Being completely, almost genetically unable to let things be, I felt it necessary to contribute my own

LIST OF THINGS UBUNTU NEEDS TO MAKE THEIR NEXT RELEASE SUCCESSFUL.

1. Celebrity Endorsements: just imagine how popular Ubuntu would become if some mindless famous person was seen using it.  Paris Hilton comes to mind, but she can’t use anything more complicated than a pocketbook.  Maybe a Cindy Crawford, Sandra Bullock, or the cast of Cheating Hollywood Housewives of Chattanooga.
2. What don’t the other distros offer?  Dog training.
3. Ubuntu No-Bullshit Edition: no Flash, javascript, Compiz, system sounds, or KDE4
4. Anything but that hideous brown - PLEASE
5. detects nearby Windows boxes and sends laughing packets to it
6. Better code names for future releases.
7. Spokesmodels!  (with pizza and beer)
8. nifty Ubuntu iron-on and pocket protector
9. Win Shuttleworth’s car!
10. massive tax breaks!

There is one blog, however, that lately tends to confuse the hell out of me.  It’s the blog of our founder (bows head) Chris Pirillo.  I always loved chiming in but I noticed that something has changed.  When I look at the RSS feed, I scan the titles and wonder what happened.  We still have the same amount of years between us (however many that was in the first place) but I’m starting to feel like a stranger in a strange land.

I guess I’ll have to refer to myself as the anti-Pirillo.   Let me give you some examples:

How and Where do you watch TV today?

Using my eyes, in the living room (with a lead pipe?)

How do you keep up on your favorite shows?

I don’t.  It’s just not that important.  It’ll come on again.

Do you watch TV on the internet?

Nope.  Can’t find much that rings my bell.  Plus most of the sites don’t like linux.

Which iPhone bowling game is the best to buy?

The blue one?  How should I know?  I have to come out of the closet here and admit.. I don’t have an iPhone.  I also don’t want an iPhone.  (stop throwing things at me please)

Skype coupons…

The Germans and now the Chinese are eavesdropping on Skype conversations.  If they admit it, it makes one wonder who else is.

Retro Cool Laptop Bags

Huh?

Why?

Are you looking for free desktop wallpapers?

No, but thank you.

Btw, the really large ones tend to slow Windows down (further).

Are you dating a geek?

My wife has a great sense of humor (she married ME) but she made it plain that my dating days are over.

Have you ever raced an ATV?

No.  I tried to ride a small motorcycle once when I was little.  The owner said it was the longest he’d ever seen anybody ride one one wheel before.  Since then, I tend to stick with automatic transmissions and at least four wheels on the ground at all times.

Are you looking to buy a graphics tablet?

No - I can’t draw a straight line with a ruler.

How young were you when you finished college?

Never started, but thanks for asking.

What cola do most geeks drink?

I never thought to ask.  This one is way too fond of Code Red though.

At what point did you know you were a geek?

When I read that Phil Collins was considered a sex symbol.

Would you like to be a hacker, like in the movies?

No, but I’d sure as hell like to ‘run lines’ with Sandra Bullock.

How do you use Twitter?

I don’t.    Presumptive, aren’t we?

Blog On

Extract the file to a folder.

Run ./configure

At some point, it checks to see if the build is SANE.

I think we’d all be better served if it would check to see if the builder is SANE.

maybe it’s just me…

I never had a proper mid-life crisis.  I’m terrified of motorcycles, I like a large ride instead of a tiny sportscar, and I’m married so that rules out a girlfriend.  I also don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs.  Some would say I couldn’t have a mid-life crisis without these.  Some would say I am just plain no fun.

My dear wife offered me a mid-life crisis vehicle.  No, not a car.  It was a guitar.  She told me to go out and buy something I would never otherwise buy because I couldn’t afford it.  I fell into a Gibson 1959 reissue Heritage Les Paul.  Not a ton of those left-handed.  My wife, bless her, got off pretty easy.  What I didn’t realize was that I was being given carte blanche.  No matter, it’s a great guitar.

Guitar reproductions are driven partly by quality issues, vintage guitar pricing, nostalgia, and although few will admit it, mid-life crisis.

I had suggested that car companies get on the crisis-wagon and offer reproductions of certain classic cars.  Not like the extremely silly VW Bug; I’m talking about a pretty faithful reproduction of the body, with a nod to the original inside, but with current engine, stereo, etc.

I should have figured a way to patent that idea.

The Loud Family lives down the street.  They have a small house but it looks nice from the outside.  What I can’t figure out is how that many people live there.  We’re talking about two parents and something like five kids (you never see them all together so it’s hard to get an accurate count).  What you can divine is that they’re LOUD.

I didn’t have enough information to figure it out but when we first moved in, the daughter, about five years old, comes boldly up to the truck and announces herself by name.  It was a great moment, even for someone who isn’t too fond of kids.  The neighborhood should have suspected something also, epsecially when one of our helpers ran the entire length of the twenty-four foot truck, banging on a conga, shouting “WE’RE HEEEEEEEEEEERE!!!!!”

Time passed.  A basketball court appeared in the driveway.  With the basketball court came basketball kids.  Any time of day or night you could hear the mellifluous tones of a basketball (bang BANG BANG) combined with the screaming of assorted children (F*$& YOU).  When Mr. Loud would ask his youngest son (a serial killer in training if I’ve ever seen one) to quiet down, the kid would give him the finger and walk away.  You could hear the screaming for blocks.

Before I knew it, one of the kids was of driving age.  Apparently he fell in with a circle of friends who fancied themselves `gangstas.’  There is nothing sadder than a middle class white kid who either thinks he’s black or would prefer to be black.   One day I saw this huge black Lincoln SUV parked across the street, taking up a spot or three.  It sat there for a few days before my wife figured out it was Loud Jr’s car.  Apparently since he was a gangsta, he required a proper gangsta-mobile.

One had to be impressed with this buggy.  It was even bigger than my car.  It appeared to be loaded.  How does a teenager purchase a Lincoln?  That must have been one interesting salesman.   I will freely admit that my wife drives a Lincoln.  It was ten years old when we purchased it and cost very little.  So how did Loud Jr manage to pay for this?  Good for him, however he pulled it off.

Shortly thereafter, a red Mercedes appeared near the Loud Lot.   When I say Loud Lot, I mean every parking spot within half a block of the Loud House.  Because the basketball court took up the driveway, the Louds were forced to park their cars on the street.  All up and down the street, in fact, leaving neighbors with nowhere to park near their own houses.

Putting on her detective cap, my wife discovered the Mercedes was just purchased by Female Loud; the one who ran up to my moving truck.  Talk about a time warp.  I don’t know how much a Mercedes costs these days, largely because I don’t shop for them and also because I don’t care.  The one Mercedes I drove handled decently but drove like a truck.  Every pebble made the car shudder.

Once again we were moved to ponder how a teenage-ish child could afford a Mercedes.  Since it was red, it also cost more to insure (I kid you not - red cars cost more).   Again, good for her.

Not so good for the neighborhood, though, as there was one more Loud Car to park on the street.  Apparently no one ever told the Loud Children what being a good neighbor entailed.  One was lead to wonder if anyone told the Loud Children anything aside from `Have a good time.’

Apparently tired of new kids, the louds materialized with two Loud Dogs.  I have never actually seen these dogs, but rest assured the entire neighborhood has heard the Loud Dogs.  It is said that people who live near airports don’t hear the planes after a while.  I suspect the Louds used the same technique because the dogs were outside most of the day, barking constantly, like mad dogs.  And they continued to bark like mad dogs.   And no one did anything about it.  As the barking never stopped, the Littlest Loud had not done any science experiments with them and buried them in the yard.  I do not want to be the next person who owns that house.

Occasionally the Loud Dogs would escape.  It never took long to figure out when this happened because there was a brief pause in the insane barking, followed by Mr. Loud screaming for them to come back.  I swear, my house shook.  Sometimes even Mrs. Loud would come out of her hole and help in the rescue effort by also screaming at the Loud Dogs.  This was surprising, as we thought Mrs. Loud’s main function was yelling at Mr. Loud.

One day a new and horrible loud noise permeated the neighborhood.  It wasn’t too difficult to imagine where it was coming from.  It turned out that the latest Loud to reach driving age just got a car.  At this point you’re probably asking whether it was a Cement Mixer, an eighteen wheeler, or a Bentley.

It was a Mustang.   And not just any Mustang - it was a mid-life crisis Mustang.  The one I suggested the manufacturers make and that I should have patented.  They definitely got a bit closer to the original this time.   Once again, good for him.

What really got to me was the reaction to this car.  I was told when I started driving that there were certain cars that got women’s attention way more than others.  I just shook my head and rationalized that I wouldn’t want one of those anyway.  Eventually they’d grow out of it.  Hopefully.

So much for rationalization… my wife was most impressed by this Mustang.  Another female neighbor walked to the Loud House to compliment the Youngest Loud to drive.  People were talking.  Even one of the same-sex couples had to walk over to take a look.

I still don’t want a mid-life crisis mobile.  I still wonder what it would be like to be a teenager and be able to afford a really nice car.  And the neighborhood still wonders where they’re going to park their cars.

I think the lowest rung of hell is reserved for local news.  I didn’t even realize this until years after I stopped watching it.  My wife enjoys the local news.   On those rare occasions that I’m subjected to it, I usually yell at the tv so much that my wife turns it off.  Local news can run the gamut from a commercial for the next tv program to a puff piece on a kids’ sports team.  Never do they allow any of that nasty real content to seep into their broadcast.

Then there’s network news.  Its only benefit over local news is that content sometimes slips into the broadcast, mostly by mistake.   There’s an obvious slant.

Moving on, we have the Fox/CNN crew.  CNN is referred to as the CIA Network News because the CIA acknowledges having their people in the for a month, whereupon they spun the news.  The CIA has also stated that they have `people’ at all the networks in case they’re needed.  Fox couldn’t be fair and balanced if you ran them over with a road leveling machine.

People who don’t generally think beyond what they’re told are pretty satisfied with the existing choices.   The rest of us, who tend to question everything, look elsewhere for our news and enlightenment.

So where do we look?

Glad you asked.

I have added to the links on this blog.  You see them on the right of each individual blog post.  Two categories to check out are non-mainstream news and radio.   Radio covers online radio and podcasters with interesting topics.  Non-mainstream news is a few sites you can visit that concern things you won’t see but need to.

You don’t have to agree with me or the sites.  Just listen with an open mind.  You’ll find that you’ll start watching mainstream media with a different eye.   Don’t forget to tell me what you think after listening.

This is the kind of American ingenuity we need applied to our financial crisis.

After a three hour deliberation, a jury found OJ Simpson guilty of robbery in a case that involved sports memorabilia.

I haven’t heard anything yet but I’d move out of Los Angeles if I were you.  At very least, avoid stopping your eighteen wheeler for anyone handling a fire extinguisher or any other object menacingly.

I’m an inveterate procrastinator (or perhaps just lazy) and would normally wait til the day of the audition to learn the songs.  I wanted to turn over a new leaf so I made a point of learning what I could from the first night I had time.  Of course things don’t always work out the way one would prefer, sometimes due to the person trying to work them out (or not). What I did do was make sure to put the guitar into my hands every night, which is odd for me.  Yeah, I’ve been playing forever, but I’m not so good at continuity.  I wanted to show up knowing my tunes and looking like I actually know how to play the guitar.

I made notes and listened critically, which helps to locate parts you don’t always notice the first time or when you’re playing along with the song. As Thursday arrived, it was starting to look like my old practice: I still hadn’t fully learned two of the tunes.  Undeterred, I finished with plenty of time to go.  I pulled a small amount of gear together plus emergency kit, threw it in the car and left. I have driven past the rehearsal facility thousands of times and never knew it was there.  It is conveniently hidden in a small, conveniently hidden industrial park, around the back.  If it wasn’t lit I probably would still have missed it.  Apparently it’s pretty popular, at least judging by the number of cars in the lot.  It was also the only door lit up, making it easy enough for even musicians to find it.

I remember thinking it was weird walking into a place carrying all I brought in one trip.  I tend to take a small music store with me when I gig so it almost hurt to not take a second guitar.  I rationalized this by telling myself it was only a five song audition. I spoke to the nice lady behind the counter in an attempt to locate the room in which my audition was to take place.  This was made very difficult by the horrendous amount of noise emanating from at least one of the rooms.   Using hand signals, semaphore, and obscene gestures, she pointed me in the right direction. I put my gear in the room, shook hands, and waited outside for the previous guitarist’s audition to end. Just outside the room was a kitchenette-type area, where I busied myself in my Treo (pda phone).  The noise was distracting, if not downright dangerous.  It sounded a little bit like listening to two tape players on the same song but a half second apart.  Or perhaps two bands falling down the steps with their instruments, one band at a time.

If the cacophony outside the room was any indication, there was no reason on the planet for anybody with functioning hearing apparatus to be inside the room.  This may also apply to the actual musicians (and I use the term loosely).  It was so confused-sounding that I couldn’t tell what type of music it was supposed to be. While I was attempting to deny the aural events were actually occuring, the nice lady from the front, who turns out to be the owner, came by and introduced herself.   Very cool lady.  Probably very bored too.  Why else would she want to chat with a guitar player?   She agreed with my suspicions about two tape players being out of sync.  This was her loudest band ever.   Loudest band?  It sounded like two.  That was some talented band.

To be able to sound so loud, so indistinct, and make enough noise for two bands is a rare talent, even locally. Nice owner lady was doing something nice for herself; fleeing to the back office, where it was quiet enough to think.  And maybe breathe. I got to go in and set up my stuff shortly thereafter. The band looked kinda tired, which I suppose I’d look also if I had auditioned at least two other guitarists.  I saw the previous applicant taking his gear out and decided against making any cracks about his unmanly transistor Marshall amp. [no tubes, no tone] . The band with the aforementioned guitarist, sporting a Carr Mercury amp, a semi-hollow guitar with a gorgeous red maple top, and enough pedals on his board to launch the Space Shuttle.  There was a drummer, bassist, male singer, and a female singer.  You don’t see that much.  They obviously needed a keyboardist but were having trouble finding one. I set up and tuned up in record time.

There is something weird about me and tuners.  I can tune the guitar in my house and it will be perfect.  When I get to my destination, the guitar will be slightly out of tune but turns out to be all strings out of tune.  Like the thing retuned itself a half step higher in the car or on the way to the room. We launched into the first song (I neglected to bring any of my notes) and managed to start and finish at exactly the same point.  This is always a plus.  Another plus was that the levels were off and I couldn’t hear myself too well.  If I couldn’t hear myself well, they couldn’t hear me any better. I brought my Pro Junior, a fifteen watt amp that I like to crank up that sounds wonderful.  I was assured they don’t make a lot of noise and no one had huge amps. I turned up a bit and we went into the next song.

It became obvious to me that not only had I left my notes home, I was also playing with someone else’s fingers!  Don’t you hate it when that happens? You have been playing for longer than some of your coworkers have been alive, you learn your tunes, then when you get to the gig, your fingers refuse to perform correctly.  That’s when you’re using someone else’s fingers. Apparently that wasn’t all….  these Fingers of Unknown Origin not only forgot how to play the lead to the song, they also broke a string.  Fortunately it didn’t throw the rest of the strings out of tune too badly so I finished in true Keith Richards fashion, with five strings.  BOING. I made a pretty damn fast string change, smiling at remembering to bring my wire cutter (or else it would take ten minutes to wind the string).

As I wound away, the singers were talking about some favorite ancient Peter Frampton tunes.  When I got tuned, I figured what the hell and played the first few chords of Baby I Love Your Way.  The singers were fond of the idea but the guitarist was not.  He immediately asked, in a rather loud way, if we were ready to continue.  I had a feeling that was coming for some reason (I snickered internally). The fellow said he absolutely hated to do this to another guitarist but would I please turn up. He had never had to utter that phrase before in his life so I can understand his confusion. For the non-guitarists in the crowd, that was very funny and I’ll explain why.

Guitar players are typically full of ego, hence full of volume.  They typically have to be asked to turn down.  Repeatedly.  Asking a guitar player to turn up is like asking a politician to stop telling the truth and start lying. I played in this one group years ago.  I should have known it was going to be a real experience when the pre-existing guitarist kept trying to prove his amp was louder than mine.  Every time I could hear my amp, he turned up louder.  Once I figured out the game, I began to amuse myself at his expense.  At one point I simply couldn’t hear myself at all, so I walked over to the amp and turned the volume all the way down.   This was in mid-song, so I turned back around and put on the show of my life.  I was leaping around and putting everything I had into playing.  When we finished the tune, the other guy made a point of complimenting me on really getting into the music.  He meant it.  Never mind that my amp was turned all the way down.

It got funnier a few seconds later when the drummer figured out what was going on.  We’d catch each other’s eye and wink or smile, waiting for the next opportunity to take Mr. Ego down a notch or so. Of course it didn’t take long. Apparently sensing that I could somehow hear my own amp, he turned his up again.  Thinking quickly, I started playing the song a half step down.  Do you know what it sounds like when you hit a few keys next to each other on a piano?  That’s what it sounded like.  But Mr. Ego was playing so loudly that he almost couldn’t hear me. Fortunately he could hear me enough to realize that something was terribly wrong.  It was all the drummer could do to remain playing and seated.

Mr. Ego started looking around, trying to figure out what was wrong.  I just smiled and continued looking like I was playing my heart out.  He turned around and started checking his equipment and trying to retune his guitar.  We continued looking nonplussed, despite the urge to roll around the floor with tears coming out of our eyes. I finished the song on the right chord so the other fellow would see that everything was fine.  He just stood there looking confused for a while, not mentioning anything.  You could see the idea entering his ears, knocking on his brain for attention, and watch as he vainly tried to work out what was wrong.  After he left that night, the drummer and I took that opportunity to roll around the floor with tears coming out of our eyes.

Meanwhile back at the audition, I turned the amp up and played the remaining tunes.  The band was well-rehearsed.  The singers worked together very well, as did the rhythm section.  The other guitarist knew his parts.  If I had brought my own fingers, I would have been most impressive. Knowing they were beat, I packed up quickly.  They told me they really enjoyed what they did hear from me: it was a shame I wasn’t louder.    I was leaping about quite a bit, as I tend to do while playing, so I wondered if that contributed any (in this case I hoped not). I was back in my car in a flash, consuming the gallon of water I remembered to bring for afterward.  They assured me I’d hear from the guitarist shortly and said it was a pleasure.

I was really curious as to whether they liked me or not but I figured I could wait as long as it took for them to get back to me. I had no idea which way he was going by the initial verbiage.  He reiterated some of the things he told be before the audition and we continued to talk.  It started to sound like I got the gig.  He asked me if I was sure this was a good fit for me and was I ok with an occasional freebie, etc.  Of course I was… I just wanna play and be pushed by people who are hopefully better musicians than I am. The response to their ad for a guitarist was pretty good and he told me that they could definitely go ahead and continue auditioning but he was going to ask the band if they would like to stop here (presumably with me) or continue seeing what’s out there (nothing personal, of course).  He indicated that I knew my stuff and seemed to be ok with going forward.  He’d be back with me shortly.

Meanwhile I have to remember to keep playing every night and just wait til I hear back.   Hopefully I get invited to join and hopefully I will be able to keep using the fingers I was born with when I play.  The other ones looked ok but they didn’t work too well.

$(&*#&@@@))!@