese, they eagerly sprang into action.

With daring and finesse, they commandeered an IP phone.

After 45 minutes of trying to add value, they failed to bring it to the table, since one major oversight was that they lacked any capacity to generate speech. « Hélas ! » cried the one that wasn't translucent at all, and he did so silently.

Cleverly devising a backup strategem, they rushed to a computer to send some emails. Unfortunately, Outlook crashed on them six times, and then they were, like, totally diverted by a fascinating exchange between two guys named BJ and William. By the time they managed. To send their first email. Which they typed like this. Because the little guy on the period key. Had a tick. It was too late.

Oh, you poor, foolish things! If only you had used free software, she wouldn't be giving you oral herpes right now.

If you've been experiencing any difficulties with zomg and beta.last.fm, you should upgrade to 0.1.9.

December came by, and the girl proceeded to remind everyone that her birthday was in a week. « My birthday is in a week! » she said. « I like flowers and candy. » « I just love roses and chocolate, » she said, « and my birthday is next Tuesday. »

After making the rounds, the girl went to visit the boy. « My birthday is in a week! » she declared.

« Yes. Next Tuesday, » he replied.

« I like flowers and candy. Do you like my shoes? » she said.

He looked down. « You know I hate high heels, » he sighed.

She pouted and stormed off. He threw away the birthday card he had been making.

« He's so mean to me, » she told everyone. « I hate him! » she announced. « I hate him because he's so mean to me! »

Everyone mumbled supportive nothings, and soon she was pacified by a couple of passing rhinestones and a length of ratty yarn. Before long it was her birthday.

The girl woke up to a plethora of Hallmark cards, flowers, and candies. She brushed her hair and went to see the boy.

« It is my birthday! » she announced.

« I know, » he said.

« I didn't see a present from you, » she stated, puzzled.

« That's because your present is here, » he retorted, grinning. She beamed while he went to fetch her gift.

« What the? » she squeaked, her brow furrowed.

« I got you a new coat, » he explained. « It has reinforced thumb holes so you won't have to cut your own and repair them, and it has extra pockets for your herb bags. »

« Do you like my shoes? »

He looked down. « You know I hate high heels, » he sighed.

« But they're shiny! »

« Well, I like you. »

« Then why didn't you get me flowers and candy‽‽‽ » she shrieked and stormed off.

December came 'round again, and the girl proceeded to remind everyone that her birthday was in a week. « My birthday is in a week! » she said. « I like flowers and candy. » « I just love roses and chocolate, » she said, « and my birthday is next Wednesday. »

After making the rounds, the girl went to visit the boy. « My birthday is in a week! » she declared.

« Is it? »

On Wednesday the boy bought her a box of chocolates and a dozen roses.

« Flowers and chocolate! » she exclaimed, delighted. « How thoughtful! »

False.

As human beings, we operate on stereotypes and snap judgments. Purse is getting kicked in the groin by a girl with pointy shoes. Pointy shoes went out of fashion 600 years ago. Tell her that, Purse.

In the twentieth century, I was at a wrap party for Kondom des Grauens, and I leaned over to my friend and pointed and said, « What do you think her ethnicity is? »

He looked at her, even though I hear that such behavior can get you locked up in this country, and he replied, « Well, I don't think this, but I think you think that she's half-Japanese, half-black. »

I said, « Uh, close, » because he was half-correct, and, though I was somewhat surprised by his response, I made my way across the private room at Life, which exists no longer, steering around the sphere of unpleasantness cast by Joe Fleishaker, who still exists.

« Excuse me, » I said to the girl, rudely interrupting her friends' vapid chatter. « Are you half-Japanese? »

She smiled, and she cheerfully answered, « No. I'm totally Polish! »

Somewhat surprised by the response, I had nothing else to say but « Oh. Wow. » Then I got the hell out of there.

Purse missed the last ferry to Nanaimo. Obviously he was not sweating at the time. Obviously.

So I was in this elevator in Brussels, just having fled from an angry mob of sprouts on the street, and this guy looks at me and says « سلام عليكم ».

I had nothing else to say but « و عليكم سلام »

« Oh, you're American, » he said. How offensive is that? « You looked like a Saudi national. » Then he got the hell out of there.

пельмени and no Atom feed? Dammit, Purse.

In a different elevator in Geneva, a young Iraqi girl said « شو تفكر » to her brother, but she slurred it so it sounded more like « شتفكر ». People were disturbed. The Iraqis were wearing pointy shoes. Go figure.

Purse: Gary is a cat. You knew that once.

In a Red Lobster, a woman asks her waitress, « Are you from Singapore? »

« Yes, I am, » replies the waitress, seemingly not curious at all about how someone could possibly determine that.

« It's very clean there, isn't it? »

« Yes, it's very clean. »

« Chewing gum is illegal. »

« Yes, it's forbidden. »

Purse hasn't even heard the story about conclusions reached from biographical research on Wordsworth.

Upon meeting Kim Lee, the man uttered a phrase in Korean.

« Huh? » Mr. Lee responded with the quickness.

« Oh, you don't speak Hangul? » the man said, as if this question made sense.

« Don't be stupid, » said the man's wife. « They're from Hong Kong. »

Mr. and Mrs. Lee gasped. « How did you know that? » they stammered.

The man's wife was too “polite” to answer them.

By the way, anyone who thinks that a lack of Internet connectivity in housing is not a clear disadvantage is on the wrong drugs.

In the sack: Lemon and orange

Wet: A tiny gulp of Lymon, like you might get from a 28cl bottle of Sprite, when you had wanted a real beverage instead.

Dry down: Olive oiled HARD.

The touch: The discarded husks of a bygone era.

The feel: In a power vacuum, those least deserving will sally forth to claim their prize.

The magic of our lives: Eh.

Final verdict: Neh.

L'Endo writes

эта планета заставлает мена потет

Puns of a jovial nature aside, you need to control your crapulence. I note your eagerness to tumefy even while suspended in time. There's a budgerigar with your name on it. Kool Keith wants you to get off his elevator.

I know for certain, goodbye is a crime. The proverbial ball is in your “court”. Pip, pip, and cheerio.

València, Italia, India, Việt Nam, Japan, Seattle, jellybean, boom.

• 6 T brown sugar
• 1 T salt
• 1-2 T chili powder
• 1 tsp cayenne pepper
• 1 tsp paprika
• ½ tsp black pepper
• ½ tsp cumin
• ½ tsp oregano
• ½ tsp dry mustard

maybe ¼ tsp thyme

if you feel like Rachael Ray, add garlic powder or onion powder

maybe a different chile powder like ancho or something

taste and adjust, should be SALTY, sweet and hot in roughly equal parts

Tore is on drugs, forking both perl and sed for each prompt. Of course, the following isn't perfect. Martin Krafft will be making it more efficient presently.

precmd () {
  eval toresbe="${(j:%%\{\\e\[1\;$(( (RANDOM % 7) + 31))m%%\}:)${(s::)$(print -P 'X%n@%m:%~')}}%%#"
  PS1="$(print -P ${toresbe#?} %%{\\e\[0m%%})"
}

Excuse the Amayaness of this post, especially when there are mujeres.

There's only one hit on Google for 734-258-1989.

Looking out over Toronto from the top of the CN Tower, and still running for public office, I realize that I have taken several actions in my life for which I owe public apologies.

Once, I blamed the entire history of Middle East politics on a hapless middle-aged retard just because he said that he liked malls. He is currently awaiting trial at the International Criminal Court in rainy The Hague. I would like to apologize to the people of the Netherlands for my part in inflicting an American on them.

When I was 55, I strapped a large snowboard to each foot and sat in the middle of a narrow trail in Vermont, just to be a dick. I would like to apologize to all the skiers who injured themselves fatally in attempts to avoid me.

Four hours later, I tried the same on a mountain in Utah. I would like to apologize to the American people for failing to injure any Mormons in that endeavor. In order to console myself, I broke into a beer brewery and upped the alcohol content to 4% by weight, in contravention of state law. I would like to apologize for wasting alcohol on the people of Utah.

When I was three, my cousin hung up on an imaginary phone call with Mr. President and proceeded to place an imaginary phone call to Mr. Government. I became so overcome by stress from her antics that I cast away her mock aloe, peddled my tricycle to Boston, and pissed all over the First Church of Christ, Scientist. I would like to apologize for not having waited several years in order to piss on some Scientologists instead. I would like to apologize to Uncle Bill for having dragged his name into this blog entry, especially in such close proximity to the Scientologists, who hate him with aplomb. I would like to apologize for having re-enacted this episode every month since then, despite the protests of Mr. "I-am-not-a-Jew" Schwartz et al.

Several years later, I defecated on the streets of Hoboken, Jersey City, Atlantic City, and Camden during rush-hour traffic. I would like to apologize for not doing this in every city in New Jersey (Newark in particular).

Last month on a flight to Dar-us-Salaam, I noticed that Steve Martin was sitting across the aisle from me. While he was sleepily drooling into his pillow, I swiped his notebook. I would like to apologize to Steve Martin for plagiarizing this blog entry verbatim. I would also like to apologize for having sex with his wife Karen seventeen times. I would like to apologize to Karen for having sex with her three times without her consent, and I would like to apologize to both Steve and Karen for having sex with their children while pretending they were members of the Plimpton family. I would also like to apologize for having sex with their elderly Hawaiian turtle, whom I mistakenly believed was dead.

In 1981, I dined at Sammy's Roumanian Steakhouse while wearing a purple zoot suit with a silver see-through mesh tank top. I would like to apologize to the Romanian people, the denizens of Chrystie Street, the City of New Orleans, the poblano farmers, the shiksa that gave me a lapdance, and the marmot named Stu who saw the pictures on the website of a Jewish dog rapist and promptly choked to death on his own vomit.

In 1987, I dined at a Benihana with a girl who would later get tattoos and piercings. We sat at a hibachi with a truckload of Italian tourists who spoke no English at all. I would like to apologize for laughing hysterically at them when one asked, „Du sprichst Deutsch?“, and for getting blood all over the teppanyaki when I slit their throats after another asked, « Quel pays ? »

On New Year's Eve in 1989, I dined at the same Benihana with a different girl whose command of Japanese was incomplete. When a middle-aged drunken British woman jammed her tongue into my mouth, a Brooklyn school bus driver laughed at me. After leaving the restaurant, he offered me a Werther's Original candy to get the taste of old woman out of my mouth. I would like to apologize for following him home and forcing him to watch the same episode of “Full House” over and over again for 37 hours.

I would also like to apologize to Girl Scout Troop 5166 for calling them a bunch of stupid whores. While they still are a bunch of stupid whores, there was no way I could have known that at the time. Furthermore, when I was growing up, the term “stupid whore” approximated the use of “Khidir beneath Momouteh” and “Shaka, when the walls fell.”

Finally, I would like to apologize for making a Star Trek reference when I could have said that thing about porchmonkeys instead.

Now on with the campaign!

I was sitting in the airport, watching all the teenage Marines hitting on each woman they saw, and watching them get consistently rejected, when I may have had an auditory hallucination. By means of the public address system, some sort of airline employee had summoned a list of passengers to the gate, and none of those passengers were named Horselover Fat. Nevertheless, I sashayed up to the desk and inquired of the manchimp standing there, « Did someone call my name? »

He looked at me, grinning smugly, and asserted his intellectual superiority by pointing out that he couldn't answer that question without knowing my name.

Rather than explaining to him that he could have assimilated that little bit of knowledge by reading the boarding pass that I was holding in front of me, I told him that my name was Jarom Hennessey, for that was the name in the passport I was using. (Hi, Alana. Hi, Ophira. Die, Aliza.)

« Nope, » he said, and as I began climbing over a pile of Marines, he continued, « Oh, wait. She called your name and I didn't hear. »

So I climbed back, and waited for him to ask my name. Alas, he did not; he only said, « You don't have any objection to sitting in Business class, do you? »

« No, » I lied, and so he printed me a new boarding pass. It turns out that this was the good sort of Business class—not the foul sort you might get on British Midlands, where your seat is exactly 14 millimetres wider than those in Economy, and they still stab you with sharpened Yorkshire pudding and plead with you to do your part in lightening the load of the airplane, even though you are several thousand feet in the air and don't even want to be going to the UK in the first place, but the kind where the enormous seat reclines all the way back, has electronic adjustable lumbar support and all kinds of other gadgets, the food is pretty good, and you can even get snakes if you ask for them.

First class on that flight looked even better, especially because there was a 55-year-old 4'7"-tall man giving people laypdances and begging them not to keep calling him a “stewardess”, because apparently he is some sort of “flight attendant”.

Anyway, I sat next to some fratboy douchebag who eventually learned to mind his own goddamn business, and passed on the free Bellinis since it was only 6am. I did avail myself of other free stuff, and when the stewardess (not the guy from First class) took my breakfast order, she asked if I wanted a DVD player. In mimicry of Fratboy Douchebag, I grunted, « Sure. »

She brought me a portable DVD player, which claimed to have a battery, but didn't work unless it was plugged in, and also claimed that it would not play any DVDs not provided by the airline. I did not have the opportunity to test this, since I had opted to not bring any DVDs with me. Instead, I perused the selection provided me. These DVDs were all labeled to indicate that they could be played only in the airline-provided DVD player. I have a funny story about that. I'm not going to tell it.

I don the noise-cancelling headphones, and jack them into the DVD player, into which I have put Transamerica. For a little while, I think that the lack of speech is the movie being artsy. Then I begin to suspect that something is horribly wrong, so I start over, with subtitles on. It becomes clear that all the speech has been elided, as well as some of the sound effects. A bad burn? I swap the DVD out for Firewall, and experience similar problems.

Summoning one of the stewardesses, I complain that there seems to be something wrong with something. I trade everything in for a new set. This time I don't get Transamerica, so I put in Firewall; having seen the first two minutes, I have to watch it to completion now. There's no sound at all. I discover that if I press down on the headphone plug, shifting the jack sideways, I can hear the audio portion of the presentation. What a pain in the ass.

Here would be another good place to not tell the funny story.

I switched to a better movie after that.

In retrospect, I should have taken more advantage of the in-flight service, since my next leg was abysmal. This airline was one of my favorites a little over half a decade ago, and now I am plotting ways to never fly it again. I'll note that the seat was smaller than Greg Pomerantz's former toilet, that the “radio” controls were from the wrong century, and instead of having hot food included, the flight staff sold sandwiches and “snack boxes”. Matthew Garrett might say that this sort of flight gives one more freedom than the sort where you get a choice between two different meals or nothing at all, but I think that it is a travesty. There should be giant warning indications for such flights, so that one has ample time to purchase crappy, overpriced airport food to drag on board, as that is a better alternative.

The third leg was rather unremarkable, except for the elderly Jewish man who kept fondling a stewardess and gesticulating some sort of claim that he had no command of English. Just prior to the descent, she gave him a loud scolding, repeating at the end, « Yes, you understand me. » I imagine that she could make quite a bit of money as a prostitute for the Chasidim; they like their hookers blonde.

Now the fourth leg was pleasant for numerous reasons, most of which are boring. The guy across the aisle from me bore some disturbing similarities to Mr. Foxworthy, but was not nearly entertaining enough to hold either my interest or the interest of a blonde chick, who sat on the other side of him and probably wouldn't be all that popular with the Chasidim.

One of the stewardesses was Latina, but spoke like a limp Swiss man. Her partner in comedy was not Latina, and did not speak like a limp Swiss man. I didn't catch their names, so I'll call the first one Marta and the second one Gladys.

Marta and Gladys were having a work-related discussion about a complimentary beverage prior to it having been served to some fool behind me. There was a bit of a communication mixup, so Gladys leaned over to me and gestured a few allegations about Marta, concluding with « So if you have to talk to her, just use sign language or somethin'. »

Hearing this, Marta shoved Gladys out of the way, leaned over to me, and said, « You just wait. Later on, I'll tell you something really bad about her. »

Then I wrecked some guy's priceless painting. Oops. Isn't paint a liquid- or gel-like substance? If you ask me, all instances of art are terraist weapons.

« Oh, » Gladys sighed happily, « I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here. »

Later, at the deplaning, Gladys cried out, « My friend! », and Marta nudged me and said, « She's single! »

I am shocked and appalled that the Debian Inquirer has squelched its sixteen-page, four-color article about Debian's bar/bat mitzvah this month.

My sources tell me that the article discussed in great detail the knishes, the blintzes, the challah, the rugelach, the Manischewitz loganberry surprise, the hummus, those homosexual Italian things, the Jews, the goyim, Belkinsauce the cat rubbing his hindquarters in the egg salad, the light-switch antics, the discussion of Diane Lane's bizarre transformation, the boasting of mad phat Journey skillZ, the disgusting spectacle created by Asshands, the revelation of gay wikipedia vandalists, the Jewish penis competition, festival reading the Torah, some kind of shell tricks competition, some underage girl brought for “tea” purposes, fun facts about Mr. De Cock, and phoned-in porn play-by-play.

Among other things, the article left out the most sinister and disturbing aspect of this celebration: the Star Trek conspiracy. Maybe it was just too subtle, or maybe they just don't want you to know.

I can point to these examples: Barbie sneaked the Picard Song into the Quod Libet queue. There was rantful discourse about Star Trek: Episode 1. Barbie's recently acquired trinket was not actually a token of gay alliance, but an artifact from Star Trek season 3, episode 27, “The Valley of the Rainbow Mezuzot”.

However, what really tops the list is the floating image of Lt. Worf with white stuff on his upper lip in the wee hours of the morning. That's just. Unnatural. As unnatural. As sugar-free “Vermont maple syrup”. As unusual as Mary J. Blige & U2.

Numerous professional fields have codes of ethics. Numerous individuals have their own personal casuistries which can manifest themselves in structured expressions of moral or ethical belief.

For example, the bellicose snake cuddlers of the Martym Waste pledge that they will never bet against their own snakes in any cuddle matches. Permitting such behavior would be prone to abuse, as the cuddler would be tempted to cruelly withhold love from the snake in advance of the cuddle match, thereby sabotaging the cuddle balance.

In Framingham, Massachussetts, there's a girl who refuses to buy soap made from fish fat; only the pork-based soaps are acceptable to her. The reasoning for this is irrelevant.

The American medical industry has many ethical rules, and the American pharmaceutical industry does not.

Lawyers have to behave in certain ways with regard to their clients.

The American Psychological Association has ethical principles. In the area of experimentation, some principles are shared with the medical industry: informed consent, for instance. For non-professionals, this is not an issue, and you will see laymen performing experiments on unwitting persons all the time.

I once saw someone announce that she found Panama hats irresistably sexy. She thought it would be fun to lie to see whether or not anyone would wear Panama hats the next day. A few people did. She laughed and called them pathetic losers. For a legitimate psychologist, this would be improper behavior; the victims of the experiment did not give informed consent. For her, apparently, there is nothing objectionable in this behavior.

Another important precept is the post-experiment debriefing. One may assume that an experiment is just a one-off thing and if things don't work as planned, one can just move on and try something new. Unfortunately, social experiments can cause irreparable harm to the participants, which is why the experimenters take precautions to avoid harm throughout the experiment, and do damage control as part of the debriefing if the preventative measures have failed.

For the Panama hat girl, there is no obligation for avoidance of harm, debriefing, or cleaning up any mess she might have caused. Perhaps karma or ill will will bite her in the ass. Perhaps not.

Fortunately, people do not submit to whimsy and perform social experiments without thinking through the potential consequences very, very carefully. Under other conditions, the world might be a place of distress, and sociology books might be more than 4 pages thick.

In general, I avoid (inter)national fast food chains. Prior to Friday, I hadn't been in a McDonald's since February 2005. I remember because of Ari's immemorable gesticulation and utterance.

It was somewhat of a shock then on Friday when I went to (and ate from) McDonald's, Burger King, and Taco Bell (in that order), all before dinner time.

In order to atone for this, I guzzled fresh fruit of the blackberry, plum, and apple varieties, and chased that down with some 餃子, 焼き鳥, 肉ジャガ, 八宝菜, お好み焼き, 豆腐, and, of course, fifteen pounds of 巻寿司.

I may have eaten even more on Saturday, and on Sunday my hands became once again stained with the sticky, sweet blood of the ovaries of the blackberry plant.

Bless you, ovaries. Blovaries.

My profound apologies to Barbie for having omitted the Slafferty.

A couple of arrogant fucks once boasted to me of the “coed naked” T-shirts which they had commissioned for their special hobby (which is far too embarrassing for me to mention even though I do not participate in it). The gist of it was that they were mocking the stupidity of the people who wear “coed naked” shirts by... wearing them ironically. I tried to explain to the intelligent one of the pair that she wasn't actually mocking the people who wear “coed naked” shirts because it just so happened that, by virtue of the fact that she had purchased and donned a “coed naked” shirt of her own design, she had become one of the people who wears “coed naked” shirts. She didn't seem to comprehend my point.

So when I sally forth into the following paragraph, in mockery of bloggers who refer to people by initial, you may wonder whether I am mocking the people who use initials or if I have just become one of those people. For example, both K. and K. are getting married this year, and they're both getting married to men named J. Is that creepy? In contrast, K., who only dates men named J. (which is definitely creepy), is not getting married this year, but you don't need to get married when you're in Europe. Get it? Okay, here we go.

Y. calls me up and says, « Clint, do you want to go to the opera tonight? »

Two questions later, I say, « Sure. Is there any pre-opera dinner action? »

« I have dinner plans, » she replies haughtily, « T. was interested in dinner though. Call C₁. about it. Don't invite C₂.! »

I had no intention of inviting either C₂. or C₃., but I called C₁. C₁. didn't answer, so I constructed a voodoo doll and stabbed it.

After some time, circumstances changed a bit, and in order to accommodate reality a bit, Y. cancelled her dinner plans, and we arranged a meeting place with T. and C₁. and E. Since none of us were going to end up having time for dinner, Y. said that she'd bring “finger sandwiches”. There was some discussion of buying wine to go with the “finger sandwiches”, which I thought was a little silly, and the conclusion was a bunch of vague non-committal grunts.

I was surprised when three bottles of wine showed up. I was surprised by the enormity of the “finger sandwiches”. I was surprised to see M. at our meeting spot. Then M. got a phone call and proceeded to announce that A. was en route. There was some quibbling over whether we should all wait for A. or whether M. should wait while the rest of us got our seats. We concluded that the latter was the sanest option. I opted to wolf down one of the foot-long “finger sandwiches” and a healthy amount of whichever wine got opened first.

A. shows up with a large bag of food. She explains that she had gone shopping at Whole Foods, and as she is still drunk from the margaritas she had started drinking at lunchtime, she had bought a bit too much food. At this point, there is no indication of her drunkenness, though she has bought numerous cheeses, loaves of bread, candies, a giant low-fat or fat-free cake-like abomination, cookies, a several-pound chunk of chocolate, and a sizeable bottle of Orangina.

She drinks the Orangina as not to get any drunker, and I cringe in terror as a boor gets on stage and screams about how the fatcats in Washington are trying to purge the Earth of the performing arts and how we've all got to take action to fight that. I consider writing to my elected representatives in the Federal government, but only because the guy on stage is one of them.

A. switches from Orangina to wine at M.'s coaxing. Some asshat in front of us starts waving the flag of another country for no reason we can discern. Y. starts hissing about how she needs someone to fetch her a shotgun. It takes far too long for anyone to forcibly stop the flag waver, but it happens eventually. No shotguns were involved.

Now, among those not in the know, there are often rumors that A. and I have a thing going. This is because I call her fat and threaten to do possibly-unpleasant things to her breasts, and in return she calls me things I won't mention and threatens to do non-breast-related things to me, and makes obscure Lloyd Alexander references that only I understand. Those in the know, on the other hand, are aware that she cheated on her husband with M., and are somewhat irritated by this because apparently her husband is a really nice guy. I've never been allowed to meet him, so I've no idea.

Anyway, we start misbehaving. E. managed to maintain decorum the entire time, but M. and A. started fondling each other and kissing and giggling, and C₁. started SMSing comments about how these people can't behave themselves, and T. is on IRC complaining about how people are misbehaving. A. grabbed at my cell phone in protest of our rude electronic communication, so I slapped the hell out of her.

« Do you want me to beat him up? » M. inquired from A.'s lap. Being possessive and protective of girls with whom you wish to copulate is apparently a rather popular pastime in the white trash community, because C₂. had threatened to beat me up on A.'s behalf not two days before. Anyway, to her credit, she said, « No, I deserved it. »

To show my admiration, I beaned her with a wine cork. C₁. had some hand sanitizer, which we entertained ourselves with while arguing about which opera La donna è mobile is from. I wish the consensus had been West Side Story, but the majority opinion was for La bohème. I'll assume that the “è” had something to do with the confusion.

Against all odds, they managed to finish the opera despite us and the other miscreants, and we proceeded to leave. On the way out, M. and A. had an utterly inane discussion which would have been utterly forgettable had they not ended each sentence by calling each other “baby”. Thenceforth, I have addressed them both as “baby”, which makes them very embarrassed and quiet.

« Clint, » A. whined, « Give me your job. »

« You're drunk, » I countered.

« But I'm cute! » A. insisted.

« Oh, I see. You're REALLY drunk, » I observed.

« Meh, » she mumbled, no longer on her sluttiness high. « Men are dumb. »

M. declared that I must absolutely go see some museum exhibit I'm sure I don't care about, and A. said, « No! We're going to see that! »

« Yes, we are, » M. agreed.

« Okay, baby, » I said patronizingly, then went home with T.

Steve's hot dog has ridden the following “metros”:

Steve's hot dog has flown on the following “airlines”:

Would you put Steve's hot dog in your mouth?

Lars, I realize that some people consider argumentation with references and citations to be more sophisticated and valid than messages with actual content, but it is, more often than not, irritating, lame, and disingenuous.

This reference proves the point.

I dined with some lit. fags, and so I got to hear all about which establishments had been raided lately, and about the intricacies of Gay Purim, and about some girl who did biographical research on Wordsworth and concluded that he was a really happy guy. I stared at them disbelievingly when they told me that reading the Da Vinci Code would keep me entertained for a couple hours. They stared at me when I told them that Bernie and Vecchio were at Lincoln Center with a bunch of teenagers. At the time, none of us knew that a Presbyterian church was holding classes on “unlocking the Da Vinci Code”. Of course, the word “church” near “Da Vinci” reminds me that Da Vinci was gay, and well, check out how many google hits there are for da vinci gay hanky code I'm going to be so disappointed if I ever find out what the Da Vinci Code really is.

We shoveled our mouths full of 花椒. Well, it was fake; probably we were consuming 山椒, but we'll never know for certain. It was still better than I had anticipated. It has been said that I should pick up a copy of The Chinese Kitchen by Eileen Yin-Fei Lo. There is a tenuous alternate link between “Eileen” and Cantonese food, but not one that will be obvious to anyone reading, not even to a загадочной нелатвийской душе.

Now Annie wants Purse to blog, but there are several metaphorically-crenelated okols which are getting in the way, and that's a shame, but sometimes it's better to stop fighting things and just let them roll right over you. Sometimes it's not. Annie can't possibly know whether or not disturbing the balance will be catastrophic, but she can guess.

I wonder if Béla Fleck has ever played Bizarre Love Triangle on the banjo.

All you silly people who think that AJ wants to release etch before it's ready because he's accepting bribes from large corporations, take note.

Sven has deduced that the DPL's underhanded politicking is actually intended to delay etch indefinitely.

Really, why would any corporation have any interest in Debian's release cycle? I can't possibly think of a single reason.

Normally I ignore everything I read. The following communiqué is no exception. Count the apostrophes. Count 'em good.

you're next-to-latest blog entry was almost incomprehensible
either that or i'm stupid, but it can't be that

This chick appeared out of nowhere and started mackin' on me, which I didn't expect given that I was soaking wet and my hair probably looked silly. She was a bit young, though she wasn't wearing one of those fabled “Grope me; I'm legal” T-shirts that I've heard so much about.

Then her boyfriend walked in. I could tell that he was her boyfriend because as soon as she spotted him she shouted, « OH MY GOD WE WERE JUST TALKING! » and proceeded to pretend I didn't exist. I draw several conclusions from that outburst. In this instance, “several” refers to a number between 1 and 460,000.

So I ended up talking to a fat, aging homo. He said quaint things like « I have no personality until I walk into a room. Then I perform for the audience. I act. » He told me about “spy school” in Langley, and Venezuelan panic rooms.

He asked if I had a blog. I said that I had several. In this instance, “several” refers to a number between 1 and 10. He expressed shock and surprise and told me that I didn't seem the blogger type. I took this to be a compliment.

Then he gave me $10 Canadian. Am I the only person who keeps only appropriate currency on-hand?

Phil, I don't know what crazy poker variant you're talking about, but I'll pretend that I do. Player B should have gone all-in, called, or STFU after folding. If all-in protection were meant to extend to everyone at the table, then betting would stop immediately after the first all-in.

So K. called me a brat, and rightly so. Now I could go on about the bizarre dysfunctional ways A. and M. keep trying to drag me into their extramarital insanity, but that would be overuse of initials. I could tell you about Fatslaps and his plans to splatter Harry with onions, but Harry is whimpering just about the right amount. I'm talking about Harry, not Harry. I could do a Marxist literary criticism of The Garbage Pail Kids Movie, but something disturbing happened to me, indirectly leading me to have a flashback.

It was another century, though not more than a couple miles away. As with all “progress”, some things are better now, and some things are worse. Maybe that's just how I see it. It's stereotypically geriatric to reminisce about the past, accentuating the positive, but it's stereotypically me to only comment on the negative. So in the interest of stalling, here comes a mélange of the two. Value judgments are left as an exercise for the reader, assuming the prostitute/lover question isn't still getting top billing.

Warren Zevon was still alive. Nouvelle Vague hadn't released any albums yet. I only knew one person who spoke Brazilian Portuguese. I hadn't seen Rent yet. I used to eat a lot more Colombian food. I refused to eat tomatoes. Actually, I ate quite a few things then that I don't now, and quite a few things now that I didn't then. I don't remember what I ate that night, but it wasn't “Kraft dinner”; I'm sure of that.

I know because I went to see a free concert as performed by the Barenaked Ladies. The concert was free because they were almost completely unknown. I was introduced to them a while before, by a dirty, dirty slut who squealed with delight because the lyrics featured words such as “erection”. It took me years of recovery to be able to appreciate that song. Years. If she hadn't, I would have found out about them through Minna Bromberg because she does a cover.

One of the people I was with shouted out to Steven Page, calling him by the wrong name. If being a starstruck poseur weren't enough cause, I think the error would have made me implode from embarrassment. He took it on the chin.

I know this Canadian who keeps telling the same tired old story that the Barenaked Ladies is the only Canadian band to ever become famous outside of Canada. He uses this dubious claim to segue into his bit about how The Tragically Hip is really popular in Canada, but unknown everywhere else. I tell him that I've heard of The Tragically Hip. He doesn't believe me. I try telling him that I've never heard of Moxy Früvous or Rush, at which point he breaks down and admits that everyone has heard of Rush. Then we repeat the conversation a month later.

So BNL did get all famous and mainstream and STUFF. That night, they urged everyone in the audience to promote them so they could GET PAID and sell out to The Man. I must confess not comprehending their earnestness and the gravity of the situation. I also never expected them to be played on Z100. Boycott ClearChannel. They're sellouts now, but they weren't then, and a good time was had by all.

At the time, If I Had $1000000 might've been their most popular song. AS SUCH, the more rabid fans in the audience had brought boxes and boxes of macaroni & cheese, as well as a stuffed monkey or two. These items were flung at the stage, at appropriate times, frightening the band. I don't believe that anyone threw a green dress.

Now, Canadians are funny people. They like to flap their heads and do medleys and covers and rap gratuitously in the middle of concerts. Well, Rush doesn't, but Moxy Früvous and BNL do, and that's enough for me to make a sweeping generalization, because Rush can be disqualified purely on the mullet factor.

You probably don't know this, but If I Had $1000000 is a song which gets a lot of variation and perhaps improv. For example, the owner of the “remains” will vary, and they'll vamp the introduction with the lyrics of some other song. You can hear it on the Rock Spectacle album, where they lead in with Grade 9. That night they did Prince's Raspberry Beret. We swooned.

We swooned.

We were occupying the entire park bench when the strange girl approached. She was strange in the sense that we had never seen her before; in the grand scheme of things she was not all that strange. I mean, she was wearing bellbottoms, which was not the norm, and her feet were caked with mud, which might have indicated inclinations toward being a neo-hippie, and while that might be pretentious and lame, it's not all that strange, considering.

Eying the occupants of the bench, she asked if any of our laps were free. The art of sitting on someone's lap is largely a lost one; I don't know where people learn the proper technique, but I do know that most people don't even know it exists to be learned. I know that I was surprised when it was revealed to me.

Anyway, I never discovered whether or not she knew how to properly sit on a lap, because we all kinda glanced at each other and told her to fuck off. Two days later, she was screwing the guy to my right.

That didn't last long. Neither did her mode of dress or her behavior. She lopped off her long, brown hair, bleached it blond, and got a few facial piercings. She started doing heroin and boasting that she gave the best blowjobs in a certain geographical region. She shacked up with a girl named after an invertebrate. I'm guessing that she didn't continue on to greatness.

Then there was another strange girl. She was strange because she was stuck in the 50's. She was also as dumb as a rock, so the only two interesting things about her were her 50's fetish and her profoundly deep bass voice. When I say she was stuck in the 50's, I don't mean that she lived through them and failed to move on. I mean that she wore saddle shoes, sported memorabilia from the golden age of rock and roll, and became very hostile when anyone challenged her adamant insistence that no good music was ever produced after 1959.

Her sister was a model, also as dumb as a rock, and with the same freakishly low voice. Her sister was also a giant slut. In contrast, 50's Girl publicly had sex with a 50-year-old guy while his wife and kids were in Virginia. Having sex in public is generally bad form. I know this because the last time I tried to have sex in a moving vehicle, the driver forbade it. Actually what she said was that we weren't allowed to have sex in her car until she had done so first. Then she proceeded to never have sex in that car, which I thought was a rather rude and deceptive practice.

Anyway, 50's Girl met this schmuck with spiky hair, piercings and tattoos galore, combat boots, and a penchant for crashing motorcycles. Really, you didn't need to look far below the surface to know that he was a festering douchebag, but if you did, you would find out that he was a pathological liar and backstabbing snake.

They hit it off, and just like that, the 50's persona was cast to the wind. She dyed her hair some sickly color, started dressing in leather and listening to hardcore. Her elderly friend, who had little trouble relating to clinging to the 50's, now suddenly found herself in the position of possibly needing to get herself a subscription to some kind of magazine.

Not too far away, a lollergirl took a break from plumping up and spotted a ticket. If you were lucky, she told you about it.

After consulting with my business manager, my publicist, and my wiccan stormtrooper brigade, I have unilaterally decided to make this limited-time offer. For US$15,000, a lucky donor can request stylesheet changes for arch.debian.org. For US$25,000, an enterprising young individual can get the default ArchZoom theme changed. For a moderate surcharge, the donor may secure anonymity, and I will claim that I am acting randomly in Debian's best interests.

Any commissioned changes will be locked in for 3 months or until someone else pays more money. Obviously I have to milk the revenue stream here or this won't be a viable business model and I really don't want to have to call this a failed experiment.

To anyone who might be calling this idea the height of corruption, I say this: anyone is welcome to do the same thing. If you care enough, just secure your own contracts and go ahead and change the stylesheet yourself. Of course, if you request access to do so, I will have to oppose it for completely-unrelated reasons, and possibly apply for an injunction to prevent the Alioth admins from making any foolish access changes. After all, interfering with my profit potential is a crime here in America.

Get your payments in fast!

« Have you seen this? » he demanded.

« Yes, » I replied.

« Girls in other cities smile at you for no reason! » he declaimed.

« Yes, » I replied.

« They're just being friendly! » he concluded.

« Yes, » I replied.

« I had to pay $23 for this goddamn thing or I wouldn't be able to do this, » she complained.

« Wow! » I exclaimed. « I thought that those were illegal. »

« They are! » she confirmed. « Why the fuck do you think I had to pay $23? »

The following Code of Business Conduct ('the Code') has not been approved by the Board of Directors of Debian, SPI, or any U.N. committees:

Debian and its subsidiary companies operate in many different markets and countries throughout the world. In most instances, we respect national laws and industry codes of conduct.

We, the directors and employees of all companies under the Debian umbrella ('corrupt fuckers'), recognize our obligations to all who have a stake in our success including shareowners, clients, employees, and suppliers, unless those obligations run counter to our profitability;

Information about our business shall be communicated clearly, and accurately in a non-discriminatory manner and in accordance with local regulations, unless doing so would impact negatively our profitability;

We select and promote employees on the basis of their willingness to support our aims and their potential for profitability, without discrimination or concern for race, religion, national origin, creed, sex, sexual orientation, age, disability, or scruples, as long as doing so would improve our profitability;

We believe that the Debian mailing lists should be safe and civilized; we will not tolerate sexual harassment, discrimination or offensive behavior of any kind, which includes the persistent demeaning of individuals through words or actions, the display or distribution of offensive material, or the questioning of our integrity, unless such tolerance would improve our profitability;

We will not use, possess or distribute illegal drugs or software, unless doing so would improve our profitability;

We will treat all information relating to Debian's business, or to its clients, as confidential. In particular, 'insider trading' is expressly prohibited and confidential information must not be used for personal gain, unless such personal gain is acceptable to at least two of the persons involved;

We will not knowingly create work which contains statements, suggestions or images offensive to general public decency and will give appropriate consideration to the impact of our work on minority segments of the population, whether that minority be by race, religion, national origin, creed, sex, sexual orientation, age, disability or scruples, unless that minority can be safely ignored without damaging our bottom line;

We will not for personal or family gain directly or indirectly engage in any activity which competes with companies within the Debian umbrella or with our obligations to any such company;

We will not offer any items of personal inducement to secure business. This is not intended to prohibit appropriate entertainment, the making of occasional gifts of minor value, or any monetary contributions transferred through PayPal, unless the client has a policy which restricts this;

No corporate contributions of any kind, including the provision of services or materials for less than the market value, may be made to politicians, political parties or action committees, without the prior written approval of the DPL and a clear assessment of the rate of return on the investment; and we will comply with all applicable local laws and regulations, and any other laws with an international reach, such as the US Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, where relevant;

We will disclose fully to the DPL the nature and all relevant details of inducements paid to us by external parties, whether or not such inducements affect our judgments and actions, and we will accord the DPL a percentage of such inducements for use in re-election campaigns or discretionary spending;

When we engage in bookmaking, the standard vig should be 10%, and any exceptions should be appealed to the Racketeering Committee, a self-selecting committee with no external oversight;

We will not NMU or hijack any packages if the maintainer is refusing to act on said packages as part of a negotiation for inducements;

We will not underbid our colleagues in the midst of such negotiations;

We will always assume that any inaction or incompetence is due to such negotiations, whether or not that has been disclosed, as it is often the wish of the persons involved to keep such dealings hush-hush;

We will spout trite falsehoods such as “We are all volunteers here”, and “At some point you just have to trust people”, as a standard business practice;

We will avoid sarcasm at all costs.

Inappropriate while driving 30mph - Barracuda

Inappropriate while driving 40mph - Lido Shuffle

Inappropriate while driving 85mph - Right Now

Inappropriate while driving erratically in an illegally-modded car - 15 gallons of combustible liquids in the trunk.

Inappropriate to publish on the Internet - The writings of a Hunter College student

Ola and Kari Dunk stared down the vale and the vale stared back with contempt. « That would look so much better with a six-lane highway lined with strip malls! » they declared, and plunged down the hillside until they came to the hobbithole of The Right Reverend Mr.-or-Mrs. Frump.

« Frump, » they said, « We're gonna build a six-lane highway lined with strip malls right through here! Aren't you totally excited or some junk? »

« What? Right here? You want to demolish my hobbithole and my Creek of Piety? » Frump demanded.

« Like, yeah, » the Dunks replied. « But you'll have a new, better house. We'll get you a double-wide trailer and bolt it to the side of an Arby's and it'll be totally radical. »

« Um, that doesn't sound better, » grumped Frump.

« Yeah, it'll be awesome, » the Dunks continued. « But if you don't like it, there's no problem. We'll just demolish your double-wide and get you a pre-fab polystyrene shack that you can staple to the side of a Borders. Anyhoo, you have no choice, so you might as well just embrace it! »

As they moved down the line, they encountered people who were willing to part with their homes for a promise of progress, and people who were more resistant than The Right Reverend Mr.-or-Mrs. Frump.

Days passed, and on each day a few people would climb to the Dunks' château and plead with them not to demolish their homes, and on each day some people would circuit the homes of the vale, offering various opinions.

One group comprised Fulano, Mengano, and Zutano, and one one occasion this group bivouacked on the prow of the hobbitboat Sloop Johnny Five. When Frangelico Admiral Lady Bernard da Gamboa approached to confront the trespassers, Fulano shouted, « Ha! Ha! You are being divisive and not a team player! » and Mengano shouted, « Ha! Ha! You are fucking assholes for being uncooperative and preventing us from getting a Filene's Basement! Why can't you just submit to the demolition and see what happens? It can't possibly be that bad! » and Zutano said, « Ha! Ha! This is not in actuality a sloop! » and Frangelico Admiral Lady Bernard da Gamboa chased them overboard with a sugar cane.

Up in the château, the Dunks were negotiating real estate contracts. « This is totally gonna be good for the vale! » said the Dunks, and Fast Food Franchiser LeRoy said, « Damn right it's gonna be good for the... for the what? » and Corporate Conrad said, « Look, we need to get this construction underway before the end of the fiscal year, or there's gonna be trouble, so let's get this done soon, a'ight? »

So the Dunks donned their Amulets of Eminent Domain and waltzed deftly into the vale and muttered, « Look, um, we can't build this highway all by ourselves, so you're gonna have to help us. »

Fulano, Mengano, and Zutano cheered. « Karel Novak, go help Ola and Kari, while we argue about politics on Usenet! » they cheerfully suggested, and Karel Novak joined the Dunks.

Frump and da Gamboa gestured obscenely toward the demolitionists.

Janez Novak (no relation to Karel) screamed out, « HOW CAN YOU BE SO RUDE TO YOUR FELLOW HUMAN BEINGS? THEY HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING TO DESERVE THAT! THEY ARE JUST TRYING TO HELP YOU! ANYHOO, THERE HAS BEEN CONSTRUCTION IN THE VALE BEFORE; HOW DO YOU THINK YOUR HOMES WERE BUILT? », Jon Dilianger-Heys prepared a nice mushroom salad, and Corporate Conrad tapped her watch.

Well, she didn't look as pretty as some others I have known, and she wasn't good at conversation when we were alone, but she had a way of making me believe that I belonged, and it felt like coming home when I found her.

She seemed to be so proud of me just walking, holding hands, and she didn't think that money was the measure of a man, and we seemed to fit together when I held her in my arms, and it left me feeling warm, when I loved her.

Because she brightened up the day like the early morning sun, and she made what I was doing seem worthwhile—It's the closest thing to living that I guess I've ever known, and it made me want to smile, when I loved her.

I know some of us were born to cast our fortunes to the winds, and I guess I'm bound to travel down a road that never ends, but I know I'll never look upon the likes of her again, and I'll never understand why I lost her.

I am only doing this because Erich horrified me with a two-awk pipeline. So one system for each invocation of awk:

% print -l -- ${(o)history%%[ |]*} | uniq -c | sort -nr | head -n 10
    271 cd
    233 sudo
    221 rm
    215 more
    185 ls
    163 dict
    151 apt-cache
    128 vi
    110 tla
    108 grep

% print -l -- ${(o)history%%[ |]*} | uniq -c | sort -nr | head -n 10
    124 sudo
    112 cd
     97 ls
     73 zomg
     33 man
     32 apt-cache
     26 rmadison
     22 grep
     21 vi
     18 tla

This is no good if you have HIST_IGNORE_DUPS or HIST_IGNORE_ALL_DUPS set.

precmd () {
  [[ ${#${(M)${${(v)history}[1,20]}:%w}} -gt 10 ]] && figlet Stop typing w
}

Wow.

Sam, French people don't understand irony, so I know you didn't write this on purpose.

« Why the fuck are they calling me? » I demanded.

« They saw your classified in Aquatic Mammal Fancier, » he answered.

« I have my doubts, » I confessed.

« You're weirder than Kool Keith, » he replied.

« So, I must say, » he said, « That hotel is much nicer than the one they put me in last time. It's this wonderful little bed and breakfast sort of thing, in an old renovated mansion. Ting and I were the only guests. The owner lives there and was very friendly. »

« Nice, » she said.

« And, » he continued, « in direct contrast to the place they usually put me, the sheets were both clean and soft, and none of the towels smelled like scallops. »

« Internet access? » she asked.

« Yeah: wireless. » he replied.

« Nice, » she said.

He rattled on, « She's half-Turkish and half-Spanish--as in Spain. She grew up in the Dominican Republic but went to American schools there, so she has no accent. She's 6 feet tall, which means she's on my level, but when she puts on heels she's taller than me. She's very, very pretty... it's hard not to be when you're half Turkish and half Spanish and athletic... and to boot... here's the kicker... she's a doctor. »

« Is she a proctologist? » she inquired.

« Ha, no, » he replied, « but her subspecialty is GI. She did offer to perform my next colonoscopy. »

« Wait, » she said. « Your next colonoscopy? Something about that seems so wrong. No girl who wants to sleep with you should be itching to see the inside of your intestines. »

« So, anyway, » he continued, « she's got a wicked sense of humor and happens to love the opera. She's great elbow candy. Really, what this means is that I'm setting myself up for a big disappointment. »

« I dunno, » she said. « The potato girl still seems like she was the prime catch. Opera schmopera. »

« Oh, god, » he groaned. « You are so many years out of the loop. The potato chip girl? Beth? You realize that our daughter turned 10 on Sunday? »

« Holy shit! » she exclaimed. « 10! »

« Yeah, » he grunted. « I'm old! »

« No, no, » she insisted. « You're not old. Just your children are. »

33-year-old ultranationalist Welsh lassie > intrusive kiwi > 50-year-old diabetic Welsh policewoman with a penchant for bullfighting > Bronwyn > married ho from Detroit with commitment issues.

Carissimi,

oggi inizia in stage Andrea Aquilini nel gruppo di Gigoli.

Grazie e ciao
Paola

P.S.: scusate il ritardo

I concur.

And how are things in Gloccamora, you ask?

Down by the river, there are people loudly playing soccer, oblivious to the overpowering stench wafting from the trees. Others stand on the pedestrian bridge, gawking at the smog-shrouded peak of Mount Peeweehockey to the south, or the climbing spires of Sturmdrangsturm to the north.

On the left bank, there is naught but cobbles and stenchless trees.

I walked along the quay for a time, and ducked into a cove wherein I saw a tavern called the Monkey's Door. Were I to give a complete account of what was therein, I would incur the wrath of the Monkey Girl, so I will refrain from so imparting.

While supping on a mélange of blood and sour cream, I noticed an old skinhead with a backpack and a gym bag, both bursting at the seams. He was drinking hard sparkling cider and chain-smoking Camel Blues, while reading the smallest copy of Eldest that I have ever seen in my life. That is to say, it was the same thickness as the standard hardcover, but only a few inches long and wide.

My favorite skinhead used to do a cover of Romeo and Juliet in a faux Filipina accent. Her cover was of the Indigo Girls cover, since she preferred it to the original. I guess if you're going to be a skinhead, your judgment has to be a bit suspect. Still, her rendition was hilarious.

Hopefully she's still smoking sage, and not Camel Blues.

weasel
wiggy
Joy
waldi
Kamion
vorlon
Ganneff
aba
dondelelcaro
Myon

I used to write shareware. Some people would just send money with a brief thank-you note. Some people would adopt the attitude that I was beholden to them once I cashed their checks. Since the customer is always right, I was faced with the pressure of customer-directed development. For that and other reasons, I stopped writing shareware.

My next mistake was to release everything as postcardware. I did not immediately realize that this was wrong, and I enjoyed the influx of postcards from various places. Never underestimate the power of a simple 53-byte executable to make random people happy.

In time, I stopped writing postcardware.

Many years later, someone offered me something, with the condition that I do something in Debian that I would have not done otherwise. Another individual was offered the exact same inducement with the exact same condition. We both accepted.

I kept my end of the bargain. The other guy reneged. Sometimes I wonder if he inadvertantly did the right thing.

Since then I have been paid to work on free software, but never directly on Debian.

« For everyone wanting the TN1 visa, here is the secret, » he proclaimed. « When they ask if you have ever been in trouble with the police, just say “No”. »

« Also, if your bags weigh more than fifty pounds, tell the flight attendant she is cute, even if she isn't, » he continued.

« And that she looks strong? » she asked.

« I'm going to read this book, » he said, « because I don't believe in coincidence. »

« I am from Japan, » she confessed.

I smiled and nodded.

« I am here... uh... sightseeing, » she claimed.

I smiled and nodded.

She handed me a pamphlet about reading the Bible. « When you open the window, you let fresh air in, » she continued.

I smiled and nodded.

« When you open your mind, you let in ノリジ, » she concluded.

« Oh, yes, » I said.

« Knowledge, » she said. I smiled and nodded.

« Oh, you don't speak English, huh? » he shrieked. « I bet you ordered that pizza in Chinese. Don't they speak English in China or Korea? »

I got into my E85-loving Chevy Impala, tickled the throttle, and sped down past 8 Mile, past Telegraph Road, past Madonna University, and all the way to Loving Spoonful. I only stopped to vote at a couple of middle schools.

On the way, I didn't sing any Eminem, or Dire Straits, or Madonna, or the Lovin' Spoonful. All I sang was a song by Utah Phillips.

Far too late after #394749 got fixed, ZOMG switched from mpg321 to mpg123.

The reason that this is so exciting is that mpg123 supports output buffering, whereas mpg321 has been sucking ass for over five years.

With these shells as sh, results from the current posh testsuite:

This may reflect more on the unsuitability of the posh testsuite for other shells than the failure of those shells to conform to the expectations set by Debian policy. Patches welcome.

I can still see her smiling, dancing barefoot on the grass. She was young and naïve then. She lived in the sleeplessness and the soul-crushing poison, a refugee from the past that was never there.

Some say that one's character is defined not by one's principles, but by the manner in which one compromises those principles. Others say that it's all about ideals.

She tried to settle, but she failed. Maybe she couldn't let go of her principles, maybe she couldn't let go of mine.

She grasped the wick with her fingers and pinched. That quenched flame drove ripples of confusion through the crowd, and some adapted to the darkness better than others.

Oddly enough, I can't find my candles, and I don't know whom to blame. One day that will matter more than it does now.

« They wouldn't let my husband downgrade to business class, » she complained.

« Um, I'd cheerfully change seats with him, » he cried.

« Oh, why didn't that occur to us, » she lamented. « Now it's too late! »

« Yeah? » he asked. « Similar for you too? »

« Maybe, » I replied.

« Mystery! » she exclaimed. « Intrigue! »

« It's okay, » he said. « I'm an open book. I don't expect everyone else to be. »

« Us Livejournal weirdoes are all open books. » she observed.

« True, true, » he lied.

From here:

25 November 2006, we've got the letter from Michael Jones, the Chief Technologist of Google Earth, Google Maps, and Google Local search, requesting us to cease reverse engineering and improper usage of licensed data that Google Earth use...

Didn't Google have some kind of proscription against being or doing evil?

Sebastian, I see a veiled threat in that letter. Furthermore, I see more promotion of proprietary data and software, and defense of the ideals of intellectual property law.

You may argue that this is good business sense or necessary or what-have-you, but it ain't not-evil.

« Minextel pace Michael bah villes, » I muttered.

« He says with pride, » she scoffed.

« Il bastardo, » he insisted.

The white dog stared, eyes blazing.

David, my employer does not claim to give back to Debian, and, as far as I am aware, no one claims that Debian should strive to cooperate with my employer.

« I was in a line on launch day and I didn't get one, » he said.

« Did you camp out 64 days beforehand? » I asked.

« Do I weigh 400 pounds and survive off grape soda? » he demanded. « No, I didn't camp out. »

This looks like the perfect beginning of a tribute to Kondom des Grauens, starring a killer Nalgene bottle.

The chubby little girl sat with her single piece of イクラ sushi. She lifted each egg, one by one, to her mouth, and crushed it with her tongue.

The burst of salty, buttery goodness filled her mouth, and a smile broke across her face as she exclaimed, « 私 は 元気! »

I have learned over the years that any girl who follows me into the bathroom uninvited is trouble.

On certain occasions, they feel the need to show off a special ability or trick. The “I can stand up and pee in a urinal” theatrics were unimpressive the first time, and have gotten even more tedious as the decades fly by.

Just a few hours ago, a woman named after a stripper followed me into the fifth floor men's room of an office building I wasn't supposed to be in. She used a stall, and I'm pretty sure she sat down to perform her micturation.

As I dried my hands with a paper towel, she scoffed at me. « This is how girls dry their hands, » she said, and demonstrated how.

Now, I have observed people drying their hands for quite some time. I find that in general, people are fond of the towel (either cloth or paper), the air dryer, and the wiping one's hands on one's jeans. I have seen many a time the shaking and waving of one's hands in the air. I have seen these methods employed by both males and females alike.

Her method was a bit of a surprise.

One, and the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies blended into dull tableaux.

Two, and the steel towering above Yerba Buena Island was mistaken for something else.

Three, and the bellows of the donkeys, the bad asses of Kona, became muffled by the roar of the ocean.

Four, and the howling wind of the frozen north was blocked by brick and mortar.

Five, and the redwoods had nothing to say.

Six, and the Whittier Narrows shook.

Seven was a bad movie.

Is there ever going to be a new upstream release of libtool? How about lynx?

« Don't blog about me or put any pictures of me online, » she said.

« Why? » he asked.

« Because my stalker will see it, and he gets very angry, » she explained.

Amaya, that was the 90s!

This creepy mechanical creature just keeps climbing up and down the ladder:

Dear Valued Customer or Madam:

We regret to inform you that we cannot acknowledge your complaint as being valid. Kindly choke on a bag of cocks. We appreciate your continued business!

Sincerely,

Someone who knows that you'll be mollified by insincere platitudes

Purse, the nice altruistic man is likely to be a figment of your imagination. Still, it is nice of you to acknowledge him, just as the legendary dugong keeps asking about you even though you are likely to be a figment of his. Nevertheless, we have but half the story, and holistically, half does not make a whole. You may reflect on that as you consume your stimulants in this sweet December rain while whales ride the A train to and from Penn Station, pursuant to the pre-agreed plan.

Metapathos is a fickle bastard, and while you can never know if Vasya's powernaps are just the thing to alter time and space, the gestalt of the ol' Geist-manifdest, as it were, will continue to beckon to you, perhaps from Jupiter, perhaps from the steppes, perhaps from Atlantic City.

I must insist that I am not your Secret Santa.

I want to get Razones para una sonrisa by José Luis Rodríguez into MusicBrainz. This album is already in FreeDB as rock / ac0be80c, and being able to to a FreeDB import saves me the trouble of typing everything into the web form by hand, as well as populating the Disc ID, which is not something I can do through the web interface with a normal edit.

Alas, MB can't grab rock / ac0be80c, because it seems to be using some sort of tracktype.org thing instead of freedb.org. I wonder how I can complain about this. It seems that the two avenues are #musicbrainz on freenode and the web forums. #musicbrainz has two strikes against it; it is on freenode and it is publicly-logged. The web forums have the unfortunate downside of being web forums.

It's a terrible decision to have to face, but eventually I decide that for the greater good, I will post on a web forum and just feel dirty and lame through approximately three days of constant showering. So what happens? Apparently the forums are on a different authentication system than the rest of MusicBrainz. I do not register. I give up.

I crashed the “holiday” party of a certain company whose business plan makes no sense. Sadly, I think every corporate Christmas party I've ever experienced has topped this one by far. Still, there was free food and drink, so it was probably worth sneaking in.

The party comprised a booze-and-snack phase, a corporate announcement phase, a gambling and dinner phase, and the gift giveaway phase. I have been to plenty of fake casino parties, and this one totally lacked the typical 'zazz. More interesting was when one woman tried to blow the CEO, her fiancé interceded, and there was much disdain as it was revealed that he was a college dropout.

After the casino people packed up their tables, people exchanged their chips for raffle tickets. They ran out of raffle tickets before everyone had cashed in their chips. Already this seemed convoluted and broken to me, but it wasn't just a simple raffle.

The CEO announced that he had absolute power and was gonna shake things up and make them more interesting. Each time a raffle ticket was drawn, the “winner” would have the opportunity to open a new gift bag or to swap for one of the gifts already claimed. When he said this, two people next to me clutched each other and squealed that it was just like The Office, because, well, someone had obviously been inspired by the “Yankee Swap” featured in episode #2.16 of the American version of the show of the same name.

Horrifying.

loganwifi.com, you are awful.

« Going down? » she asked.

« Yep, » I mumbled.

« Likin' the shirt? » he grunted.

« Yep, » I mumbled.

« What does it say? What is it‽ » she demanded.

« It's, uh.. it's an operating system, » he grunted.

« Oh, computer stuff, » she snorted.

I find myself sharing Joey Hess's views on gravy.

Kathy Sierra writes about how conference T-shirt distributors are not trying to make their attendees look sexy enough, by providing tees that attempt to hide breasts.

She doesn't mention underwear though, and this suffers from exactly the same problem. The free logo-branded boxers you get at these things are almost always poorly-made and ill-fitting. Why not provide Speedos or bikini bottoms or anything which will tightly-hug the pubic region and showcase one's junk? Does this guy want to hide his genitalia? No, he wants to strut, proud and trouserless, across the expo floor, knowing full well how much the conference organizers care about him.

Bless his courage and rejection of societal norms.

Blogs that promote comments are bad.

One-line blog posts are good.

Wouter, there are many parallels between Vancouver and dunc-tank. For example:

• Both were the result of small groups of people deciding that they were better than the rest of us, and therefore, by conspiring and plotting in secret, they could make an enormous mistake into a good idea.
• Both were met with hostility and opposition when the peasants were told what the landed gentry had planned for them.
• In both cases, the backers continued to press on even in the face of widespread disillusionment and loss of morale.
• In both cases, apologists insisted that, because the eventual result changed from its original conception, there was clear evidence of conciliatory nature and a willingness to compromise.
• Both are enormous mistakes.
• The supporters are unlikely to learn from either endeavor.
• The supporters are even less likely to admit that they exercised poor judgment.

I could go on, but insects are gnawing on my legs.

« In America, men and women can be just friends, » she said.

« I wanna be an American, » he said.

« Yeah, right, » she said. « You'd fuck all your friends. »

Wesley J. Landaker for DPL.

Eric, I don't know where you are in Brooklyn, but the NYSC in Boerum Hill has some squash going on.

I left a good part of my childhood in a hotel room with a pretty girl in the bed. I left the place of hug fantasies and skated past whiteness, where snow became indistinguishable from clouds.

A religious experience is coursing through my veins, seeded amongst overpriced cashews and condiments with special names, but blossoming hours into the future, for I am in the future now.

Oddly, I've got a Heart song stuck in my head.