I have an imaginary automobile. It is the finest hybrid of German and Japanese engineering. It has a peppy little engine and a turning radius so small it would make a baby camel cry, and a six-speed manual transmission, and it is powered by the urine of vegan bears.
My imaginary father asked me why I would possibly want to buy an imaginary car with a manual transmission. Obviously, whichever marketing campaign brainwashed him in the first place wasn't strong enough on the memetics, because after borrowing my imaginary car, he shut the hell up. You see, it's considerably more fun to drive than an automatic.
There are other benefits as well, of course. The primary one is that the transmission does what I want.
An automatic transmission is configured for maximum “comfort”, so it wastes a lot of power when shifting. With a manual, you can slip from gear to gear with minimal clutch time, or in some cases, if you're feeling sassy, without using the clutch at all. You can control your engine speed so that your shift will be just as smooth as an automatic without the egregiously long clutch disengagement or shift overlap. You also can see the road in front of you, so you're always going to be smarter than an automatic transmission, unless you don't understand how slopes work or what collisions with other cars mean to your well-being.
Now some NRA member is going to point out that you can get a shift kit and tweak your automatic to be less awful.
While spending money on this type of thing sounds like a great idea, a shift kit is not going to bring an automatic into the same league as my car. I can still start the car when the battery's dead. I can get higher fuel efficiency (vegan bears don't exactly urinate for free). I can shift into fifth gear, and coming from a full stop, drive up a hill without stalling (this is particularly useful when a squirrel has gnawed the teeth off of all your other gears). Furthermore, shift kit or not, an automatic is absolutely no fun.
Someday, when transmissions have advanced into the realm of liquid hyperspace buckminsterfullerene cones that commune with the unicorns, and they'll have cameras and radar feeding the car's computer with useful information about its surroundings so it can make intelligent shift decisions faster than a human. Then I'll have to choose between saner and more fun. That era has not yet arrived.
This is a lousy metaphor for debhelper.
Posted Sun 13 Dec 2009 02:48:10 AM ESTLil is white trash. She does not live in a double-wide and make hot dog casserole, and in foreign lands she could easily pass, but she is white trash nonetheless.
Lyle is white trash. He does not buy potted meat or have a car up on blocks in his yard, but he is white trash nonetheless.
One day Lil and Lyle met, and something drew them together. Perhaps it was a disturbance in the philotic web, or maybe a magical Jungian archetype of a dirty rag as a gas cap that resonated in their minds, but whatever it was, they decided to keep in touch online and get to know each other better, with clear non-platonic overtones.
Lyle had a penchant for underdressed girls with a modest amount of tattooes and piercings and a full-on bent for drunken promiscuity. While Lil did not fit this stereotype well, she played up her sexual indiscriminateness and made up a few fetishes to impress him.
Lil needed a boy who would not judge her for all her faults and long history of poor decision-making. So Lyle pretended not to judge.
One-third deceit, one-third misinterpretation of Internet ambiguities, and one-third imagination led them to develop unrealistic perceptions of each other. Since they also had unrealistic perceptions of themselves, were fairly narcissistic, and were almost totally caught up in their own private melodramas, it took a while for the veil to come down.
Come down it did, like an avalanche of Kraft Dinner boxes falling off a Canadian supermarket shelf. Then they were angry. Then they were sad. Then they brushed on fresh new coats of self-delusion and heated up some chicken nuggets.
Posted Thu 03 Dec 2009 11:20:22 PM ESTMark has some anger issues. In his daily life he deals with unfairness and injustice and stupidity, and it aggravates him, and he has no healthy outlet. In the old days, he would turn bright red, stomp off to a private area, and destroy inanimate objects with a blunt metal instrument.
After pursuing this course of action for quite some time, Mark tried out some new hobbies. Most of them ended up frustrating him more than helping. One might have broken even: he joined a volunteer reserve police force.
Mark saw that the volunteers had various motives for joining. Some used it as a tool for womanizing, and would generally “stretch the truth” and claim to be real police officers even though their uniforms (paid for by the volunteers) actually reflected that they were not. Some used it as a tool for facilitating the crimial pursuits of their relatives. Mark did it for three main reasons: it gave him plenty of opportunities to talk about laws, it let him feel power over other people, and it helped feed and freshen his heroic fantasies.
On patrol (for which he was not paid a cent) he always secretly hopes that some spectacularly complicated and expensive criminal enterprise will precipitate its most climactic actions in his immediate environs, and he will rise to the occasion, leap on top of a car, vault into a helicopter, and save Bruce Willis from anti-Israeli commandos. This has not yet occurred.
After some frustration with the real police officers, partly for their unfamiliarity with laws and regulations, partly for their willful disregard of such, Mark packed his things and moved to a completely different jurisdiction. At first he tried to get a paying job as a real police officer, but he failed all his interviews in the “ethics” portion of questioning.
Mark took a hard look at himself and resigned himself to the fact that he was not cut out to be paid to treat people like criminals, and that he would have to continue doing it solely out of love. So he found another department that would accept him as a volunteer, and pretends to be making a difference to this day.
Posted Thu 18 Jun 2009 02:28:01 PM EDTA thousand years ago, I was paid to be an oper (at the time, the common term for an IRCop) on EFnet. I quickly grew to hate it.
The unwritten code of ethics amounted to the following: you were entitled to do whatever it is you wanted with your power, so long as you did not step on the toes of your peers or anyone above you in the pecking order. In practical terms this usually meant that you could /kill anyone you wanted as long as he was connected to your IRC server, but to /kill someone on another IRC server was a grave political action.
Most of the opers were territorial and petty. My theory on this, extrapolating from several I met in person, is that they were often the targets of abuse in the real world, either for their alternative lifestyle choices, their poor hygiene, or other reasons, and that EFnet was a place that they could feel extremely powerful without burdening themselves with any more responsibility than was sufficient to justify claims that they were maintaining order.
People on power trips can very easily claim that they are selflessly acting in the public interest, and without their critical participation, the world would fall into chaos. What is far more likely is that if they bowed out or were removed, they would be replaced by the next set of power-hungry bullies quick enough on the draw.
I think that, if they were good people, the EFnet opers of this era would have behaved differently. My painter friend Donald says that I am judgmental and a bad person for expecting them to live up to my moro-ethical standards. I guess he has a point.
Posted Mon 21 Apr 2008 09:13:24 AM EDTIn the middle of the forest on the hill is a ley, and through that ley runs a creek, and across that creek rests a weir, and by that weir stands a detached concrete wall.
By that wall is a table of wrought iron, and surrounding that table are three wrought iron chairs, upon which there are no cushions. Were one to query a being seated upon one of these chairs, one might be told that it was a most uncomfortable place for one's hindquarters.
In the days of yore, one Philip discovered this place, and this Philip did seek out his friend Paul to show him the glorious place that he had found.
Paul was readily impressed, and the two of them appointed themselves the caretakers of this place by the weir in the creek in the ley in the forest on the hill. They built a shed next to the detached concrete wall, and in that shed they placed tools of the sort used for groundskeeping, and eventually they acquired an old riding mower that someone had been in the process of discarding, and they placed the mower also in the shed, and worried about the value of the mower in the shed, they procured a large combination lock for the door of the shed, and installed it hastily.
As the trove in the shed burgeoned, Philip and Paul invited more friends to share enjoyment of their place by the weir in the creek in the ley in the forest on the hill. People would come every day and watch them cut the grass and kill the moss on the detached concrete wall. On rare occasions a guest would say, « Need any help with that? » and Philip would shout back, « No, thanks, we've got it all under control! »
This golden age continued for quite some time, but as with all glorious things, one small event disturbs the balance, things spiral out of control, and despite anyone's efforts, nothing succeeds in restoring the state which many found so very acceptable.
HOW IT HAPPEN: Philip had a dream about an angel on the beach. This dream plagued him day in and day out. It plagued him like the wind. Finally, sitting on the detached concrete wall, murdering some moss, he snapped. « If I can't get an angel, I can still get a boy, and a boy'll be the next thing to an angel, » he announced. « The next best thing to an angel, » he clarified. « A boy'll be the next best thing. » Then, to further illustrate the progress of his nervous breakdown, he leapt off the wall and ran into the forest.
« What? » replied Paul, and continued his labors. « Need any help? » some guests inquired. « No, we've got it all under control, » Paul answered.
The days went by, and Philip remained absent. Paul started to work more slowly, and neglected certain parts of their sanctuary. Soon he only showed up every other day.
« Hey, guys! » Philip shouted, arriving to find most of the regulars there. « Sorry I haven't had time to attend to things, but I've been busy. »
« Do you need any help? » someone grunted half-heartedly.
« Naw! » Philip answered, « I'll just catch up now. » Thus he spake, and thus he did. Inspired by Philip's toil, Paul resumed his efforts more heartily, even though Philip disappeared again.
The days went by, and Philip remained absent. Paul started to work more slowly, and neglected certain parts of their sanctuary. Eventually he was doing almost nothing at all.
« Is. There. Something. We. Can. Do. To. Help? » asked the peanut gallery.
« I don't know, » Paul snapped. « If you want to help, ask Philip. » He stormed off.
Posted Thu 31 May 2007 11:30:07 AM EDTRudy told James that he was going to be in Tainbridge the following Saturday and asked if he would like to have dinner or drinks and catch up. James agreed to dinner and they met at a very mediocre Italian restaurant that incited a mild bit of regret in the both of them.
Though they hadn't spoken in seven years, there was not much catching up. Rudy announced that he was moving to Tainbridge soon, and James's heart lept. Then somewhat abruptly, he asked if James had a boyfriend. James replied in the affirmative, and Rudy's heart sank.
Somewhat upset, Rudy called Carlo, then asked James if he would like to have dessert with Carlo downtown. James did not particularly want to have dessert with Carlo, so he replied in the affirmative.
Presently they came to be having dessert, and Carlo excitedly chattered about how he was getting Rudy a job at his firm and how everyone's lives were going to be fantastic. James developed a slight melancholy and went home to his boyfriend, Chaim.
Rudy moved to Tainbridge, began working at Carlo's firm, and started spending as much time at Carlo's house as Carlo spent at Rudy's. After about a month, he began to lose hope that work began tolerable, and life started to wear him down. Carlo knew that Rudy did not want him very much, but swore to win him over, no matter what it took. Carlo was very devoted to him, but the constant doting did not make him happy.
James called him to chat, and Rudy asked about his boyfriend again. James changed the subject, and Rudy jokingly suggested that James buy him a new phone. James laughed, and suggested that they get together. Rudy said that he was far too busy with work at the moment, but perhaps that would change in the future.
Then a spark of hope ignited within Rudy's soul, and he began to fantasize. Rudy would leave Carlo and run to James when given the new phone which would be imbued with so much unspoken meaning.
So too, a dream nagged at James's mind. Finally, in a moment of weakness, he bought a new phone which he imagined Rudy would like.
Rudy was afraid, so he continued to say that he was too busy to spend any time with James. James continued to grow frustrated until at last Rudy was free for dinner. So they made a date, and James gift-wrapped the phone and brought it along. Just a few minutes before their scheduled rendezvous, Rudy called and asked if it would be acceptable if Carlo joined them for dinner. James did not want Carlo to join them, so he answered in the affirmative.
Rudy avoided any opportunity for him to be alone with James, and James grew increasingly frustrated. When the bill arrived, everyone just stared at it contentiously until Carlo finally announced begrudgingly that he would pay for everyone.
Carlo and Rudy returned to Rudy's house, and James retired to his. James became more downcast and berated himself for being pathetic enough to buy the phone. Rudy became even more impatient, finally losing control and calling James to scream at him for being so inconsiderate as to make Carlo pay for the dinner. James was very defensive, and their relationship grew very strained.
One day, Rudy called James and invited him to dinner immediately after work. James accepted, and headed to the restaurant. When he got there, Rudy was alone. James groaned, for he did not have the phone with him. They had a very civil dinner, Rudy paid for both of them, and then they went home.
Rudy gave up all hope that James would buy him a phone. They never saw each other again.
Posted Thu 04 Jan 2007 09:04:04 PM ESTOla 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.
Posted Wed 20 Sep 2006 11:37:16 PM EDTAfter 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!
Posted Wed 13 Sep 2006 07:38:14 PM EDTDecember 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! »
Posted Tue 04 Jul 2006 06:44:12 PM EDTSomewhere 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...]
Posted Fri 10 Mar 2006 11:14:46 PM EST