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.