Beware of Cute girls with fruit

Moments ago, something unexpected happened. I bumped into a cute girl and she said something odd to me.

Well, actually, I was coming inside (make that: I was re-entering the building) from a trip to the smoking porch. On the other side of the door, I saw this young woman scurrying along, perhaps to catch the “T” (subway) that was a mere 100′ away. On her way out the door, she dropped something that rolled towards my feet. Her hands were full, so I did what I’d do for cute girls and not-so-cute girls alike; I picked up what she’d dropped and I handed it to her. This time, however, the result was different.

Instead of saying “thank you” or “thanks”, she said, “uhh, ohh, sorry”. Soon, I realized that instead of a hacky sack, she’d dropped a plum, and by picking it up, my left hand became very juicy and sticky (yeah, not in THAT way, you pervs!). Jesus.

So, I tried to mask my hand from everyone on the way upstairs (where there’s a bathroom so that I could wash it), but unfortunately, my index finger and thumb were covered with a bloody and nasty-looking mess. Unfortunately, it had been a hemopheliac of a plum, that. Another girl entered the elevator, and promptly gave me a “once-over”.

“Was she admiring my low-carb?”, I asked myself. Aye, no, her once-over ended at my hand from which she looked me in the face, tilted her head, and raised her eyebrows. I kind of shrugged.

“Plum”, I said.
“Ah”, she said, “do you need a napkin?”
“Sure, that would be super. Do you have one?”, I asked.
“No, sorry”, she said.

Then the elevator doors opened, and she stepped out. I cursed my building for the lack of conveniently-located restrooms, and cute chicks who brandish fruit that looks like hacky sack or something that a guy would otherwise be more than pleased to pick up.

Polishing a Turdlet -or- The More that Things Change…

Three months ago, I built myself a new (work) PC at home. It cost $300 or so, and took me about an hour to piece together. Of course, with each PC migration, there’s some bit of change that takes place between the time that you install/migrate your software, and when you start feeling comfortable about using your system again.

In my case, when I upgrade my home systems, I often upgrade Linux at the same time. In this case, I went from Red Hat Linux 8.0 to 9.0. There were a number of changes, and I was somewhat impressed with the ease of installation. Yeah, I know that there are so many Linux choices out there. If I was more adventurous, I’d fuck with them. But, I’ve been on the Red Hat track for a few years, so I didn’t feel like making a change. Plus, I try to keep my experimentation to systems on which I don’t actually do any work. Currently, I have no systems at home which aren’t used for work or recording (music), so experimentation is basically out of the question.

Linux, mind you, is only something that I bother with because (a) it’s wise to stay up on the Linux thing since someday my career might depend on it and (b) the Linux boot loader(s) can load just about anything. So, if I hork my Windows 2000 boot loader, Linux can deal, and then I can then fix things from Windows itself.

With Linux, however, and Red Hat specifically, someone got the bright idea — a few years ago — to make their product and its installation like Microsoft Windows in almost every way. From the perspective of user adoption, the type of user being similar to my Mother or your Great Aunt, user interfaces are a big thing. The problem, then, is that every time I peek my head back into the world of UNIX and UNIX-like operating systems on the desktop, I’m simply horrified with the results.

First, I’ve come to believe that the X-Windows “environment” is truly fucked. And when I say “fucked”, I mean that X-Windows is fucked in almost every way. It’s horrible with memory management. Its font and color implementations are among the worst that I’ve ever seen. And worse yet? People are still using it. That is, even after more than a decade of X-Windows and its shortcomings, people are unwilling or afraid to come up with anything else, anything better. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe the people from the X-this-and-that consortium have enlisted the help of Whitey Bulger to stomp out any possible competitors. Can you say Y-Windows? With a Y-chromosome, X-Windows could be truly manly. But no!

A few years ago, UNIX developers had some extra time on their hands. And they were afraid, too, of the fact that they’d have to run a Microsoft operating system on their desktop — since everybody else in the joint was beginning to get one. So, out of fear, they began to add multiple, ubercolorful layers to X-Windows. And new “looks” for the window manager (themes?). And even newer applications. And music! Song! Dance! Wheee!

Around 1997, I started seeing Gnome, KDE, Windowmaker, etc., all begin to rear their ugly heads on the net, and as core parts of Linux distributions. It’s not that I didn’t welcome improvements to X-Windows and desktop computing under a UNIX-like environment. It’s just that in as much as I tried to believe that these UNIX developers were onto something, I realized that they’d merely just covered X-Windows under a gigantic heap of woolen blankets. Heavy, woolen blankets. Memory intensive.

I hated to admit it, but was I was experiencing first-hand was an extremely colorful experience of “suck”. In Newark, New Jersey, perhaps, it would cost you $20. But these Linux developers? They brought us suck for free! I brought up this observation to a friend of mine.

Me: Dude, have you ever noticed that X-Windows sucks?
Joe: And that’s something new to you, since when?
Me: I mean, not just X itself, but all of those other things that Linux developers have dumped on top of X.
Joe: Yeah, like KDE?
Me: Yeah.
Joe: And Gnome stuff?
Me: Yeah. I have a machine at home that’s got a 1.8Ghz processor and 256megs of RAM. And when I run this fancy Linux X-Windows bull on it, it nearly halts itself when I try to open a new window. And this is at startup!
Joe: Holy crap!
Me: I know!
Joe: Jesus Christ. I still use twm.
Me: I’m switching back. I think that it’s still installed. I have this twm config that uses no more than 16 colors.
Joe: Cool.
Me: Have you ever noticed that some people have the tendency to see a white mark on a turd and call it an interstate?

Alone Music and “Hey Hey!”

Recently, I’ve been on an abbreviated version of a “Friends & Family World Tour” c/o my date. This is not a problem, actually, and has been pretty fun for the most part. I believe that this “World Tour” (without the sexual contact with groupies and their moms), in part, has to do with months February 2003 – current where I spent every waking moment (outside of work) writing the OS X book. So, we’re doing some catching up for lost time — now that I have more time — since the end of the bookwriting process is near.

Two weeks ago, we spent time at the home of S & R. R is a long-standing friend of my date. Apparently, our introductions were long past due. S & R, I was told, had a swimming pool to be reckoned with. And then I realized that I couldn’t find my swimming trunks. So, we had to stop at a store on the way for me to buy some. My date waited in the car with her boy, and I went into a Marshall’s.

The best part of Marshall’s is their logo. It goes downhill from there. For starters, it took me almost 10 minutes to find where they keep their swimwear that’s not banana-hammock related. And finally, I find a pair of Nautica swim trunks (they of the NON-banana-hammock relations), but I’m concerned that getting them wet would really cause them to be transparent. Arggh! Then it occurs to me… maybe Marshall’s puts their swimwear in the racks with the “normal” pants!

Sure enough, I identify a rack with pants/shorts/swimwear for individuals who have 36″ waists. I’m actually between a 36″ and 38″ waist these days, but heck, ego boosts can be good for the soul every now and again. Unfortunately for me? There’s not one decent swimsuit for me in that rack. So, I turn away and head towards the checkout, until…

I spot the finest swimsuit out of the corner of my eye. First off, it’s my size. Second, it’s red, silky, and has the words “Hey! Hey!” all over it. Much to the consternation of my fellow shoppers, I’m standing in the aisle of Marshall’s almost literally laughing my ass off. And then my brain and I had a little chat.

Me: Must get “Hey! Hey!” shorts.
Brain: Your date will kill you if you show up with those shorts.
Me: But, I MUST have them. They’re such a fantastic freak of nature.
Brain: Your date will kill you if you show up with those shorts.
Me: What if I buy both pairs?
Brain: Fine, but put the respectable pair at the top of the bag.
Me: Okay.

After a few moments, I appeared at my car, where my date and her boy were waiting. She was then enlightened by my choice in shorts, much to her chagrine. And then she saw the non-”Hey! Hey!” pair of off-white shorts, and all became well.

My decision to buy a “supplemental” swimsuit was the wise one. One look at S, and I felt that — despite the fact he was a supremely cool fellow — I would’ve taken some copious shit for wearing the “Hey! Hey!” shorts while at his home. Fair enough. Off-white shorts, blue t-shirt. Simple, yet neat.

Or, sort of.

Within 30 minutes of my stay at the home of S & R, I learned that S, too, had — as termed by his wife, R — an “alone music” collection. In my car, you’ll find the entire Missy Eliot collection. Why? Because I love it. In Burly S’s car? Boyz2Men. Granted, the description of an “alone music” collection was more than I could bear. Soon, I was spitting diet cola on R & S’s lawn so that I wouldn’t choke on it while I laughed uncontrollably.

Can, you kill me.

Months ago, I spoke of a few not-so-covert operations that I’d undertaken to preserve my sanity. Without saying too much, most of these were successful [1], no matter how maudlin they may have been. Unfortunately, one of them was a horrible and catastrophic failure.

Operation Remove Basket was pronounced a failure two days ago, when Al Basket reorganized and made its way to the back of my cubicle. Oh, sweet merciful Jesus. But it was a situation that could’ve been avoided, perhaps if I informed the new guy (at work) about the painstaking efforts and planning behind Operation Remove Basket, and why a trash can should never again darken the domain of my cubicle at work. Lo and behold, I forgot.

Me: Umm, why do I have a garbage can again?
New guy: Oh, I put it there.
Me: On Earth, why?
New guy: Because I had an extra one in my cubicle, and you didn’t seem to have a trash can at all.
Me: That was intentional.
New guy: Oh?
Me: Well, uhhh. I’m allergic to the cleaning woman, and she made me sneeze everyday, so I just put the can over there, and apparently it was still living in your cubicle when you moved in.
New guy: Oh.
Me: *sighing*

[1] “Osama is on the run and we’re fighting terrorism to save small businesses” seems to be the reason why we’re engaged so significantly in the Middle East, according to President GW Bush.

Rock ‘n’ Rule(s)

After I’m done with this OS X book, I’m going to take some time and have some fun. This isn’t just time for “me”, mind you. It will include a number of things, like spending more time (and doing a variety more activities) with my date and her boy, finishing my yardwork (such that my lawn looks perfectly green and is weed-free), installing a sink downstairs, and finishing outfitting both my home network and my studio room. These “tasks”, mind you, are long overdue. They really need to be taken care of. All other human-related stuff? It’s fun, and is also not a task. Just a point of clarification, dearest date.

One of the things that I plan to do, probably for the rest of my adult life, is to make rock ‘n’ roll albums. It’s not really an issue of playing in bars/clubs/for people, being delusional about become rich from making music, or anything else that’s equally absurd. It’s just that when I get the chance to record and play, I feel that I let out a lot of pent-up energy and frustration. And it gives me something better to obsess about than finances or my day at work — when I listen back to my recordings in the car.

Someday, I will be like that cool, balding singer from “The Scorpions”, without the power ballads, of course.

2:50 and Shrinkage

Today was one of the stranger days that I’ve had in awhile.

First, and for whatever reason, my digestive/excretory systems were out of whack, so I was somewhat unplused. This hasn’t happened in awhile (due to change in diet), as my date can attest, but when it does? It’s a royal terror. Actually, my tummy felt better by the early afternoon. But my bladder was relentless in its pursuit to mimic a bagpipe. By 3pm, I was barely able to control myself. I knew that this one was going to be a doozie, so I counted… 170 seconds. Today, I urinated for 2 minutes and 50 seconds. WOW. But the disappointing part was that it wasn’t a record. My bladder apparently wasn’t overflowing, since I didn’t reach 3 and 00 seconds.

- x – x -

Every once in awhile, I forget to use “the quiet voice”, or “the voice inside my head”. There have been many times, in meetings, where I’ve been tempted to shoot out completely inappropriate one-liners or acerbic barbs when my mind has processed things that it finds completely disagreeable. Of course, my mind is usually like some kind of network security device such that packets can come in and are filtered; some packets are rejected, and certain packets are allowed to be passed out through the firewall. Usually, it works out great. Today? I think that my brain needs an upgrade. I was in a meeting with suspicious undertones, in that it was a combination sales call/circle jerk/propoganda fest. It was the kind of meeting that I hate to attend. We were talking about disk management tools, such as a brand new volume manager that was being sold by the vendor. I had to ask, of course, if the volume manager was able to shrink filesystems. Shrinking filesystems, to me, is like having an ejection seat in an airplane; you don’t eject from an F-15 since fighter jets aren’t considered disposable. But when you need that ejection seat, just pull the handles. After some quibbling, and hecking about my OS platform of choice, I heard rounds of laughter in the room: *laugh* shrinkage! *laugh*

“Shrinkage?”, I said to myself, “why did that come up?” And then I realized that it was because the words “sometimes you just can’t get around shrinkage” had exited my mouth[1]. Oh dear. In a meeting, where many of the participants were of the female persuasion, I felt myself getting very red. Everyone was laughing, and to be honest, I was apologizing but also laughing pretty hard. So, I rephrased: “*ahem* Umm, sometimes, you just can’t get around negative resizing.” This brought even more laughter than before.

Rock hard lobster anyone?

[1] In case you’re unaware, the male anatomy does not take well to cold water. It tends to almost disappear entirely. “Seinfeld” made great fun of shrinkage tendencies in one of the episodes.

Sleeptalking II

I confirmed with cms that we did, in fact, have a chat last night. He was unable to confirm, however, if I urinated in my living room or not.

And then I realized that I had a similar happenstance with my date this past Sunday night. Of course, I wasn’t actually 100% asleep at the time. I was half asleep, which probably made it worse. That situation went like so…

*phone rings*
Me: Hello
She: Hi there.
Me: (thinking something that I don’t recall)
She: So, how’ve you been? What’ve you been up to?
Me: Well, I’ve been writing a lot since we have that book deadline coming up. And I’ve also lost a lot of weight on this low carb.
She: Umm, you’re kidding me, right?

I’ve lost control of my special powers. Need new special powers!

Sleeptalking.

When I was a teenager, I would tell my parents that I was headed upstairs to my bedroom to study. Instead, of course, I would take a nap. The problems with napping while studying are well-documented any numerous. My specific problem with napping while studying was that such a combination of activities was not well-received in a household where Dad (from India) calls the shots about studies and punishments.

Often times, while studying and napping, someone would call upstairs to check on me. As a young and dumb teenager, I would get busted frequently by stating that I was studying — in my very sleepy-sounding voice. Next thing you know, I’m studying at the dining room table, where there was no chance of actually getting any studying done or napping. As an older and growingly-defiant teenager, I realized that I needed to nap and study if the feeling struck me. So, I developed a “nap voice” that was identical to my speaking voice. Before long, I could nap and respond coherently, as if I was wide awake preparing myself for both SATs and Regents examinations.

The problem with my patented “sleeptalking” technique is that it, well, works most of the time. In fact, I’m pretty sure that cms called me yesterday afternoon during my nap, and that we had some kind of conversation, but I’m not entirely certain about what we talked about (even though I could venture a guess that it had to do with our precious, the OS X book, and how it’s kicking our asses). In fact, I’m not actually sure that he called at all! I believe that he called, and we chatted, but then I also recall urinating. I’m pretty sure that I made it to the bathroom for this event, as I can’t smell urine in my recliner today, but I’m not exactly sure.

Actually, the more that I think about it, the more I realize that maybe cms and I had some kind of chat yesterday. I remember one part of it.

cms: Blah blah blah.
Me: non-sleepy voice spoken during actual sleep.
cms: Blah blah blah blah.
Me: continuing in non-sleepy voice.
cms: Blah blah.
Me: continuing…
cms: Dude?
Me: Blah.
cms: (after maybe talking to me for 5-10 minutes, although I don’t recall how long the conversation was) Ummm, are you actually sleeping?
Me: Uhh, I think so.
cms: It’s 7pm. That’s weird, dude.
Me: Uh.