Being Chummy with UNIX.

As the years have passed, and I’ve grown less irresponsible, while growing balder and fatter, I find that I’m still deeply entrenched in a battle with my lover, whom I’ll call “UNIX”. UNIX, though not without its share of baggage, is a daring one who forces me to expect a lot of variety; flavors, touch, dress, and location. At the drop of the hat, UNIX has been known to tie me up for a morning, afternoon, or for an entire day, depending on how naughty she’s wont to be at any particular moment. To call these experiences engaging would be an understatement.

Like any long-standing love affair, there are ample opportunities to label your mate with nicknames.

On our first date, my mate and I spoke of “slash e-t-c slash password”. After a year or so, it was “slash et-c slash pass-wd”. And now it’s just “pass-wd”. The same holds true for things like ‘ypcat’, where we straddle the fine line in between ‘ip-cat’ and ‘yp-cat’ often, where ‘f-s-c-k’ became ‘fisk’ and ‘X-Windows’ became ’shiteater’.

Say my name, bitch! “UNAME!”
Say my name, bitch! “UNAME!”
The whole thing! “UNAME -A!”

Recently, my dearest UNIX has taken to sexy dressing. I love it when she wraps herself in Aqua. This new style is great, and sleek, far better than her GNOME or dtwm phases.

And finally, UNIX is a giving lover who lets me bring BSD, Linux and Solaris into the server room for play.

Lotion, Justin Winokur, and Be Gentile with Me.

While I can’t complain about this Massachusetts winter (we’ve only had less than a foot of now since November!), I have been experiencing horribly dry skin for the last 2 months. This past weekend, while I tore through clutter in my house like some kind of Oklahoma cyclone, the skin on the knuckles of my left hand began to crack and bleed without mercy. While not all that painful, it’s awfully ugly-looking. I mean, if I was the type to wear a headband, or roll up cigarettes in my t-shirt sleeve, then cut knuckles would seem like the norm. But since I’m not, it isn’t. So, if you know of any scent-free and non-greasy lotions that I could apply to soothe my skin, that would be great! And if you could do so whilst telling me something like “put the lotion in the basket!”, that would be even better. Seriously, tho, some kind of aloe thing or non-new-agey thing would be really helpful.

People, I got a 3-line mail message from the hilarious Justin Winokur this past Saturday. He was responding to some mail that I’d sent him about not wanting one of his special necklaces. While I don’t agree with every sentiment that Justin lays out there in his diary, he’s extremely funny, hangs out with urine-drinking hot women and stores a set of horse testicles on his shelf at home. Check it out.

I have another date next Thursday. Her name is Joanne and she’s an artist. She’s also Jewish, and partially practicing. (Don’t know exactly what that means, but I’ll be more than happy to go out and see.) Now, I’ve had a couple of long-standing “guy friends” who’ve been Jewish, and I think that they’re terrific, but I’ve never dated any women who’ve been Jewish. So, I don’t know what to expect. As usual, I will share all of the gory details.

The Datrix.

I’m way freaking chatty today. Jesus.

Anyways, I had another date (with a different person) this past evening at 6pm. Judging from the datestamp of this message, you might just want to read the next entry about the sofa, the dog, and how to act like a total freaking maniac.

The first forty-five minutes of this date took place in slow motion. From the meeting to the handshake to the conversation, it was almost like I was prancing around Bennigan’s in a black outfit, watching the bullets slowly approaching my heart, lungs, and abdomen. Soon would come the moment when Lawrence Fishburne would kick me in the sternum. I was waiting.

Scene:
(phone heard ringing faintly in the background)
Me: So, do you like X?
(dodging one bullet)
Me: So, do you like Y?
(dodging another bullet)
Me: So, do you like Z?

And this farce went on and on, for about an hour, while my date — let’s call her “K” — sat across from me with her arms folded tightly in front of her chest.

Finally, the phone ringing was getting louder, from behind that benign-looking door across the hall. It had been nearly an hour. Yeah, it was time to open it.

Me: So, do you want to head, or would you like to do something else?
K: Head?
Me: Head? Leave?
K: Oh.
Me: So, do you want to do that, or do something else?
K: (face getting grotesquely scrunched up) No, thanks. I’m just, uhhh, just not…

(Door swings open and man with gun fires two rounds right into my chest.)

Me: … interested?
K: Yes, I just don’t feel it. I’m not interested.

The day that I freaked.

I don’t have that bad of a temper, which is probably not a good thing. Why is not having a bad temper a bad thing, you ask? Because that means I let stuff build up and when I finally do let it out, it’s rather uncontrolled.

The people whole live next door to me seem like reasonable individuals. Unfortunately, a little more than two years ago, they got this useless fucker of a dog. This dog barks uncontrollably, and does so for hours on end. Oh, and the dog is really big, and large enough to hang over their fence so that it’s into my yard. Now, I’ve heard all kinds of stories about neighborhood feuding, and I’m sure that I have a few things that my neighbor would complain about, so I decided not to make a stink about the incredible amount of noise that their dog was making. At first, the people would hear the dog barking at me (or guests of mine, or my dog in the backyard, or when I’m standing in my kitchen), and they’d get their dog to quiet down. But eventually, these corrections became far and few in between, and eventually the dog was left to bark until they decided that enough was enough.

Recently, I decided that this arrangement just “wouldn’t do” anymore, so I started to get a little bit feisty about the hours and hours of barking. More than once, I’ve opened up my kitchen window and yelled, “SHUT UP!” The first time that I did it, they took the dog inside immediately. The second time? It took a little bit longer, but they took the dog inside. Most recently, their turn a deaf ear to my yelling. Assholes.

Today, though, I finally had it. I was purging my front porch of trash, which included a broken-down entertainment center, an old tire, a couch (with bed separated out of it), etc. It was a freaking lot of stuff, but I knew that between today and the Saturday garbage pickup, I would have no daylight time to take it out.

As I took each and every item down my front steps (there are 10 steps or so) to the curbside, the dog kept barking and barking, and leaning over the fence. Between all of my activity, and the testosterone being pumped by me moving all of this stuff, my amusement level with the barking was inversely adjusted. Finally, I reached the couch. It was the last thing that I had to unload. I positioned it at the opening of the front door to the porch, and was wiggling it to get out without causing harm to the doorframe.

(Originally, I’d asked someone to help me with this, but I was on a roll, so I said “what the heck?” and decided to put it right out.)

Anyways, I couldn’t deal with another second of this barking. So, as I got the couch in a position to debark from my porch, I gave it a gigantic lift and push, and it flew end over end from my stoop and over my railing. It hit my neighbor’s fence, and nearly hit their dog, too. Then, as I ran down my steps so that I could retrieve the couch from my driveway, I kept yelling (at the dog, and in their direction), “SHUT UP, MOTHERFUCKER!” And, I got about 2 feet away from where the dog was barking at me, and I kept yelling, and banging the couch against their fence, to which the dog became scared and ran across its own yard where it sat quietly in a corner until I was done moving my stuff. I can only hope that my neighbor comes to my front door and complains tonight. He’ll get an earful like he’s never heard before!

Take that, Sigfried and Roy!

On another note… it just came to me that (perhaps) black people are afraid of the town that I live in now. I have nothing against black people: not one thing. It’s just that in my slice of suburbia, I rarely ever see them! Well, just now, as I was writing this slop, my doorbell rang. I thought that it was the electrician who was supposed to be giving me a quote for my circuit breaker downstairs. That’s why I took a break from sharing these wonderful thoughts, and went to answer the door. I went to the porch door, and I didn’t see anyone, so I opened the door and looked out inquisitively. And there stands this young black man, standing about 5 steps away, who immediately starts apologizing for bothering me. Geez, dude, why do that? It’s not like you were barking at me over the fence or anything. He gave me a schpiel about “Direct Tire” or such. But it still begs the question: “Why did he apologize for bothering me before he started in?” I mean, the other door-to-door salesfolk, and Jehovah’s Witnesses (who now travel in family-packs of 6-8) never apologize.

The “Direct Tire” scenario leads me to ask myself: are racial relations really that bad, and have I been in denial all this time?

When teens (don’t necessarily) go bad.

I love it when “South Park” captures ridiculous happenings. Actually, they do it all the time. But last night, they decided to lampoon “the Maury (Povich) Show”, and how its themes gear on “real-life freaks” and “bad teens”.

A few years back, I was a telecommuter for about 6 months. Each day, I would sit on the couch with my notebook (connected by way of a piece of cat-5 cable that was running across the living room floor), hack away at Perl code, and watch lots of trash tv. You know: Springer, Ricki Lake, Sally, Maury, the works. In fact, I watched so much trash tv in that 6-month period that I’ve never really watched trash tv since.

The worst of the lot had to be “Maury”. My first viewing of the show was an episode that involved “bad teens”. Most of the teens were females, who claimed to be of ages 13-18. Maury would parade about half dozen of these teen females — with their mother sitting there in tears — around the stage. Each of these teens, who were almost always white or hispanic, would use line after line of ebonicspeak, and would undoubtedly give the audience the finger. And even worse, these teens were a bit overweight, and would make sure to wear half-shirts, so as to share their bulky midriffs with us, too… while they spoke of their multiple sexploits (all the while their mothers in tears). All of these teens claimed to have been involved in gang violence. And in the end? Well, Maury would bring out a few ex-inmates and ex-servicemen, and send the teens to “bootcamp” for what seemed like a day. Yes, of course! “Bootcamp” always cures society’s ills! And without a doubt, all ills we be cured if you attend “bootcamp” for just one day!

Unless…

The Maury show is a big, fat fake. I know that this might come as a shock, but after seeing a couple of episodes about “bad teens” or “bad and pregnant teens”, or “bad teen makeovers”, you’ve got to conclude that Maury’s basically scripted the whole kit and kaboodle, and it’s all a horribly bawdy display of bologna.

I could only hope that some “soccer mom” would seek to ban Maury, he, the grandmaster of the fake freak parade. But I have no doubt that said “soccer mom” probably gets all of her wild ideas about banning television programs … by watching shows like “Maury” in the first place. God forbid that her precious daughter would ever strut her plump self around Maury’s stage in a half shirt, while giving everyone the finger; if this happened, of course, it would clearly be the fault of the evil television network who aired Married … With Children.

Got it, write.

On a few different occassions (here), I’ve spoken of how great I think technology is. I still feel that way, although I’ve come to learn one important lesson:

write shit down.

It may seem like a silly thing to do, considering that’s what you’d use a computer for, but when you vivisect said computer’s disk configuration — you don’t want to lose your notes when said server’s disk configuration shafts you and you start swinging a gigantic hammer at it.

Case in point? Veritas volume manager upgrade. It’s “weird” what happens when you nuke your partition table whilst the server is running. The dialog goes something like this:

Nate: Oh, FUCK. I just did something really awful.
John: Uh, what?
Nate: Well, for starters, I just killed this partition table.
John: Well, can you get it back, like from a backup tape?
Nate: Er, I guess, but I have a better idea. I wrote it down before we did this stuff.
John: Oh. You write that stuff down? Cool.

And better yet, my penmanship is SO BAD these days that my notepad almost has its own encryption scheme.

Porn: It’s what’s for dinner.

In general, I’m not in favor of rattling sabres with media and entertainment-types when it comes to arguing about what they put on tv or radio. Simply put, I have better things to do, and if I find something so irksome — I change the channel or radio station.

That’s why I find it so baffling when I hear about some soccer mom or department store staging some campaign against a media conglomorate or their sponsors. Hearing these things almost always leads me to ask myself why the soccer mom didn’t take a few extra hours and screen the programs or music before allowing their children to view or listen.

Furthermore, I was even more shocked to learn that — if not for the unfortunate events of September 11th — Attorney General John Ashcroft had planned to turn his attention towards cracking down on the porn industry. Wait, didn’t this kind of community standards dribble go out of style, like, 20 years ago?! Not to say that we don’t need some kind of “community standards”, but chasing down pornographers kind of smacks of trying to pick a communist out of the Hollywood “A-List”. Or maybe it’s a case like Billy Graham who loves community standards, and being a “spiritual leader”, but hates “Jews”. If Ohio (then California) — and even the Supreme Court — couldn’t shutdown Larry Flynt, what makes John Ashcroft think that he could stifle an entire pornographic industry? Seems like a horrible waste of time, resources and money to make a “federal case” (pun intended) out of some mullethead who likes to show the world his bare ass and 22″ penis.

(Oh, and to clarify, I’m not talking about porn that’s clearly illegal like “snuff” films, kiddie porn or stuff like that. That stuff is against the law for a reason.)

Don’t get me wrong; sticking up for the rights of pornographers is a tricky thing. I don’t know what it is about porn — moreso than violence on television or explicit song lyrics — that causes people to deny their viewing choices, but it’s rather clear that most people have some kind of problem admitting to having watched porn. Therefore, certain political and legal circles seemingly have an easy time in sanctioning the industry since its viewing public appears to remain silent.

In the end, I don’t buy the “porn exploits women” or “porn wrecks community standards” arguments. Basically, I view the porn industry as a group of dysfunctional halfwits who like having nice bodies, making lots of money and fucking a lot. In a way, it sounds our Congress, doesn’t it? (Well, okay, except for the bit about having nice bodies.) And while I think that it takes a tortured person to choose a career in the “erotic arts” over a career in, say, UNIX System Administration, I think that these people are aware of the “bottom line” (there’s that pun again), and are more than happy to show us their goods for as long as they possibly can.

Following that, I can’t really figure how the Attorney General would try to inhibit the industry. I mean, since the industry doesn’t seem to have much to it (see also: fucking a lot), what’s there to regulate? What does John want, to substitute the boinking with a recitation from the Book of Job (not blow, the OTHER Job)? Sounds like someone wants to shut the industry down entirely, which sounds unsettlingly like the exact type of group that we’ve been pounding away on in Afghanistan since last fall.

A Perspective on “LJBF”

Dating is like the kind of car that Ralph Nader would really hate, and would lobby to abolish. It’s got a lap-only seatbelt, no airbags, and a steering wheel that’s made out of aluminum with an asbestos cover. That is to say, if you survive any serious accident, you’re bound to be in a world of hurt; as your injuries would be the result of your traitorous car.

(Yeah yeah, I know that I keep bitching about dating, but it’s my current and fourth preoccupation, behind: eating, Cakewalk Sonar XL and home ownership. Plus, I’ve been going out a lot more, recently; thus, there are many stories to tell. Oh, and let’s face it; dating stories can be hilarious and very revealing!)

My most recent dating experience didn’t turn out to my liking, however. We went out once, and had a really terrific time. At the end of the night, my date (let’s call her “J”) handed me her phone number (without me asking) — which never happens. I called “J” the next day — briefly — and said that I had a terrific time, to which “J” agreed. I said that I’d like to go out again soon, and “J” agreed. A few days after that, I made suggestions that “J and I” should go out the coming weekend. “J” agreed, but later cancelled, citing her schedule as the reason. We made tentative plans to go out the following week, which she didn’t followup with, again citing her schedule.

Now, I’ve come to understand 2 things about dates and work schedules:

1. If your date claims that they’re too busy to go out, they may be telling you that they’re not interested.
2. If your date claims that they’re too busy to go out, they may actually be too busy to go out, although I’ve never had this happen to me to the extent that I can confirm it to be true. But this begs other questions, like: “why are you dating people if you don’t have time?”, “why do you make plans and not keep them?”, and “are you sure that you’re not messing with my noggin?”

This dangling went on for another week or so (without getting together at all, and without any phone calls), at which point I started to get antsy. Friends were telling me to let things go, and I was trying to approach this unusual “date-scheduling macarena” from the perspective of being realistic. I really didn’t know how to address the issue of the date scheduling with “J”. We simply didn’t know each other well enough to have me be overly direct, but I really had to say something, since being run around isn’t my panacea in a relationship. I’m a pretty patient person when it comes to dating. Okay, actually, no. I’m totally impatient and neurotic when it comes to dating, but I try to keep these not-so-attractive things to myself. And with the right person and a stable situation, they never come out, and I’m always a terrific date. Unfortunately, trying to coordinate with a date who doesn’t stick to a routine only seems to accentuate these negatives.

I decided to write a direct, but non-accusatory/non-psycho email message to “J”, in which I made a subtle hint that I’d really like to see more of her, if she was interested. And I also noted, albeit subtly, that getting together once every 2 weeks didn’t seem like a good fit for me. I cleared this email with a female friend, who said that it was “fine in content”. I sent it off!

A few days later (well, today, actually), “J” said that she was “shocked” to have received such an email message from me, and she went on to explain exactly where she was coming from (which was EXACTLY what I’d wanted in the first place, so I was gleeful to have such juicy email to read in the early afternoon!). But, to my chagrine, “J” landed a “LJBF” square on my forehead before telling me all of the activities that she’d like us to do together. Weird. It was like we’d be going on dates, but just not actually be dating. Definitely a situation to be avoided.

So, after my paragraphs of rambling… that’s the point of this entry. It’s not to complain about “J”, but to put “things-LJBF” into perspective.

“LJBF”, if you’re unaware, is “Let’s Just Be Friends”. Its sting ranges from friendship to the kiss of death. “LJBF” is a terminal and very serious condition. In general, to me, “LJBF” is like radon — which sits odorlessly and colorlessly in your basement — while it silently poisons you to sickness. “LJBF” is only a problem, really, because it often kills an otherwise charming and budding relationship.

Strangely, tho, I spent the afternoon thinking of the upsides to “LJBF”, and I found a few excellent uses for it.

1. If you’re still in the closet, “LJBF” is a fine way to keep yourself “in”.
2. If you’re the “LJBF”-er and not the “LJBF”-ee, you can shut things down without being the “bad guy”.
3. If you’re, say, Hester Prynne, “LJBF” might save you a lot of shunning in the long run.
4. If you’re practicing GW Bush’s form of “safe sex”, “LJBF” will only reinforce your case for abstinence.
5. If you’d otherwise have become enemies, “LJBF” saves you the unneeded hostilities.

If only I could fondle the Community Chest

Someday I hope to know as much as I can about everything. I’ll be like Johnny 5 without Ally Sheedy as my sidekick. Life will kick ass, and will be without the threat of a visit by Anthony-Michael Hall. Anyways.

Dating, on the other hand, I’ll never understand.

There’s a macabre quality to dating. Like some nosey bastard who rubbernecks a minor traffic accident, I just can’t help but to turn my head (well, without rear-ending any car or person!) and take in the show.

Okay, well maybe dating’s not macabre; actually, it’s more like the game of Monopoly. It’s like the game of Monopoly that you’d play with a bunch of people who’ve read and remember every single rule in the Monopoly rulebook. And after memorizing the entire book? They hide that shit and cheat their asses off.

Do you think that you’ll get to be the fancy car? No? Okay, then, the tophat? No? The scotty dog? Then, ummm, how about the, uhhh, cannon? No, bitch, you’ll be the thimble and like it. Dating is like owning every property that’s as dear to your heart as Marvin Gardens or Baltic Avenue. It’s like owning both the Boardwalk and Park Place and having people divert your attention while they skip over your spaces. It’s like never rolling three doubles so that you can get out of jail without paying the fifty bucks. It sucks.

Soup is not a meal, Jerry!

Something happened to the quality of free food that they serve you at meetings or sales calls. Perhaps it has something to do with the recession, but I faintly recall that people who imposed meetings on you used to have the decency to provide things like (warm/hot) pasta with sauce, pizza, etc.

In the place of warm and filling goodies has emerged deli sandwiches and ceaser salad. I mean, there’s no love in any bite of a sandwich that’s characterized by gigantic bread, a tomato, a piece of lunch meat and about half a head of romaine lettuce. Don’t even get me started on the Ceaser Salad that’s been drowned in dressing.

At least there’s free freaking soda, and I’ll drink enough that I’ll be able to exit the meeting and spend 15-20 minutes in the men’s room relieving myself and swearing my ass off about the stupid deli sandwiches.