Design rulez

Sometimes, you just instinctly know immediately that what you are seeing is not just new but revolutionary. That it is really going to change something, completely. Because it is simply closer to the natural way to do it. The way it was meant to be.

This has to be the coolest thing since the mouse. Seriously.



I mean, not only altering as you hold down a modifier key. No. It's notes, numerals, special symbols, HTML codes, mathematical functions. Colors and Animation!

Lights! Camera! Action!

I want it, I want it, I want it. Now!

Wannabe

Q: So, how much of a geek wannabe am I?

A: Well, I got giddy just reading that a beta of FreeBSD 6 is now available.

Veeeeeee!

Riding in San Fran

Two of the many things that I would like to do, one day, are

1. own a motorcycle, and
2. live in San Francisco.

While reading up on some mildly intriguing Intel-Mac commentary this morning, I stumbled across a page which may not have cured me of these desires, but did put a serious dent in them, anyway.

It starts out as a commentary on lousy driving habits, with gems like:

Maybe just a general "Erratic & Inattentive!!" signal would work for a variety of situations. A blinking American flag light would be perfect. It would be immediately recognized internationally as a warning icon for out of control, unpredictable and self consumed behavior. Many of the right vehicles already have flags on them, albeit usually tattered to rag status. They just need prominent illumination.

and more general comments like:

America's priorities are so retarded. It's like the SuperBowl uproar and general freaking out about seeing Janet's boob pop out, from the same parents who sit their kids in front of movies featuring the Governator shooting peoples' brains out. If you'd rather have your kids know what spattered brains look like than see a woman without a shirt on, you shouldn't be having children. How did you even figure out how to have them?

But then it gets really thorough and graphical about the author's experience of a motorcycle accident, in San Fran:

Beyond being able to wash it, my hand and arm still wasn't able to do anything useful. It just hung around pitifully at my side while I watched it atrophy and wrinkle. I'd look at it and try to give it useful things it could do, watch it fail, and then sit it back in place as comfortably as possible and feed it more pain meds. It was like having grandparents move in.

Sobering stuff.

Lightning strikes

I love thunders and lightnings.

Maybe because I got so few growing up. On the rare occasion that we get some here, I stay up. Go out into the rain. Or just sit in the window. And watch in awe.

But the thing about these magnificent and beautiful spectacles is that they are actually very dangerous. Practically lethal, actually. They are nowhere as unreal as they appear. If you were to be struck by lightning, it would be devastating. But it can also be crushing to see it happen up close. I mean, seeing lightning strike in the night, somewhere over in the next valley, is only intriguing, And for like five seconds. But to see it strike someone down right in front of you. That would be terrifying. But you don't see that happen. So you think it doesn't.

Domestic violence is something that for many of us is only encountered in fiction; in books or movies. But it is striking all around us. Everyday. Without us even knowing it, most of the time. The victim feels ashamed. The attacker... I don't know what. I can't understand them. And I don't want to.

A dear friend of ours called my wife today. As soon as she heard my wife's voice, she started crying. She loves him. They have been so happy together. They had fought before, mainly over how to raise the kids. But this time, he tried to strangle her. She has deep purple marks on her neck.

She had gone to work this morning, as if nothing had happened. She didn't want to "over-react". But as she was sitting at her work, trying to feed a little piglet (long story), she suddenly started thinking "what if my daughter came to me and told her that her boyfriend had tried to choke her, but they were trying to work it out?"

That's when she called my wife.

We've done all that can be done for now. Before going to bed, my wife gave me a big hug and said "thanks for being normal".

Yeah, right. The standards for being an outstanding male seem to be coming down rapidly. Being kind to your wife, or even just not beating her, will get you an honour badge.

Oh, what a miserably low form of life mankind really and truly is.

The bike ride

So I did it. Again. Well, technically for the third time. And it all reminded me of Aristotle, somehow.

Courage, in modern time, involves facing something that makes you tremble, and overcoming that fear. To achieve despite the fear. The greater the threshold of intimidation, the greater the resulting hero.

Aristotle would not have been amused.

He maintained that true heroism meant being absolutely unfazed, no internal conflicts or overcoming latent angst, while doing the deed. So for the hero, it really isn't the effort, because it is in that sense effortless. His heros just are heros, they don't swallow their apprehensions and become heros.

You see, I was feeling more than a little apprehensive before the race. I am 15 pounds heavier than last year. I have biked less than 10% of the distance I had covered the same time last year. My wasted knees and once-broken ankle have been acting up on me lately. The list goes on. I was worried.

And then I woke up. It was not just raining. It was literally pouring. One of those I-can't-belive-it's-really-raining-this-hard downpours. The heat had dropped below 60, for the first time in weeks.

But I stubbornly talked myself through it. Got up at 5:30. Stretched. Ate my last carbo-load. Put on the cold biking outfit. Stretched some more, while I waited for my biking partners. Followed them up to the starting place. Took a deep breath before exiting the car. And became drenched just while taking the bike out of the trunk. I know that I will laugh at this claim come wintertime, but it was cold. There were many bewildered bikers there, standing in the rain. Quite a few stayed in their cars, others returned to them. But my partners calmly followed my lead and took out their bikes. And then, quietely and without fuzz, it came time to head out.

One hundred miles, countless powerbars and bottles of gatorade, and more than eight hours later, we got back up that hill. I was euphoric. My endorphines had kicked in hard around mile 85, and after that I was high on life. Utterly. My partners where, characteristically, calmer about the whole affair.

But we did it. Despite everything. And it actually felt good. Good? Hell, it felt great! We stole the time. Just for one day.

And we were heroes.

Just for one day.

Code, not text

Text has lost its magic to me.

I probably finally realized this when I began reading a blog started recently by a dear friend of mine. Although he is a magical photographer, it turns out he is also a really good wordsmith, something which he almost stereotypically has consistently denied, often vehemently. As I read his beautiful and captivating prose, I realized that it did not—and could not—move me in the magical sense that his photographs can, and do. And what is more, no other text can, anymore. Over the years, I have become somewhat numb to the medium. Like a professional musician loses the awe he has for music, and moves into it. Or a seaman stops seeing the wonder in the ocean, leaving him with nothing but a workplace. Or perhaps the best analogy, though crass and even sensationalist, is the prostitute who has been stripped of any shred of mystique when it comes to the act of making love.

I am a text whore.

My work calls for my constant manipulation of words into text. Text for a specific purpose. In several different languages, of which English is neither my first nor second (as if that were not obvious). I need to achieve a particular level of precision in my work, but I am also more often than not forced to also put a slant on what I write. To nudge the content. To represent a view. To advocate. To paint in colors that I did not pick, but which have been handed to me. So you can see how while I am still able to respect fancy footwork of the pen, when I see it, I have also lost the ability to lose myself in it. 'Cool trick' is as far as I can be moved these days.

What still has not lost its sparkle to me though, is another kind of word use: Code. That relentless, unassuming, unbiased, clean, ugly, beautiful, virgin expression of pure logic in words. It beckons me, not only on an intellectual level, as a source of demanding puzzles or elaborate mathematical constructs, but on a much more fundamental level of innocence. Where there can be no agenda, except to convey a train of thought which can be carried and executed not only by the corrupt and conniving minds of our degenerate mortal selves, but also by the brutally ratiocinative processor of the modern-day computer.

So while I should be slaving away at my day-job manipulations, I instead spend my nights admiring things like these.

Oh, if I were but an unsullied geek.

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